“You cannot oppose your king, Tygoh. It doesn’t matter what you think. If Taeg believes it is the right decision, you have two options. Trust him, or if you can’t bring yourself to do that, protect him.”
Anarah bustles about the infirmary, gathering tools. A fire is lit in the far corner, heating a large pot of water, condensation running down the walls. Tygoh follows her, anxiously waving his arms about as he speaks. She sees him reach to rest his hand on his sword hilt, a nervous habit, before remembering too late that it lies unattended at the Church doors.
“He’s putting himself in danger by releasing the scout,” he huffs. “And as for the corpse, I don’t see how he could trust such a beast. That creature is half alive, Anarah.”
Her patience endures as she wipes down two low, wooden stools sat upon the stone floor, warm water dripping down her forearms. Candles flicker off her face as she scrubs. “Can you help while you talk?” she breathes, smiling up at her fiancé.
Tygoh growls under his breath and grabs a cloth from the counter nearby. He dips it in a nearby bowl, swishing the yucca root about in the bottom.
“How can we be sure that the scout won’t deliver what he’s seen to Silon?” He squeezes water from the cloth, calling over his shoulder. “Argos found ships in Tauris. Denand ships, Anarah. They were carrying what looked like Xelinites, the same objective both prisoners were instructed to locate.”
Anarah chuckles. “Do we have a Xelinite hidden somewhere that you know of?”
Tygoh hesitates, holding the cloth. “Not that I am aware of...with proof.”
“Then why are you worried?” Anarah comes up for air, swiping her hair behind her ears. She wets her cloth again, raising an eyebrow at the dark man. He rolls his eyes, looking away, then changes the subject.
“Have you ever wondered how a thing like that has survived so long in these parts? Don’t trust a survivor until you know how they survived. And why did it leave Tauris?”
“He’s a human being who has endured horrible circumstances,” Anarah adds, wincing at his flagrant use of the word “it”.
“The way Taeg was addressing him, it’s almost as if he believes the kid to be an honored guest. I’m not one to think he would hide something from us, but...” Tygoh trails off, inattentively wiping the counters.
She stops, brushing dirt from her burgundy waist sash. “I think you worry too much, my love.” She looks in his direction, smiling, watching him miss large swathes of dust along the counter. “But I will admit that Taeg shows a marked amount of naivety on occasions. He is young. Not lacking in skill, but young.”
Tygoh takes a heavy seat on a bench in the corner, still holding the washcloth, turning it in his hands. He gazes at Anarah, nodding. “I heard you at the coronation feast. You hold a modicum of doubt about Taeg’s ability to handle the situation at hand. It’s understandable.”
Anarah releases a sigh from her throat, ashamed at her own skepticism of the king. Taeg was younger than her by only a few years, but she couldn’t shake her apprehension about his capability as regent.
She rolls a cart near the two stools. A metal tray is perched atop it, a clean cloth covering its surface. From the back of the room, she picks up two metal tubes from the drying rack, each equipped with a large needle at one end and a loop at the other, setting them on the tray. From a cedar box, she pulls a glass bottle of purple liquid, the scent of evergreen filling her nostrils, and sets it next to the syringes. She can feel Tygoh’s eyes on her as she carefully removes the cork from the bottle, dunking each syringe in and pulling back on the loop, filling them with the viscous fluid. Tygoh shudders in the corner.
“I remember when I was given the Mark.” He rubs a hand behind his neck.
“It's not a particularly pleasant experience,” Anarah hums. “Would you like to stay and help with the process?” She chuckles at his wrinkled nose.
The mahogany-haired man shakes his head fervently. “Absolutely not.”
Anarah stops the bottle and moves to place two wooden cups on the counter. She fills them with willow bark from a small satchel hanging above her head, taking in the earthy scent. Various dried herbs, flowers, and bottles of ointment stock the shelves above the counter, some of which she’d collected herself.
“You’ve never been one for pain, especially in others,” she replies.
He sighs.
An elderly physician appears in the doorway, smoothing his robes, and Tygoh stands abruptly, his back stiff.
The elder, spotting Anarah across the room, calls derisively in her direction, spittle flying from between his thin lips.
“Ms. Prideaux. Have you seen to the equipment and sanitation?” He folds his liver-spotted hands into the ends of his white sleeves and Anarah sits up taller.
“Yes, Elder. The syringes are filled with serum as well.”
A low hum comes from the man’s throat. “Good. Please see to it that the new Guards are properly prepared for this formality, yes?” He turns to leave, eyeing Tygoh through lowered brows.
“As I have been trained, Elder,” Anarah replies, venom seeping into her voice.
When the physician leaves, Anarah remains staring cold-bloodedly at the far wall. Tygoh reaches for her, placing a rough hand on her arm, his skin warm and dark against her pallor.
“You let them get under your skin.”
She seethes. “He knows I am perfectly capable of grunt work, and I know I am perfectly capable of performing this procedure myself, but the old galoots would never allow such radical ideas.”
The general clears his throat, gazing at the floor awkwardly. “Please don’t lose the position you have for the task you want. I know how much this means to you.”
She nods her head, still staring at the wall.
“I’ll send them in,” he says, his hand slipping from her arm, the skin aching where his touch had been. He glides through the doorway, his cape following.
Anarah seats herself on the bench and waits against the wall, silent, as she listens to the sounds of the Church. Footsteps echo down the hall, soles on stone. The fire crackles in the corner, and she wipes sweat from her brow. Down the nave, she can hear Lark’s voice, always a notch above others.
She feels a jolt of disappointment coarse through her chest, then bitterness. The hours spent studying the library, the day-long sessions watching the elders delve into the corpses of peasants. It was not an opulent profession, nor was it one most would choose willingly. In the beginning, the aversion had crawled up her throat, the sight of corpses sitting heavy in her stomach. Now, an inquisitive observer of death, as a hunter became numb to the rush of blood, she felt more at peace in the presence of the dead than she did in the company of the living. The dead made excellent listeners.
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From the doorway come the heavy footsteps of Lark, her face exuberant, her hands rubbing together in anticipation. Drair, following behind, displays her usual contemptuous facade. Anarah hauls herself from the bench and greets the two with a smile.
“Please have a seat,” she says. “I must warn you that these stools are terribly uncomfortable. I can only hope that they distract you from the pain of the procedure.”
Lark grins smugly, choosing the first stool, facing away.
“Don’t tell me you’re the one administering the Mark to us,” Lark chides, moving her long braid over the front of her shoulder, exposing the ivory flesh of her nape. Her young face peers over the other shoulder at Anarah, who is near the bowl of water with a clean cloth.
“I am not,” Anarah says, wetting the cloth. “But I am here to prepare you both for the procedure. Infection can set in if the area is not properly cleaned. While I am here, if you have any questions, ask away. The elders are less inclined to answer them.”
Drair fiddles with the strap at the back of her head, tightening the eye patch to her forehead, sitting warily upon the other stool. She speaks low, focused on the wall in front of her. “How will this affect us?”
Anarah moves to Lark’s back, brushing away stray blonde strands, and begins to wipe the back of the girl’s neck, steam rolling from the cloth. “Your neck and shoulders will be quite sore for a few days. This tapers off. Supposedly, when the Grand Master received his, he felt a bit ill the following day. But that could have been from all the celebrating. Your Mark will not awaken until it is fully healed, which can take up to a moon’s cycle. Be patient with it.”
Lark fidgets. “So Nathis was right,” she says, looking at the large needles on the tray behind her. “You’re going to shove that thing into our spine.”
“Correct.”
“And it gives us the Mark?”
“In a way. This Mark is less taxing on the body than the others we know of. The Lynac of Xelinac is another known Mark, and there is a tribe that lives in the Pfeist Mountains that carries their own rendition, though they remain in hiding and the documentation is lacking. I’ve studied any Marks that have been documented within the past 300 years. They are becoming few and far between. Ours is one of the oldest, originating from the early settlements that gambled with thaumaturgy before we knew its dangers. The initial trials were...not as diligently practiced.”
Anarah returns to the bowl to rinse her cloth, hands red from the heat, before moving behind Drair. She hesitates, feeling odd inserting herself into the dark woman’s personal space. Gently brushing aside strands of black hair, she wipes the back of the assassin’s neck, uncomfortably aware that they have never been this close. Drair shudders, gooseflesh blooming under the steam that rises from her skin.
Lark chimes in again, interrupting her nerves. “Gambled with thaumaturgy? So they experimented on humans.”
Anarah shrugs. “Essentially. The countries were ripe with alchemists. These were the most knowledgeable persons in the world, and they often studied magics without abandon, in many cases leaving their humanity behind for it. Too many of them lost their lives in the search for more powerful magic. Very few exist to this day, most of them living in secret. The kingdoms adopted the more sophisticated findings for their armies, and magic is almost exclusively held by those in power.”
She returns to the bowl, hanging the cloth on its rim. The elder physician from before appears in the doorway, greeting the room with an ambivalent smile. His eyes, beady and brown, crinkle around the edges, unchanging as his lips return to a frown.
“Good day to you, ladies. Shall we begin the procedure? Anarah, are they prepared?”
Anarah dries her hands with a clean chamois cloth, leaning against the counter. “Yes, Elder.”
“Wonderful. Now...” he shuffles to the bowl of water, removing his hands from his white sleeves. “This is a quick procedure that has been under the Church’s responsibility for many years. Do not worry. You will feel a stick in the back of your neck, and some pressure will follow as I inject the serum. Expect pain to follow as the serum flows into your spinal cord and to your brain. Your body will undergo many changes. Pain is the price for magic, I’m afraid.” A gentle sloshing noise fills the room as he scrubs his fingers vigorously.
The two women sit rigid in their seats, their necks exposed. Sweat drips hastily from Lark’s hairline and Drair holds her hands carefully in her lap, her shoulders pushed back uncomfortably.
Anarah moves herself to the shelf at the back of the room, pulling gauze from a second cedar box. As she finishes, the elder moves behind the women, drying his hands. He throws the towel over his shoulder and reaches to brush stray hair from Drair’s neck. She flinches. His wrinkled hands reach to grasp one of the syringes, and he tilts the device upward, pushing the smallest drop through the tip of the needle.
“Which of you desires to go first?” he says.
“I will go.” Drair stares at the wall in front of her, her dark eye unblinking. Lark glares at the woman next to her, then nods her head once, as if in agreement.
“Right then,” the physician calls. He shifts behind Drair and peers at the skin on the back of her neck. He poises the gun at an upward angle, his hands shaking lightly. Anarah holds her breath.
“Please take a deep breath. I am inserting the needle.” His voice trails off. Anarah watches as the needle pieces tanned skin just below the second vertebrae. Drair does not move. The needle slips further in, toward the lower ridge of the skull. A slight grimace comes to the assassin’s lips as the elder presses the piston on the gun. Drair’s hands clench, her knuckles turning pale, and her jaw sets. As the last bit of fluid is pushed from the cylinder, the physician pulls away, dropping the empty syringe to the tray. A heavy exhale leaves Drair’s lips.
Lark watches, eyes wide.
“Next,” the graying man sings, moving quickly from one victim to the next. Anarah sees Lark shudder, her fingers gripping her thighs. The girl’s shoulders tense, heaving up to her ears as the metallic scrape of the second syringe erupts from the tray behind her. He performs the same ritual as before, pushing a small drop from the tip of the needle.
Anarah works quickly behind her mentor, applying a dense salve of willow bark, ginger, and chamomile to the pinprick on Drair’s neck. She notices for the first time that perspiration soaks the woman’s hairline. She applies gauze to the salve, allowing it to adhere to the stickiness. Drair’s breath flows audible from her nostrils, her shoulder hunched forward in pain. Anarah steps quickly to the cups she had laid upon the counter earlier and fills it full with steaming water from the pot in the corner, willow bark swirling. She hands the tea to Drair, taking note of her flushed skin. The woman holds her cup weakly, taking a sip.
Next to her, Lark grits her teeth, growling as the needle enters her skin. The room is silent save for the fire crackling in the corner and the physician’s low humming. In seconds, the needle is pulled sharply from the neck of the blonde and set upon the metal tray with a clang. Anarah applies the salve to Lark’s pale skin and hands her the second cup of willow bark. The elder washes his hands noisily in the vat of water and bows his head lightly to the women in the room.
“You are finished, ladies. Anarah here will take care of you. It has been an honor to bestow this great power upon you. Best of luck in the coming days as you learn to harness your new abilities.” He slips quickly and quietly from the room as if he had never been there before.
Lark, panting, speaks through her teeth. “Wasn’t so bad.” She grins sheepishly, then takes a deep swallow of the hot tea.
Drair says nothing. She is shaking, her eyelid drooping. Sweat runs in rivulets down her forehead.
Lark peers at the woman next to her.
“It’s not nearly as bad as you’re making it to be,” she pauses, then glances at Anarah. “Is she having a reaction?” The scar over her left eye crinkles as her eyes narrow.
“I think she may be. Drair? Are you feeling lightheaded at all?”
The dark-skinned assassin leans forward, her hands loosely holding the cup between her knees. Her hair sticks defeatedly to her skin, slick with perspiration. Anarah speaks again.
“Take a drink of the willow bark, Drair. It will help with the pain.” She takes her hand and grasps Drair’s cup, and the woman’s hands drop into her lap. The assassin’s breath stutters in her chest, her hands shaking. Anarah sets the cup on the ground and reaches to grab Drair’s shoulders, slinging commands at Lark.
“She needs to lie down. Now. Lark, pull a fresh cloth from the stack under the counter. I think she’s having a seizure.”
Drair’s dark hand reaches slowly up to her right eye where the patch resides, fingers shaking violently. She says nothing, but looks up at Anarah, pleading in her eye. Anarah watches as her pupil contracts and dilates in quick succession. Then the eye closes. Before Lark can reach the stack of towels, the assassin pitches forward, the stool flying out from under her, dead weight sagging into Anarah’s chest, sending them both crashing into the floor.
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