by Ben Cassidy
The razvodit gave a satisfying burn as it slid down Joseph’s throat. Eyes closed, he clinked the small glass back on the bar counter.
The soft murmur of voices around him was like a soothing lullaby. Joseph ignored it all, the sounds of talking, arguing. Right now he wanted to be alone with his thoughts and his regrets. But not his memories. Those were too painful.
He remembered a beautiful red-headed girl, feisty and strong-willed, with a spirit unlike anything he had ever seen before. He remembered the attraction he had felt for her from the first moment he had seen her in the Howling Woods, how his heart had thrilled at her beautiful green eyes and long fire-kissed hair.
And he remembered how he had watched that same girl crumple almost lifelessly to the ground, struck in the heart by a bullet from a man he had considered his friend.
Joseph had lived in the half-formed hope that maybe, against all odds, Kara would wake up again from her death-coma and smile the way she had before, that she would look at him again with that coy glance of hers, that she would be the woman he remembered before the Despair.
Now those hopes were dashed to pieces. Kara had woken up and she was still dead. She was gone, lost in a prison of her own mind.
She had truly died in that sewer so many months ago. Joseph had just not yet realized it at the time. Or maybe he had, and had not wanted to admit it to himself.
Joseph opened his eyes. His head swam from the four shots of razvodit he had already taken. But the memories were still there. The pain still cut into his chest like a jagged stone.
He needed more. More to wash away the pain.
Joseph reached a hand for the nearby bottle of razvodit that the bartender had obligingly left on the counter. His hand wrapped around the cool glass, and he caught a reflection of himself in the dirty mirror that hung behind the bar.
He stared for a moment, shocked. The face that stared back at him seemed like a stranger. The eyes were bleary and haunted. The face was shadowed and lined with bitterness. It was the face of a man who had lost all hope, who had given up on life.
Joseph slowly released the bottle. With an effort of supreme will, he pulled his hand back away.
The face in the mirror mocked him. Try as he might, he couldn’t look away.
What had happened to him? How had he gotten here, to the point where he was drinking his life away? This wasn’t him. This had never been him.
Joseph wiped a hand over his face, trying to take away the pain and regret.
“I’m not a perfect man,” he said under his breath. It took him a moment to realize that he was praying to Eru. Here, in the tavern, surrounded by the most ungodly men imaginable, he was praying. He hadn’t spoken to Eru in longer than he could remember. “I’m not a perfect man,” he said again. “You know that. But I’ve tried my best to follow You, to pray to You, to serve You.” He felt his eyes burn with tears, but he fought them away, curling a hand into a fist upon the bar. “I didn’t deserve this. She didn’t deserve this.” He looked up at the mirror again, seeing the same hollow, empty face as before. “What do You want from me? To torture me, toss me here and back like a chewed bone?” Joseph got up from his stool, swaying from his partial inebriation. “Are You even there? Do You care at all?” His voice had risen well above a whisper, but he was past caring. “Where were You in Vorten? Where were You when the city was burning, when the demons were pouring through the gate? Where were you when Kara—” He choked off in mid-sentence, unable to finish.
The bar had grown strangely quiet. Everyone was staring at him.
Joseph hung his head for a moment, ashamed of his outburst. The tavern had suddenly become a place he despised. He wanted out of here so badly that he almost ran for the door. Even the bottle of razvodit that just a few moments before had promised him a balm from his suffering now seemed a hateful thing. He had to restrain himself from pulling out his rapier and shattering it upon the bar top.
The bartender moved over towards him. “You all right, son?”
Joseph ran a hand through his beard, then threw a handful of coins on the bar. “I’ve had enough.” He turned towards the door.
The night was cold. A wet, lumpy snow was falling, melting as soon as it hit the cobblestones of the street.
Joseph stood for a moment in falling white flakes, feeling the snow melting in his beard. He looked up. “What do You want from me?”
There was no answer. Not that Joseph had actually expected one.
Joseph looked down.
Maklavir was there, hurrying towards him.
Joseph blinked, briefly wondering if the sudden appearance of the man was an alcohol-induced hallucination. Four shots of razvodit weren’t quite enough to do that.
Maklavir came up to him, out of breath. His cape was crumpled and out of sorts, and his boots were scuffed and worn.
Joseph straightened. Any time Maklavir wasn’t dressed to the nines, something was wrong.
“Joseph! Thank Eru I found you.” Maklavir leaned against a nearby glow-globe post, panting. The feather in his cap drooped from the wet snow.
“Yes, well you’ve found me,” said Joseph gruffly. He still felt a rolling sense of anger inside of him, and Maklavir made a disturbingly easy target for it. “What is it?”
“It’s Kara.” Maklavir straightened. “They’re taking her away.”
The horses of the gendarmes were outside the Sanitarium, tied up on the grassy lawn. The snow had changed into a chilly, drizzling rain. It was dark, and the only light came from the lower windows of the old manor house. Patches of melting snow pockmarked the grass like welts.
Four gendarmes stood just under the covered front porch of the Sanitarium, carbines slung over their shoulders and swords sheathed at their sides. Their tall bearskin caps and immaculate uniforms made them appear imposing.
Joseph headed right up the stairs towards the door.
The gendarmes instantly reached for their weapons.
“Hold,” one of them barked.
“Get out of my way,” Joseph snarled. He put one hand on the hilt of his rapier.
Maklavir scurried up the steps after his friend, a weeping Iola in tow.
The lead gendarme snapped the lock on his carbine into the ready position, and pointed the weapon directly at Joseph’s chest. “I said hold.”
Joseph stopped and eyed the man. Despite the blur of alcohol that fogged his mind, his gaze was calm and his voice steady. “You don’t want to tangle with me, friend. Now step out of the way.”
Maklavir reached the step beside Joseph, panting from the climb. His breath puffed white into the falling rain.
The gendarme raised his carbine higher.
“Stand down, gentlemen.” A tall, powerfully-built man with a bearskin cap under his arm stepped out onto the porch. “Joseph, Maklavir. A pleasure to see you both again. I’ve been expecting you.”
“I’ll bet,” Joseph muttered. He kept his hand firmly clenched on the hilt of his rapier.
“Captain Potemkin,” Maklavir said smoothly. He patted the shaken Iola on her back. “We heard that Kara is being taken away.”
Potemkin’s face darkened. “We should talk inside.” He gestured towards the open door. “Less chilly, at any rate.”
“That would be good,” Maklavir responded. He nudged Joseph gently in the ribs.
The pathfinder slowly uncurled his hand from his rapier, then nodded.
They followed Potemkin inside the Sanitarium.
Grelda stood to one side by the entry desk, flanked by two of her white-robed nurses. She wore a pinched, angered expression on her face.
At least eight gendarmes, all armed with carbines and swords, stood at attention in the lobby. They saluted as Potemkin entered. Lamps and candles lit the interior of the building, casting long shadows on the walls and ceiling.
“I think you owe us an explanation, Captain,” said Maklavir, doing his best to keep his voice level and unruffled. He cast his gaze around at the armed men in the lobby.
“Are you expecting an attack here?”
Potemkin sighed, and put his bearskin cap down on a table across from the nurses’ desk. “Orders, Maklavir. From the Lord Mayor himself. I’m to secure this building for the time being.”
“Iola says you’re taking Kara away,” said Joseph. He glared hard at the gendarme captain. “Is that true?”
Potemkin studied the tile of the floor for a moment. “Not yet, no. But it seems likely that the Lord Mayor will order us to do so.”
“Tuldor’s beard,” Maklavir said. He glanced up at the stairs. “Kara’s been in a coma, Captain. She’s no threat to anyone. There’s no reason—”
“No reason?” Potemkin lifted his head, his face suddenly hard. “Have you forgotten so quickly what the demon Indigoru did to Vorten? How many lives we lost, how many buildings were destroyed? Let’s not play games, Maklavir. The Lord Mayor is concerned, and I can’t say I blame him.”
“We saw Kara yesterday,” Joseph said quietly. “She was no threat to anyone.”
“Kara was the last person to be possessed by Indigoru,” Potemkin said sharply. “That’s plenty of threat enough.”
“The Soulbinder was destroyed,” Maklavir said quickly. “When it was shattered the Seteru left as well.”
“You know that for certain, Maklavir? Because the way I hear it, Kara’s still got some shards of the thing in her body. And the nurses here say she’s been spewing nonsense. Crazed babblings.” Potemkin scratched his beard. “We have no way of knowing whether Indigoru is completely gone or not. The Lord Mayor is rightfully nervous. Valmingaard is at war in two different directions, Vorten is struggling to rebuild itself, and pagan cults are still rising up all over Rothland. Can you imagine the chaos that would ensue if Indigoru were to suddenly return again?”
“So you’re going to take her away.” Joseph took a deep breath. “Where?”
Potemkin looked over at Joseph. “I don’t rightly know. My guess would be Parvannen, to the west.”
“Parvannen?” The color drained from Maklavir’s face. “That’s a military outpost. Are you planning to lock Kara up in a dungeon?”
Potemkin sighed. “This isn’t my call, gentlemen. I know what both of you did during the war, and I know how much you both care for your friend. But you have to realize that Kara isn’t the same woman she used to be. She has already been used once by the Dark Powers, and there’s no reason to think she can’t be used again.”
“You can’t do this, Potemkin.” Joseph flexed his hand, but kept it away from the hilt of his rapier.
Potemkin stiffened. “I’ll do what I’m ordered to do, Mr. Joseph, and as long as you’re in the pay of the Army of Valmingaard, you will as well.”
“Kara’s done nothing wrong,” Maklavir insisted. “She’s only just recovered. To take her away and lock in her under guard would be—”
“I understand,” said Potemkin harshly. The little bit of patience he had shown so far seemed to be wearing thin. “But I think both of you know what’s at stake here. We can’t risk the lives of everyone in Vorten…ashes, everyone in all of Valmingaard against the life of one woman.”
Maklavir’s face turned purple. He banged his fist down on the desk, making the nearby nurses jump. “You can’t do this, Potemkin! It’s wrong. Kara is in a vulnerable state right now. She needs care and attention. You can’t just—”
Joseph reached over a hand and laid it on Maklavir’s shoulder.
Startled, the diplomat glanced back at his friend.
“We understand,” Joseph said. His voice was quiet, almost gentle. “You haven’t been ordered to remove her yet. Can we see her, please? One last time?”
Grelda took a step forward. “At this time of night? She’s sleeping.”
“Don’t be heartless,” Joseph said curtly. “We may not get another chance to see her.” He looked over at Potemkin. “Your orders could come through at any time, right? Even as early as the morning?”
The gendarme captain sighed deeply. “I would be surprised if the Lord Mayor waited past noon.”
Joseph nodded slowly. His mind felt surprisingly clear. The alcoholic haze was rapidly lifting. “You owe us this much, Potemkin.”
The captain glanced back at the stairs. “I don’t owe you anything. But from one man of honor to another, I can permit this much. Go and see her.” He nodded to two gendarmes. “Yuri and Korander will accompany you.”
Maklavir raised his head. “I say, is that really necessary?”
Potemkin gave a sad nod of his head. “Orders, Mr. Maklavir. I’m afraid it is.”
“So now you’ll be having four men tramping upstairs?” Grelda looked like a turkey that had just been plucked. “This is highly irregular, Captain.”
Potemkin shrugged. “It is what it is.”
“I won’t have your men upstairs without one of my girls to go along with them.” The tone of Grelda’s voice was obvious. Potemkin might have been a gendarme captain, but here at the Sanitarium nurse Grelda still called the shots.
“What about Iola,” Joseph ventured. He still kept his voice calm and low. “Maklavir knows her well already.”
Grelda cast a critical eye at the puffy-eyed nurse. “If she can cease her weeping for five minutes, perhaps.” She gave a defeated sigh. “Your men had better be as quiet as church mice upstairs, Captain. I have sleeping residents in here, and the last thing I need is to get things riled up.”
Potemkin glanced at Yuri and Korander. “They will be the very model of discretion, ma’am.”
Grelda gave a skeptical grunt. She pointed at their weapons. “I can’t allow those past the desk.”
“I’m afraid I will have to disappoint you, then,” Potemkin said. “Guards without weapons are not of much use.”
Grelda ground her teeth for a moment, then her eyes flashed to Joseph and Maklavir. “Their weapons, then. I won’t have an armed cavalcade heading into my Sanitarium.”
Without a moment’s hesitation Joseph unbuckled his rapier and put in down by the desk.
Maklavir took his own sword off a little more slowly. “I will protest all this to the Lord Mayor, Captain.”
“That’s your right, Mr. Maklavir,” said the captain gravely. “But I doubt you will find him very open to discussion on the matter.”
“Come on, Maklavir,” said Joseph. “Let’s go.”
Maklavir turned away from the desk, his face drawn in anger and frustration.
Yuri and Korander stepped up behind them, avoiding the withering glare that Grelda threw in their direction.
Joseph stole a glance back at the rapier that lay beside the desk. It had been a good sword. He had had it for years, and it bore the scratches and scuffs of many a conflict.
He was definitely going to miss it.
“This is outrageous,” Maklavir said. “They…they can’t do this.”
“It looks like they can.” Joseph climbed the stairs beside his friend. He glanced back at the two gendarmes that came behind them.
Both of the armed men looked a little uneasy at moving into the Sanitarium.
Things were quiet in the upper hall, save for the echoing sound of dripping water coming from somewhere around the corner. There was a thumping noise, like someone lightly kicking the wall.
Joseph shivered, and not from the cold. This whole place unnerved him.
Iola strode ahead of them, silent. Her white robe made her look like a fat little dove waddling down the corridor.
Joseph gave covert glances to each side as he walked.
The windows in the hall were barred with heavy iron. A door at the end of the passage looked solid and locked.
Joseph licked his lips, and glanced behind him.
The stairs behind them dipped down to a landing, then continued up to a hallway on the opposite side. The manor was huge, that was for sure.
It was also built like a fortress.
Joseph counted the doors as he walked, glancing at each one in turn.
Most looked to be
patient rooms. Or residents, or whatever else in Zanthora they were called. One looked to be a storage closet of some kind. Halfway down the hall was a laundry chute.
Talin’s Ashes. Joseph hoped by everything holy that it wouldn’t come to that.
But there was nothing else. Just the long, dusty halls, the doors to patient rooms that looked like they could withstand a battering ram, and—
And another door. On the left, different than the rest. Locked tight, and solid like the others, but with a different configuration.
Joseph glanced to the windows. Through the gaps in the heavy, red curtains, he could just make out what was outside.
There was a broad stone balcony on the back of the manor house. It was wide, with a railing running around it and a beautiful view of the wide lawn and woods behind the building. No doubt in happier times the porch had hosted noblemen and women taking breakfast to the sound of twittering birds and the golden glow of a rising sun. Now the stone outside was dirty from disuse, and wet from the slushy rain.
Joseph turned his head back around.
The door to Kara’s room was just ahead.
Iola turned around. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Maklavir. Really, I am.”
“It’s all right, Iola,” Maklavir soothed. “You’ve always been good to Kara.”
The little nurse looked as if she would burst out into tears again, but restrained herself with great effort. “Here,” she said at last. “I’ll check inside. Kara might be awake, the poor dear.”
Joseph glanced back down the hallway.
As Iola disappeared into Kara’s room with the candle she held, the gloom and darkness in the hallway became palpable. The Sanitarium was far enough out of the city proper that the steam system that operated the remarkable glow-globes of Vorten didn’t extend to the grounds. With the odd sounds that echoed down the hall every few seconds, the darkness was doubly unsettling.
Joseph could practically feel the fear emanating from the gendarmes behind them. They scratched their faces, rubbed their beards, and looked nervously about them, as if expecting all the demons of the Void to come pouring out of the doors of the hall at any moment.
Iola reappeared. She looked somewhat startled. “She’s awake, Mr. Maklavir. She was even before I came in—”
