Astra
Hale came back alone near dawn. Caspian and I were still sitting outside the infirmary doors. The corridor lamps had dimmed and, sometime later, begun their slow return — the only way the Tower let anyone count a night.
I stood too quickly. “Where is he?”
“Inside.” Hale’s shirt was creased, and dried green marked the cuff where Kieran had gripped him. “They have him breathing. The fever is lower. The medicine slowed the spread across his chest.”
“Slowed it,” Caspian said.
“It hasn’t stopped.”
“Can we see him?”
Hale shook his head. “They sedated him for the reading. The woman from the bridge said she would send for us when he wakes.”
“Did they measure the decline?” I asked.
“They started.”
His voice roughened on the last words. He looked toward the metal doors, then turned away from them.
We returned to Kieran’s room because there was nowhere else they would let us wait closer to him.
The fallen cup had been removed. Someone had wiped the water from the floor and changed the bedding. The room looked as it had before Kieran collapsed, except that Kieran was gone.
Marrow arrived at the next bell with a healer carrying blank paper, ink, and a sheet bearing the panel’s seal.
“The panel has accepted Marsh’s offer of a copy,” he said. “The original will remain in your custody until he can speak for himself.”
I took the order before the healer could set it down.
“Why did they change their minds?”
“The infirmary requested his history. Review still requires an independent comparison.”
Hale held out his hand for the page. I gave it to him.
“Will the infirmary receive the copy?” he asked.
“The readers will receive anything relevant to his care.”
Hale read it twice. He passed the order to Caspian.
Caspian read it carefully. “The original stays with Kieran.”
“As he requested,” Marrow said. “The copy must be complete, made under witness, and delivered by first bell tomorrow.”
He left the healer in the doorway.
Hale waited until the door closed before kneeling beside Kieran’s satchel. He lifted out a spare shirt, a wrapped heel of bread gone hard at the edges, and an oilskin packet from the bottom.
“You knew where it was,” I said.
“I’ve watched him add to it for years.”
Inside the oilskin lay a narrow leather ledger, its cover softened by handling. The first pages held dates and careful observations in Kieran’s smallest handwriting. Farther in, the lines slanted harder across the paper. Corrections crowded the margins.
The healer set the paper and ink on the table and remained in the doorway while we worked.
Caspian copied. I turned the pages. Hale checked each line against the original before the ink dried.
The ledger held the history Kieran had given us in fragments. Pain beginning at the shoulder. Numbness reaching the fingers. Days when an apple became too heavy for his right hand. Nights when the Mark burned hot enough to wake him.
Between the measurements were notes no healer had asked for.
Hale noticed the tremor. Told him I slept badly. He pretended to believe me.
A few pages later:
Green-gold line appeared after Astra’s practicum. Shoulder pain increased before midnight. Did not tell her.
My hand stopped on the edge of the page.
The healer shifted at the door. “Keep moving.”
Caspian looked up sharply.
“It’s all right,” I said.
I turned the page.
We worked through the night. Caspian numbered and signed every copied sheet. Hale signed beneath him as witness. Before the first bell, I wrapped the original ledger in its oilskin and returned it to the bottom of Kieran’s satchel.
Marrow inspected the copy when he returned.
“Where will you take it?” I asked.
“To review.”
He handed the pages to the healer.
The healer did not take them toward the infirmary. At the end of our corridor, she turned away from the metal doors and descended a narrow stair.
I watched until the papers disappeared from view.
They kept Kieran from us for three more days.
When they finally allowed a visit, all three of us were taken to a glass partition outside the infirmary room. Kieran lay beneath a gray blanket with thin silver leads running from his shoulder to instruments beside the bed. His face was pale, but his eyes were open.
I put my palm against the glass.
He lifted two fingers from the blanket in a weak greeting.
Hale leaned closer to the partition, studying Kieran’s breathing. Caspian stood beside me with one hand at my back.
I took the oilskin ledger from beneath my coat and held it where Kieran could see.
His gaze settled on it. His eyes closed for a moment, and some of the strain left his mouth.
A reader stepped between us and the glass. “The visit is over.”
I put the ledger away.
On the walk back, we passed the stair the healer had taken with Kieran’s copied pages. A metal plate beside it bore a single stamped word.
RECORDS.