Chapter 7 The Patient in Ward 13 #2
Aurienne permitted herself no further thoughts of Mordaunt thereafter, save for one legitimate concern: she was anxious to get a diffractor on him to confirm what changes had followed the healing at the Faerwundor.
He was equally anxious on this front and sent his deofol to Aurienne regularly, enquiring about the date for their next meeting.
However, with the rollout of the Pox immunisation programme, all of the Haelan Order’s clinics, including the ones in remote villages where Aurienne normally met Mordaunt, were booked up.
She wasn’t able to reserve one until a chance cancellation a fortnight later, at which point both she and Mordaunt were bursting with frustration.
“I might have a place for us to meet,” said Aurienne to Mordaunt’s deofol, who had once again darkened her tācn with her presence.
She locked the door to her quarters as the deofol’s black miasma melded into a wolfish shape.
“I’m confirming whether or not they’ve got a diffractor available,” continued Aurienne. “Not every clinic has one.”
Mordaunt’s deofol, whose past interactions with Aurienne largely involved snark and teeth, behaved herself. The wolf laid herself at Aurienne’s feet like a patient, smoky rug and said, “Take your time, Haelan.”
Aurienne flipped through an enormous binder detailing clinic inventories. “Yes—we’re in luck. There’s a diffractor there. Tell Mordaunt we’re to meet tomorrow, in Grasmere. The waystone is at the Deceptive Banana. I know it’s short notice.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said the wolf. “He will be pleased to be there. Thank you, Haelan.”
Aurienne snapped the binder shut. The wolf could be so polite when she wanted to be. “We’ll meet there at noon, and if Mordaunt complains that it’s broad daylight—”
“He won’t,” said the wolf. A bow followed. “You have our gratitude.”
Instead of fading away as usual, however, the deofol lingered at Aurienne’s eye level.
Uncomfortable under the creature’s black-souled scrutiny, Aurienne asked, “Was there something else?”
“I believe you are the Fair Tormentor,” said the wolf.
“The what?”
“Only something he’s been muttering about. I think he’s fond of you.”
“Fond?” repeated Aurienne.
“Curious, isn’t it?” said the wolf.
“Has he forgotten that I walk one of the Bright Paths and that he’s got a great flaming hellhound on his hand?”
The deofol shrugged. “All light involves burning.”
Aurienne went to bed mulling over this cryptic observation.
Her repose was short-lived. A few hours later, she was awoken by the press of velvety seith at her tācn.
She raised her tācn to let Xanthe’s deofol, Saophal, through. The axolotl shimmered into existence and said, “You’re wanted urgently. Follow me.”
Aurienne lurched into alertness. A thousand reasons why she might be wanted urgently spiralled into increasingly ridiculous suppositions—was it to do with the Faerwundor?
Was it to do with Mordaunt? Had someone discovered their deal?
Was she about to be sacked, have her Haelan wings stripped, be thrown out of Swanstone?
“Chop-chop, dear, bit of pep in the step, please,” said Saophal as Aurienne pulled on her boots.
Aurienne threw a cloak over her sleeping things. “What’s going on?”
“We have need of your skills for a patient,” said Saophal, perching herself upon Aurienne’s shoulder. “You’re being summoned to Ward Thirteen.”
“Ward Thirteen?” repeated Aurienne in confusion as she descended the north tower’s spiral stairs. Ward 13 was a disused ward in Swanstone’s dungeons. In less civilised times, it had served as the Order’s lunatic asylum.
“How are your seith reserves?” asked Saophal.
“All right. I’ve slept a bit. What time is it?”
“Half three,” said Saophal.
“What’s the matter with the patient?” asked Aurienne. “Presentation? Symptoms? Why Ward Thirteen? Is it something contagious? Are we isolating?”
Saophal clung to Aurienne’s shoulder as she ran. “We’re going to need you to disable their seith system.”
“Disable it? What? You mean my micro-occlusions?”
“Yes.”
“But that’s experimental, reserved for specific therapeutic scenarios like seith haemorrhages— Oh, so sorry, Haelan Abercorn—”
“Qu-quite all right—didn’t need my diaphragm anyway,” wheezed Abercorn, whom Aurienne had just run into, elbow first. Around the corner behind him whipped Haelan Prendergast. Both were hastily adjusting housecoats over their sleeping things.
Along with Xanthe, Abercorn and Prendergast made up the Haelan Order’s leadership. Why were they here? Aurienne grew more anxious.
“In there,” said Saophal.
Aurienne pushed open the door of what had once been a cell in Ward 13. Abercorn and Prendergast crowded in after her. Barbarous restraints rusted on the walls, but those were not what held the patient today.
Five Wardens, their gauntlets removed, their tācn blindingly bright, were standing in a circle.
Wards, sizzling with power, crisscrossed between the five of them.
At the centre of the circle slumped a woman, stripped of vestment save the shimmering wards at her ankles and wrists.
Her head hung low; her slick black hair was in disarray.
Her face was bloody. One of her ankles looked broken.
Xanthe, in a droopy nightgown, was already there. Uplit by the wards, her wrinkles looked especially deep. She waved Aurienne, Abercorn, and Prendergast in.
“What’s happened?” asked Abercorn.
“Who is this?” asked Prendergast.
Verity, the leader of the Wardens who rotated through Swanstone, reached into the wards. She pulled the prisoner’s limp hand out and unfurled her left palm.
Upon it grinned a hellhound’s skull.
Gasps filled the room.
“A Fyren, at Swanstone?” asked Prendergast.
“This isn’t just any Fyren,” said Verity. “This is the Fyren Order’s warchief. Tristane épervier.”
There was a surge in the wards holding Tristane. The eyes of the Wardens glittered hard and angry.
“How was she caught?” asked Prendergast.
“Seith-sensitive warding at the waystone,” answered the Warden named Tenet. “A novel application requested by your Order. Anyone whose signature didn’t match Swanstone’s list was captured as soon as they came out of the ley line. It worked.”
Aurienne and Xanthe exchanged glances. It had been Aurienne’s idea to expand the wards beyond Swanstone’s boundaries, conveyed to Xanthe and thence to the Wardens. She hadn’t expected it to be this successful.
“Tristane’s kit isn’t indicative of a friendly visit,” said Verity. She held up a pouch clinking with glassware. “Poisons in this one.” Another sack was held up. “Grenades.” A glittering handful of metal followed. “Weapons of various descriptions. And, finally, this.”
Verity held up a long, wicked dagger. Aurienne recognised it as a Fyren blaecblade.
None present would know the significance of the gold upon its hilt save Aurienne, who held back a shocked intake of breath.
Fyren marked their kill count using fine gold threads wrapped around the hilt.
Mordaunt’s blaecblade was impressively glittery.
Tristane’s hilt was a sickening hunk of solid gold.
Verity turned to Xanthe. “You had warned our Order of a threat disclosed by an anonymous source—was this the threat?”
“I had been told that there was a threat, not specifically which threat,” said Xanthe. “But I reckon this would be it.”
Aurienne said nothing, given that she was the anonymous source.
“A shameless contravention of the Peace Accords,” said Abercorn. “To attempt ingress at Swanstone, armed to the teeth like this—and it’s the Fyren warchief—”
“Shocking,” said Prendergast. “Absolutely shocking.”
“We’ll convene a meeting at the Stánrocc to decide what’s to be done with her,” said Xanthe. She turned to the Wardens whose wards held Tristane in place. “I commend you on your self-restraint. She doesn’t look too injured.”
“Tenet recognised her, which is the only reason we didn’t kill her,” said Verity. “We didn’t want to trigger an outright war by shredding the Fyren Order’s leader to bits.”
“She would’ve deserved it,” said Tenet. A twitch of her fingers yanked one of the binds inward; Tristane’s arm bent into an unnatural angle. “She almost killed Ataraxia. She’s in your trauma ward now.”
“As soon as Tristane regains consciousness, she’s going to be a threat,” said Verity. “These wards are seith-intensive; we can’t hold her indefinitely without breaks to rest.”
“Right,” said Xanthe. “But with her seith blocked, you’ll be able to treat her as a regular prisoner—and we are in the fortunate position of counting Aurienne Fairhrim among us. Aurienne, you have the floor.”
The Wardens observed Aurienne. They had, to date, known her as a Haelan among many Haelan, sweeping from one crisis to the next in high-necked Haelan whites. Now they regarded her with a new interest.
“Blocking seith?” repeated Haven. “How?”