Alchemised, page 30
Four Years Prior
Solstice Eve, 1785 PD
On the upper plateau of the East Island, not far from the Alchemy Institute, stood one of the few freestanding houses on the Paladian islands.
Solis Splendour, the Bayard family’s grand old house, was one of the few to survive the city’s stratospheric architectural climb. As most of the city gave way to vast, interconnected towers, climbing ever higher, the Bayards had kept their original home on its original land. The city and the more newly monied loomed high overhead, but Solis Splendour had never tried to rise, content to flourish in the shadow of the Alchemy Institute and Tower.
The Bayards were such fixtures at the Institute that Helena sometimes forgot how near their family seat was, and how wealthy they were.
Even in a war, barely maintained, Solis Splendour was beautiful and startling in size, even as a convalescent home. Its many spacious rooms were now filled with rows of beds for those too injured to return to combat, so that Headquarters would not overflow with the wounded. Rhea Bayard had been offering such care even before her husband became one of the permanent residents.
Helena stood at the bottom of the steps leading to the front door, trying to summon the will to knock. The air was so cold that her nose had gone numb, and her fingertips ached through her kid gloves. The first day of winter, but it had already been bitterly cold for months.
The hibernal solstice was supposed to be all about looking ahead to brighter days, but after five years of war, it was difficult to believe that things would ever get better no matter how much the days lengthened or warmed.
When Helena was too cold to keep loitering outside, she ascended the steps and rapped hesitantly.
The door immediately swung open, revealing Sebastian Bayard, Lila and Soren’s uncle. He was a tall man, with an agile build, and pale skin and hair that almost blended into each other. The only colour to him was his soft blue eyes that always seemed to be searching for something that wasn’t there.
He’d been Principate Apollo’s paladin primary, among other things, and now, in reserve, he always had a sort of tragic alertness about him, like a dog waiting for its master to return.
“Helena,” Sebastian said, inviting her in, “we’re glad you made it. I know Rhea hoped you would.”
Helena’s stomach twisted into a hard knot as she stepped into the warm interior of the house, discarding her coat but leaving on her gloves.
Several children scampered by, quiet and wan-faced but with shining eyes. Some were so young, they’d never known a day outside the war. They were all accustomed to staying out from underfoot and minding themselves, but solstice was magical for them.
The front rooms were still functional, and they were full of people, some with wheeled chairs, crutches, or bandages, and others in good health, if not spirits. The mood of the party failed to match the cosy light and warmth, or the cheerful music emanating from the gramophone; the voices and conversation were all low and sombre.
“There she is.” Lila’s voice suddenly broke through the hum as she rose from the far side of the sitting room. Her pale hair was braided as always into a crown around her head, which made her seem even taller than she was. Groups parted as Lila crossed the room, hopping agilely on her gleaming prosthetic leg to avoid chairs and tables.
It was uncharacteristically showy, but Helena knew that Lila was desperate to prove that she was more than sufficiently recovered from her injury and ready to return to combat.
The decision would be made by the Council in three days. There would be a full hearing, and as healer and one of the alchemists involved in developing the titanium base of the prosthetic, Helena would be among those consulted about whether Lila was competent to resume her duties as paladin primary.
Lila’s ice-blue eyes scanned Helena’s face in an instant. “You look nearly frozen. Come over here. Luc’s got a fire, he’ll make it warm for you.”
They reached the group that Lila had broken away from, all members of the same battalion. They were gathered around the fireplace, and in the centre sat Luc, their god-touched Principate, slouched like a schoolboy and teasing the flames with his fingertips. With the flick of his fingers, the flames took shapes and danced across the logs like acrobats, their light gilding him.
Luc was smaller in both build and height than almost all of them, barring a few of the girls. Even Lila’s twin brother, Soren, who was regarded as small for a paladin, had a good several inches on Luc.
People said it was something about pyromancers, they just tended to be slight, but the sneering few pointed out that the Principate being expected to marry someone shorter than him might also have something to do with their generationally dwindling stature.
Helena knew almost nothing about Luc’s mother, much less how tall or short she’d been. She’d died of a wasting sickness when he was too young to remember her.
“Make some space for Helena,” Lila said, nudging her forward. “Hel, I’ll get you some mulled wine, that’ll get you warm.”
Lila disappeared again.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Lila so helpful,” said one of the boys, a wry smirk on his face.
Helena wasn’t sure of his name. He was newer. A defence specialist. His predecessor had been killed during the same battle against Blackthorne that cost Lila her leg.
“Shut up, Alister,” Luc and Soren, who was sitting just behind Luc, said simultaneously.
Fire flashed in Luc’s eyes, while Soren seemed to lengthen like an ominous shadow. Everyone glared at Alister.
Alister shifted and forced a smile. “It was a joke. I think we’d all be acting just like her if we needed a hearing to resume combat. I just don’t know why she’s worried. She could have lost an arm, too, and she’d still fight better than most of us.”
Soren relaxed, rolling his eyes, but Luc stared stonily at the fire.
Penny Fabien had shifted her legs to the side and, meeting Helena’s eyes, patted a spot next to Luc, but Helena hesitated.
Sit there and in a matter of days, Ilva Holdfast would call Helena in “just for a chat,” and during the conversation she’d make a series of remarks about how tenuous things presently were. About the need to make sacrifices, and how sometimes caring about someone meant staying away from them. She would talk about loyalty, how the members of the Eternal Flame had followed the Holdfasts for generations. The Principate was held to certain standards, and it would be devastating to the cause if their faith in Luc was shaken; if he seemed to prioritise others more than them.
Helena shook her head, mumbling something about finding Lila as she backed away.
The next room was quieter, filled with more severely wounded convalescents. They paid no attention to her.
Sitting among them was former general Titus Bayard.
Although he’d never been a paladin himself, he was taller and broader than his brother, with a wide forehead filled with furrows and creases. He’d served as military commander for the Eternal Flame for most of Luc’s life, training and approving new members, including his own children, choosing their positions and combat designations.
Now, with that same intense care and concentration, he very slowly wound a ball of yarn in his huge hands.
“Hello, Titus,” Helena said in a low, even voice, kneeling beside him. “It’s Healer Marino, do you remember me?”
He gave no indication of hearing her. He only ever minded Rhea.
“Do you mind if I look at your brain? Won’t hurt a bit, just a little touch.”
He gave a noncommittal grunt. She slipped a glove off and reached out, fingers trailing along the wide scar that started at his temple and disappeared into his hair. Her resonance unspooled from her fingertips like tendrils of energy cast in a net, examining the tissue and bone and into the brain, looking desperately for any signs of change.
Everything was the same.
There was almost nothing wrong with Titus physically. Even his brain showed little sign of anything being wrong with it except inactivity. All the carefully, perfectly regenerated tissue Helena had spent shift after shift reconstructing had saved his life but trapped him inside his own mind. She didn’t know how to get him out. If he was even still in there.
“You’re very strong,” she said conversationally as she smoothed his hair to conceal the scar again.
His concentration on the ball of yarn broke off briefly so he could give her a grimacing smile. Their eyes met, and she felt the same pang in her chest again, an overwhelming desire to tell him, I’m sorry. I was trying to save you. I didn’t mean to do this to you.
“Helena.”
Her stomach clenched in dread as she turned to face Rhea Bayard. Titus’s wife was a tall woman with raven-like features, all long and sharp, and deep-set green eyes that Soren had inherited. According to the stories, she’d been an alchemist at the Institute, and a good one, but she’d retired to marry and have children.
“You came in so quietly, I didn’t realise you were here. Have you already seen Titus?” Rhea was smiling, but it was strained.
Helena knew when she received the invitation that this was why she was invited. Rhea lived in the desperate hope that eventually Helena would find a way to heal Titus. She used to bring him to the hospital constantly, even after everyone else had given up, convinced that with time and new science, someone with Helena’s abilities could restore him.
Helena had been afraid that Rhea would blame her for failing to heal Titus, but her enduring conviction that Helena would find a cure felt worse at times.
“Yes, just now,” Helena said, even though she knew that wasn’t what Rhea was really asking. “You take such good care of him.”
Rhea’s smile faded when Helena added nothing else. She looked down, twisting her fingers.
“Good. Good. Yes. That’s good to hear.” Rhea cleared her throat as she stepped over to a shelf and took a package down, holding it out. “I’m glad you came. You missed the earliest festivities, but this one’s for you.”
Helena stared at the outstretched gift, her face growing hot. “Oh, but I didn’t—I didn’t realise there’d be—presents. I didn’t bring—”
“You keep my children alive. We’ll call it even.”
Helena sat down and pulled off the paper string, opening it. Inside the package lay a knitted green pullover, intricately made with raised patterns reminiscent of alchemy symbols. “Oh. This is beautiful. This is too much; I can’t take something like this.”
Rhea seemed pleased by how stunned Helena was. “I wasn’t sure about your colours, or your resonance aside from titanium, but Lila mentioned you like the barrens, so I thought the green would suit.”
“This must have taken so much time.”
Rhea sighed. “Knitting keeps my hands busy. My parents are from the lowlands in Novis; lots of sheep there. My mother always sends me skeins along with her letters, trying to convince me to bring Titus to live with them.” She pressed her lips together. “He would like the sheep. But the twins are here. Besides, there’s not much chance of a cure for Titus if we go.”
Helena ran her fingers along the patterns nervously. “I’ll try to do some more research, see if I can find anything new.”
“Thank you—” Rhea began but then broke off. “Titus, no! We don’t do that.”
Helena watched as Rhea hurried over and tried to pry someone’s crutch from Titus’s hands.
“Helena, can you find Sebastian?” Rhea said, her voice forcefully cheery as she half wrestled with her husband, who, while usually gentle, was twice her size and sometimes threw tantrums.
Helena hurried from room to room, looking for Sebastian. He was in the little entry at the front door, avoiding everyone under the pretence of acting as a welcoming committee.
Helena barely opened her mouth before he seemed to know. “Titus?”
He was gone in an instant. Helena stood, clutching the knitted pullover in her hands. Her opportunity to exit was clear before her. No one would notice if she slipped away.
“You’re already going?”
She looked around guiltily and found Luc standing behind her, two mugs of mulled wine in his hands.
“I have another shift soon,” she said, grateful that it was the truth. Luc had always teased her for being a terrible liar. Her face, he’d once said, was disastrously honest.
His eyebrows knit together. “They have you back-to-back like that today?”
“Not usually, but everyone wanted the solstice off,” she said. “And they know it’s not really a tradition in the south, so they just assume I don’t have any plans, and—they’re right. I don’t really have people like they do.”
His eyebrows rose. “Am I not people anymore?”
She managed a smile. “Of course you are, but you’re busy. Everyone wants you.”
He dropped down on the slender bench by the door and held out one of the mugs. “Stay. You haven’t even been here ten minutes.”
She glanced towards the other rooms to see if anyone had noticed, knowing they undoubtedly had because Luc would always be immediately missed. If Soren and Lila weren’t shadowing him, that was only because they already knew where he was and were giving him the space he’d asked for.
She could hear Lila in the next room, her voice raised dramatically, telling the story of Orion and the great battle against the Necromancer during the first Necromancy War. The children were scampering in from all corners to listen.
Lila had a mysterious allure when it came to children; she could be in armour and covered in blood, and toddlers would still want her to pick them up. And she would, and a minute later she’d be playing peekaboo with her helmet visor.
Soren was standing near the doorway, wearing a look of grave interest in a story he’d heard a hundred thousand times. Helena caught the corner of his eye for an instant before he pretended not to notice her or Luc.
This interception was carefully coordinated.
“I miss you,” Luc said as she took the mug, resigning herself to Ilva’s impending lecture. Luc nudged her with his elbow as she sat beside him. “Every time I look for you, you’re busy or slipping off somewhere.”
She gripped the mug tighter. “Well, my job starts when yours ends. That’s probably why,” she said. “But I’m always here when you need me.”
She sipped the wine. It was warm but also sour and barely spiced; the shortages were eating into all the supplies.
“Same goes for you. Just because you’re a healer doesn’t mean you don’t get breaks. If you’re getting called in for too many shifts, tell me. I’ll get it fixed.”
She shook her head. “Don’t worry, Ilva always looks after me.”
After all, Ilva considered Helena a vital asset. The Eternal Flame had only one healer, and while they couldn’t afford to lose her, they also couldn’t afford not to use her. They couldn’t take any more losses.
“That’s good. It’s nice knowing there’s one person I never have to worry about,” he said, eyes fluttering closed for a moment, exhaustion visible in his face.
Lila’s voice rose, deep and dramatic. “The dead surrounded them on all sides. Orion and his faithful paladins stood back-to-back. Darkness all around, the only light the fire in Orion’s hands…”
Luc sighed. “You’re going to clear Lila, aren’t you?”
Helena peered into her mug. “She’s ready. There’s no reason not to, and she’s the best at what she does, which is keeping you alive.”
There came a series of gasps from the children in the next room as Lila described the paladins battling horde after horde of necrothralls while Orion fought the Necromancer alone.
“What if the reason is that I don’t want her cleared?” Luc said, his voice barely audible.
Helena looked over. Now he was the one avoiding her eyes, his jaw jutting stubbornly forward.
“You know,” he said, “when she took the vows, I thought, at least if she was always there to protect me, it meant I’d be there to protect her, too.” He rubbed the ignition ring on his thumb against the rim of the mug. “But I’m not—not always. She acts like that’s the job, getting chopped into bits in front of me. She’s already saved my life more times than I can count, and that’s supposed to be fine”—his eyebrows furrowed together—“because I’ll win the war, so it’ll all even out in the end. Just like Orion. Except I don’t know how to do that. And she just keeps getting hit and I’m supposed to keep letting her.”
He swallowed hard.
There were too many people, too many lives, balancing on his shoulders. Everyone was always watching, waiting for him to intuitively manifest a miracle like the one Lila was presently describing in vivid detail to gasps and cheers.
Luc’s sense of failure ran through him like a fault line, waiting to rupture. Every death and every scar that Lila and Soren bore adding to it.
He spoke again. “Everyone keeps saying, We’re almost there, and It has to get worse before it gets better, and It’s a crucible, and I just have to prove true…but what if I can’t? What if that’s why things are like this?”
He looked at her, his face stricken, guilt written across it, all the doubt he was not supposed to feel. The Principate was supposed to be unwavering, faith manifest, Sol’s divinity come to earth.
Everyone went out ready to die for him at any moment, so how could he betray their faith by doubting himself.
“Holy white flames rose everywhere, consuming every necrothrall,” Lila’s voice boomed grandly.
Sitting there beside Helena, Luc was an orphan with centuries of legacy resting on his shoulders, and no more idea of how to single-handedly win a war than anyone else.
Helena shook her head. “Luc, I don’t believe in you because anyone ever said I should. I’m here because there’s no one braver or kinder than you. You’re all the good things that anyone ever hopes to be. We’re not here because you tricked us.” She touched his wrist with her gloved fingers for just a moment. “The reason we believe in you is because if you’re not good enough, then no one is.”
