Alchemised, page 31
He shook his head. “Orion was. All my forefathers were. Nothing like this ever happened to any of them. A necromancer showed up, and they stopped them, simple as that, but I’ve tried everything, and I can’t—”
“Their wars were easier than this one,” Helena said forcefully. “None of them were anything like this, except maybe Orion’s, but even then, it was simpler, because, like Lila just said, he could fill the valley with fire that reached the mountaintops and burn down everything. Even if you could do that, there’s a city with thousands and thousands of people around you. Orion only fought one necromancer in his whole life. There’s no reason to think any of them could fight this war better. You’re doing your best, and if the gods don’t see that, they’re blind—”
“Don’t say things like that,” he said, cutting her off. “That’s not helping.”
Her mouth snapped shut, and she didn’t know what else to say; nothing ever seemed to be right.
“Where the Necromancer had stood, there was nothing but ashes,” Lila said in a climactic voice.
“What was the Necromancer’s name?” came a small piping voice.
“No one knows,” Lila said with an air of mystery. “Anyone who knew, he’d killed. Where was I? Oh yes, even now, Orion’s whole body was arrayed in holy sunfire, and using his pyromancy, he took that fire and lit a brazier.”
“I thought you said everything was burned up in the great waves of fire except the paladins and Orion,” the little voice interrupted again.
There was a mixture of laughter and shushing.
“Well, as it happened, this iron brazier was not burned away in the great waves of fire,” Lila said in a mock-solemn voice. “And so Orion placed the holy fire into it, and before his paladins and the dawning sun, he swore a solemn oath that so long as he and his descendants drew breath, the fire would not go out, and the flames would be carried to destroy the rot of necromancy wherever it festered, and—”
“I thought there was a stone,” came the piping voice once more, apparently revolting against the shushing. “When my dad tells the story, his version has a stone in it.”
“Well, this version doesn’t have a stone,” Lila said quickly, trying to finish the story. “Anyway—”
“I like it better when it has the stone,” contributed another small voice.
Helena set the mug down, glancing at Luc, who was clearly distracted by Lila’s squabbling over his family history with a pack of children.
“Luc, I have to go now,” she said. “Don’t lose hope, though. We’re always here for you. The days will get brighter.”
He gave a wan smile and a listless nod. “I know.”
The nearly moonless sky loomed overhead as she stepped outside, bright with winter stars. She let out a harsh breath which rose like a fog, blotting them out.
She turned her eyes to the Alchemy Tower ahead, still and always illuminated by Orion Holdfast’s Eternal Flame.
Luc was the only Holdfast left now to keep that promise and sustain the fire, but after five years, the war had become a battle of attrition. No amount of healing, or fire, or paladins was enough to win against the ever-growing army of necrothralls.
She stared at the beacon of light, heart clenching at the thought that it might go out, that Luc would be the last because no one could save him from his destiny.
She looked down at her hands, curling her fingers inside the gloves and slowly opening them, drawing a deep breath.
“You promised you’d do anything for him.”
Chapter 23
Februa 1786
Helena’s jaw was taut, her teeth grinding together as her fingers twisted through the air, pulling, tugging at the feeble connection threatening to melt away from her.
Her right hand was cramping, sharp pain shooting along the tendon to her elbow, but if she broke the connection, let her hand rest for an instant, her patient would die.
“Come on,” she said under her breath as her fingers spun through the air, refusing to give up. “Where is it?”
As if she’d needed to just verbalise her desperation, she found it: internal bleeding where the pressure was pooling.
“Got you. Got you,” Helena said with a little gasp of relief, her fingers moving faster now, manipulating the tissue, repairing the artery, drawing the blood away so that she could focus on the task before her: a rib cage which had been split apart.
She’d been transmuting regenerative lung tissue with one hand and maintaining the heartbeat with the other when she’d realised there was something else wrong, and now, finally, her resonance was not screaming at her that death was imminent.
She gave herself a moment to flex her right hand once before guiding the shattered bones back over the new lungs, knitting together the places where they’d broken, regenerating what was missing. She pushed the mangled skin back, repairing it as best she could. Finally, she rested both hands on the healed chest, drawing it up, making it rise for breath, letting out her own sigh.
There would still be weeks of recovery ahead, at least a month of convalescence at Solis Splendour. The lung tissue was new and delicate, the repaired bones fragile, but he would live to fight another day.
She let herself look at the face, now that she knew he wouldn’t die, checking the intravenous drip before she gestured for the medics to take over again.
He was young. She knew so many of the faces, but she’d never seen his before. A new recruit, or maybe newly of age. No, he couldn’t be of age. He looked barely fourteen.
She had no time to wonder. She had to wash her hands, douse them in antiseptic, and move to the next bed with a ribbon designating the need for intercession.
Don’t look at the face, she reminded herself as the medics and nurses scattered to make space for her.
She didn’t know anymore how long she’d been on shift. A day or two? It was hard to say.
It had been mostly battle injuries at first, cuts and gouges, stab wounds, broken bones. Then it became burns, charred-off limbs, scorched lungs, skin a charcoal crisp that cracked to ooze blood.
The hospital smelled like roast meat, blood, the stench of gut wounds, and the lavender oil they disinfected with.
Helena used to like the smell of lavender.
Her last patient, she lost. The organs failed more quickly than Helena could regenerate them. She was so tired that her hands trembled uncontrollably with every twist of her resonance. She wasn’t fast enough.
Her resonance rebounded on her, a pulse of energy like a blow straight through her chest. Ghostly cold rushed through her and dissipated.
Gone.
Helena slumped, breathing unsteadily, wanting to scream. A minute more and she could have—
She pushed herself up, hands shaking as she stepped back, looking at the face before she could stop herself.
The body was so badly burned, she couldn’t tell if it had been a boy or a girl. It was horrifyingly small. She looked around, searching for another ribbon, but finding none.
She walked stiffly towards the nearest wall, her knees giving out. Her mouth was parched, and her hands shook as an orderly paused and handed her a cup of water.
She was one of the young ones, with bright-blue eyes. New enough to still be eager at her job.
Helena clutched the cup in her hands, staring dully across the casualty ward, the rows of beds, and the piles of blood-soaked clothes and bandages and sheets on the floor. She could feel that same blood on her face and hair. Only her hands were mostly clean. The only thing she’d washed in at least a day.
She pressed her hand against her chest, finding the sunstone amulet under her filthy uniform. The fabric was so stiff with blood, it almost cracked as she squeezed the amulet, trying to ground herself.
“You should have been on break hours ago.”
She looked up to find Matron Pace standing beside her, mopping her forehead with a mostly clean cloth, a chipped cup in her other hand.
The matron’s apron was as blood-spattered as Helena’s, and red-stained wisps of greying hair clung to her flushed, swollen face.
“I didn’t see you on break, either.” Even Helena’s voice shook with exhaustion.
Pace had been in medicine longer than the Paladian Central Hospital had existed. Helena heard she’d been a midwife before the national medical licensing laws came into effect. Women needed alchemy certification to qualify, and Pace wasn’t an alchemist, so she’d become a nurse.
Helena sat, the joints in her hands aching from the constant repetitive flexing. Inside her chest, there was a feeling like a rope pulled taut. She dreaded the thought of beginning to feel her feet again.
“Go rest,” Matron Pace said.
Helena shook her head, her eyes fastened on the door where any new casualties would be brought in. “I should stay in case of an emergency. Is Maier still in the surgery?”
Maier was one of the most accomplished alchemical surgeons Paladia had ever produced. He’d left a hospital in Novis to join the Resistance and keep their hospital running after the Undying wiped out all the field hospitals and clinics.
Maier was a genius surgeon and a hard worker, but also short-tempered, and he did not like women. Unfortunate when the war hospital was predominantly staffed and run by women. He kept to himself and the few male assistants he’d brought with him, leaving the management of the hospital and any dealings with medics, nurses, or orderlies to Pace.
“Marino, there are plenty of accomplished medics here. You’ve worked longer than you should have, go rest.”
Helena watched a sheeted gurney pass, already on its way to the crematorium. “I don’t want to sleep right now. I’ll just dream of being in here.”
Pace sighed. “I don’t know that I should tell you this, but there’s a meeting in session. The Council asked for a report from the hospital. If you’d like to go.”
Exhaustion had dulled Helena’s mind to near incomprehension, but the thought of giving a report in the war room left her numb.
She hated going into that room where everything was reduced to figures and zones of interest. The dead were only numbers in that room.
“Do we have the numbers yet?” she asked.
“Just the preliminary ones.” Pace picked up a file, holding it out.
* * *
The meeting was under way when Helena entered the war room. The Resistance Headquarters were based in what had once been the Holdfast Institute of Alchemy and Science. The war room was previously the faculty boardroom; now it was an audience chamber. Spanning a wall was a tiered map of the full city-state, the two main islands, and the mainland abutting the mountains, the levels and water districts all marked out.
Most were coloured black or red, a tide of blood closing in on the blue area centred in the upper half of the East Island. There was a gleam of gold in the sea of blue marking the Institute itself.
The Council of Five sat at a dais behind a long marble table. Two chairs were empty. Falcon Matias sat on the far right, beside him was Steward Ilva Holdfast, a gaunt, grey-haired woman with a large sunstone pin affixed over her heart.
The seat of honour, in the centre, sat empty. It had been weeks since Helena had even glimpsed Luc. Was he still fighting?
The fourth seat was also empty, its occupant standing beside the map, a long staff in his hand. As General Althorne touched parts of the map with his staff, areas which had been black turned red, indicating the active combat zones.
To the far left of the dais sat Jan Crowther, his eyes scanning the room, watching the audience rather than Althorne.
Everyone else was seated in rows of chairs split in the centre to form an aisle. Helena hung back. Those in attendance were all clean, and Helena was covered in blood and other fluids.
“If we continue to push back in the upper trade district, we should be able to press our advantage…” Althorne was saying, indicating a series of buildings near the ports.
“Hold, Althorne,” Ilva spoke up. “We finally have the hospital report.”
All eyes turned to Helena, eyebrows rising at the sight of her. She should have cleaned up more before coming. It had felt so urgent when she was on her way.
“Marino, you have the floor.”
Helena swallowed and looked down at the file in her hands, chest tight as she walked towards the centre of the room where there was a large mosaic of the sun, rays spanning out around it. Speakers were supposed to stand in the centre.
“These are only the initial estimates,” she said, her voice hardly loud enough to carry, but it carried anyway; the spot where she stood had been designed to capture any sound and amplify it due to the oddly stepped ceiling overhead.
“An estimate is fine,” Ilva said.
Helena opened the file. The numbers felt so incomprehensible, they threatened to stretch and distort as she read them out. Estimated casualties, estimates on how many would be permanently removed from combat, estimates on how many might recover enough to return to the front. Every number but the last too large.
The report was met with a long silence.
Althorne cleared his throat. “Would you say those estimates are likely to rise or drop in the final report?”
“Rise,” she said in a dull voice. “The hospital resorted to triage care per protocol and prioritised the patients most likely to survive, but preliminary reports are usually conservative.”
There were concerned murmurs.
“Thank you, Marino,” Ilva said, a note of tension in her voice as she nodded towards the map. “Althorne, you may resume.”
“Wait,” Helena said. Her heart was pounding as she forced herself to look up from the numbers, staring at the empty seat where Luc was supposed to be. Anything. Anything. Anything. “I submitted a proposal to the Council a week ago, along with my report on the hospital inventory, and several weeks before, too. I never received an answer.”
There was a tense silence. She plunged on.
“I know—it is hard to consider, but I believe we should offer Resistance members the choice of donating their bodies to the cause in the event that they’re killed in combat,” she said. “Rather than burning the bodies, we could—” She hesitated a moment, knowing she could never take back what she was about to say. “—reanimate them and use them as an infantry in order to protect our living combatants. This would be done only with their written permission—”
“Absolutely not,” Ilva said, cutting her off.
“That is treason!” came another voice.
Helena looked up and met the eyes of Falcon Matias, who glared down at her, his face livid.
“You stand before us and propose a desecration of the natural cycle. This is the reason why vivimancers can never be trusted, not even for a moment. They are corrupt from conception! This is why this country faces war even now. One moment of leniency and their corrupted natures will seek to spread their contamination.” He turned to the Council members seated beside him, inclining his head. “I am ashamed that such apostasy could be uttered by my oblate. I beg the Council’s forgiveness. She will be taken in hand, placed in chains, and stripped of all—”
“We are fighting a war against the dead and the Undying,” Helena said. She’d known they wouldn’t listen, but surely by now they understood the Eternal Flame couldn’t possibly win if things continued as they were. “It wouldn’t be done to anyone who didn’t consent while they were still alive. Our soldiers are willing to die for the cause; why not at least give them the choice to keep fighting and spare the living?”
“What do you know about fighting?”
The question came from behind her. She looked back, but there were so many people glaring at her, she couldn’t even guess at who’d spoken.
“Your proposal is a violation of everything the Eternal Flame has stood for since the moment of its founding,” Ilva said in a cold voice. “You want us to consider the damnation of our soldiers’ souls? You took oaths, Marino. Did I misjudge you? Have your abilities made you forget your humanity?”
“No!” Helena said, ragged with frustration. The file in her hands was crumpling as she gripped it. “I am loyal to the cause. My vows are to protect life and fight against necromancy no matter the cost. This would be to that end. I would sacrifice my soul for the Eternal Flame. There might be others who would as well. Can’t we ask?”
Falcon Matias stood up. He was a tiny, bony man, and he looked prepared to launch himself over the dais at Helena and strangle her. “The Order of the Eternal Flame, created by Orion Holdfast himself, was founded on Sol’s principles of the natural cycle of life and death. It was for Orion’s bravery and willingness to sacrifice his life that he was blessed by the heavens and made victorious. Any use of necromancy is a violation of the cycle. Your thoughts and words are a stain upon the Eternal Flame and history itself.”
“Who are we saving right now?” Helena said, her voice rising. “How many more can we lose before—”
There was the firm smack of a flat hand on the marble table, and the ceiling overhead abruptly rearranged itself. Helena’s words were swallowed, leaving a deadly silence.
Jan Crowther lifted his hand away from the dais, his eyes narrowed into slits as he studied her.
“Marino, your voice is no longer recognised by this body,” Ilva said after a moment, her voice cool and deliberate. “However, it is plain to see that you are—hysterical. Given that you are clearly not sound of mind, we will not have you disavowed for this.” As she spoke, Ilva looked sharply at Matias, who looked ready to protest. “In gratitude for your years of service, I will have this outburst stricken from the records.” She closed her eyes briefly as if in prayer. “I’m only grateful that Principate Lucien was not here to witness this betrayal of faith. Tell Matron Pace she will handle all future reports from the hospital. You are dismissed.”
