Terry Simpson - Etchings of Power

“We’ve resorted to only mending those who bare the shade’s taint in their wounds. Even then, the mending has stretched Shin Galiana and the other Ashishin to the maximum. We’ve sent to Calisto for more menders, but they’re still several days or more away. In the meantime, those with normal wounds are being treated by the apothecaries and their apprentices.” Guthrie nodded to the guards, bypassed everyone on the line, and strode to the stairs.

“Guthrie is my fath-”

“Alys,” Guthrie said, signaling to the flame-haired young woman. “Take Ancel down to see Shin Galiana.” He turned to Ancel. “Everything will be fine, my boy.” Guthrie wiped sweat from his forehead and left.

Wordlessly, Ancel stared at Alys. They had not spoken since the night at the inn. Dark rings spread under her eyes, ash smeared her cheeks and hands, and soot coated her sunset hair in gray streaks. Her mouth was downturned, and after a moment, she averted her eyes.

“This way,” Alys said, hurrying inside.

Ancel wanted to ask after his father, and find out how Alys was doing, but he had no idea where to start. Instead, he kept his mouth shut and occupied his mind with his surroundings as he staved off the need to rush inside to find his father.

Shin Galiana kept a tidy home. Each item had its place. Every piece stood in coordination with one another in blue and brown tones. Neatly aligned bookshelves bordered the living room, and rugs highlighted its wood floors. Center tables sat at the middle of the rugs, and evenly spaced chairs surrounded the main dinner table. They passed through the main room into a small hallway with a door on each side. The one open door revealed a comfortable kitchen and a hearth. They continued straight ahead to the end of the hall and a staircase leading down to the cellar.

To Ancel’s surprise, the cellar contained the hospice. The last time he was there, Shin Galiana tended the sick in a backroom upstairs. The area below spanned about twice the house’s size, he realized, as they traveled along a wall to an open door with a wide hall. Against a wall, appearing haggard and frail, leaned his old Teacher.

“Wait here.” Alys continued down the hall to Galiana.

Downstairs, white dominated the decor. It appeared as if nothing became soiled or remained dirty for long. Even Shin Galiana’s white dress didn’t have a speck of dirt, medicine, or stains. Ancel made sure to keep his hands to himself and resisted the urge to touch anything.

A brief conversation ensued between Galiana and Alys. The Ashishin’s tired golden eyes in a face fraught with more wrinkles than he remembered, regarded Ancel for a moment. She nodded. Alys gestured for Ancel to follow.

They entered a wide room that had a small fireplace at the far end. Next to a table, upon which sat a tray and cups, was a large, comfortable-looking, cushioned armchair. Three smaller chairs were spaced around the table, and a teakettle sat above the fireplace.

“I’ll make some tea.” Alys moved toward the fireplace and the table, leaving him to follow Teacher-no, Shin Galiana.

Without a word to Ancel, Galiana crossed the room and entered a door to their right. Ancel followed. The urge to rush past his Teacher and find his father gnawed at him, but he resisted it. She would probably just snatch him by his ears. If his father was wounded and his situation dire, she wouldn’t be taking her time.

Through the door, several cots set up in the same orderly fashion as the rest of the house occupied the room. Eldanhill women and Teachers inspected one cot after another and tended the wounded. The sickly stench Ancel expected from those on the cots didn’t reach him. Instead, a sweet smell like flowers on a spring day filtered through the air. Around the room, at specific intervals, candles and herbs burned, thin smoke trails carrying the flowery scent. Ancel recognized some of the women fussing over the wounded-Emlyn, the miller’s wife, Mosel’s wife Brandi, Clarissa, and Robyn, cousins to the Bemelles. Sad, lost eyes looked back at him for a moment before the women returned to their work.

Ancel could just make out the butcher, Cell, on a cot with his wife Renee above him. Heide, the old peddler’s wife strode from one cot or another as well as Idna, Tarka Sonet’s wife. She stopped at one cot and brushed her hands over the soiled bandages hiding the person underneath, then promptly burst into tears.

A lump formed in Ancel’s throat with the sight of the men. Except for Cell, the other forms on the cots were unrecognizable, layered bandages hiding even their faces. The visible parts revealed swollen, purple and black bruises. Blood and fluids seeped into the bandages. Bile rose in Ancel’s throat, and he cupped his hand over his mouth.

Guthrie’s words about those wounded by the shadelings echoed in Ancel’s head. He sought the Eye and opened his Matersense. Around him, every wounded person showed the taint of shade crawling within his or her wounds. It tried to spill out, but the light from wards within the room forced it back.

To the rear of the room, a familiar form drew him. Dressed in the tattered remnants of a crimson uniform and swathed in bandages around the chest, neck, and arm, the man groaned and muttered. Like the others, shade clung to his wounds. Dark hair with touches of silver hung in unkempt wisps. The usually neat mustache and beard was scraggly and flecked with blood, and the man’s eyes were closed in a face haggard and gray.

His father’s face.

“No! Dear Ilumni, no,” Ancel cried in a hoarse croak, bursting into tears. He rushed past Shin Galiana to his father’s side.

Stefan’s chest rose and fell in ragged, shallow breaths. Beneath his closed lids, his eyes shifted quickly. Squeezing his father’s cold fingers tight, Ancel got down on one knee beside the cot.

Ancel glanced up when soft hands squeezed his shoulder. “Teacher Galiana. Is he dy-” He choked up, unable to bring himself to finish the words.

“I do not know.” Her dark-rimmed eyes regarded Ancel. “I have done what I could. The rest is up to him.”

“But, his breathing and the shade and-” His father’s gray face brought a desperate dread rushing up into him. If she can’t, then I have to help him. I can’t let him die. O Ilumni, help me.

A spinning sensation filled Ancel. His grip tightened on the bed and his father’s hand. Somehow, Ancel found the Eye, and he opened his Matersense. Power tugged at him.

“Our power is yours to use,” clamored a sultry voice in a seductive drawl. “ I can grant you unending strength and the means to mend your father.”

“And in return you’ll be forever sealed to us,” another voice, this one lighter, said with a hint of a chuckle. “Is that what you want?”

“Your father is dying. Save him.”

“And doom yourself.”

“Look at his face. Yes, our power, you need it.”

“Our power is not always what you wish, but it is there for you, if you know the risks. Kachien has told you of the risks. Choose.”

Ancel chose.

Light streamed into his body. He opened himself to bathe within its incandescence. The one Forging he'd read about in the Tome of Undeath brushed his thoughts. Snarling, he thrust the light toward the shade dominating his father’s wounds.

A blow to his back knocked Ancel to one side, slamming him into the wall. His Forging shattered, and his hand fell away from his father. Air essences held him against the wall behind the cot.

Dazed, he stared at the Forge holding him. He reached for light again. Another blow rocked him. Stars danced before his eyes. Blood filled his mouth. He lost both his grip on his Matersense and the Eye.