Knight of Novus

by Alydia Rackham

  No one ventured to this section of the city, even in the broad daylight. Weeds had begun to grow between the cracks in the stones, and the pillars appeared dour and bitter in the gloom. Only John’s footsteps interrupted the deathly silence.

  He drew to a halt on the topmost landing—the landing where it had happened.

  The landing where he had stood when his heart broke.

  Gazing down at the squares of paving, his breaths quaking in his lungs, he knew: nothing had changed since that moment.

  Weakly, he sank down onto his knees and bowed his head to the ground like a pilgrim in Rome, wrapping his arms around himself. His forehead met the coolness of the cement, his eyes squeezed shut and his shoulders faltered. He did not weep. He couldn't. He was strangled.

  He stayed this way for a long time, then leaned to the side, turned and sat down, resting his elbows on his knees, glancing at his gloved hands. He opened his right hand to reveal Miriam's piece of yarn, and fingered it, but could feel nothing through his gloves. He did not move to take them off.

  For another hour, he sat, gazing over the city, seeing none of it. The birds began to sing, but he remained deaf to their voices. All he heard was the scream he had never uttered.

  At long last, he stiffly hauled himself to his feet and headed slowly back down the stairs. That same, nearly literal pain ran up and down beneath his ribs and pulsed through his veins.

  His feet hit the street. He stopped. For a moment, he closed his eyes, feeling the breeze against the skin of his face. He lifted his head and put the yarn in his pocket. Taking a deep breath, he began to walk again, purposefully, toward a bridge that led to the Pale.

  He gazed up at the plain, burnt little church that haunted his nightmares; the building where Thomas had nearly been shot a week ago.

  John kept his exterior calm, though the muscles in of his stomach, shoulders and back quivered. He clamped his jaw shut, and stepped inside.

  He swept his gaze back and forth, searching the corners of the little ruined sanctuary. After a moment's hesitation, he took a breath to call out a name—then stopped in his tracks.

  Someone sat in the front bench.

  He could barely glimpse knee-high boots, and the back of an ebony head. The head turned, just slightly, but did not look at him.

  It was Scarlet April Weston.

  She gradually turned her crimson-clad body. In her hand she held a small book. John stared at her, his feet rooted. She drew a breath in and read out loud, her tones rippling warmly through the darkness.

  "‘When they came to the place called the Skull, there they crucified him, along with the criminals-one on his right, the other on his left." She reached up and ran her thumb gently along the page. Her voice quieted. "‘Jesus said, 'Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.'"

  She raised her head and met his eyes with her emerald ones, and gave him a small smile.

  "You expected to find Knight Edward Herald here, didn't you?"

  John hung his head, unable to look at her.

  "I thought you might," she said. He heard her shut the book.

  "How did you know?" John managed, his eyes flicking up for a moment.

  "I spoke with Thomas," she replied. "And then I secured the area the very next night, and have come here to read ever since, waiting for you."

  This brought his head up, and his brow furrowed.

  "Why?"

  She shrugged.

  "I wanted to speak with you before you did something you would regret once you were in your right mind again."

  John said nothing. April considered the leather binding of her book, running her fingers against the edges of the cover.

  "This is probably common knowledge..." she said slowly. "But my husband was a Traitor. I shot him in the heart." She paused a moment, and took an unsteady breath. "The last thing he said to me was that he loved me." She rose to her feet and turned toward the stage. "I had not done anything to deserve that from him." Silently, her scarlet coat flowing behind her, she ascended the steps and approached a tall, brass figurine that sat on the communion table. It was a statuette of a man whose hands and feet were nailed to crossed beams.

  John suddenly recognized that it was the man from the book.

  "There is a lot to be said for forgiveness, Sir John," April murmured, delicately touching the nail-pierced feet. "And for being given second chances that we have done nothing to deserve."

  Silence reigned for a moment.

  "Who is Jesus?" John asked hoarsely.

  She faced him again, and gifted him with another smile. Stepping down from the altar, she came up to him and handed him the little book.

  "Look him up," she suggested. "But later. Right now, I want to show you something. Follow me."

  And she strode back out of the church, not looking back. After a beat, John put the book into his pocket and trailed after her.

  Though the drive lasted nearly half an hour, neither of them said anything as April directed the car through the streets of the Pale, then the city, and then out of it. Silently, they watched the horizon glow as the sun came up directly in front of them. Finally, April spoke.

  "Do you remember the first time you saw the sky after your chip deactivated?"

  "Yes," John answered. That was all they needed to completely understand each other.

  The road began to wind, and hulks of trees bordered it. John squinted. If he was not mistaken, he caught sight of several buds on the ends of the skeletal branches—and the earth was greening up as well, as if baby grass was attempting to spring.

  The sky began to open up above them, flowing from black to deep navy, and then to a fresh, towering blue, crowned in the east by the blooming sun. John leaned forward.

  "What is that on the hill?" he questioned.

  "Our destination."

  It was a huge, multi-level, brown brick building, with hundreds of square windows. But that wasn’t what caught John's attention.

  Surrounding the building stood a beautiful garden, filled with shrubs, paths, young trees, a single stone fountain and hundreds of flowers. The dew glittered like jewels adorning all of it.

  He had never seen anything of the kind.

  April stopped the car and got out. It took him a moment, but John soon followed. A fresh wind greeted him, and he could not resist taking a deep breath of it. Somehow, in spite of all the city's efficiency and sanitation, the air was cleaner out here.

  "What is this place?" John asked.

  The Scarlet began walking toward the main door, her feet crunching on the gravel.

  "It's an outpatient care facility that the Restoration initiated," she said over her shoulder. "I have come here a few times since the Awakening, and to places like it." She faced front. "It helps clear my head."

  John walked after her, soon catching up and flanking her. Birds twittered within the trees and flitted back and forth amidst the branches. John had never heard such a racket, but he had to confess that he didn’t find it unpleasant.

  April pushed a button next to the tall, white door, and a screen above the button flipped to life. A dark-skinned, middle-aged woman wearing a white uniform gazed out at them. She beamed.

  "Hello, Scarlet Weston! We weren't expecting you!"

  "I just thought I'd drop in for a visit while I was in the country, Gena. I brought a guest, if that's all right."

  "And the guest's name?" Gena requested, fetching a clipboard.

  "Restoration Knight John Cannon," April informed her.

  Gena looked up quickly.

  “Oh—him! ” she cried. “Of course, of course, come right in!"

  John glanced at April sideways, but she did not acknowledge him. The lock on the door clicked, and she stepped forward and entered. John stepped after her.

  They entered a long, brightly-lit, white hallway that somehow didn’t seem as stark as those of his own apartment buildings. Gena came out of a nearby office and greeted them.

  "As you know, all
weapons are to be checked at the door," Gena instructed. John stared at the Scarlet as she obediently stripped herself of all six of her guns and laid them on a small table. April turned to him and cocked her head.

  "Well?"

  John cleared his throat, and slowly began removing his weapons, careful to keep them separate from April's. The two women watched as he took the guns and knives out of his boots with obvious reluctance, set them down, then straightened stiffly, clearing his throat.

  Gena chuckled and April hid a smile.

  "Now, don't be difficult, hon," Gena chastised. She nodded at April. "You're free to roam around wherever you wish—I just ask that you speak quietly, so as not to disturb the patients trying to sleep."

  "We will be on our best behavior," April assured her, then started down the hall.

  John followed, glancing back several times at his weapons, until they rounded a corner and he could no longer see them.

  "Why was this place established so far out of the city?" John questioned as they ascended a winding staircase, his gloved hand sliding on the railing.

  "It's been in business since before the Awakening," April replied. "At first, it was a hospital for members of the Rebellion, and now, since the more sophisticated hospitals in the cities can be used, it has been converted into a place where people can go to heal."

  John's brow furrowed.

  "Heal from what?"

  They arrived at a door, and April opened it. Its hinges squeaked. John stared at it in surprise. None of the doors in the city squeaked. April laughed lightly and they proceeded through.

  "Heal from what?" John repeated.

  "Shh," April put a finger to her lips. John started, then noticed that many of the room doors hung open, but it was very quiet.

  "They're all still asleep," she answered in a whisper. They continued on, treading softly.

  "Some of the patients here are recovering from an adverse reaction to withdrawing from the Regulator—their minds had become addicted to it, and the absence of the chip made them very ill. Others are orphans because their mothers died in childbirth as a result of the Regulator causing a malfunction, and their fathers discarded them. And still others, though very few, because the technology was recent, are survivors of the gas chamber."

  John's legs stopped working. April halted and faced him. It took him a full minute to be able to speak.

  "What?"

  She nodded.

  "A team of Rebellion scientists and technicians developed a system of trapdoors and ventilation and such to rescue people inside the chambers. They dug beneath the Hall of Death and worked at night. It took them a full two years, or so they tell me, until it was finished. They began attempting rescues about a month before the Awakening." April winced. "The first few were not successful—a large part of the system relied on human timing. But after a while, they got better. And actually, about two weeks before the Awakening, they perfected their system. The trick was that, since there was glass in the door, the guards had to see gas go up around the person. So, for just a split second, the person was surrounded by toxin before he was whisked down, plunged into water, and brought to the hospital, then here, for his burns to be treated."

  John just stared at her blankly.

  "People...survived?" he rasped. She nodded again.

  "In fact, their most successful case so far lives on this floor. Would you like to see?"

  John's feet moved automatically in the direction April led him. Five steps. Ten steps. Fifteen...twenty...

  "They're very proud of this one. They told me that the technician operating this pull was brilliant," April informed him. "His timing was perfect. She’s only had some damage to the skin on her arms."

  She stopped in front of one of the doors, and gestured inside.

  "In there."

  John stood just to the side of the door. A beam of sunlight spread across the threshold. Cautiously, he stepped into it, and gazed into the room.

  A plain, small chamber. White walled and white floored, like everywhere else. A light pink dresser stood in the far corner, next to the eastern window. The sun glowed through the lace curtains, and played across the bed directly between the window and the door.

  Then, John saw the bed, and everything else vanished.

  A woman lay there on her side, her back to him. A soft, yellow blanket draped over her curves. Long, deep-rust hair floated over her pillow, shining like fire in the sunlight. Without accounting for it, John stepped into the room.

  He moved silently around to the foot of the bed, his shocked senses absorbing everything. He crept closer and grasped the metal rail at the foot. He gazed down at her.

  The skin of her face looked like porcelain, her cheeks flushed with healthy color. John’s eyes caressed her forehead, her dark, expressive eyebrows, her slender nose, her long-lashed, sleeping eyes, and her strong, velvet mouth. Bandages wrapped her arms, all the way down to the backs of her hands, which lay delicately on the sheets.

  He knew this woman. He knew her with every shred of his being—had long ago memorized every feature of her face.

  All his breath pressed out of his chest, as if forced by a great weight, and his eyes swam. His hands tightened on the rail to keep him from falling.

  Miriam.

  Chapter Five

  "Sir John?" April murmured.

  John did not move. His lips parted and his eyes stung. He opened his mouth, but then he swallowed. He tried again.

  "I know this woman," he said haltingly. "Her name is—" His throat spasmed closed, he blinked, and the skin around his eyes tightened. He felt as if a thorn was stabbing into his hand. He stopped for a moment, then ran his eyes again over the woman's hair, her face, her shoulders.

  "Miriam," he whispered, his expression sharpening. He sucked air in. "Miriam Lynd."

  "You know her?" April took a step in, speaking in a hushed voice.

  John nodded minutely.

  "I thought..." His brow knotted. "She was dead." He lifted his startled eyes to April's, just for a moment, then returned them to the woman lying asleep.

  "Shall we wake her?" April asked.

  "No," John stepped back suddenly from the bed.

  Miriam stirred.

  John watched her every move, captive.

  "No," he breathed. "I...no." He swallowed hard. "I...Can I come back?"

  April surveyed his face, then nodded.

  "Certainly."

  John stood there for several more minutes, his eyes distant. Then, his gaze drifted around the room, assessing the walls.

  "This room is blank," he observed quietly. "She doesn't like it."

  "How do you know?"

  "I know," he answered. He gave Miriam one more lingering look, then moved toward the door. "Let's go."

  Three weeks later...

  Purple twilight fell over the hills as John drove down the country roads alone. He sat back, one gloved hand on the steering wheel, and gazed out over the land that was steadily becoming beautiful and alive again.

  He slowed as he pulled up in front of the outpatient facility's gardens, then parked and got out. The air filled of the sweet scent of old-fashioned roses. He stopped for just a moment to inhale it, then opened the backseat door of the car and pulled out a small paper bag. After slamming the door shut, he made his way with even strides up the gravel walk and to the door. He reached up and pressed the button. The screen came on. John glanced up to see Gena's face.

  "Hello Gena. It's me.” He smiled a little. She beamed.

  "My goodness, you again Mr. Cannon," she laughed.

  He allowed himself a small chuckle as well.

  "Come on in," she invited, and the lock clicked. He easily pushed the door open and stepped inside. Gena emerged from the office, looking expectant.

  "Weapons check?" she asked hopefully. He shook his head.

  "No, I'm just dropping this off for the patient in 311," he replied, holding out the bag.

  "Oh, what have you brought her this
time?" Gena wondered, taking it from him. He shrugged.

  "You can look at it."

  Gently, Gena unrolled the top of the bag and reached inside, then pulled out a small snow globe. Inside the globe stood a tiny Italian cathedral the colors of hard candy. On the base of the globe was carved the word Firenze—Florence.

  "Ahh, it's beautiful Mr. Cannon," Gena admired. "She will love it." She glanced up at him. "The other ladies are starting to envy Miss Lynd. You've brought her a present almost every night, and her room is getting to be the prettiest of all of them-especially after the addition of those ballerina pictures last week."

  John smiled.

  "I hope she likes it." He canted his head. "How is she doing?"

  "Well, she is going in tomorrow morning for surgery on her arms—reconstructive, cosmetic surgery, you know. Nothing is really wrong, but the fire damaged her skin so badly," Gena shook her head. "They're going to do what they can to help her get back to normal."

  John nodded solemnly.

  "Thank you, Gena. Goodnight." He turned and moved to open the door.

  "Won't you come up and see her?" Gena invited. John looked at her for a moment.

  "No, thank you."

  "She's been asking for you."

  John stopped. His heart did something strange and painful against his ribs.

  He turned back.

  "She has?"

  Gena nodded, putting the globe back in the sack.

  "Yes, though she doesn't know your name. You never gave me permission to tell her, so I've kept that to myself, but I believe that, even though she lights up every time you bring something," Gena smiled wryly. "She's starting to lose her patience with you."

  John stood there, his hand on the doorknob, hesitating. He lifted his head.

  "Should I come tomorrow evening?"

  Gena's face brightened.

  "Yes! She should be back around four in the afternoon, so her anesthetic should be wearing off enough by the evening for you to be able to talk with her."

  John swallowed hard.

  "Yes. I'll...I'll be here tomorrow. Goodnight, Gena."