Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Iknew death.
Knew death as intimately as a toxic lover's touch, a constant thing that forever flitted around the edges of my consciousness.
I knew death, knew it in the people that I treated. Sat with it and faced it as I held their hands when they crossed into the Kingdom of the Goddess. I held it when their friends and family cried in my arms. Saw it in the grief stricken faces and the fear of what would come after.
But I did not know death like this.
I had only seen it once.
Death that was not from illness nor from an accident that took a life swiftly.
This was murder.
I stood frozen, once again a little girl with black hair hiding in the shadows of an alleyway, snow soaking through my tattered coat as my mother was tied to a stake. My lungs burned, my eyes watered as those screams echoed in my mind.
I saw nothing, felt nothing, was nothing.
This man was going to die in front of my eyes, just as my mother had. A life taken simply for a trial, for an error in an apprentice’s potion.
Stomach rolling, my breaths burned as I tried to suck in air. Yet the silence, the stillness of the room, seemingly stole it all from my desperate lungs.
"Daddy?"
My gaze snapped away from the writhing man to Mirabel.
The little girl was shifting, her eyes opening as the last of the poison was beginning to clear from her system.
Her green eyes—Goddess, so similar to the mother already lost—scanned over the room before stopping, an eerie stillness falling over her.
The crack that arced through my heart was so painful a whoosh of breath escaped at the scream that cut through the silence. So razor sharp it sliced through my very being.
My hands reached for her as she stumbled from the stool, her steps clumsy and shaken as she moved to her writhing father, the screams still coming.
Or were those the echoes?
Goddess, no.
Horror raced through me as the guard I did not recognize stepped forward, his arm wrapping around Mirabel's waist. He lifted her into the air before she reached her father's twitching body, now laid prone upon the floor.
"No." Terror ravaged through her small body as she fought in the man's arms. “Somebody help him, save him, please."
I was moving, hands grabbing my cauldron before my mind could comprehend what I was doing.
Those devastating cries rung within my ears, muffling all other senses and thoughts. I shoved past the incompetent apprentice, hands shaking as I brought the whole cauldron to Fenrir’s lips.
Fenrir who had been so kind.
Fenrir who had loved his wife so wholly, so completely.
"Apprentice Sommers," a voice called, harsh, loud and grating, raking down my back like the claws of a beast tearing flesh. But I barely heard it, could only listen to the sobs from behind. I didn't acknowledge it as I knelt by his body and poured the remaining half of my potion down his throat.
I didn't know if it would be enough, didn't know if it would help any as the black veins had travelled so far down his body that I wasn't sure if there was any coming back from the damage that had been done.
But I had to try. I had to do something.
I glanced back, my eyes meeting those green, tear-stricken ones, before I stared down at her father. His head was lolling to the side, his face pale, yet the writhing stopped. His breath was still shallow, but slowly it too calmed.
Tracking those black veins that started to recede, I laid my hand against his forehead, my taut muscles relaxing inch by inch as I felt the fever reducing.
He would be okay.
For now, for today, he would be okay.
"Get the prisoners rounded up."
That voice.
Hard and cold, with barely restrained anger.
It had terror curling my spine as I slowly stood, turning to face him.
The other guard had stopped restraining Mirabel as she ceased fighting.
She made no motion to move, but her eyes remained fixed on the slowly waking man behind me as the guard began to gather all the prisoners into a single file line, hooking their shackles together.
I could feel that burning gaze, waiting for me to look at him, to meet his eyes. But I could not.
Would not.
Would they punish me now, for saving a Luanthian’s life?
"Apprentice Coleman," High Master Belcomb spoke, her eyes on that chocolate haired apprentice. "You have failed your second trial, you may now take your leave and return to your quarters to pack your things. Hopefully we see you again next year when you can retry."
I barely felt the harsh shove from behind as he passed, his shoulder knocking me forward. Barely felt the arm that caught and steadied me. I hardly heard the low growl that left the Kinslayer’s lips.
"Syra," he murmured, his voice quiet in a room of whispering apprentices and clanking chains. “Look at me."
I couldn't.
Couldn't lift my eyes to meet that silver and green gaze, terrified of what I would find there. Terrified of what I would feel when I saw them.
He would have let Fenrir die here.
He would have let his daughter watch the slow, suffering death of her father.
I let that knowledge settle deeply in the marrow of my bones, let it sink into the blackest depths of my soul.
"Let go of me," I snarled, his hand instantly dropping from my arm, as if he hadn't even realized he was still holding it—still touching me.
"Captain Delmar." The High Master’s honeyed tone floated through the air, breaking the suffocating little bubble we had become trapped within. “Leave her punishment for the interference of a Luanthian prisoner to me, I'm sure you have much on your plate already."
She was mistaking this tension between us, this stilting conversation, as Roan scolding me for what I had done.
He let out a breath as he hesitated, uncertainty a conflicting storm in his eyes, yet he took a step back.
"Very well then." His head dipped in acknowledgment to the High Master before he turned on his heel to lead the prisoners from the room.
I watched Fenrir stumble to weak, shaky legs as Mirabel eyed him over her shoulder, sorrow etched into her little face.
"Syra, l'd like to see you in my office."
The office that I entered was grand.
High, beautiful windows lined one of the walls, allowing the sun to shine light upon everything it touched.
It was the backdrop to an elegant, intricately carved desk.
Neat shelves of potions lined the walls, but I couldn't even muster the energy to scan them as I dropped down into a cushioned chair.
High Master Belcomb took a seat in the high-backed one across from me.
"That was incredibly stupid of you."
The words weren't said maliciously, but matter of factly. I knew she was right, but there had been no other option. Was I meant to let him die a horribly, painful death in front of his daughter? So soon after the death of his wife, leaving Mirabel an orphan in a world that already despised her?
Would I have ever been able to forgive myself if I had?
The High Master let out a little breath, a humorless laugh following it. “However, knowing Merle Sommers is your Aunt and mentor, I shouldn't even be surprised, should I?"
I wanted to question her, wanted to know exactly what she meant by that. Yet I remained silent, my eyes settling onto the window just behind her.
Seeing, but not seeing. Hearing, but not hearing.
My body no longer felt as if it were my own. It felt wrong. My skin crawled and squeezed against my bones, my lungs compressing—too tight for me to truly breathe in.
I was here, but I was not.
I was real, but I didn't feel it.
"Syra."
My hands clenched.
Her brow crinkled the slightest bit, and I focused in on the pale skin dimpling and pinching together, creating such a worried expression.
Was it worry? Worry for what? Me, or that I was a sympathizer?
I hadn't realized she had stood, rounding the table before leaning down so we were eye level. Her hand gripped my chin harshly, pointed nails digging into the soft skin.
"Do you know why your Aunt is not the High Master of Potionery despite being the best of a generation?
" Her eyes bore into mine—eyes I had once thought reminded me of the ice on a frozen stream, but I could see now that they were flame through and through.
An azure flame so hot they threatened to turn me to ash under their raging fury.
Harsh, deadly, and wholly unforgiving. Her nails dug deeper as she spoke.
“Because she could not separate her emotions from her work.
She could not hide her empathy." The words stung, like poison dripping from her tongue.
“Because she was too stupid to see the larger picture and just behave the way that was required of her. "
My nails carved into the skin of my palms, the pain drawing me from my stupor. The first emotion I had been able to feel in minutes was unspooling and clawing its way up my throat.
Anger.
I jerked back from her grip as I ground my teeth.
A little smile curled High Master Belcomb's lips as she backed away, seeing what she had apparently needed to see.
"Wallowing does us no good," she finally spoke, going back to her chair. "To be so worked up over the life of a man you do not even know, a Luanthian man at that, will only bring you trouble in a place such as this. Steel your emotions, hide them. That is the only way we survive."
But I did know him.
A kind smile on my walks home. Nervous fingers tapping his hat. Coal dust and patched shoes. His face tender and loving every time he looked upon his wife. His voice soothing and patient when he spoke to his daughter.
"And how do they survive it, High Master?" My tone bordered on insolence.
"They don't."
Those words, the simplicity and finality of them, had the rage vanishing as quickly as it stirred. My body slumped further into the chair, wanting to curl into it and simply disappear.
"Was there something you needed from me?”
The question was quiet. Goddess, I was tired.
I wanted to see Merle.