Reckoning (The Empyrean Chronicle)

by Siana, Patrick

  By now Lar and Bryn had removed the other bindings and Elias covered Danica with their father’s duster. He took her face in his hands. “Danica, can you hear me? It’s Elias. You’re safe now. I need you to wake up.” The three companions held their breath as they waited, each with the bloom of hope flowering in their bosoms.

  Danica’s eyes snapped open and darted back and forth. Against her blanched skin and in the half-light, her green eyes looked feral, lit with a preternatural glow. “Danica...” Elias said softly.

  “I’m sorry,” Danica said, her voice hollow and bereft of inflection or intonation, “but Danica’s not at home right now.” Danica started to hum a tuneless ditty, which was interspersed with bursts of maniacal laughter and hysterical sobbing.

  “Come on,” Elias said, his voice a whisper, “Let’s get her out of here.” He gathered Danica in his arms and walked up the staircase and out of the cursed manor, the dumbstruck Lar and Bryn trailing behind.

  †

  “She’s resting quietly now,” Phinneas said, closing the door behind him.

  “Will she recover?” said Elias, who had waited with Lar and Bryn in the hall during the doctor’s ministrations.

  “Come now,” Phinneas said, “Let’s go have a seat in the kitchen. I’ll have Agnes fix us something.”

  “I want to see my sister,” Elias said. A fist-sized lump of panic rose from his stomach and lodged in his throat and he unconsciously rested a hand on the pommel of his sword.

  “Peace, Elias,” the doctor said. “You can see Danica whenever you want, but she is sleeping deeply right now, and likely will do so until tomorrow.” Phinneas looked pointedly at Elias’s hand.

  Elias followed Phinneas’s gaze. He abruptly snatched his hand from his sword, as if realizing he had picked up something hot. He felt Bryn’s hands on his arm, well manicured and delicate, which seemed a contradiction for he had seen how capable they were in a fight. Still, they were a woman’s hands, and reminded Elias, with a sudden pang deep in his breast, how much he missed Asa—a pain that he had buried and ignored. Lost in his thoughts, Elias realized that Lar had been talking to him.

  “Sorry,” Elias said, “I am not myself.”

  The doctor led them into the kitchen where his housekeeper served up steaming bowls of pheasant stew and a warm loaf of barley bread. The three companions attacked the victuals. Elias tore off a piece of the rustic bread and spoke around it as he chewed. “Agnes has made enough stew for us all. Did you know we would be returning so soon?”

  “Not exactly, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to be prepared in case you and Lar found yourselves in need of my services, or if the marauders responsible for attacking you left any more patients in their wake.”

  Elias looked up from his bowl and swallowed. “Slade won’t hurt anyone else ever again.” He ignored the doctor’s pinched brows and quickly changed the subject. “Will Danica recover?”

  Phinneas shifted uneasily under Elias’s penetrating gaze. “Danica appears to have lost a lot of blood, but there is no indication of any internal injury, or any external wounds.” The doctor looked down at his folded hands and took a breath.

  “Give it to me straight, Phinneas,” Elias said, using the doctor’s given name for the first time in his life.

  Lar and Bryn watched the interchange silently, food left ignored for the moment, as they waited on Phinneas’s response.

  “The markings on her body were not put there by any conventional means. A hot iron would have left significant blistering. There’s something more sinister at work here.”

  “That I knew,” Elias said dryly. “But what of her wits? Has her brain been addled?” Elias recounted her delirium during her brief period of consciousness.

  “She hasn’t gone soft in the head from physical trauma. I haven’t detected any swelling in the skull or any dents or fractures. She exhibits none of the signs of a concussion. Rather, her bout of hysteria is probably due to psychological stress and will pass.”

  There was something in the way the doctor said the word probably, a certain inflection, that gave Elias pause. “Probably?” he said. “What do you mean by that?”

  Phinneas leaned in and grabbed Elias’s wrists. “There may be a more sinister cause of her delirium.”

  Elias stiffened and pulled back, but the doctor’s gnarled hands gripped him fast. “Out with it then,” Elias said.

  “There are some marks on Danica’s skin that are different from the others—two at her temples and several in her hairline.”

  “Yes,” Elias said, “I’ve seen them. They’re bruises.”

  “I studied the markings at length, and I’ve come to the conclusion that they are not bruises. They’re burns, like the others, but they weren’t caused by heat.”

  Elias’s stomach dropped. “How can that be?”

  Phinneas looked down at his hands, which still held Elias’s. He wished for neither the first, nor the last time, that Padraic was here. He felt a storm coming in his old bones, and he wasn’t sure he could weather it without his oldest and truest friend. Padraic was the adventuresome one, not him.

  Phinneas looked up and fixed his large, sandy eyes on Elias. “I’ve seen the like of these wounds before, when I was a medic on the Sheer. It looks like frostbite.”

  “When I fought Slade, he cast a bolt of fire at me. Cold fire.”

  “What?” Lar said. “God’s blood!”

  “Fell magic, Lar,” Elias said. “The doctor is saying that Slade tortured Danica with fell magic.”

  Phinneas let go his hold of Elias. “As I studied the markings I noticed they were in an odd shape that was somehow troubling. Then I realized why—the burns at the temples were in the shape of thumb-prints. The burns in the hairline seemed conclusive as well.”

  “Hell,” Bryn said.

  Elias imagined Slade taking Danica’s head in his hands, with his thumbs at her temples and his fingers spreading across the crown of her head, as oily smoke and the scent of burning flesh filled the room. Elias, unable to remain sitting, stood. “What now?” he asked. “Have you ever treated anything like this before? Can you guess what will be the effect of this dark magic?”

  “There are a couple of possibilities,” the doctor replied. “Slade may have used his power as an implement of torture, to inflict pain, or he may have used it to subvert her will and induce terror. Fell wizards feed on fear.”

  Elias rubbed at the headache forming between his eyes. He had suspected something like this when he saw the feral look in his sister’s eyes, but he had allowed himself to hope her condition was due to fever or bodily stress. “So,” he said, “Slade may have driven my sister mad with fell sorcery.”

  “Don’t think like that,” Phinneas said. “With time, and the proper treatment she will recover.”

  “Although she may never be the same person she was before,” said Elias, “but I suppose that is true for all of us, now.” Elias paced as he tried to wrap his mind around this new hurdle. He could feel the eyes of the others on him, watching, waiting to see how he would react—waiting for him to break. How happy and ignorant he had been just a couple of days ago. Swords and sorcery had been the province of his father’s past and the lurid pulp fiction he read, but now it seemed that everyone he encountered had their hands steeped in the arcane, or in blood.

  He had lusted for adventure since he was old enough to wield a willow switch in mock combat with his schoolfellows, and for a glimpse into the mysteries of the arcane. Now that he had scant a day’s worth of it, he and the people he loved were either dead or broken. Elias laughed aloud, keenly aware of the eyes of the others on him, but he cared not.

  “Elias...” Lar ventured.

  “I’m sorry,” Elias said, “I just think it’s rather ironic that after a childhood of yearning to be somewhere, anywhere, with some kind of action, it turns out that our sleepy little town is rife with magic and secrecy.”

  “What do you mean?” Phinneas asked.

  �
��Well,” said Elias, unbuttoning the sleeve of his right arm as he spoke, “for one it turns out that my father was an arcanist as well as a Marshal. His sword gave me these.” Elias brandished the symbols burnt into the flesh of his forearm, the red marks having already faded to a blue-black. Phinneas grew still, but Elias gave him only a brief moment to consider this peculiarity before rushing on.

  “Macallister and Cormik can both use magic, and what’s more, hired a fell wizard-assassin to murder my family. You, Doctor, seem to know an awful lot about the arcane, and no doubt my father’s secrets. That potion you gave me worked very well, and quickly, a little too quickly to be crafted entirely from conventional methods, I think. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re a wizard too! Then there’s Lady Denar, our newly appointed tax bursar. She’s a dabbler in the arcane, and is, if I’m worth my salt, anything but an officer of the treasury!”

  Bryn shrugged nonchalantly as Lar and the doctor looked on with knitted brows. “Elias,” said the doctor, “I can’t fault you in the least for feeling overwhelmed, but let me try to put some things into perspective for you.”

  “Please do,” said Elias as he approached the table and put one foot on his chair and leaned an elbow onto his knee.

  “Your father was an arcanist,” Phinneas said, “but he didn’t talk about it because he wanted to leave that life behind for your and Danica’s sake as well as for his. Fact is, son, you come from a long line of people with a natural gift for the arcane.”

  Elias slapped Lar on the shoulder and winked in parody of one of the more provincial citizens of the Creek. “Ain’t that shiny!”

  “As far the Macallisters are concerned,” the doctor continued, ignoring Elias’s outburst, “they may have picked up a couple of parlor tricks, but wizards they most certainly are not. What the Macallisters lack in talent, or wit, they make up for in wealth. Macallister’s knowledge of the arcane likely begins and ends with the enchanted baubles and incantations he’s bought from some unscrupulous wizard or merchant. Such items are quite rare and expensive, but Macallister has coin in spades.”

  Elias leaned in. “My father said as much, but how can you be sure?”

  Phinneas exchanged glances with Bryn. “Practitioners of the arcane have a specific aura that other arcanists can sense or see.”

  “Pardon?” asked Elias.

  Phinneas smiled ruefully, while Bryn ripped off another piece of bread. Around a mouthful she said, “It’s like those paintings and etchings of saints and knights of old where they have a golden halo drawn around their head. That’s a symbolic representation of an aura. Nowadays it’s just an afterthought, and people think nothing of it. Truth is, everyone has an aura but with an arcanist it’s glaringly evident. So much so that some wizards can make your hair stand on end, and at times even common folk can sense them, though they may not be able to see them.”

  Elias leaned back on his heels, then plopped into his chair, curiosity cooling his fury. “Huh. So, Macallister’s aura?”

  Phinneas shook his head. “Scant the equal of a first year Arcalum apprentice.”

  “Not a glimmer more than a cud-chewing steer,” Bryn said.

  “What’s more,” said Phinneas, “enchanted items cast auras as well, whereby a properly trained arcanist can detect them and try to interpret their power and function. That’s the genuine source of Macallister’s power. That gold ring he wears is magic, as is that dagger he’s been showing off around town. Wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he has a whole chest full of such trinkets.”

  “And, you Doctor?” Elias said. “What’s your story? If you can see auras, then one can only assume…”

  “I know a bit about magic, yes. Keep in mind though, that many people have talent in various disciplines of the arcane, and a great deal of them go through their life and never realize it. Take Abe Radcliffe, for example, who always seems to know when it’s going to rain at night and covers up his tobacco. Midwife Clopton can predict the gender of a baby with remarkable success and knows when a pregnancy is about to turn bad. The title of wizard is conventionally bestowed on those who dedicate themselves wholly to the mystic arts and have amassed considerable power, but many people have learned to utilize their natural gifts, most with no conscious knowledge of it.”

  “And you?” Elias asked.

  The doctor shrugged. “I have the healer’s touch and the ability to sense the subtle energies that flow in the human body. Beyond that, my powers culminate in a keen sense of intuition. However, when refined, intuition can be used to sense others emotions, catch glimpses of the future, or to know which herbs will make an effective poultice.”

  Elias sat forward. “That potion you gave me—you said you had a feeling it might come in handy so you brewed a batch the other day. You knew trouble was coming?”

  “If I had foreseen all this,” Phinneas gestured with an open hand, “I would have done more than mix some witch’s brew. Sadly, fate did not gift me with prescience, but when I awoke with the urge to make the mustroot tonic, I knew to heed my gut.”

  “It is good you did,” Elias said, his curiosity melting away as grief ate its way through him with rusty teeth. “That tonic gave me the edge I needed to defeat Slade. It made me faster.”

  “Faster?” asked Lar, his eyes wide with wonderment. “I sure could use some of that!”

  “It doesn’t work on your wits,” Elias jibed with a tight smile, appreciative of Lar’s attempt at levity.

  “That tonic alone is not responsible for your success, Elias,” Bryn said. “Lar and I were defenseless against Slade’s magic. It immobilized us almost immediately, but not you. Somehow you resisted Slade’s spell. Not only that, but you used your sword to literally cut through his magic and repel his attacks. I hate to put a snake in your britches, but it just may be because you’re gifted like your dad.”

  “I have no knowledge of magic,” Elias said. “It’s my father’s sword. Here, take a closer look at this.” He stood and bared his right forearm, showing them once again the characters branded into his arm. “Does this mean anything to any of you?”

  Lar and Bryn were clueless as to the origins of the runes, but the doctor scratched at his chin thoughtfully. “I have no idea what the significance of these markings are,” said the doctor, “but they resemble the written language of the peoples that live on Ulbrea, the continent far to the southeast of Agia. Perhaps Eurinthium? How in tarnation did you say you got them?”

  “I didn’t.” Elias sat back and explained his disconcerting experience upon drawing his father’s sword. “Doctor, did my father ever discuss anything like this with you?”

  “I’m afraid not. I always admired Padraic’s weapon, but we never talked about it, and I can certainly tell you he had no such markings.”

  “Do you think the sword could be possessed?” Lar asked. “By spirits or something?”

  Given the circumstances, Elias thought, Lar’s question wasn’t as crazy as it sounded. “Whatever the sword’s story is, it is clearly possessed of a powerful magic, at the least. Through these brands, it and I are somehow bonded. Though I have only carried the blade for a short time, I feel we are connected, like it’s an extension of my body.” The probing glances Bryn and Phinneas shared were not lost on Elias, but he didn’t feel like discussing the subject any further.

  Elias sighed, and some of the fire went out of him, and left in its place a profound weariness. “Phinneas, I am thirsty something fierce. Have you any ale?”

  The doctor sent for Agnes who returned shortly with a pitcher of ale and mugs. Elias took a long draw on the hoppy brew, and then lit one of his father’s cigarettes with his flint and steel lighter. He offered the tin to the others and much to his surprise they each took one. The four companions shared the silence for a time, white-blue skeins of smoke drifting about them as they sipped the cool ale.

  Elias ground out his cigarette. He told the doctor that Slade’s left wrist bore a bright red tattoo of an S. Phinneas’s face blanched
, and he took a shaky drink of his ale.

  “What is it Doctor?” Elias said. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “The Scarlet Hand,” the doctor said, almost reverentially, as if he uttered the true name of the One God, or a demon.

  “I have never heard of them before,” Bryn said. “Are they an assassin guild?”

  “That’s something of an understatement,” Phinneas said. “I’m not surprised you haven’t heard of them. Not many have. The existence of the Scarlet Hand is known to very few and is closely guarded. Only a handful have heard the words Scarlet Hand spoken aloud. You are now among them.”

  “God’s blood, Doc,” Lar said. “You’re scaring the sand right out of me. What in the hell’s going on here?”

  “Phinneas,” said Elias slowly, “this Scarlet Hand is responsible for my Father’s death, for reasons at this time unknown. This thing may go deeper than I had initially thought. It looks like Slade may have been motivated by more than greed.”

  “Greed?” questioned Phinneas.

  Elias waved a hand cursorily. “Slade said he had been hunting for my father’s sword for decades and that’s why he came, but I’ll get to that in a moment. First, tell me what you know of this Scarlet Hand. Our lives may well depend on it.”

  Phinneas studied his hands and let loose a deep, slow sigh. “Padraic feared that the Hand would return in our lifetime, and it looks like he’s right,” Phinneas said, almost to himself. He blinked away a distant memory and looked up at Elias. “There are five noble houses in Galacia and the ruling house, the House of Denar. The five houses sit on the king’s, or queen’s, council. However, once there were six houses.”