by CJ Brightley
Owen’s smile faded only slightly as he closed his eye again. “Yes.”
Niamh and Cillian frowned at the floor. Aria glanced around. There were several other Fae sitting a little farther back, but no one said anything. Ardghal was staring at her in perplexity, but at last, he began to sing. His voice was deeper than those she’d heard before, and in it, Aria heard the rush of the ocean waves, the steady strength of ancient oaks.
For the first time, Aria saw other Fae in the singing dream. Perhaps it was a dream. Perhaps it was some truth she did not yet understand. Owen sat on a rocky embankment, bare feet dangling, leaning forward as if listening to someone. Only a few feet below him, the ground spread out in a spacious clearing filled with Fae. They sat on the ground, legs crossed or kneeling, some leaned back on their hands. It was a casual gathering, and there were many smiles among them. Owen nodded and looked toward someone else, a young boy who stood respectfully as he spoke. Niall, his dark hair longer, his shoulders less bony. She couldn’t hear his words, perhaps that wasn’t permitted in the dream or perhaps she wouldn’t have understood them anyway. But it was clear that he could speak, and she saw Owen’s affection in his face as he listened, a slight smile on his lips. He nodded again, and Niall sat down. Another stood, an older man, and Owen’s smile faded into a sorrowful expression.
The song rose around her even as the image shifted into a forest, Owen sitting alone on a high tree branch, leaning back against the trunk as it swayed in the wind. His hair blew into his face and he shook it aside without seeming to notice, one leg hooked around the branch beneath him and the other stretched out in relaxation.
The vision faded, and she saw him again in the center of the circle, bloodied and bruised. Broken. No. He is not broken.
Niamh leaned forward again to touch his face with the backs of her fingers, barely brushing the skin. Owen did not move, did not react at all, not even a twitch of his closed eyes. “I cannot feel it either, Cillian. No stench of it.”
Niall, who had nearly disappeared, scooted forward. He bowed his head to the floor beside Owen and remained there for long minutes, forehead pressed to the concrete.
“Niall,” Niamh said at last, in a soft voice.
Niall shook his head, eyes closed, face still toward the floor. His shoulders jerked, and Aria knew he was crying.
She leaned forward to touch his shoulder, conscious of everyone watching her. Niall didn’t react at first, but after a long moment, he raised his head to study her face. His eyes were red and tears glistened on his thin cheeks, but he kept his eyes on hers. His mouth twitched as if he was going to say something, and he glanced at his notebook. But he only studied her a moment longer, ducked his head in a slight bow, and nodded toward his mother.
“Is he asleep?” Aria whispered.
“If you can call it that.” Cillian’s voice had lost the anger.
“Is he in pain? While he’s sleeping?”
Cillian’s mouth twitched. “It is difficult to tell. He is far from us.”
Niamh glanced over Aria’s shoulder. “The humans are attempting to gain our attention.”
Aria looked back to see Eli silhouetted against the lanterns, waving to her. “Please tell me if I can do anything,” she said.
They blinked at her, as if surprised by the request, and Cillian nodded solemnly.
Aria headed toward the encampment at the other end of the platform. That area was more brightly lit, with both cool electric lanterns and the warmer tones of oil lanterns spread out across the wide concrete expanse. The supplies had been stacked against the wall at the end, boxes of dried food, ammunition, extra guns, rope, lantern oil, soap, and any number of other things. She didn’t really know how they managed to survive, living in tunnels and abandoned buildings, but somehow they did.
Eli waved to her again and she trudged toward him. A small circle of people gathered around an array of papers, glass jars, and the old digital camera.
“We’ve found some information in the materials Owen obtained from the H Street facility. Come.”
She sighed as she sat down next to him. “Like what?”
Bartok, sitting across from her, glanced up. “Are you okay?”
“I’m just hungry. Go on.” Her stomach growled to accompany her words, and she winced. “Sorry.”
Eli stood. “Carry on.” He disappeared, but returned in a moment.
Bartok said, “As part of my residency, I did a pharmacology stint. It’s been a while, and I focused more on clinical pharmacology and toxicology rather than psycho- and neuropharmacology. However, I can tell a few things about these substances.”
He pointed at one jar. “This one contains chlorpromazine, which is generally understood to reduce a subject’s aggression and argumentativeness. Valproate, which generally calms the subject without the more obvious signs of sedation. It’s sometimes used to treat paranoia and schizophrenia. And methylphenidate, which is used to treat attention disorders and increase focus. I’m not familiar with triacetyl ethylene and amobarbital. I would guess, based on the chemical names, that they act on inhibitions, somewhat like sodium pentothal, the ‘truth drug.’ Without knowing what doses were used, I couldn’t say for certain what these were used for. But they could be used to dramatically alter the subject’s state of mind.”
Someone put a sandwich in Aria’s hand and dropped an apple and a bottle of water in her lap. “Thanks,” she said over her shoulder. Whoever it was had already disappeared.
Bartok studied the label on another jar for a long moment. “This one is a little different. Instead of traicetyl ethylene, it includes chlorpromazine-beta-five. It basically makes the subject very open to suggestion. It looks to me like this is a later variation on that cocktail. This would be used for essentially the same purpose, but would require a lower dose and be more effective. Possibly more dangerous, but highly effective. And this one is propranolol. It’s a blood pressure medication, but at high doses, it can alter and even erase memories.”
Gabriel frowned. “So these are the drugs used during the brainwashing?”
Bartok shrugged slightly. “I can’t say with certainty. But it’s possible. Very likely.”
“What can be done to reverse the effects?”
Aria frowned. “What exactly were the effects? I don’t remember what they told us in that room. I remember we watched videos, but not what they were about.”
Bartok glanced at her. “I’m not a brainwashing expert, nor a psychologist. But I would guess, based on the drugs and your description, that the drugs were used to accustom the subjects to receiving information from a particular source, and to regarding that source as trustworthy. Owen said that some of them also had a magical component. I can’t evaluate that, of course, but it seems likely that the magical aspect increased the effective duration. The effects could be compounded, of course. If the source of information was repeatedly shown to be correct, the subjects would eventually cease to question it even after the drug had worn off.”
Aria stared at him. “So the drugs might have worn off long ago?”
“I have no way to guess. I could take a blood sample, I suppose, but it would be impossible to evaluate without a lab. Of course, it’s also possible for drugs to cause physical changes in the brain, which would persist long after the drug is no longer in the body.”
“What about the others?” Gabriel gestured toward the other jars.
Bartok lifted one and read the label. “Hm.” He frowned. “This is, or could be, a synthetic form of something that used to be known as scopolamine, or hyoscine. The effects vary. In small doses, it was used for reducing labor pains in childbirth, but it had some negative effects so that was discontinued back in the early 1900s. In larger doses, it can be used to essentially eliminate the subject’s free will or critical thinking abilities. It makes the patients dangerously suggestible. The natural form has always been difficult to obtain. I wasn’t aware that a synthetic form had been created. But this looks very similar in
the chemical form; it may not be identical, but it’s incredibly close. It may have similar effects.”
“So they were experimenting with different drug cocktails? Or they used different ones in succession? Or what?” Aria asked.
Bartok shrugged again. “There’s no way for me to know. But it’s clear from the selection here that they at least explored medication as one tool in the arsenal.” He lifted another jar. “Now these are different. There are several chemical names here I don’t recognize at all. Now, I certainly don’t know what every drug does, nor can I say with certainty how they were used, but I am reasonably up to date on legitimate medications and their chemical components. These are unusual. First, they aren’t strictly chemical names. They’re more like descriptions. This one, lamia sanguis, translates as ‘vampire blood.’” He raised his eyes to catch Aria’s eye for a long moment, then looked down again. “This contains several I don’t recognize and can’t translate. Perhaps something related to breath? The term isn’t derived from Latin, like the others. This one, lupus animum, translates to ‘wolf’s mind.’ Which doesn’t make a lot of sense to me, but that’s what it says.”
Everyone stared at the jars. Evrial reached forward to pick one up and study it for a moment, then set it back down carefully.
Bartok leaned forward again to put his elbows on his knees. “Owen mentioned that you had something in your brain. Do you know anything about that?”
Aria shook her head. “When he took my tracker out, he put his hand on the back of my head here. I think that’s when he sensed it. But he didn’t say anything about it until he told you all.”
“Maybe we’ll find something in the records.”
Aria took a deep breath. “Okay. What else is there? Anything in the papers?”
Gabriel pushed them toward her. “Lord Owen saw fit to bring these, out of all the thousands of pages he must have seen. But I’m not sure exactly what he saw in them. Aside from the Forestgate schematic, of course. The hard drives have a lot more. We’re still prioritizing.”
Aria frowned as she read the top sheet. A bill of lading? A shipment of crates containing unspecified wares delivered to Eastborn Imperial Security Facility. It could be food for the mess hall, for all I know. Maybe there is nothing here. Maybe the only thing useful was the schematic. She paged through slowly, not seeing anything that was immediately valuable or even particularly intriguing. A map of parking areas at Eastborn.
She pulled a few stapled pages out, a list of phone extensions at Eastborn. “Maybe this could be useful.”
Gabriel glanced at her. “Maybe.”
Bartok didn’t seem to have anything else to say, and the others gradually dispersed. He leaned forward elbows on his knees, eyes ranging over the jars again. “You don’t remember anything else about the week you spent in that room?” he asked finally.
“No. It’s just vague.” She frowned. “Even the things before it are still kind of fuzzy. My parents and stuff.” She sighed. “I’d like to say it’s weird, but I don’t remember what it was like to remember it clearly. I have images in my mind, but they’re distant.”
Bartok’s eyes rested on her face, and she felt his sympathy.
“How old were you when the Revolution started?” she asked abruptly. “What do you remember of it?”
“When it really started in the North Quadrant I was in high school. But I lived in the East Quadrant, so I didn’t notice anything until I was starting my residency. I was twenty-seven. I was about ten miles south of here in the Rose Hill district, in what used to be called Virginia. The first two years were pretty normal. The third year we started getting casualties from the fighting in the North Quadrant, people who didn’t want to go to the local hospitals. We heard things, but mostly we focused on treating the injuries.”
“I thought you were a pediatrician.”
“I was in my emergency and intensive care rotations. I started with a pediatric specialty clinic when I finished. I was thirty. I was only there about a year when everything fell apart.” He looked down at his hands and rubbed them on his pants. “The district was suddenly swept up in the fighting. I found myself treating injuries on the street after tanks came through. I hadn’t kept up with the politics of it; my residency was pretty intense and I didn’t have time to wonder what was going on. So I didn’t have a side.” He hesitated, then said quietly, “Gabriel’s son was fighting with him. He was shot in front of me. He bled out. I’m not sure he would have made it even if we’d been in the ER when it happened. Anyway, he didn’t make it. Gabriel was close, and he swept me up with him in their retreat. I think at first he only wanted a doctor. He hated me for a while. But I think he knows now I did everything I could.” Bartok hunched forward, not looking at her. “That was a year ago. So here I am.” He glanced up at her and then away.
Aria took a shaky breath, caught up in his story. “I’m sorry.” She put a hand on his arm.
He sighed.
But that’s recent. I thought all the fighting was over ten years ago! Even in the East Quadrant, I thought it had been over for years. She swallowed. None of her memories could be completely trusted.
Aria glanced over her shoulder toward the Fae. They hadn’t moved, a silent circle around Owen’s motionless form.
Bartok glanced at her face and looked like he was considering saying something.
“What?” Aria asked.
He gave a minute shrug. “Never mind.” He hesitated, then asked, “Should I go help? I mean, Gabriel told me to stay away. Emphatically. And I know they don’t seem to need medical care the way we do, but maybe I can do something.”
Aria shook her head. “I cleaned him up a little.” Her throat closed with sudden emotion. “They didn’t seem to think it would matter. It just made me feel better.” She leaned forward to hide her face in her hands.
He rested his hand on her shoulder for just a moment. “It’s hard to see someone you care about in pain.” His voice was quiet.
She nodded, not looking up.
He sighed and squeezed her shoulder, then withdrew the comforting touch. “It’s 4:30 in the morning. You’re probably exhausted. Get some sleep.”
“It is?” she looked up then.
He gave her a wry smile and rubbed his hands across his face. “Yes. Gabriel wanted to know if any of these things would be useful if you managed to get Owen out. I don’t think so. Whatever they’re doing, the purpose isn’t healing Fae.”
Now that she was looking, she could see the shadows under his eyes. He’d been up all night too.
“Thank you.” She held his eyes for a moment, to be sure he understood that the thanks was for his kindness, for going on the mission, for his sympathy, not just for the admonition to get some rest.
He nodded slightly. “You’re welcome.” His smile said he understood.
Did his smile look sad? Like he’d lost something? Maybe I’m too tired to read expressions well.
Chapter Fifteen
Aria dreamed of strange things. The gray room. Injections. Being stripped naked, paraded in a shivering line with other young women down a hallway. Videos. Even in the dream, she knew she should hold on to the memories, but when she drifted toward wakefulness, they faded again. She scowled, still half asleep, and turned over, her back sore and aching.
She lay near Owen, close enough to hear him whisper, if he woke, and far enough to feel that she was not encroaching. Niamh and Cillian slept on his other side, and the others ranged out around them. After she had finished washing his wounds, one of the Fae stayed at his head at all times, silent and watchful. Now it was Niall, his thin shoulders bowed with grief. When she shifted, he looked over at her. The lamp was turned down low, a soft yellow glow that left his expression in shadow.
Aria murmured, “What time is it?”
Niall lifted both hands toward her, fingers splayed, then waggled one hand. 10:00, approximately.
She assumed he meant AM, not PM. But what day is it? I’ve lost track. She tried to th
ink back. When did I go to Dandra’s? Can I really call it love, if I’ve known him only for a few weeks? But I’m not asking to marry him! I don’t know what I’d say if he asked, and I can’t imagine that he would. Call it a crush. Every girl gets those. But it’s not without reason. And it doesn’t mean the feeling isn’t real. I care.
She slid closer. The bruise around Owen’s left eye had deepened as he slept, and the cut on his right cheek had crusted with blood again. His chest moved with faint, uneven breaths, the gauze pads stark white against his black bruises. Niall sat beside him with his legs crossed, the notebook beside his knee.
Aria whispered, “Why do you call him Lord Owen?”
Niall glanced at her, and she wondered whether her question was unwelcome. She meant it to be a distraction from his grief. Because he is Lord Ailill’s heir. Lord Ailill is the, he hesitated, then wrote High King of our people. There is no word in English that conveys the authority he holds. Lord Ailill has given much of his authority to Lord Owen already. He is old, and he hopes to, he hesitated again, then made a helpless gesture with one hand.
“Hopes to what?”
… go away. Ascend? It is not always given to High Kings, but he hopes it will be given to him. It is a great gift. He wants to be ready, and he is wise to rest his authority on Lord Owen before it is necessary. No one would argue with his choice, nor with Lord Owen’s authority, but it is wise to support his heir in what may be his last days. His power has weighed on him, but he has always held it lightly. I believe that is counted in his favor.
“But he’s captive, isn’t he?”
Yes, Lord Ailill is captive now. He may be required to die. That is also acceptable to him. We would grieve, but it is not unprecedented. It is only the manner of his death that is objectionable.