by T P Sheehan
“Westerly trade winds.” Färgd explained. “They lend speed to our cause. The summer thermals are advantageous as well.”
“Give yourself some credit, Färgd.”
They arrived in Thwax late in the morning, landing in a rubble-strewn street.
“I’ll return within the hour,” Färgd explained. “There’s a steer destined to be my breakfast in the field a mile back.” He took flight again.
Eamon wasted no time getting to Marsala’s home.
“I got here as fast as I could.”
Marsala closed the viewing-hole and opened the door. She embraced Eamon. “Thanks for coming.”
Eamon stood back and held Marsala’s face in gently cupped hands. She had a purple bruise over the right side of her jaw and more bruising around her neck. He gently stroked her jaw with a thumb making Marsala wince.
“Joffren did this?”
Marsala nodded, then leant forward and gave Eamon a soft kiss on the lips. “Come.”
At the bottom of the stairs, Eamon turned into the kitchen. Marsala came in behind him. There was a blanket covering the top half of Joffren’s body that lay on the kitchen floor. The kitchen was otherwise clean and in order with the exception of a cooking pot that had a large dent in the side.
“I did what I could,” Marsala explained. “Turned him about and cleaned him up, read a passage from the ‘Murata Fara’.” Eamon looked at her. She shrugged. “It seemed the right thing to do.”
“The man tried to kill you, Marsala. You don’t owe him anything.”
Marsala flashed a condescending glance at Eamon. “A dead priest in my kitchen is one thing. Having his spirit lingering is not something I need. I sent it on its way.”
Eamon looked around the kitchen again, allowing old memories to wash over him. “It’s been a while.”
“And a lot has changed for you in this time.” Marsala stood in front of Eamon and held his hands. “You did it, Eamon.”
“Hmm?”
“You found him. You guided him. You did what you set out to do all those years ago.”
“You met Magnus, then?”
“Aye.”
“He’s the right choice, isn’t he?” Eamon felt proud—as if he was describing his own son.
“He is worthy of being your Electus. And young Catanya… she is quite the fateful addition.”
“I will say, Marsala, she is the only person who has left me speechless besides you.”
Marsala smiled. “Go up to the living room. I’ll make supper.”
“No need. A glass or two of your finest red will suffice.”
“You are speaking my language!”
Marsala stepped into the corridor at the bottom of the staircase and opened a cupboard. She removed a dusty bottle and two small pewter goblets then started up the stairs with Eamon close behind. Half way up she stopped. Eamon considered her.
“Do you remember the Beckford incident?”
Eamon laughed aloud. “How could I forget?” He thought of the incident from about eight years before. Eamon had returned to Allumbreve after a two-year journey beyond the Neverseas. After docking at Ba’rrat, he travelled to Thwax to see Marsala. When he arrived, there was a middle-aged man having an argument with Marsala in the street out the front of her house. “That Mr Beckford was convinced you’d cursed his wife!” Eamon chuckled.
“His wife had left him after learning he was having an affair,” Marsala contributed. He couldn’t for the life of him imagine it reason enough to leave him. ‘Must be the town mystic has put a curse on my wife’.” Marsala shook her head and resumed her climb up the stairs. “Do you remember what you said to him—when you came across us arguing in the street?”
Eamon thought back. Mr Beckford was red faced with anger at the time. Though, he could not for the life of him remember what he said.
“He reached beneath his cloak and pulled a knife,” Marsala said as if to jog Eamon’s memory.
“Only it wasn’t a knife!” Eamon remembered.
“It was a sweet potato!” Eamon and Marsala said together, laughing hysterically at the top of the stairs.
“Do you remember what you said?” Marsala was crying from laughter.
“Aye,” Eamon remembered as he wiped away a tear of his own. “I said, ‘you’ve got clout, brandishing vegetables in such a manner, but if you’d kept your vegetables in their pockets, your wife would never have left you’!”
They both laughed heartily again as they settled into the leather chairs in Marsala’s eclectic living room.
“If only he’d known the truth!” Eamon said.
“Well,” Marsala shook her head. “His wife did come to me first.” She chuckled a final time as she poured red wine into the small goblets, handing one to Eamon. He held her hand as she did.
“I am sorry, Marsala. I truly am.” Eamon deeply regretted putting Marsala’s life in danger by sending Joffren to her. With Joffren’s muddled state of mind he should have thought of the danger he posed. “It was short sighted of me to send Joffren to you.” Marsala looked deep into Eamon’s eyes as though studying her old friend for the first time in a long time. Her eyes softened. The gentlest smile came to her face. “I was desperate to save him. I was hoping I could—”
“Eamon,” Marsala interjected.
“I should have known, I should have anticipated—”
“Eamon.” Eamon looked at her. She took his bearded face in her hands. “It’s okay. I’m fine. Joffren was your Semsarian. Your protective instincts for him are to be expected. This is not something else for you to endure.”
Eamon sighed, thinking of recent events. “Over the past while, many ghosts from my past have come back to haunt me, Marsala. In daylight hours, no less.”
“Things do have a way of resurfacing. I think it’s a good thing—clarity precedes closure.”
Eamon returned Marsala’s gaze. “I’m without words once again.”
“Good. Drink your wine.”
Eamon sipped the wine. It was as wonderful as he remembered and lifted his spirits. Rhuderburry wine… It was a fair bet to say he and Marsala were the only folk in all of Allumbreve who had savoured the broody, red-grape wine. Marsala saved the wine for Eamon’s company and it was he who gave it to her when he returned from abroad. He also gave her three pounds of rhuderburry extract—a potent medicine Marsala had skilfully mixed into many of her potions. From where he got it from exactly he kept to himself. He drank the wine and drank in the sight of Marsala—it was so good to see her again.
“You’ll still not tell me where rhuderburries come from, will you?” Marsala jested.
“One day I’ll show you.” It was always Eamon’s response and Marsala always rolled her eyes as he said it.
They sat in silence, enjoying one another’s company for the little time they had left, knowing Färgd would soon return. Soon though, Marsala’s demeanour began to change. She sat up in her chair, toying with her goblet. Her shoulders stiffened and a frown came to her face.
“What is it Marsala? You seem vexed beyond the dead man in your kitchen.”
“Did you know Ganister of Bowthwait?” Marsala asked.
“Aye,” Eamon said, knowing the Bowthwaitman perished in Ba’rrat’s Arena.
“I know he is dead. Did you know his wife is my cousin?”
“Not that I recall.”
“She visited just days ago, bringing the news with her. Her son—Lucas—was as a brother to Magnus.”
Eamon listened intently, sensing there was a darker side to the story beyond Ganister’s death. “Go on.”
“Lucas is in a dark place, wielding a dark power. He is a sorcerer under Delvion’s control, but I do not know how he got such power. What I do know from my time with Magnus is that he will bend the will of fate to save his friend.”
“Will Magnus sacrifice himself for his friend?”
“The Electus will sacrifice what Allumbreve needs of him, perhaps even himself, to protect Lucas—yes.”
“Take care of yourself, Eamon.”
“And you, Marsala.”
“You’ve begun the second most important part of your life—the life for which I renamed you ‘Eamon’. Do your best,” Marsala instructed.
“Thank you. Perhaps though, this will be the most important part of my life—don’t you think?”
Marsala shook her head. “No. That comes afterward, when you return and show me the world you’ve seen beyond the Neverseas.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
“Then we can pick rhuderburries together.”
They embraced and kissed one another fondly. Eamon climbed into Färgd’s saddle and strapped his legs in. In one powerful thrust, Färgd launched into the sky and Eamon waved to Marsala who disappeared into the fog below.
“To the Romghold, Färgd.”
“We shall bring order to the Irucantî once and for all.”
Beyond the Neverseas, Eamon thought to himself, thinking of Marsala’s parting words. If she only knew of the world she wonders…
LINÉ
Magnus placed a hand on Catanya’s forehead and stroked the hair from her face. With his other hand, he was firmly pinching the deep cut between her shoulder and neck, trying to stop the bleeding.
Catanya was lying on the white marble table in the healing room, yet to regain consciousness after her fight with the High Priest. The priest was dead and Liné’s egg returned to her. Trax had seen to it that the remaining High Priest was locked in a holding cell at the far east of the Romghold under guard of a very angry dragon—Brue. Magnus was glad Brue had redirected his anger. The other two fire dragons stood at either door of the healing room. Liné was at the outside door, her egg with her, and Rubea was in the temple nave, seated at the third door along the eastern wall. After rescuing Liné’s egg, the dragons were now honouring Catanya by protecting her.
Trax came bursting into the healing room from the outer door, carrying two arms full of stuff. “She will be okay, Liné, I promise you,” he said before shutting the door behind him. He looked to Magnus. “How is she?”
“Stable,” Magnus said in his calmest voice. Inside he was fretting. He hoped Trax was a good healer.
“I have everything we need,” Trax said. “The healing room is usually well stocked, but we shouldn’t be left wanting for anything. Firstly, let’s stitch that wound, then we can assess the chest injury.”
“She’s lost a lot of blood,” Magnus’s voice wavered. He coughed to clear his throat. “And her chest—”
“Yes, we’ll get to that, Semsdër-fatel.”
Magnus nodded. “Just tell me what to do.”
Trax opened a draw in the small white table at the centre of the healing room and removed a white cloth, unwrapped it and selected the finest of many needles. “No need for too large a scar.” From a roll of fine cotton threading, he snapped off a six-inch length. Next, he popped the cork off a small bottle and scooped some of its oily contents with fingers. He ran the threading between his oily thumb and forefinger, making the thread glisten. “And no need for infection.” He finished his prep by threading the needle, taking the needle to a candle on the table and putting the needle to its flame until it turned red-hot.
Trax came to Magnus and stood at Catanya’s head. “I’ve got it.” He took Magnus’s place, pinching the wound himself. He nodded toward the table. “Perhaps if you could run some of those cloth sheets through the warm water and clean the wound for me as I stitch.”
“Aye.” Magnus did as told, soaking four cloth squares and squeezing the water out, then gently wiping the blood away from Catanya’s wound. As he did, Magnus could see how deep the cut had gone.
“It is a deep cut, but we Irucantî do heal well.” Trax concentrated as he pushed the sharp needle into Catanya’s flesh and began the process of stitching the wound closed. Catanya moaned gently. “That’s a good sign,” Trax added.
“You do heal well?” Magnus asked, stroking Catanya’s forehead again.
“Aye. As Semsdër-fatel, you should know our secrets.” Trax glanced at Magnus then returned to his stitching. “During our inauguration, we receive the sacrament of Couldradt blood. Nothing as extreme as you have, of course, for our blood is still our own… please wipe again.” Magnus did as told, clearing blood away from Catanya’s partially stitched wound.
“I know this,” Magnus said. “Catanya went through the process of Anunya just as I did.” He did not mention his own process of Anunya was an ongoing affair.
“Aye. It is good you’ve had her to learn these things. Our sacrament provides us with enhancements. One of which is that we heal well. Though, not as well as you, I imagine.” Trax glanced at Magnus again.
Magnus considered the old priest. He was sure he could trust him but was wary about revealing his Electus strengths. Still, Magnus considered that every person in Ba’rrat’s arena was witness to his healing potential after Briet nearly killed him. Furthermore, many an Irucantî was witness to his healing powers after his Juniper stone altercation with Joffren at the Eastern Wall. The stone had enabled their bodies to merge as one, share thoughts and memories and then pull free once again. The process left Magnus unscathed after his Electus blood worked its magic with a display of shimmering light about his body. Joffren almost lost his life and as far as Magnus knew, was still fighting for it.
“I survived six months and a hundred battles in Ba’rrat’s arena. On many occasions I was wounded beyond reason to heal. I’m here to tell tale of it, thanks to Thioci.”
Trax smiled as he completed Catanya’s stitching with a knot. He returned to the table and washed his hands in the bowl of water. “I am glad to have lived long enough to make your acquaintance in my time, Semsdër.”
“Well, I’m glad you were here to support us. Tell me though, what does ‘Semsdër-fatel’ mean?”
“Ah!” Trax’s eyes lit up. “Semsdër is a derivative of Semsdi—‘teacher’. Semsdër means ‘leader’, Semsdër-fatel therefore means ‘fated leader’. Am I the first to call you as much?”
“Yes, you are.” Magnus found the title disconcerting. Was the Electus preordained as the ‘fated leader’ of the order of the Irucantî? If so, he was beginning to understand why they wanted one of their own in such a pious position. He took no interest in the role himself and knew for certain Catanya would baulk at the idea of him doing so.
“Then I am honoured all the more to be the first to say so!” Trax said. “Let us tend to Catanya’s other wounds.” Trax retrieved a folded white gown from the end of the healing table.
“I can dress her,” Magnus insisted. He took the gown from Trax and draped it over Catanya’s body, then set to task removing her Ferustir suit with discretion.
“You are a gentleman as well,” Trax remarked.
After a few awkward minutes, Magnus had Catanya’s chest armour removed and set to task unbuckling her vambraces and rerebraces. Trax then examined the wound in her breastbone.
“This one is not as deep. The sword may have pierced a lung, but she doesn’t struggle for breath or cough up blood.”
“She was coughing blood a week ago from an arrow wound in her back.”
Trax helped Magnus roll Catanya to her side so he could examine the arrow wound in her back. It was beginning to scar over.
“The wound has been cauterised… from inside.” Trax eyed Magnus then looked back to the wound. “See here, the thin ring of residual burn about the wound.” Trax pointed to the ring of dark, burned flesh less than a quarter of an inch thick. “That would be far thicker if cauterised from the outside. Your handiwork, I assume?”
“Aye. I can heat metal and reshape it with thoughts. I did so to the Quag arrowhead.”
&n
bsp; “Indeed…” Trax traced the wound with a finger again. There was a second, thin black ring around the burned flesh. Trax scratched at the black marking and tasted his finger before spitting on the ground. “Poison.”
“Poison?” Magnus was alarmed. “The Quag arrow was poisoned?”
“Aye. You must have burned it out when you removed the arrow.”
“There is no residual poison?”
Trax shook his head. “She’d have fallen ill long before now if there was. I will stitch her chest wound and affect a Cantomine spell to halt any internal bleeding, then leave you to apply healing wraps to her other cuts and bruises.”
Magnus breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Trax.” He offered his hand.
Trax stared at it, apparently unfamiliar with his informal gratitude. He eventually shook Magnus’s hand, smiling. “You are most welcome.”
Trax stitched Catanya’s chest wound then prepared a selection of cotton cloths soaked in healing oils and left them sitting in a stone dish on the small table. He excused himself and left the healing room via the internal door where he started a conversation with Rubea.
Magnus gently cleaned Catanya’s nicks and scratches in her cheeks, brow and chin. He was slow and methodical about it, looking at the detail in her olive complexion, her dark eyebrows, red lips and the widow’s peak of her black hair. He felt the scar in her left earlobe and the priest markings over the left side of her head. Her hair had grown a little more over the markings—Catanya’s attempt to distance herself from the priesthood.
“Hannah…” It was Catanya’s first sign of consciousness. She mumbled her sister’s name over and over and her face tensed.
Magnus rest a palm over her forehead. “Shh…” He kissed her. She breathed easy again. He drew in the scent of the healing oils on her skin, but could no longer smell jasmine thanks to Marsala lifting the tracking spell Joffren had put on her—the spell that enabled Demi to hunt her down. The thought of Joffren doing this left Magnus conflicted over whether to hope the priest would recover from their Juniper stone altercation. Magnus stroked Catanya’s hair for a moment then attended to all her bruises and cuts, placing the healing wraps over her body, arms, thighs and legs.
