by F. C. Reed
Kell’s pale blue face peeked through the mud and dirt on its surface. His eyes rolled in his head as the small frame shuddered under convulsions from time to time.
“Somebody help me load him,” one man yelled.
They brought a small khydrid pony, presumably used for transport throughout the city streets, and lashed the wheeled gurney to it in haste. The man mounted the khydrid in one jump and was about to be off.
“I’m coming with you,” Amalia blurted without thought.
“No, you’re not,” another man yelled, pushing her away from the makeshift cart. “This is all your fault, anyway.”
“Shut your mouth, Bozon,” the mounted man spat back. “The grotty bastich had it coming for years and we all know it.” He turned to Amalia. “As you like, my lady,” he intoned with a nod and gestured to the gurney.
Amalia jumped in the back to steady the boy on the short trip. As she sat with Kell, who appeared to be stable, she also got a sense that she was about to make the dumbest decision of her life. Or the smartest. Because somebody had to, so it may as well be her.
Before they took to the streets, a man pushed through the crowd, out of breath. “I’m coming too,” he said.
Amalia turned on the voice. “Thanial. What are you doing here?”
“I came as soon as I could. I wanted to know you were not in harm’s way.” He brushed her cheek lightly with the back of his hand.
Amalia stiffened at first, but longed for his presence and the pleasure of his fingers gliding across her skin was a reminder of that. “How did you know something was wrong?”
“This may sound strange,” Thanial began. “But I can feel your anxiety. I can sense when you are in danger. I don’t know how or why. There’s just something about you I can’t place.”
Amalia frowned at him as they bumped along the road. She couldn’t believe his story. She certainly didn’t want to. He must have been tailing her because he seemed to be everywhere she was these days. Instead of challenging him, she allowed the comfort of safety to envelop her - something she had, until just now, resisted. That brought her some emotional relief, but the confusion and questions lingered. “I’d seriously think you were a creep, McPerverton, if I didn’t enjoy your company so much.”
Thanial could only smile in return.
Chapter Thirty-Three
When they reached the medicarium, the attendants whisked Kell’s body away, but not before Amalia made sure they understood that she would be the one to host Kell’s body. She had to fight off Thanial to do it. He also volunteered, perhaps as a show of bravery. She didn’t need him to impress her by courage or selflessness, but she didn’t tell him that.
No one asked questions. No one seemed to care. Oshalla stood by with her hands in her pockets, looking on, an expression of concern on her face, but she also said nothing. Instead, she nodded at Amalia after hearing her request.
Soon after, medics and attendants came for Amalia and she hugged Thanial when he leaned in to her. That proximity felt so perfectly right and as it should be. At their separation, the longing seemed to grow with every step she took away from him.
She soon found herself in another room. The gray walls held nothing but a smooth, matte surface. There were no instruments, no cabinets, and no drawers. A single chair sat positioned in the center. The sight of it reminded Amalia of the adjustable chairs that dentists use, except this one had straps for the wrists, waist, and ankles. Another strap dangled at the headboard, presumably to fit across the forehead. None of this eased her anxiety, and she doubted her decision.
The door behind her swung open. Oshalla entered the space, her brow furrowed. “Missy. I’ll have a word with you,” she said, motioning for Amalia to sit.
Amalia hesitated, her mind snagging on the physician’s cautionary lecture about a complicated and delicate procedure fraught with risks and likely side effects. She sat, mentally bracing herself.
“I’ll level it at you straight,” Oshalla said. “Some things are not meant to be. This is one of those things.”
“I don’t understand,” Amalia said, choking slightly on a mouth suddenly cottony and dry. “Without a host, he’ll die.”
“Maybe,” said Oshalla. “Maybe not. He’s a young fella. He’ll probably survive stasis until we can find a host. Gods, he survived being hitched to that sloppy drunken bastard of a stable master for far too long, and that didn’t faze him. This’ll have a hard time putting him to rest, you can be sure of that. At least I hope.”
Amalia felt a whirlwind of dizziness, anger, frustration, and heartache. “Why can’t I host him? I’m willing when nobody else cares. He doesn’t need to take a chance with his life. You don’t need to take a chance with his life. I’m strong and healthy. And I will take care of him,” Amalia said.
“Of that I have no doubt, little one. But that be not the reason. Here I’ll show you.” Oshalla reached out for Amalia’s hand and exposed her palm. With her other, she pulled a syringe from her pocket. “Relax,” she said as Amalia stiffened under her grip.
Oshalla popped the cap off and jabbed at Amalia’s thumb with the needle in one motion. Amalia flinched and pulled her hand to her chest.
“Now have a look, sweetie.”
Amalia glanced at her thumb, then pulled it closer to her face to be sure. A small drop of liquid pooled at the tip, not as red as she expected or would have liked. In fact, it wasn’t red at all.
“You have a trait called, eh, saturation dysregulation, dearie. Makes your blood look kind of like liquid gold. It’s an immunodefense system that protects you from many things, but mainly makes you resistant to the effects of the liquid black. It also, unfortunately, makes you incompatible. That’s why not. We’ll be putting him in stasis.”
Amalia drew into herself partly because Kell would end up taking his chances in stasis and partly because her blood was gold colored. She searched her memory of ever having seen her own blood before, only to discover that there was nothing for her to recall. “When did this happen?” She asked, still twisting her thumb about and frowning at the gold drop pooling on the end.
“I suspect at the time you were born,” Oshalla said.
“What? How?” Amalia still reeled with the revelation.
Oshalla averted her gaze momentarily. “Not for me to answer, I’m afraid.” She stood, avoiding Amalia’s gaze, which she knew to be one of confusion. “Anyhow, I’ll take you to where he is. You can say your wish-wells and get-betters.”
They hurried out to a building separate from the main building of the medicarium. It stood alone. From the outside, the large structure resembled a gray sheet metal aircraft hangar.
Oshalla led her into the open space. The dim light cast a volley of concealing shadows over the neat rows of beds. Each bed held a person. Skin hung loose on bone. Red and purple spots mottled entire bodies. Intravenous drips holding pink liquid stood near the beds, tubes snaking somewhere under the sheets. The air felt moist and saturated with the moans and coughs and wheezes. A handful lay motionless and silent. No one attended to them. The air punched of a heavy, choking incense, perhaps to mask death’s putrid stench. She realized after a time that they assumed he would die, because this did not look like stasis, not that she would have known any different.
Then her eyes focused on the loose golden spirals, laid over a pair of velvet-clad shoulders. Amalia froze in her tracks.
Oshalla glanced at Amalia, then at Mirell, then back at Amalia. “You all right, love?”
Amalia flicked a glance at Oshalla. “What is she doing here?” she asked in a whisper.
Oshalla sighed. “Same as you, I suppose,” she said. “I’ll not be turning away anyone who wants to pay respects to the afflicted.” She paused and grinned. “Even if they are psychotic, superficial, ego driven she-trolls.”
Amalia stifled a laugh while Oshalla cast her a serious glance. “Keep hands to yourself and don’t be doing nothing I wouldn’t do, but you can say whatever you bloody well fa
ncy.” She winked and exited the way they came in.
“This affliction,” Amalia said in a voice loud enough to get Mirell’s attention. “It will kill them, won’t it?” She was sure to keep her distance from both the sick and Mirell alike.
“Yes. Of course, you wouldn’t know that,” Mirell sniffed. “Their sphere essence is gone. Like blood, sphere essence tethers all living things to life itself. Without it, the struggle to survive increases tenfold.” Mirell spoke with her back to Amalia, not bothering to turn. “The medicus didn’t tell you?”
“Not hard to figure out.”
Mirell sighed. “War is a terrible thing. This fate is even worse, and for some, the result of that war. The Legion are a contagious lot. Some of them can drain sphere essence. I have no idea how they do it. There is also no way to restore the essence once they have taken it in this way.”
“So we leave them to die?”
“A slow and fitful decline plagued with effort,” Mirell said. “That is all there is.”
Amalia scanned the room. Death snagged in the eyes of those men and women curled under their blankets. It drowned and smothered their heartbeats into stuttering thumps. The room became too difficult for her to stand in. She had to get out of there once the sights and sounds overwhelmed her. She looked at Mirell, who appeared concerned, but Amalia didn’t believe she was genuine about it.
“What can I do to help them?” Amalia said.
The question seemed to catch Mirell off her guard. “Why would you want to do anything, let alone help them?” she blurted. “You don’t know them. You don’t owe them anything, least of all the gutter rat.”
“His name is Kellis Nabry,” Amalia said, careful to temper her anger. She crossed her arms in front of herself as a precaution. “You would have let him die.” Amalia’s statement was one of clarification, and not a question.
Mirell straightened her shoulders. “My duty lies elsewhere, not being tethered to a snot-nosed brat. You’re such a foolish girl for even trying.”
“Isn’t that why I’m here? Because I fit into all of this madness like no one else can? I’m the lioness of the red. I must be able to—
“If you are here because you think you are supposed to be, or even forced to be, then you have an overblown and arrogant appraisal of yourself.” Mirell’s face contorted into a nasty frown.
“Look who’s talking,” Amalia muttered under her breath.
“You are not the last hope to save humanity or some great and powerful warrior that will bring about balance to the aethersphere, despite what the commander general or that decrepit old man who calls himself the armsmaster would have you to believe. The Itarans were purged from the planes centuries ago. And you can’t be Itaran, because they’re all dead, save for a handful.” Mirell paced. “Gods be damned,” she muttered. “Even the primus has lost sight of what is at stake here. He thinks you are the red lioness, come to save us all on your own. You think you’re the red lioness. The whole gods-damned city does.” Mirell puffed out a mouthful of air in exasperation. “But you’re nothing. Worthless.”
Amalia certainly didn’t want to believe what she was hearing. She thought she was the key to saving Therios Kaval and all the rest. “How do you know this?” she asked.
“From what I understand, you’re being tested,” Mirell said as she stood over Amalia. “It’s as simple as that. And as far as I’m concerned, you’re not doing very well at all. When you fail, it will be for the best. There are others, non-Itarans, who stand to do a much better job.” She stared at Amalia with her hands on her hips, as if inviting a challenge to what she was saying.
“Good thing you don’t have a say, then. Isn’t it?” Amalia said with a shrug.
“You don’t know our ways, our culture, our values. By the green hells, you don’t even know how to use the ‘sphere to your advantage.” Mirell paced again. “Sure, you may have been lucky here and there, but we don’t need luck. We need a skilled commander general. In other words: not you.”
Amalia watched her move back and forth in her graceful glide, and listened as her boots echoed off the stone floor, one footfall after the other. “I suppose you mean the sky marshal.”
“She has little confidence in your ability to succeed,” she snarled, refocusing her attention on Amalia. “I came here thinking you were a woman of reason, but I stand corrected in that you are a foolish little girl who hopes to play at saving the aethersphere, one person at a time.” Mirell stopped her pacing and approached Amalia again. “Let me tell you this: the Skyguard will never align its forces to your leadership. I don’t give a damn what the sky marshal orders of me,” she spat, still sneering. “Do yourself a favor and go back to wherever you came from, before you get yourself killed. Oh, wait. That’s right,” she said with a lopsided grin. “You can’t because you’ve already lost your keystone.” Spit flecked the floor at her burst of frustration and fury. “In that case, you can sit in a corner and rot away for all the good you will do us.”
Mirell’s amber-colored eyes burned and danced like tiny yellow flames. She trembled for a moment, her beautiful features still crunched and twisted across her reddened face. She didn’t bother hiding her eternal contempt.
“I didn’t take you to be interested in any of this.”
Mirell snorted. “I’m not as cruel as you might think.”
“I’m sorry, but from what I’ve had the pleasure of experiencing is the only thing that matters to Mirell is Mirell.” And Thanial.
“You know nothing about me or what I’ve been through to stand here. You don’t know.” A wave of anger shuddered across Mirell’s features before she composed herself. “Of course I’m interested,” she snapped, although with much less contempt that Amalia expected. “I can’t bring myself to put my precious life into someone else’s hands. I’ve done it before and nearly died because of it. The Red Lion Legacy has my support. That’s what drives this plane of existence, but this time, it’s all wrong. All of it. You. Don’t. Belong. Here.” She hissed the words, regaining control of her senses and sanity only after a moment of intense staring. “And you are no full blood Itaran. I’ll never believe that.”
“Believe what you want, but I’m not going anywhere,” Amalia braved again, surprised at the strength in her voice. “So I suppose you should get used to it.”
Mirell smoothed her hair with her hands and raised an eyebrow, apparently amused at Amalia’s display of defiance. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll escort you back to your own plane myself, if so asked. Where did you say you were from?”
“I never said,” Amalia snapped, glaring back at her.
“Well then, say now.” Mirell crossed her arms. “What’s the harm in that?”
Amalia bristled visibly, her lip curling in a sneer of her own. “Philadelphia, Pennsylvania,” she said after a moment. What would it hurt if she knew?
Mirell frowned. “Pennsylvania?” The name came out in choppy breaks as if she were testing it on her tongue. “Where the hells is that?”
Amalia raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?” Mirell’s questioning glance did not change. “It’s on earth. I’m sure you’ve heard of that.”
“Earth?” A warm smile spread across Mirell’s face. “Don’t be silly, girl, although I envy your optimistic spirit. That filthy little planet festers on as a desolate, toxic, lawless, and a near uninhabitable pile of excrement. The ravages of a centuries-long war has seen to that. Seriously, where are you from?”
Amalia frowned. “I am definitely from earth, and I guess the plane where earth is located.” She was also a little less sure of herself after what she was hearing. “Say what you want about it, but that’s where I’m from.”
Mirell turned to meet her gaze. “That can’t be.” She eyed Amalia. “History lends itself to— she trailed off, then paused again. “You don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?” Amalia said, annoyed.
Mirell’s eyes grew wider, and a grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. “
You’re serious,” she said.
“Why wouldn’t I be,” Amalia replied. She felt a caution well up inside of her, and her voice tightened around her annoyance.
“Very, very curious,” Mirell said to herself, looking off. “And why or how would that be something you don’t know?” She quietly asked herself as she put a hand to her chin in thought, ignoring Amalia’s confused expressions and unasked questions. Her grin widened. “No matter. Your presence or absence does not account for the fact that you are utterly useless.”
Amalia stiffened. “I don’t see any purpose that you serve, and you call me useless? I will be Commander General.”
“Like the hells you will,” Mirell sneered. “Not after what I’ve just discovered. So thank you for this little friendly chat. It was,” she paused, searching for a word. “Enlightening.”
Mirell backed away from Amalia and made her way to the exit. “I should like to see you prove me wrong, although now I gather that will be extremely difficult.” Then she turned to leave.
“I will,” Amalia promised in a whisper, but not so loud that she was heard. Then she realized Mirell’s discovery. Earth and Harkhemenes. Are they on the same plane? A wave of nausea washed over her. She needed to speak with General Strann. Something didn’t add up. Or it did, and she feared the implications. Either way, she needed answers.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Mirell sat looking at the features of her face in a mirror, her mind floating and rotating about a lush fantasy world she had created for herself. A fantasy world with Thanial front and center. A fantasy world without the Amalia girl. Her anger over Thanial had yet to subside, and it had her powerfully distracted.
“Lady Mirell?” a voice echoed.
Mirell started at the gentle voice. Her dream world instantly collapsed into that which a dream becomes when it is not being dreamt, and she reluctantly returned to the cruel reality that was here and now. The reality where she may be forced to endure without Thanial in it if something drastic didn’t change soon.
