Alchemised, page 32
Without another glance in Helena’s direction, Ilva turned towards the map once more. One of her hands rested on Matias’s arm to calm him. “Moving on now. Althorne, you may continue.”
Althorne’s voice was a distant rumble in Helena’s ears as she turned and left the war room.
* * *
Standing in the corridor outside, Helena looked down at herself.
Except for the clean gloves she’d pulled on as she left the hospital, she was covered in blood.
The file slipped from her fingers onto the floor, and she clamped her hands over her mouth to keep from keening as her chest started to heave.
A heavy hand landed on her shoulder. “Not here. Sweet fire, you’re a dunce.”
She was guided, blindly, down the hallway into the adjoining corridor before being let go. She sagged against the wall, sliding to the floor, head pressed against her knees as she sobbed until her head felt hollow.
She looked up at Soren, who stood a foot away, leaning against the wall, watching her with his deep-set eyes.
If he was here, it meant Luc must be back, too. He must have crashed from exhaustion if they’d run the meeting without him.
Soren shook his head. “You should have cried before you went in for your report, unless you were betting on Ilva forgiving you for reasons of temporary insanity.”
“Shut up,” she said, shrinking smaller, her chest hitching.
“You could’ve at least washed up if you wanted to be taken seriously.”
“Shut—up,” she said again.
“You knew it wasn’t going to work,” he said, folding his arms. “You had to have known. They’re never, ever, ever in a million years going to approve using necromancy on our soldiers. Or on anyone not our soldiers, before you get any other ideas.”
She pulled her knees tight against her chest. “You have no idea what it’s like in the hospital.”
“No, I don’t,” Soren said in a flat voice, “and neither does anyone else in there, so I don’t know why you thought screaming at them while looking like that would change their minds.”
She was too tired to argue.
“You know what your problem is?”
Helena said nothing. He’d tell her whether she wanted him to or not. He’d always possessed all the sharp edges and wariness that Luc lacked.
“You don’t have faith in the gods.”
“Yes, I do,” she said quickly.
“No. You don’t. You think you do because you think they probably exist, but that’s not faith. You don’t trust them.”
“Why would I? They haven’t done anything to deserve being trusted,” she said, her voice thick. “I’ve tried everything, Soren. I try to believe, but it’s never enough. Even if I did really believe—if my soul’s the price of saving you, of saving everyone”—she choked—“that’s not a price. That’s a bargain.”
He dropped into a squat in front of her so that their faces were almost level. “That doesn’t matter, though. They’ll never agree. No one will. You’re just hurting yourself.”
She looked down. “Then we’re going to lose,” she said in a dull voice. “And I’m going to be the one who puts you back together, over and over, until I have to watch you die instead. And we still won’t win.”
Soren gave a heavy sigh. “I’m guessing no one told you, but this battle was actually quite the victory for us.”
She should have felt something at this news, but she was empty. “Whether you win a battle or lose it, all I see is the cost.”
“Just figured you’d want to know, because Luc thinks it’s a sign that things are finally taking a turn.”
Helena felt as if her chest had caved in.
“Don’t take that from him. Please.”
She nodded silently. Soren rested a hand on her shoulder. She could tell he wanted to say something else, but he just stood up instead.
“We’re back for a few days. I’m sure we’ll see you around. You should clean up and get some sleep. You need it.”
He walked away.
Helena stayed curled against the wall, too crushed beneath her despair to move.
* * *
“Marino.”
A cool voice jolted Helena awake.
Her eyes snapped open, and she found Ilva Holdfast standing before her, both hands resting idly on the head of her cane. Helena was still huddled against the wall where Soren had left her.
“Let’s have a private chat,” Ilva said, her tone even and emotionless.
Helena’s stomach shrivelled as she stood stiffly.
They went up a floor to Ilva’s office, and she produced a little key from her pocket to unlock it.
Helena had always admired that Ilva never tried to hide her lack of resonance, never acted ashamed or apologetic about it. Even though most people didn’t possess measurable resonance, once swept into the world of alchemy, the absence sometimes felt startling to encounter. The guild families staked everything upon their alchemy; their future and fortunes depended on maintaining their traditional resonance. They were borderline superstitious about their children’s abilities, and so a Lapse in the family was often taken as a sign that the bloodline was weak.
But Ilva had never been hidden away by the Holdfasts. The Faith had long held that resonance was no form of superiority; it was Sol’s will to endow whom he would.
The Holdfasts had given Ilva as many opportunities as any other Holdfast. She’d been one of the first women to study in the science department before deciding her interests lay elsewhere, and the first female non-alchemist to join the Eternal Flame when her brother Helios, Luc’s grandfather, had become Principate.
Now she was the only family Luc had left, and he had made her steward, entrusting her to act on his behalf when he was absent.
Helena entered the office and stopped short.
Jan Crowther was seated in one of the two chairs across from Ilva’s desk.
He was a needle of a man, plainly dressed, with ash-brown hair combed back from his face. A red flame pyromancer, Crowther had fought in the Eternal Flame’s crusades against necromancy in the surrounding countries until his right arm was paralysed.
He rarely spoke in the public meetings. He managed logistical matters, supplies, rations, and dispatching and assigning the Resistance’s noncombatants. Helena didn’t know why he was there; if she was going to be censured, it made more sense for Falcon Matias to be present.
“Sit down,” Ilva said, seating herself behind the desk, which was covered in files.
Helena sat in the chair beside Crowther’s. She was so tired it was difficult not to slump.
“Seems I’m doomed never to have an easy conversation with you,” Ilva said.
Helena said nothing. There was a long silence, as if Ilva was debating where to begin.
“We’re losing the war,” Ilva finally said.
Helena blinked, the room coming into sharp focus. Her eyes darted between Ilva and Crowther, who remained silent, both watching for her reaction.
She didn’t know what to say. Most people regarded it as a preordained fact that the Resistance would win. Eventually. The Eternal Flame was always victorious. In the battle of good and evil, good always won in the end.
“I know,” Helena finally said.
Ilva inclined her head, her gaze seeming to go through Helena. “Luc is—exceptional. The best of all the Holdfasts, I’ve always said. When you’ve lived as long as I have, you learn how rare it is that anyone with such capacity for greatness is actually truly good, but Luc is one of those rare few. It’s a tremendous burden, trying to protect someone like that.” Ilva closed her eyes for a moment, her age showing in every line of her face. “I never expected to be steward to the Principate. I’ve spent so much time wondering what Apollo would do, or my brother, or father, but it’s no use—none of them were anything like Luc. He’s so earnest, it pains me.” She pressed her hand over her heart and looked directly at Helena. “I am grateful you at least did not make that proposal with Luc present.”
Helena just pressed her lips together, knowing Ilva’s gratitude wasn’t because Helena would have hurt Luc but because he might have agreed with her. Because he trusted her, valued her perspective even when they disagreed.
But if she’d spoken with Luc present, and he had listened, everyone else would have seen her as a serpent, dripping poison in his ears, corrupting their golden heir.
“I stand by what I said.”
Crowther let out a breath like a hiss, and the fingers of his hand twitched. Her eyes caught on the ignition rings decorating his fingers.
“You know it’s impossible,” Ilva said.
Helena shrugged. “Even when we’re losing?”
“Yes, even then,” Crowther said, speaking at last through clenched teeth.
“I know you want to help,” Ilva said, “but we’re not only fighting for ourselves, but for the soul of Paladia. As Principate, Luc cannot allow the principles of his forefathers to be betrayed.” Ilva looked down at her hands, folded before her on the desk. “However, the country has been exhausted by this war. The moral outrage towards necromancy has only dulled further with time. There are many people like you in the city who prefer the idea of necrothralls fighting instead of their sons. The Undying do not ask for food or soldiers, or for their citizens to do without, and that has allowed their Guild Assembly to legitimise themselves and claim that they are the ones for the people.”
“So what do we do?” Helena asked.
Ilva pursed her lips, drawing a deep breath. “Do you remember Kaine Ferron?”
Helena stifled an incredulous laugh. Everyone remembered Kaine Ferron. He’d murdered Luc’s father by ripping out his heart at the foot of the Alchemy Tower.
Ferron had been sixteen, just another student, and without warning he’d committed the worst crime in Paladia’s history.
He was never arrested or charged, even though the investigation had yielded multiple witnesses positively identifying him as the murderer, because he’d disappeared.
There were a few reports later listing him as likely among the Undying, but little else was known since.
“Yes, I remember Ferron,” she said, realising that Ilva was waiting for an answer.
“Kaine Ferron has offered to spy for the Resistance,” said Crowther.
Helena’s head swivelled sharply. “What?”
Crowther’s upper lip curled. “He says it’s to avenge his mother.” He inclined his head. “A strange motive, given that Enid Ferron died peacefully in the family’s city residence a year ago. When he was reminded of that, he admitted he has a few—conditions for the services he’s offering.”
Helena stared at him expectantly, but it was Ilva who spoke.
“He wants a full pardon for all of his wartime activities.”
That seemed an obvious demand, although entirely out of the question. Luc would never pardon his father’s murderer.
There was something about the way Ilva said it that made Helena feel that a pardon was not all Ferron had asked for.
“And…?”
“He wants you, Marino,” Crowther said. “Both now and after the war.”
Crowther said it casually, but Ilva’s lips went white.
Helena sat looking between them, certain she was misunderstanding, but there was only silence.
“His information would be invaluable to us,” Ilva said without meeting Helena’s eyes.
Helena shook her head slowly, not ready for the conversation to move on to estimates of value.
Crowther and Ilva were seated too far apart to look at simultaneously. She had to keep glancing between them; Ilva was not looking at her, while Crowther studied her with a look of impassive curiosity.
Helena’s voice failed twice before she managed to speak. “But—why would he—I don’t think Ferron knows who I am.”
Crowther gave a slow reptilian blink. “The two of you were academically competitive, weren’t you?”
“W-Well, yes, technically, but—it was just the national exam scores. We never—never spoke. He was guild, and you know how they were—and I was—I was…”
The thirty-six-hour hospital shift had dulled her brain to the point that it was only then that she realised Ilva had not brought her into the office to censure her at all.
She looked between them again. “Are you asking me to—”
“We need that information,” Crowther said. “We have spies, but none at the level Ferron can offer. This would be direct access to intelligence we often spend months trying to piece together.” He tilted his head, studying her sideways. “Given your impassioned advocacy today that the Resistance do whatever is necessary to win this war without thought to personal cost…” He smiled. “We thought you might be interested.”
Helena’s mouth was so dry, she could barely swallow. Her words stuck in her throat.
“We won’t force you,” Ilva said quickly. “It’s only if you agree. You can say no.”
“Yes,” Crowther said with another thin, empty smile. “Ferron was quite specific that you have to be willing.”
This had to be a test. They wouldn’t do this, not after everything…
Ilva wouldn’t sell her.
“You can have a day to think it over,” Ilva said.
“But an answer now would be preferable, for all parties involved,” Crowther said pointedly.
Ilva’s fingers curled into a fist. “She should have time to think, Jan.”
Those words finally made it real.
Ilva had never offered Helena time to think about any of the irreversible decisions she’d been asked to make. Helena almost felt the now nearly invisible incision scar just below her navel. Ilva, who was always calm, who always did whatever she considered best for Luc regardless of the cost, had finally found a choice that even her conscience struggled with.
Not a test, then.
“I don’t need time to think,” Helena said. “You say we’re losing the war, and this is the only option, so—I’ll do it.” As she spoke, she could feel the blood draining from her face, head and body growing light.
Ilva stared at her and then at Crowther, and she gave a sharp nod. “All right.”
Helena’s fingers had gone numb at some point during the conversation. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to speak again. “How will you explain it—once I’m gone?”
Ilva cleared her throat. “Oh, you won’t be leaving. Not immediately anyway. To start, you’ll act as liaison between the Resistance and Ferron. You’ll see him—what was it?”
“Twice weekly,” Crowther said.
“Yes. You’ll go every four days, acting as his point of contact, and pass the information he gives you to Crowther, who will ensure it reaches the right members of the Council and the commanders. The rest of the time, you’ll remain here, and everything will operate as usual.”
“Oh,” was all Helena could say.
She should feel relieved by that, but she didn’t feel anything. The room was tunnelling; Crowther and Ilva were down a long telescope. Even their voices were far away.
“Given the sensitive nature of this arrangement, there will be no official records or acknowledgement of any kind,” Crowther said. “And under absolutely no circumstances are Luc or any other friends or acquaintances you may possess to have any idea of this. Do you understand, Marino?”
“Yes.” Her ears were ringing.
Crowther said something else about healing herself as necessary to avoid raising questions. She couldn’t make out all the words.
She just nodded and said yes again.
Chapter 24
Februa 1786
It was dawn when Helena reached the top floors of the Alchemy Tower. What had once been the Holdfast family’s city residence was now rooms for Luc and the paladins and a few other alchemists.
As Helena came around the bend of the hallway, the door ahead swung open, and Luc walked out.
“Hel!” His face lit up for an instant, but then he stopped short. “What happened?”
She stared at him, stunned that he’d read everything in her expression so quickly. Then she realised he was staring at her clothes.
She looked down. She was still covered in dried blood.
Soren and Lila both emerged from the room behind Luc, fully armed. The paladins would never make the mistake of believing anywhere was safe for the Principate after what happened to Apollo.
“It’s not my blood,” Helena said. “Hospital shift. I just got off.”
“Oh, that’s a relief.” Luc was clearly distracted; he took her by the shoulders. “Did you hear the news?”
His voice was buoyant, and his eyes alight.
Helena couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked like this.
“We retook the trade district during the battle, means we’re on track to get the ports by summer.”
“Really?” She tried to force some excitement into her voice.
If Soren hadn’t mentioned that the battle had been considered a success, she would have sounded completely disbelieving. She knew it was strategically significant. City warfare was fraught with danger and complicated logistics. All the levels and districts and zones of the city were porous. Attacks could come from any direction. To have captured such a large district was a remarkable success.
But how could that battle be a victory, when so many had died?
Because the ports meant food, resources, and medical supplies. Everything that had been rationed for months. The supplies smuggled from Novis only ever took the edge off their shortages. If they had the ports in time for summer, they’d be able to get the quantities they were desperate for.
