by Melanie Card
NINETEEN
The brother groaned and Ward glanced down. His eyes were clear, focused on Ward. He moved his mouth but made no sound. With a blink he was somewhere else once again.
Movement at the very edge of Ward’s vision caught his attention and he turned, but that side of the room was empty.
“The lanterns are lit,” the Tracker said.
Ward jumped. This was ridiculous. Too much stress, not enough sleep. He wiped his hands down the front of the apron.
“All right.” He brushed the front of the apron again. He needed to wash his hands. Wash where he was going to cut. He turned to the table, filled a bowl with water, rolled his sleeves up past his elbows, and scrubbed his hands. Then he dried them on the inside corner of the apron.
“All right.” He cut another piece of bandage, soaked it in clean water from the jug, and turned to the brother. “All right.”
“Stop saying that,” the Tracker said.
Ward flinched and reminded himself he was the one in charge. He should put the Tracker to use, get him focused on something else.
“Remove the linen on his face and put it on the table.”
The Tracker reached for it.
“Careful—”
He jerked his hand back.
“Careful not to bring it too close to your face or handle it more than necessary. I may actually need you tonight.”
The Tracker gave him a sour look, but picked up the linen between his thumb and forefinger and set it on the back corner of the table.
Turning back to his patient, Ward eased his nightshirt as far away from his abdomen as possible and washed the exposed flesh. He picked a knife from his collection.
The Tracker shifted. He crossed his arms, then uncrossed them.
“Kneel by his head and watch his eyes. If it looks like he’s feeling the pain, hold him down.”
“Why not more of the...?” He pointed to the piece of linen.
“Because too much could kill him.”
“Then why use it?”
Ward shrugged. “It’s better than nothing.”
Before the Tracker could respond, Ward turned to his patient and ran his hands over his abdomen, trying to determine the best place to cut. There was still nothing to indicate the problem lay in a specific location. He supposed a curve an inch or two off from the center was as good as any, so he picked a spot and pressed the thin blade against the skin.
“His eyes are open. He’s still awake.”
Ward pressed harder, breaking the skin and drawing a curved line through the flesh.
“He’s dreaming,” Ward said, and he set his knife aside.
“But his eyes are open.”
“It’s a waking dream. Don’t worry, his mind is asleep.”
He probed his cut, ensuring it was even, allowing him access to the abdominal cavity and the intestines.
“This is not good.” The Tracker sounded more nervous than before.
“He’ll be fine.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“He’ll be fine.”
Something moved beside Ward. He resisted the urge to look up. It was his imagination playing tricks on him, and he was tired of the game. Instead, he pulled back the flesh around his incision and took a look.
He still couldn’t tell where the problem lay, and he struggled to recall the details of his first necropsy. Please let that help. Somehow.
“You see how there are two kinds of intestines?” Professor Schlier asked.
Ward nodded. It was as if the man was in the room with him.
“The smaller of the two has many twists and turns and can cover, with all of its coils, a problem.”
Schlier was right. He would have to search the entire length. He reached for the intestine but a ghostly hand passed through his.
He jerked back.
Beside him stood Schlier and himself, but before he could register any more details they blew away like smoke on a windy night and were replaced by an image of Ward, knee deep in mud, a shovel gripped in both hands.
“De’Ath?” the Tracker asked.
This, too, dissolved and Celia appeared as he’d first seen her, dead and beautiful, lying in her bed.
The brother groaned. The anesthetic was wearing off. It was too soon... or was Ward moving too slow?
Pressure grew inside his skull, burning at the back of his eyes. The image of Celia waking, her gaze boring into Ward, melted, and smoke whirled about the room.
“De’Ath?”
A hand reached for him but was swept up in the vortex. Forms gathered and dissolved, spinning faster and faster. The pain in his head swelled into a consuming inferno.
He ripped his gaze away and sucked in a steadying breath. He needed to concentrate, do what he’d planned. And that was to search the length of the intestine and find the blockage, or whatever it was.
From the corner of his eye the seeing-smoke continued to whirl around him. He should have known the man wasn’t the Tracker’s brother in the fraternal sense. They looked nothing alike. He should have guessed he was an Inquisitor or another Tracker, at the very least. Of all the unlucky things he could have done—give an Inquisitor an anesthetic that was part hallucinogen. It was guaranteed to make his abilities to project a person’s memories go crazy.
Ward ran his hands along the visible portion of the small intestine and eased it from the incision to gain access to the lengths below.
“What are you doing, Ward?” a voice asked.
He glanced up, unable to resist. Grandfather crossed his arms and peered over Ward’s shoulder. He didn’t know how he could explain.
“I asked a question.”
“Well... I...” Ward shook his head, lancing shocks of pain through his eyes and down his neck. He gasped. The images weren’t real. They were memories, nothing more.
“De’Ath...” the Tracker said again, his voice low, thick with warning.
“I told you not to read those books.”
Ward clenched his jaw and searched the next section.
“I need help and the Goddess has sent you to me,” Celia said.
Nothing. He slid that section out of the incision.
“But there isn’t much time. My father will discover we’re gone and...”
His face burned and his head pounded. He wished she’d be quiet and not reveal his foolishness.
“What’s taking so long?”
He ignored the Tracker’s question and turned to the next section but was met with resistance, as if something had snagged the intestine.
“Please. The Goddess sent you to me. She must have.”
His heart raced.
“Please.”
Please let this be the problem.
“De’Ath.”
“I’m the only one who can bring me justice. My father is too powerful.”
Ward jerked his head to her. “Would you just shut up?”
The remembered Celia burst apart, her face contorting, stretching into a hideous mask before falling away. His memories were contorted beyond recognition. This was a disaster. Everything was wrong. His life. Celia. This operation. But there was nothing he could do about it. All he could do was carry on and pray he could save this man. He followed the intestine to the snag, discovering a mass of thick tissue wrapped around it. Above, the flesh had burst and he could discern a hint of black ringing the edge of the hole. Rot was setting in.
Someone or something ghostly swept through Ward and his patient, but he ignored it.
He reached for his knife and removed the strangling tissue. Severing the intestine, he cut away the infected length.
The smoky vortex wailed and the brother groaned. Blood oozed over Ward’s hands.
“You’re killing him,” the Tracker said.
Ward ground his teeth. “No. I’m not.” Slipping the silver tube in the intestine, he brought the ends together. He picked up a needle and thread and, as fast as he could and still keep his stitches tight and precise, sew
ed the intestine back together.
The brother groaned again, louder this time, and the pressure in Ward’s head eased. The anesthetic really was wearing off.
He checked his stitches. If they weren’t tight the wound would leak and poison the abdominal cavity.
The Inquisitor’s hand closest to Ward clenched and unclenched and the groans turned to whimpers.
“I hope you’re finished,” the Tracker said.
Ward didn’t acknowledge him. He eased the displaced intestines into place and pulled the incision closed. With a quick wipe down the front of the apron, he removed some of the blood on his hands and picked up a new needle. He glanced up at the Tracker to tell him he was almost done, but the man was focused on his brother, mumbling in his ear and brushing his brow. The vortex of projected images was gone.
Ward stitched his incision closed, washed it with wine and oil, and wrapped it tightly in the bandages. They removed the tarpaulin and pushed the bed back into the corner.
“That was...,” the Tracker said, as Ward washed the rest of the blood from his hands. “That was...”
Ward removed the butcher’s apron, folded it to contain the blood and put it with the tarpaulin. The Tracker would have to dispose of the evidence, but Ward was sure, being a member of the highest authority in the Union of Principalities, he’d have resources.
“That was...” The Tracker shook his head. “So that’s it?”
“No,” Ward said, and he washed his knives and needles in the wine. His hands shook and he couldn’t make them stop. “You need to keep an eye out for infection. Check and change his bandages at least once a day.” He wiped the knives dry on a piece of bandage and slipped them into their leather and felt pockets. “I will be by tomorrow night to see how he’s doing.”
The Tracker’s expression changed, but Ward couldn’t tell what it meant. He didn’t seem angry—more worried. “Of course,” he said, but he didn’t sound certain.
§
Celia sat back in her chair and stretched, igniting every ache and pain acquired over the last few days into a dull throb. Ward had left for bed a while ago. An hour or two... maybe more. She couldn’t remember what she’d done in that time. Ward had left and she... she was staring at a page from Nicco’s research. When had she picked it up? She should probably take Ward’s advice and go to bed.
She moved to stretch again, but thought better of it. Instead, she stood and picked her way to the door. Someday she would clean up her mess, but today wasn’t that day. As she meandered down the hall, her stomach clenched and released a deep, long rumble. Ignoring it, she turned into the doorway of her sleeping chamber. Sleep was more important.
But her stomach rumbled again, louder and longer. She sighed. Looked like her body had different plans. Whether she needed it or not, there was no way she’d be able to sleep now. The room she’d claimed as a common-chamber was only a flight up. It wouldn’t take long to grab a few things and eat them on her way back to bed.
With another sigh, she turned and headed to the cavern’s gallery and the stairs, a hint of weakness trembling through her muscles. Perhaps death was finally catching up to her.
Now there was a thought she didn’t want to contemplate. She was tired and hungry, that was all. There hadn’t been a lot of time to rest or eat, and her body was reminding her of the fact. Despite the heat in the cavern, a shiver rushed over her. The need for rest and sustenance were false sensations. She should be as dead as Solartti.
The doorway to Ward’s sleeping chamber caught her attention, and she glanced in as she passed.
It was empty.
Perhaps she hadn’t noticed him? The room was dark and the light in the hall dim. She stepped back to take another look.
Empty.
Heat raced up her neck. He was gone. He’d lied about going to bed, just when she’d started to trust him. But she never had trusted him, and really, she shouldn’t jump to conclusions just because he wasn’t where he said he would be. Perhaps he was hungry as well.
She continued to the common chamber, her need for sleep swept away. She forced herself to keep her pace relaxed. If she did come across Ward, she didn’t want him to know she was upset.
The common chamber was empty and there was no evidence he’d been there. She spun on her heel and headed back to the stairs. He was with Solartti’s body, trying to figure out how to wake him. He had to be.
She didn’t know why it mattered so much. It defied everything logic told her. A part of her wanted Ward to be in the cavern, pursuing some innocent endeavor, and that part was winning over everything else.
No longer worried about Ward seeing her upset, she raced down the stairs. He wasn’t with Solartti, whose body still lay on the floor in the center of the chamber, wrapped in the cloak.
Her chest tightened. Where was he? She wanted to scream but sucked in a quick breath instead. It didn’t calm her. He was out, telling her secrets to someone, likely her father. She knew it. It just didn’t make any sense. What secrets could Ward have possibly learned that would warrant him leaving now? Unless he planned to return, hoping he could sneak out, report, and return without her noticing.
She took another breath, but it did little to calm her. The better question for the situation was, where was her head? A professional like her shouldn’t be upset or shocked someone lied. That was a given for the occupation. She’d suspected Ward wasn’t who he claimed to be all along. This was proof.
And it hurt more than she’d have thought possible. She had wanted to be wrong and, for a while, thought she had been. Dark Son’s curses, why couldn’t she have been wrong?
Her stomach growled. Well, if she was going to figure out what to do about Ward—and her emotions—she might as well do it on a full stomach. She headed back to the stairs. From somewhere above her came the slap of bare feet on stone. The bright, rhythmic sound carried through the cavern, making it impossible to determine from what level it originated. She took the stairs two at a time. The volume and pace increased, indicating he’d moved to the stairs. If given the chance, she should take the time to teach him how to move without making so much noise.
No, he was a liability. A danger. She shouldn’t teach him anything. She should cut him loose.
She caught him hopping down the stairs to the third level. He seemed buoyed with good feelings, but dark circles under his eyes showed the stress of the last few days. Was it from trying to solve her murder, or from hiding his true purpose from her?
“Where have you been?”
He stumbled and caught the railing.
“Celia.”
She stared at him, waiting for his excuse. He looked shocked, as if he hadn’t expected to see her, all the joy drained from him.
“I, ah... I couldn’t sleep.”
“I can see that.”
“Look, this may be just another day for you—” His voice echoed in the cavern, sharp with pent-up emotions. “But I can’t handle all this... this...” He sagged against the railing and stared into the cavern’s depths.
For a moment she saw him, truly saw him. Ward, the man he was, weighed down by innumerous troubles, his dreams beaten away. The man who stood before her was a gentle scholar she’d manipulated into helping her, a man who feared the fate of an Oath-breaker more than anything else she’d thrown at him. A man—while he didn’t know it—with great courage.
“I couldn’t sleep either.”
He looked at her, his brown eyes meeting hers. After a long stare he nodded, as if he understood what she hadn’t, that with those few words she’d acknowledged him, recognized his pain, and was sorry. In that moment she realized she really was sorry. Sorry for dragging him into this mess and not believing in him.
He reached over the railing, dipping a hand in a beam of red light shining down from the witch-stone ceiling. “I think this will always amaze me.”
“The light?” She climbed the remaining steps until she stood one step down from him.
“Yes.” He s
ounded wistful, melancholy, as if he wasn’t answering her question, but another one, the real one, that lay underneath her words.
He turned his hand. The light played over skin and veins, making his long fingers seem strange. Inhuman. Perhaps they were. The Goddess had gifted him, given him hands that could heal. What had the Goddess given her? Hands that took life? What a pair she and Ward were. Life and death. The Light Son and the Dark Son. Or just the Goddess? Two sides of the same coin? Perhaps they had more in common than she’d first thought.
“Try it.”
She jumped, startled, feeling she’d missed most of his conversation.
“Try it.” He wrapped his hand around hers and together they reached out, submerging their fingers in the beam of red light. His skin was warm and damp with perspiration. He slid his index finger down the back of her hand to the tip of her ring finger, then followed the edge of her nail around and under and pressed the pad of his finger to hers. She knew he meant for her to look at the light on her hand, the play of it on her pale skin and between the blue veins underneath, but all she could focus on was the feel of his flesh against hers. His hand was soft, without calluses, the sign of a genteel life, but his life was neither noble nor gentle. He was full of so many contradictions, and she didn’t know if she could resist the puzzle, or if she’d already fallen prey to it.
He pressed his palm to hers and she responded, her fingers slipping between his to clasp it. She could sense the strength and surety there, the offer of unquestioning shelter. These hands would give aid without question. That was his Oath, and he had proven himself true.
Reaching up, she drew a line along his cheek. How had she missed the truth that made Ward who he was? If only that sincerity, that nobility, could wear off on her, change her from the creature of darkness that she was. But she was more than an assassin now. She was the living dead. And not even Ward could change that.
