Alchemised, page 19
Stroud’s resonance made Helena’s stomach lurch. She gagged and tried to sit up.
“None of that. Lie still.”
Before she could protest, Stroud’s fingers were digging in against the base of her skull, and Helena’s eyes rolled back, unconsciousness swallowing her.
* * *
When Helena woke, Stroud was gone. She felt terrible with a heavy sense of disorientation throughout her body, her vision blurring, and there was a sharply painful bruise near her left hip as if she’d been stabbed with a needle. Helena rubbed at it, trying to think what kind of injections might be necessary to treat malnutrition, but her mind was too foggy for much coherence.
That night, there was a knock, and the maid brought in a tray with a full meal. Meat in a red wine sauce, two different vegetable dishes, one with cheese, and thick slices of soft fluffy bread with butter spread in a generous layer across each one, and even a stewed pear for dessert.
Helena gorged herself, despite knowing she might end up sick from it. She was starving.
She was still eating when Ferron walked in, standing over her to inspect her meal.
“It would seem that I’m obliged to personally see to everything,” he said with a scowl as he stepped back. “You could have mentioned it.”
“If I were to start complaining, the food would not be the first thing I’d bring up,” she said, dragging her spoon down the side of the pear and eating it in tiny savouring bites, refusing to be hurried by him.
He inclined his head, expression still irritated, and went over to the nearer window. Helena deliberately took slower bites, chewing luxuriantly.
When she was finally finished eating, she thought she might pop. She wanted to curl up and sleep, but Ferron nodded pointedly at her head. She sighed and seated herself on the edge of her bed, hating how routine it had all become. Even her dreams felt routine.
She kept dreaming of Ilva and Crowther. And Lila crying. Over and over, the memories seemed to haunt her.
Ferron also seemed to find them interesting. He watched them several times before he moved on to the time she’d spent spying on Lancaster, wondering if he might be there to save her.
He drew his hand away.
As her vision returned, she found herself lying flat on her back in the bed, his face just above hers.
“Lancaster will be one of the Undying soon,” he said. “In belated recognition for his exceptional services during the war.”
There was something sneering in the way he said it, but if he meant to plunge Helena into despair, he failed. If Lancaster wasn’t one of the Undying yet, that made it even more likely that he might be a spy for the Resistance. He’d have to seem trustworthy to get this close to Helena without raising suspicion.
“Are you one?” she asked. She’d assumed for so long, but she’d begun to wonder if he might be something else entirely.
He gave a slow smirk. “What do you think?”
She shook her head, uncertain.
The smirk faded, but he kept looking at her, and his eyes grew darker than she’d ever seen them.
She realised then that she was lying on a bed beneath him. Heat flooded under her skin, and her spine prickled as she sat up quickly, folding her arms.
He stepped back, straightening. “If you have any hopes involving Lancaster, you should let them die.”
* * *
Lila was seated on the edge of Helena’s bed, eyebrows knit together, studying her. No scar on her face.
“Are you—” Lila looked away and seemed to be choosing her words carefully. “Are you not all right, anymore? Is that why you spoke and why there’s all the trainees now?”
Helena looked sharply at Lila, but Lila was unfastening a buckle and didn’t meet her stare.
“No. I’m fine. The trainees are because Matias hopes to get rid of me.”
“Oh, good. I mean, not good, but that makes sense,” Lila said, and cleared her throat. “I can see why you’re not thrilled about them, then.”
Helena forced a laugh.
“You know, you can talk about—anything with me, if you want.” Lila looked over at her.
“No.” Helena shook her head. “I don’t need to talk. There’s—no point in talking, and as I have now been reminded publicly, I’m not a fighter. I don’t know anything about what war really is. So—what would I even have to say?”
Lila’s prosthetic leg clicked as she shifted and then said, “I think the hospital’s worse than the battlefield.”
Helena went very still.
“I realised it when I was in there for my leg.” Lila’s gaze was faraway, eyebrows furrowing. “At the front—everything’s so focused, you know. The rules are simple. We win some. We lose some. You get hit sometimes. You hit back. You get days to recover if it’s bad. But—” She looked down, her fingers tapping absently along the place where her prosthetic was joined to her thigh. “—in the hospital, every battle looks like losing. I can’t imagine what that’s like.” She looked at Helena. “All you see in there is the worst of it.”
Helena said nothing.
Lila sighed and unclasped more pieces of her armour, leaving them all over Helena’s bed. “When Soren told me what you said—I don’t agree, but I get it.”
Lila nudged her with her elbow and stood. “Even if the trainees are just because of Matias meddling, I’m glad you’re getting more time off. I think you’ve needed that—some space from it all.”
* * *
Helena spent days replaying the conversation. She bitterly missed having people to talk to, who cared about what she said.
She’d had trainees?
She remembered Stroud mentioning there being other healers like Elain Boyle, but Helena had assumed they’d come from somewhere else.
She couldn’t imagine Falcon Matias approving the addition of more healers.
Ilva Holdfast had worked very hard to make Helena’s vivimancy palatable to the Resistance. She’d declared that it was the gods’ will that the Eternal Flame had a vivimancer in their ranks, and that Helena had been born, found, and brought to Paladia destined to become a healer, so that if Luc was struck down in battle, vivimancy might save him; a resonance of corruption purified by Sol’s will.
Helena had needed to leave the city and go into the mountains to train with an ascetic monk. Matias had been a Shrike at the time, living in a hut near the Holdfast estate, acting as a spiritual advisor for the family.
He’d disliked healers on principle and hated Helena the moment he laid eyes on her.
Nothing about her fell in line with what he regarded as appropriate for a healer. He’d been more an obstacle than a teacher, but Helena was stubborn, and familiar enough with medicine to manage her own training. She was determined to become a healer, whether he wanted it or not.
When Ilva began demanding that Helena be sent back to the city because Luc had gone to the front lines, Matias tried to resist, denying Helena’s suitability until Ilva practically bribed him with the offer that Luc would make him Falcon, a religious rank high enough to join the Council, and even then he agreed only on the condition that if Helena was to be the Eternal Flame’s healer, then she would heal all who served Sol’s sacred cause.
The Principate, after all, was not above others, but first among equals.
What would make Matias approve trainees?
Helena couldn’t help but think wistfully about Lila.
When Helena came back as a healer, it had been inadvisable for her to seem too close to Luc. A childhood friendship was all very well, but someone like Helena couldn’t appear to have undue influence over a figure like the Principate.
Paladia’s survival depended on the Resistance’s unwavering faith in Luc. If his judgement was questioned, all Paladia would suffer the consequences. Certain sacrifices had to be made.
Lila as Luc’s paladin primary had been the closest to Luc that Helena was allowed to be after that. Lila had been primary…
Helena blinked.
There’d been a paladin secondary. Soren. Lila’s twin brother. Where was Soren?
Helena’s head throbbed.
Why would she forget Soren? He—
A face briefly flickered in her memory. Helena’s mind swerved violently, as if recoiling. No. She tried to focus.
Soren. Remember Soren. What happened to him?
Her skin crawled, a painful ghastly ache rose through her body, her lungs seized as if there were water inside them, and her vision turned a violent red.
When her head cleared, her temples were throbbing.
What had she been thinking about?
Something about—Lila?
Chapter 13
It was the misplaced gleam of silver that caught Helena’s attention as she was passing along the outer edge of the main foyer. On the far side of the room, she spotted a door left ajar—a door which she knew was always kept locked.
She pretended not to notice, making her way there slowly. All too aware of the eyes everywhere.
The dining room was well lit and in the process of being arranged for a dinner party. Dishes and chests of cutlery had all been laid out for selection.
Helena only gave herself a moment to draw a steadying breath before slipping through the door.
She knew better than to lock it, knowing that would draw in every necrothrall like a lure.
Instead, she walked calmly, exploring as she always did, heading towards the large display cabinet filled with intricate silver candlesticks and epergnes, not letting herself look too closely at the silverware chests on display.
When she was hidden behind a large floral arrangement, her right hand shot out, snatching up a beautifully sharp-edged table knife with one smooth motion. Her hand dropped again, hiding the knife amid her skirts as she kept walking.
Her heart began pounding violently in her chest.
All these months, and she’d finally managed to get her hands on a weapon.
One of the maids was close behind her. Helena knew better than to attack a necrothrall unless she was sure she could sever the head completely. Better to smuggle the knife back to her room.
Then what? Her temples pulsed.
Should she kill herself? A month before, the answer would have been obvious, but the possibility of rescue tugged at her. Luc’s insistent voice haunting her, begging her to live.
Perhaps she only needed to wait a little longer.
No. No more waiting.
She squeezed the knife, feeling the weight of it tucked in her palm until her wrist nearly spasmed.
If she went into her bathroom and lodged herself between the door and sink, she would have enough time to slash her wrists and throat before anyone reached her.
She’d just need a minute, enough time to lose as much blood as possible before there was any intervention, which wouldn’t be too hard because Paladia, for all its scientific medical advancement, was superstitiously terrified of blood transfusion or anything else involving the bodies or fluids of others. They thought it would contaminate their resonance.
A vivimancer could force blood regeneration, but with enough blood loss, the energy and materials for new blood would take their own lethal toll. Stroud might be knowledgeable enough to avoid it, but someone like Ferron wouldn’t be.
If she severed her carotid arteries, even if he did manage to keep her alive, her brain wouldn’t be usable.
The room threatened to sway, but she steeled herself. She kept moving idly, pausing to pretend she was studying the silver dishes displayed. They were beautiful, intricate pieces made with elegant, organic lines, a stark contrast with the heavy ironwork.
The butler entered the room, gesturing towards the door.
Helena turned and headed out, careful to keep the knife from sight, moving only a little quicker than usual as the front door opened and Ferron walked in, followed by Atreus, whose mood had turned Crowther’s thin face sour.
Ferron paused, his eerie eyes instantly alighting on Helena, his gaze flicking to the open dining room doors.
“I didn’t realise you let your prisoner have free rein in the house,” Atreus said, looking at her with distaste.
Ferron raised a silencing hand, his focus on Helena, a predatory intensity illuminating his eyes.
Her instincts screamed for her to flee, but she didn’t want to find out how fast he could set the house on her; the cage of iron bars in that foyer could easily chase her down.
Best to avoid suspicion.
She forced herself to stop and face them, burying her hand in her skirts.
Ferron drifted towards her. His gaze seemed to be cataloguing her, as if there was a checklist he was reviewing. He idly pulled his gloves off, pocketing them.
She took an involuntary step back, the pattern of the knife hilt biting into her palm.
“I don’t often see you in this part of the house.” His voice was casual. “Was that your first time in the dining room?”
Her mouth went dry. “I was—looking at the flowers.”
He glanced towards the dining room again, eyes narrowing. “Were you, now?”
She used his distraction to adjust her grip on the knife. “Yes. I like—flowers.”
Heat rushed along her neck, a cold pit forming in her stomach.
“Let’s see it, then.” His eyes were on her hand where it was hidden amid her skirts.
Helena’s heart dropped like a stone as she tried not to react, to appear innocent.
“What did you take?” He held out his hand.
She could try lying. He wouldn’t believe her. She could try running. He’d catch her.
She could try killing him.
Yes. She’d do that.
She let her eyes widen, jaw slackening with surprise. His mouth curved into a faint smirk.
She lunged.
She had minimal training in combat alchemy, but her body moved on instinct. The blade sliced through the air as she flung herself at him.
Ferron dodged, as she’d known he would. A perfect basic defence dodge.
She let go of the knife, sending it spinning through the air.
Resonance would have made it easier, but she could do without.
She caught the hilt in her left hand, ignoring the pain that shot up her arm. With resonance she would have transmuted the length, but it took a split second longer to slam the blade into his chest, straight for his heart.
Pain exploded through her wrist. She’d thrown all her weight into the blow, but she could have been stabbing granite; the blade barely pierced him.
Ferron gave a low gasp as if she’d knocked his breath out, catching her by the shoulders as he doubled over. She used both hands and pushed harder as something inside her left wrist tore, trying to force the blade through his heart.
Ferron laughed, his lips close enough to her neck that his breath ran down her spine.
“And here I thought you’d use poison,” he said, his voice mocking.
Rage ignited inside her. She flung herself backwards, taking the knife with her.
Atreus was crossing the room, hands outstretched, face contorted with fury.
She had no chance against two.
Her left wrist was on fire. She could barely manage to grip the handle, but she wouldn’t let go.
She angled the blade back and drove it towards her own throat, meeting Ferron’s eyes with savage triumph.
Ferron moved so fast he blurred.
The world morphed, going silver as resonance exploded outwards and the knife was ripped away from her throat, pain tearing up her arm all the way into her shoulder.
Her mind struggled to catch up.
Ferron had caught the blade in his fist, wrenching it up overhead. His other hand was wrapped around her throat, holding her back.
She couldn’t move. His resonance had her frozen, every bone, muscle, and tendon under his control. She couldn’t even breathe. Her heart was constricted. Atreus, a few feet away, was trapped in place as well.
This was how Ferron killed.
His hand around the knife blade was seeping blood, running over her fingers and down her arm. His eyes were a reflective silver so bright, they appeared to glow.
“Why don’t you ever stop?” He let go of her, shoving her back.
Her hand, numb with pain, lost its grip.
“Why don’t you die?” There was no point in being coy. She wanted to kill him; they both knew it.
Blood was still flowing down the hilt of the knife, dripping scarlet across the white marble floor, spattering across the ouroboros mosaic.
His lips curved into an insincere smile. “Prior commitments, I’m afraid.”
He glanced back at his father, coming towards them again. Ferron’s expression turned vicious. “Did I ask for your help?”
He turned back to Helena, examining the knife in his hand. It had sliced into his palm so deep, it was lodged in the bones. He didn’t even wince as he pulled it free, holding it up so the blade caught the light, scarlet blood gleaming along the edge.
“How good of Aurelia to have these freshly sharpened and left within your reach.”
With a careless flick of his wrist, he tossed it back towards the dining room. With the lazy way he threw it, it shouldn’t have made it across the room, but his resonance still sang in the air.
The knife gained velocity as it flew straight through the barely open doorway and into the large vase in the centre of the table. It shattered on impact, glass flying in all directions as the water flooded across the table.
He glanced down at his hand. The wound was already gone.
Helena knew the Undying could regenerate but it was still startling to witness. It would have taken her at least half an hour to heal a wound like that; hands were delicate, intricate, full of nerves.
