Larkspur

by V. M. Jaskiernia

  He screamed. Every inch of his skin burned, and he could barely stay conscious. Ophion had already gone, though several of his assistants were trying to do their best. Pierre refused as much of the treatment as possible. It would be no help, and might in fact expose him.

  Two young men held him down. Bedding and covers from the winter were pulled out again, the fire stoked. The door was shut to keep in the air and smoke. His screams turned to moans but there was no dulling of pain.

  One assistant rummaged through his bag and pulled out a scarificator. He exposed Pierre’s skin so he could cut into it.

  The lord struggled against him and wrenched free his arm. “Out! Everyone out, this instance!”

  “My lord, I can—”

  “Out!”

  The young man stayed, through everyone else fled. He stood his ground, “My lord, if I bleed you—”

  “My cane,” Pierre demanded instead. He sat, and clutched his head as the room swam and darkened. He whimpered in pain. The boy looked around and saw a gentleman’s walking stick laying on the floor close by. He picked it up and handed it to the duc.

  Pierre pressed a gem, the trigger to a spring lock, and pulled out a dagger from within. Then without even looking up he drove it into the boy’s heart.

  The spirits of death rushed to the body. Pierre’s pain dissipated and his sight returned. He spent a moment breathing deeply.

  “Mora,” he finally called. “Mora, my dear.”

  She appeared on his bed, sitting where she had last night. Her wings, which had been smoke then, were now as true as the rest of her. The flames roared behind her.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “You did not stay with me,” she said. “I offered you eternity, but you returned to this mortal existence.”

  “I am sorry,” he replied. “It was a very tempting offer, I still in some ways wish to take it,” he looked up at her, “but I am not yours.” As close as he was to the Lady of Death, the name of Suitor was used as a magical term, and did not denote affiliation.

  She raised a hand to touch his cheek, a corsage of larkspur on her wrist, and for a moment every ache and pain was gone. His eyes closed, and he sighed.

  “Pierre..”

  With effort he continued, “I passed your last test, Mora.” He opened his eyes and sat up straighter. “I took my life and with my own control over the spirits I returned soul to body. It was your wish, not requirement, that I stay with you.”

  Her nails dug into his face and the pain flowed over him stronger than before. He snatched her hand away. His blood, now indiscernible from black ink by sight, stained their hands.

  She cried out in pain but he did not let go. He held out a hand to her face, to cup her cheek as she had done to him. Touching her pulse, stroking her throat, she gave a sigh and dropped her head onto his palm. He brushed a bloody thumb over her lips.

  “You are a lady of death,” Pierre said through clenched teeth. “The lady of death in Triumphe. The spirits obey you. But you are not in and of yourself Death, as often as you are referred to as such in this realm. You gave me power over the spirits, first through you, and now of my own accord.”

  Her eyes widened and her lips moved underneath his touch, but he snapped his fingers before she spoke. Mora collapsed. The pain throughout his body eased though the headache continued.

  He forced himself from bed and over to where the young man lay. Pierre made certain the boy had some of his blood as well, and then pulled free his dagger.

  A soul drifted near the body, unable to continue any further. The lord tied spirit to flesh in an elaborate knot, giving the boy a high chance of survival from future injury or infection. It was the least he could do after murdering him. The dagger wound began to heal, and after several moments showed no mark. Another snap of his fingers, and the boy took in the first breath of his second life, though he remained in a deep unaware sleep.

  The scent of blood was heavy the room, his headache almost blinding him in response. Looking back to the bed— Mora had disappeared, and Pluta sat observing. He smiled weakly to the cat.

  “Do you think you will be able to clean this before we’re caught?” He gestured to the stained ground.

  “Of course. Now sleep, Pierre.” He climbed into bed and threw off several of the covers. His Familiar nudged his cheek with affection before jumping to the floor. He had killed her once too, to make her his magical confidant. In return she was given a lifespan far past usual, human speech, and other magical oddities to deal with whatever her master was up to. Most importantly she could consume evidence.

  “Remind me to tell uncle I apologise for being so rude to his students,” he said, laying down, “and for killing his second favourite apprentice.” He was asleep before she agreed.

  ***

  His dreams were a tangle. Greys and blacks with shimmers of gold and blue. A hand around his neck that became a caress from throat to abdomen; gentle nails sharpening to a blade’s point.

  ***

  Pierre awoke to a chill permeating the room, the fire having died down to embers. Pluta lay asleep near his feet, curled in one of the extra blankets that he now regretted tossing aside. He sat slowly, and sighed; everything remained still. Throughout his whole body a residual throbbing synced with his heartbeat but there was no acute pain.

  The moon declared with its phase that he had woken only hours later. Scratching Pluta behind her ears, he got out of bed, lit several candles, and threw a log on the embers.

  Nothing seemed out of place. The room was organised and neat, the events of that day a memory with no evidence. His Familiar has cleaned up well; it should satisfy her cravings for a time. The boy was missing, presumably having woken and returned to his duties. He should not have any memory of the time around his death, just a vague recollection of fainting.

  Digging through his school bags Pierre pulled out a notebook, along with a glass quill and ink bottle. He placed the latter two items on his desk and pulled out the chair with his foot while he searched for the last page he had been writing on.

  The words shimmered.

  There were still spirits of death in the room; the ‘ink’ would be clear otherwise. It was his own plasma that he had separated from blood cells with a centrifuge. Magic was most concentrated in the blood, taken from oxygen in the air; the very atmosphere of the realm. It was why certain magics only appeared in certain lands. In the case of his cræft blood turned grey and black, and plasma would pick up a silvery glow. Without death near it though, plasma would be clear, and so he used it as an invisible ink. The writings would be in plain sight only for the few who Death clung to.

  Finding his spot he sat, never looking up from the diary, and dipped quill in plasma to begin writing about the last few days. The party had been a surprise to him, though he should have known something would come up. A week previously on the 8th he had turned twenty-four, and those travelling with him had been too quick to let their celebration be put aside until they reached home. He had needed that extra time if he wished to finish everything by the new deadline of tonight’s full moon. Previously he had estimated half a decade to finish his studies, but had finished university with a year to spare, and had just been in need of a few more days to fully know his cræft. The Ides of Martius came with a full moon that would soothe the spirits and hopefully quicken his recovery.

  Now he had an entire year of leniency, as he had made a pact with his brother so that the prince would take the duties of Piques until Pierre turned twenty-five. He could return to traveling, perhaps outside of the realm this time. Italaviana seemed an interest, with their own variation of death spirits creating those called vampires.

  And then of course there was Elizabeth. She had been nearing the end of thirteen years when he had left for University. He had just turned twenty. Pierre had had what at the time he thought a passing fancy for the girl, but had assumed she would be wed before his return. She was not, and it seemed the fancy had not passed for either of them
.

  He had not yet begun to write about his cræft, spending so much time gathering his thoughts about Elizabeth. Had she heard of what has transpired that evening, what dare she think? After wasting several lines worth of plasma he put it away and reached for true ink. He would write about Lizzy in a way that he could later reread without having to commit an atrocity.

  Pluta meowed. She had woken and was looking pointedly to the unlocked door. There was a knocking.

  “Your business?” Pierre called. Ophion had likely left instructions to the young doctor-assistants to take care of him, as much as Pierre would have liked to remind his uncle that he could very well take care of himself. With the candles lit and the light seen from the dark hallway, they would need to ask permission before entering, even if earlier they had come in while he slept. The lord closed the drawer that hid the plasma, and he shut his journal hoping it would not smudge.

  “To visit, my lord.”

  “Enter.”

  The door opened and Elizabeth looked in.

  “My lord, you’re out of bed,” she said, surprised. “I thought you might be up, I was going to wish you well and see how you were doing.” Hearing no command to leave she took this as allowance of entry. Pierre stayed sitting before the drawer, unable to think of anything to say.

  “You wrote to me often at night,” Lizzy continued, explaining, “Remember? You said it was when you felt most well, even after a terrible bout of illness. I assumed this was still the case and came to see you. Is that alright?”

  “Of course,” he finally said, coughing to clear his throat. “Lizzy, is it not far past evening, past midnight? You were leaving with Uncle and your mother this afternoon.”

  “I refused,” she said, and seemed both shy and proud of the act. “You need someone to keep you company, and there were already whispers that you were feeling worse when we began to pack. Ophion could not stay, and I felt I could be of some use here. Mother was not entirely pleased, but Lord Ophion did mention that I had kept your spirits up, and that another few days would be of no issue.” She straightened the thick skirts she wore, not meeting his eyes. She was dressed for going outside: boots that laced up to her knees, a coat, and her hair was pulled back in a loose tail.

  “The full moon is out tonight,” she continued, “and there are almost no clouds, the entire sky can be seen. Do you wish to perhaps go out for a walk? If you feel well, that is, my lord. The time outside should do you well, the clean air..”

  “Certainly Lizzy, that sounds like a splendid idea. You’re quite right.” He was smiling again, the thought that someone both wanted his company after all that had happened, and that it was her in particular, a joy.

  “May I have a moment to dress?” At her widening eyes he found himself smirking, covering a laugh as she (with a deep blush) stepped back into the corridor. The sleepwear was very much the same she had seen him in before, but at least then he had been covered by his duvet most of the time.

  “Coming, Pluta?” he asked, going to his wardrobe. She did not reply; already asleep again. He picked out one of his less elaborate suits, and an overcoat for the night’s air. Heading to the door he picked up his cane as well; it was to him what a wand was to a wizard.

  He opened the door quietly, and walked into the hallway without a sound. When one snuck out often for magical activities one became well versed in silence. To her credit Elizabeth did not flinch when he touched her shoulder. With a nod and motion he let her lead the way.

  They snuck out a side door to the gardens. A certain thrill encaptured them both at this intimate hour, together away from society. She was no longer in the presence of a princeling, or even a duc, but with an old friend.

  Their breath clouded before them, and the frost that covered the ground broke beneath their feet. The duc looked up to the sky and pointed out constellations that had meaning to both humans and fée. The moon hung low and full, almost too bright to believe.

  “Shall we find a fée ring?” Elizabeth asked, moving to the few flowers that bloomed this early in the year. “The Ides, a full moon, Springfinding within the sen’night. Fée rings should be everywhere.”

  “Since when are you so knowledgeable about magic?” he asked, following her. Many would know some of these, or acknowledge them, but perhaps without connecting everything all together.

  “I learned,” she answered. “I was always curious, and when I heard your father was from Faery I began to study. I thought about being a magician.” She looked up to him, as if wanting to know his opinion on the matter. “But the magics in Clandestina are not as, well, magical as in other places. There is no making fire out of thin air for a human, or turning into an animal. The fée have some control of such things, but mostly in their own lands.”

  “You could still..” He quieted and placed a hand on her shoulder, pointing with his cane. “Look, there in the moonlight.”

  She turned, and saw several mushrooms growing from the ground at an alarming rate. They only formed half a circle for now- an open fée ring. Pierre’s hand slid down her arm, and their fingers entwined.

  “Some fée shall come through it to greet this realm and help ready the forests for Springfinding,” he whispered into her ear, “but only after they depart and close the door will a full ring be left behind and allow for a wish.”

  “Could you enter through it?”

  “I.. I do not know.” His father had been raised in Faery, and his infant sister taken there by the late Lord Félicien after his wife, their mother, had died. It had been that that he was taken in by the roi. He knew his sister now walked between planes, but he had not had much time to learn of his fée heritage.

  “Come,” he said, walking over to it and pulling Elizabeth along. “I will try.”

  She stood along the outer rim, and he faced the concave opening. Putting his cloak and cane aside, he smiled to Lizzy from across the patch of field and moonlight. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and took three steps forward.

  “Oh!” He had not entered Faery, but instead bumped into Elizabeth. His arms wrapped around her, though the force had not been so much that they would have fallen.

  “Perhaps something is keeping me on this plane.” She was hiding her face in his vest, but after a moment braved a glance up at the remark. He kissed her forehead.

  “Now, as I was saying of your endeavours,” he continued, without waiting for any reply, stepping over the mushrooms and heading towards one of the pathways. Lizzy’s hand stayed in the crook of his arms, and they began to walk towards the fountains. “There is healer’s magic in Clandestina. It is why we are so well adept with our physical care. Magic of life.”

  “And of the opposite,” she said. Realising what she had done, her eyes widened and she put her hand over her mouth. “I mean, I know of it, in passing.”

  Pierre stopped, then walked them over to a bench and they sat together. “So you believe in necrocræft?” Many did not believe in the magic, to them it was a rumour told throughout the realm. To acknowledge it openly was perhaps to associate with it, and that was a risk.

  “I do,” she said, but her laughter was gone. “To be honest, I do not understand why it is forbidden. One can heal wounds that should be fatal, return the dead to life, strengthen immunity in a person—there is so much good.”

  “And you are adorably focused on all the aspects of life that is in the art,” he said, resisting a desire to kiss her once more and this time properly, “but you forget it is a magic said to come from a keres.”

  “A keres?” she asked. Curiosity won over fear and she looked up to meet his gaze, “How much do you know? Do the royals know more than—”

  He raised a finger to her lips; she quieted. Oh, how soft her mouth felt even beneath gloves. “I have heard, in passing and through my station, that keres are responsible. Specifically one. All the others are gone, at least from this realm.”

  “Only one?”

  “She is a daimon, a spirit of another plane.
In this case the land of the dead. Once upon a time the keres lived here in Clandestina, but when people settled, the fée went to their own plane and most of the keres disappeared or fled. We were healers, and so there was no more space for spirits of agony and suffering—of death.”

  “Then why can you heal? Why can you bring back the dead if it is from a daimon of pain?” How very close she was in her accusation. It sent a thrill up his spine.

  “She has become far more than just a keres that represents pain. Circumstances have forced her into other roles, and she sees the balance that is needed with life and death. That said, there is one explanation that she allows for it because then there is a higher chance of the one healed later dying a more gruesome death. There is also the rumour that those consorting with her are guaranteed a cruel death, and so reprieve for minor injuries in some, or the return of life from one that may have died peacefully is of no issue.”