The Arkhel Conundrum (The Tears of Artamon Book 4)

by Ash, Sarah

  “Mm-mm.”

  Gerard took the mumble as a sign of assent and set off at a slow pace, supporting Toran’s weight against him. Toran could hardly put one foot in front of the other and it was all Gerard could to half-drag, half-carry him to the works office. He propped the half-conscious boy up against the wall, holding him upright with his left hand whilst he fumbled with the key to unlock the door. Then he managed to get him inside the unlit entrance hall and maneuver him onto a chair while he went to light a lamp.

  The ingenieurs kept a box filled with medical supplies on site as a matter of necessity and Gerard had already learned how to treat a wide variety of minor injuries incurred by the workers. He retrieved the box and hurried back to Toran who had slumped sideways in the chair where he had left him.

  Is he concussed? Should I call a doctor? He bent over him and gently touched his shoulder. “Toran,” he said, “do you recognize me?” He couldn’t help but notice the way the lamp flame had caught fiery glints in the bronzed gold of Toran’s hair . Such an unusual, distinctive shade.

  Toran slowly raised his head, blinking in the warm glow. “Bernay,” he said thickly; his lower lip was swollen and a trickle of blood had dripped down his chin onto his shirt.

  “I’m going to clean those cuts; this stuff may sting a little but it’s an effective antiseptic.” Gerard unstoppered the green glass bottle and the pungent smell of the cleansing tincture made his nose prickle as he poured some onto a pad of clean cloth. “We use this on any open wounds the workmen sustain; it’s an old local herbal remedy but it works a treat.” He dabbed at Toran’s grazed face and the boy sucked in his breath sharply as the tincture began to bite.

  “What’s in that bottle? It burns like—hellfire.”

  Gerard chuckled. “A powerful alcohol; local firewater, distilled up in the foothills. But it contains healing herbs, too. Lucky I happened by when I did, though. You took quite a beating.”

  Toran nodded, wincing as he moved his head.

  “Friends of yours?”

  Toran swore under his breath.

  “I see.” Gerard carried on dabbing, cleaning the blood from the boy’s swollen mouth. “If you want to talk about it anytime, I’m here to listen. I took more than a few beatings in my time at school—and not all from the masters.”

  “You did?” He heard a note of surprise in Toran’s voice. “But you hauled Branville off of me so easily.” The words came out rather distortedly; the damage done to his mouth must be making it hard to speak.

  “Branville—is that the name of that big lout?”

  “The Honorable Elyot B-B-Branville.” Toran’s teeth had begun to chatter. Gerard took a step back . The lad’s in shock. No surprise, really. Lucky we’re well prepared for casualties here. He fetched a blanket from the infirmary and wrapped it around Toran’s shoulders. “I’ll brew up some tea,” he said. “A mug of strong, sweet tea. That’ll warm you up.”

  “I’m f-f-fine,” said Toran, pulling the blanket closer around him.

  Gerard ignored him, shoveling fresh coal onto the glowing embers in the iron stove in the corner and setting the filled kettle on the top. The workers at the Iron Works liked their tea and there was always a brew on the hob. The truth was that he needed the hot sweet tea as much as Toran; now that the fury that had flooded his body had died down, he felt weak and a little shaky. Taking on a big bully like the Honorable Branville on an empty stomach had used up more energy than he had realized.

  “So, what did you do to upset the Honorable Elyot Branville?” The kettle began to sing on the hob as he lifted Toran’s hair to clean a clump of congealing blood from a gash to the side of his forehead. Such soft, luxuriant hair, he found himself thinking as he gently freed the matted strands, more like a girl’s than a military cadet’s. He was surprised that no officer had yet ordered the boy to have it cropped short.

  “I knocked him out. Cold.”

  Gerard stopped, stepping back to look his patient in the eyes. He was met with a glare of such intense and stubborn defiance that he didn’t doubt for one moment the truth of the blunt reply. “So that’s why he brought along those other two: for self-protection.”

  “He insulted my mother. And my family.”

  The kettle had begun to rattle on the hob; the water was nearly boiling.

  “I see. You were defending your mother’s good name.” As steam began to issue from the spout, Gerard went over, picked up the worn potholder, and set about making the tea. “We’ve only got black Serindhen tea,” he said as he poured the boiling water onto the leaves in the teapot, releasing their powerfully aromatic, malty scent. “It’s not a subtle blend, but it keeps us alert when we’re working the machinery. Can’t afford to be inattentive or nod off in this job.” He gave the leaves a brisk stir and went to find two clean tin mugs. Then he poured out the tea; a robust, brown liquid that needed several chips off of the loaf sugar to sweeten its strong malty flavor. “Here,” he said, passing a full mug to Toran, “this should help.”

  Toran gripped the mug with both hands and took a sip. “Ow,” he said.

  Of course, the hot tea must make his injured mouth sting like hell. Gerard could not help reaching out and tousling the bronze-gold hair in sympathy. “I’ll put some cold water in,” he said. “It’s from the spring, so it’s clean. But wait till it cools a little,” he added, “or you’ll burn your tongue.”

  After Toran had taken a few more sips, Gerard saw the color begin to return to his pallid face and the hunched shoulders relaxed a little.

  “It’s a long walk back uphill to the Academy,” Gerard said. “How about I call you a cab? I’ll just step outside; you rest here.”

  ***

  Alone, Toran tried to sip another mouthful of the hot, sugary tea. The soft, sensitive tissue in his mouth and his cut, swollen lip began to smart as the liquid flowed down his throat.

  Why is he being so nice to me? I’m not that badly hurt. He felt the prick of tears and blinked fast to try to dispel them before Bernay returned. Blows and harsh words he could deal with. He wasn’t used to anyone showing him any sympathy. That wasn’t the way at the academy, which prided itself on turning boys into military officers and openly discouraged any show of feelings as unmanly.

  He looked around for somewhere to put the mug down; plans were spread out on Bernay’s table and he took care not to place it on the neatly inked sketches. And then he leaned closer, intrigued by what he saw. Toran had read enough in his grandfather’s books to know that he was not looking at a design to pump water, although there were a few similarities: pistons and cylinders he recognized, but not the elaborate way they were arranged in a circle, fanning out from a central hub. He was so absorbed in trying to figure out how it worked and what it might be for that when Bernay came back in, he jumped, guilty at being found snooping.

  “I’ve found a cab—” Bernay began.

  “I didn’t mean to spy,” Toran blurted out. “But it’s fascinating. What’s it for?”

  A strange expression fleetingly crossed Bernay’s face. “That? Oh just some ideas I was playing with,” he said dismissively.

  “Are you going to build it? Are you making a demonstration model? If you are, could I help?” Toran couldn’t disguise his enthusiasm—or his longing to get involved.

  “Better not keep the cab driver waiting,” Bernay said. “Lean on me; I’ll help you to the door.”

  “I’ll do any task, I don’t mind how menial.” Toran allowed himself to be steered into the hall and toward the door; there was something comforting about the strong, sturdy arm that was supporting him.

  “And what about your studies at the academy?” Bernay reminded him as they went out into the night; it was drizzling again and Toran found himself shivering after the warmth of the ingenieur’s office as he climbed up into the back of the cab.

  “I’ll come in my free time. Please say yes.”

  “Good night, Toran.” Bernay closed the door and handed the fare to the driver; a
s the horse trotted away, Toran saw Bernay turn back into the works without a backward glance. Toran sat back against the worn leather seat and closed his eyes, suddenly aware how tired and battered he felt. But that brief glimpse of the intricate drawings on Bernay’s desk had stirred his curiosity and his imagination.

  I’ll find a way.

  ***

  The moment Gerard returned to his lodgings, he hurried to dig out his notebooks from the bottom of the trunk beneath his bed where they had been gathering dust since his arrival in Paladur.

  At the time he’d been too bitter, too confused, to ever want to look at his doctoral thesis again. All he knew was the hurt and humiliation of Edvin’s betrayal—and the inescapable fact that by that single indiscretion he had destroyed all his hopes of pursuing an academic career. In his mind, Edvin and his researches had become inextricably entwined, so that he couldn’t even bring himself to think about his work without a cloud of self-loathing and resentment enshrouding him.

  But now I know that Guy Maulevrier hasn’t forgotten me. He still has faith in my ideas. This letter is proof. And the Emperor’s competition . . . If I entered, might there be some chance of restoring my reputation and returning to the university?

  Dangerous as it was to raise his hopes, only to have them dashed again, he couldn’t quell the growing sense of excitement he felt as he took out the notebooks and began to turn over page after page of sketches and designs.

  Whatever was I thinking of when I drew these ? Some were so ridiculously fanciful that he felt embarrassed to look at them . I can’t have been much older than Toran at the time.

  He had infiltrated the Natural History Department, meticulously examining and drawing bird skeletons, studying the wing structure of albatross and osprey. He had spent days trapping insects with smears of honey and jam in large glass bell jars to observe how they flew. He had been especially fascinated by the way beetles and bumblebees lifted their heavy bodies into the air, but had been forced to conclude that the massive amount of energy they expended in beating their wings to achieve any kind of lift would be difficult to replicate in a machine powerful enough to carry a man.

  And then the dragon sightings began.

  Gerard considered himself to be a man of science and in his scientific opinion dragons were mythical creatures. So when reports started to appear in the Tielen journals—even the reputable Tielborg Courier —that dragons had been spotted at sea and flying over the Palace of Swanholm, his first instinct had been to dismiss them as natural phenomena. His second had been that he wanted to see one of these “dragons” with his own eyes. He had obsessively collected amateur drawings done by those who had witnessed the creatures at first hand. And then, as dragon fever mounted in the capital, came the Great Darkness. The astronomers at the university were thrown into disarray, having not predicted an eclipse. When it was discovered that the phenomenon was not caused by an eclipse, the panic began. It had been extraordinary to see rational and highly educated minds giving way to fear as the debate raged as to whether this was indeed the end of the world.

  Which was when Edvin had flung open the door of his room.

  “They say we’re all going to die, Gerard. I’m afraid. I’m so afraid.” Edvin’s soft blue eyes had gazed so imploringly into his that he could not help himself; he had crossed the study and taken Edvin in his arms, holding him tightly to stop him trembling. His heart had been overwhelmed with a single thought : If it is the end of everything, Edvin has chosen to spend his last moments with me—and me alone.

  Before he had been wholly aware of what he was doing, he had found himself tipping Edvin’s face upward, brushing his cold lips with his own.

  The sketches dropped from Gerard’s hands as the memory overwhelmed him. First love, first betrayal. The bitterness still affected him physically; he could feel it rising in his throat like a wash of searing acid. Would it be better to ignore Maulevrier’s letter ? I’ve made a new life for myself here. Do I really want to stir up all the old resentments? Am I man enough to put them behind me and stand up for my rights?

  Gerard abandoned the contents of the first sketchbook as mere juvenile scribblings and began to leaf through the second. This was the project he had been working on for his doctoral thesis: “Designs for a Flying Craft Capable of Safely Transporting a Man through the Air.”

  “Here they are,” he murmured.

  He had made models of winged machines that glided on air currents and launched them from the university clock tower, to the cheers of his fellow students. He had tested a design based on winged sycamore seeds; that had been an utter failure, spiraling dizzily round and round before smashing on the flagstones far below. “Bernay’s Experiments” became a regular event in the university, attracting crowds of student supporters who began to lay bets on which models would fly and which would crash. The university chancellor was eventually obliged to put a stop to the riotous behavior which was disrupting lectures. But by then Gerard had found a staunch ally in Doctor Maulevrier.

  “And that was about the time I made my breakthrough.”

  He turned the page slowly, almost reluctantly, to look at the last design he had been working on when Edvin had made his accusation. It had been a windy day. The moment he launched the craft from the bell tower, he knew it was a success.

  It was as if something buried deep within me awoke and connected with the flyer, keeping it aloft.

  He saw it glide above the crowd of upturned faces, over mouths gaping open with a general cry of amazement toward the target: Guy Maulevrier, waiting on the far side of the quad, with hands raised, arms outstretched, to catch it. The flyer, having gained momentum on the way down, didn’t merely float gently into his grasp; it knocked him to his knees as he tried to grab hold of it.

  What was different about that one? Was it the method I used to launch it?

  That was the last time he had seen his prototype. Forced to flee that same night with just a traveling bag, he had bidden a hasty farewell to Maulevrier who promised to send his books on to him when the fuss died down. The books had eventually arrived in a trunk—but, unsurprisingly, none of his models.

  I’ll just have to make a new working model. He would need wood, canvas, leather, strong glue—and some precision tools. And payday was still two weeks away, at the end of the month. The cab fare for Toran had taken the last of his cash; perhaps Master Cardin would make him an advance.

  ***

  “Next time we’ll finish what we started,” said Morsan, thumping his fist onto the tavern table.

  “Make it a lesson the barbarian boy never forgets,” added Aubin, with a laugh.

  “Spoil that pretty face of his.” Morsan turned to Branville. “Ruin him.”

  Branville was staring into his half-finished mug of cider, seeing again Toran’s blood-stained face, eyes still blazing defiance from the muddy cobbles where he lay, even as he swung in for another punch. Those eyes: hazel flecked with gold, fringed with lashes of darker gold . . . eyes you could drown in.

  “Ruin,” he repeated dully.

  “Send him crying home to his mama,” said Morsan, giggling tipsily. “We don’t want bad blood polluting the cream of the academy. We don’t want his foreign st-stink-stinking – ”

  “You’re drunk, Morsan.” Branville, in spite of the alcohol he’d swallowed, felt extraordinarily sober, as if he’d just experienced a revelation. He cuffed Morsan over the head. “Go and sleep it off.”

  Morsan staggered to his feet, knocking over his chair.

  Aubin shook his head. “Morsan can’t hold his liquor. What are the odds we’ll find him puking his guts up on the parade ground?”

  “Not even worth betting on.”

  “What about that civilian you hit? He threatened to call the watch.”

  “He won’t bother. It was too dark to see.” Branville dismissed the idea with one careless wave of the hand.

  “But if Arkhel reports us to the colonel—”

  “He’s too pro
ud. He won’t want to admit we beat the shit out of him.” But even as he heard himself saying the words, Branville found himself realizing that the matter between himself and Toran Arkhel was far from over.

  ***

  Branville lay in the darkness of the room he shared with Aubin and Morsan, listening to their drunken snoring, watching a brief gleam of moonlight penetrate the slits in the shutters and then slowly fade.

  Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Toran’s face again as his fist smashed home, distorted with pain and defiance. And every time he saw it, a shiver ran through him, each shiver kindling a slow-burning fire in his loins.

  “Ruin him,” Morsan had said . Is that what I really want? To see those gold-flecked eyes glazed with pain . . . or desire? To torment him till he begs for release? To hurt him, humiliate him—break him? Branville could feel his own breathing quickening at the thought. And the image of his hated rival lying helpless and disheveled on the ground, shirt torn, breeches gaping open, was exciting him in ways he had never imagined possible.

  And now I’m hard, damn it.

  Toran lay asleep only a short distance away in the First Year Wing. He could go there right now and force him to suck him off.

  “Look what you’ve done to me. This is your fault; take responsibility.”

  What was he thinking? Such an admission sounded more like a confession of love.

  But for some godforsaken reason it only excited him more and there was no ignoring the throb of hard, engorged flesh between his thighs that demanded to be assuaged.

  “No, Elyot, don’t hurt me. I—I can’t.”

  His hands slid down to touch himself, gripping harder, harder as he imagined his hated rival moaning and writhing beneath him with each thrust until he came, suddenly and with a shuddering intensity that utterly took him aback. Wretched and confused, he curled in on himself, the sticky wetness of his own semen slicking his hands and thighs, telling himself angrily that it was nothing but a drunken delusion.