Back To The Old Kingdom
Chapter 1
"How are you feeling, Nicholas?" the nurse asked me, sounding concerned. Again.
"Fine," I told her, half smiling. Angry, I wanted to say. Betrayed, really. And you?
"Alright," she said doubtfully, a little pucker between her eyebrows as she stared at me.
I didn't blame her for staring. I'd stare, too. I was still in pretty bad shape. It had been less than a month since Lirael's dog had called me back from the rivers of death. And it showed.
I was pale and much too thin, almost skeletal. There were still deep circles under my eyes. I still looked much the same as I had that day…
I watched the nurse's eyes as they followed the long, deep black bruises that ran down the length of my arm visible over the rolled up sleeve of my pajamas to the half-healed hole in the tip of my index finger: the path the Destroyer had taken when it left my heart to rejoin the hemispheres. The bruises should have faded at least a little by now, but they hadn't.
This particular nurse was always astonished when she saw me. While the other nurses always looked on me with condescending pity, this nurse, June, I think her name was, always looked shocked and almost fearful whenever she was near me. June's eyes flickered to my face. I knew what she was looking at: the Charter Mark on my forehead between my glasses and limp hair. It was a vivid silver and glittering in the harsh fluorescent bulbs overhead. Sam had told me that this was an indication of a brand-new Charter Mark. He had said it was strange, though, that mine was still silver, as it was only supposed to fade to gray only minutes after a baptism. Whatever color it was, I was fairly certain that its power would be dormant, as I was now hundreds of miles from the Wall.
I let her stare. Why wouldn't she? I was pretty much a freak of nature, and she knew it. As much as my family had tried to keep it confidential, it was now commonly held knowledge throughout Corvere that Nicholas Sayre, the nephew of the Chief Minister of Ancelsteirre of all people, had gone on a scientific expedition to the Old Kingdom and had returned months later half-dead and insane. Worse were the circulating tales of the horrible monster that had killed most of the crew at Forwin Mill. Few of them had survived the Destroyer, but those who had made it back alive, as well as the few Southerlings who had not left Ancelstierre, all had different stories about it that became more and more outrageous as they became the local, and even national, gossip. Of course, none of them knew the whole story.
Even June couldn't possibly know, for all that she looked so astonished. Maybe she could sense the Free Magic running rampant inside my body, taste its metallic acidity in the air.
But she couldn't know that I had nearly helped that monster wipe out the entire human race…and died, knowing that everyone was doomed because of me…
June soon realized that I knew she was staring and quickly dropped her eyes, blushing. She cleared her throat, as if to change the subject, and then said, with rather forced cheer, "Well, I see you're up and about! That's good." I shrugged. If by "up and about" she meant that I was slumped over in a chair instead of in my bed…
She went about her usual routine, checking my temperature, pulse, and blood pressure, all the while not meeting my eyes. When she had deemed that all was well, or at least, that nothing had changed, she got up to leave, casting me one final glance. I watched as the usual emotions flashed across her face: shock, fear, a bit of sympathy. Then she did something very strange: her hand suddenly flew to her forehead and her eyes screwed shut. I was about to ask her if she was alright when she removed her hand, shuddered slightly, turned on her heel and left my room, slamming the door behind her.
I got up, sat at the foot of my bed, and put my head in my hands, suddenly feeling nauseated. This tended to happen a lot, and it was one of the reasons I was basically bedridden.
I vaguely wondered about June's reaction, but I didn't pursue the thought very far. I knew exactly to what destructive ends my own curiosity could lead me…and had once lead me.
I decided to resume my usual pastime: lying in bed and staring at the ceiling. Thinking…I had far too much time to think. There wasn't much else for a bedridden patient at Saint Bartleby's Institution for the Mentally Impaired to do all day.
In my mind, I had relived it all several times already. Everything that had happened had been a hazy blur to me at the time, but almost immediately after the Destroyer had left me I had begun to remember things more clearing. Certain events were clearer than others…the day on the hillside with the cricket team, me trying to keep Sam safe while a line of lifeless bodies marched steadily toward us all…The day I met the charming but eccentrically dressed Hedge, and naively trusted his every word…Feeling horribly triumphant as I watched the hordes of blue-clad corpses raise the second of the two hemispheres…Lying in a boat, staring up at Lirael and fighting not to give into the Destroyer…Lightning, striking, burning and murdering…Sam, his palms on my chest, desperately trying to force healing Marks into my broken body…Standing alone in the cold river…
I almost smiled. Recurring horrific images…maybe I was worthy of the sign that hung on the foot of my bed after all:
Nicholas Sayre, age 19.
Post-Traumatic Stress, Various Other Illnesses.
Post-traumatic stress. So that's what they called it. Uncle's and Father's excuse for one of the most despicable cover-ups in Ancelsteirreian history.
About "various illnesses", however, they were correct, or, almost correct. It was one illness, really. Free Magic. The residual effects of the Destroyer upon a human body. The doctors didn't know that, of course. They could tell I was ill by just looking at me, in addition to the facts that I had virtually no energy and I could hardly walk. But they couldn't figure it out: besides some bad bruising and a slightly weakened heart, they couldn't pinpoint any specific problems, and I didn't think that they were allowed to use the terms "emaciated" or "dead-looking" as official terms of diagnosis on my medical reports. A lot of their equipment actually started malfunctioning during my examinations. Apparently I owed the Corvere General Hospital a new x-ray machine. Another reason I supposed that they had trouble with my diagnosis was my failure to sufficiently answer the two most vital questions in the field of medicine: "What happened?" and "What hurts?" Everything hurts, thank you, and if I told you what happened, you wouldn't believe me. SoI had pretended to be too incapacitated to properly answer them.
Then had come the IVs, morphine, and various other tubes, wires, and difficult-to-pronounce medications. That was loads of fun, especially because the doctors had no idea what they were trying to treat me for. That all lasted for a week or so before they realized that I wasn't enjoying all the pointless drugs in my system.
And now I was confined to this clean little room with whitewashed walls, with nothing to look forward to but chicken soup and getting my blood pressure taken.
And then there were the psychiatrists. Or rather, the psychiatrist, my psychiatrist. It was no surprise to me that a certain "Dr. Henry Baldwin, PhD" was the only one who ever visited me, and that all he ever did during these interviews was try to find sneaky ways to press me for information on the Old Kingdom. I had no doubt that Baldwin was a part of Ancelsteirre's intelligence departments, probably D-13. This infuriated me: it was rather rash of Uncle to ship me off to an asylum while I was sleeping and then expect me to feed him information about my friends, and about a series of events that he knew had nearly killed me. During these sessions, I usually refused to speak at all.
By now, I was exceptionally nauseous. I followed the cracks in the ceiling with my eyes and took several deep breaths, willing myself not to vomit. Eventually, I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep.
I woke to the sound of faint voices outside my room. It sounded like a half-whispered argument.
"…still too unstable," Baldwin was saying.
"It shouldn't matter. It's his family," June whispered back.
"I really don't think we should interfere with…" Baldwin began.
"I'd like to see my cousin now, please," a third voice interrupted, clearly annoyed.
"Surely his own family has the right to visit him," another nurse interjected.
"I concur," said the new voice with finality. Baldwin muttered something indistinguishable, and a few seconds later my door opened.
In came the second nurse, followed by an annoyed Baldwin and a short man wearing a baggy trench coat and a hat that obscured his face. June lingered in the doorway, watching the scene with calculating eyes.
"Nicholas?" the nurse asked me tentatively. "You have a visitor," she said, gesturing toward the man, who inclined his head.
"He claims he's your cousin," Baldwin said acidly, shooting him a nasty look.
"That's right," said the man curtly. "Now, if we might have a few minutes alone?" he asked June, who was the head of the ward.
June struggled with this for a moment. Typically, unsupervised visitations were not permitted. But apparently a desire to spite Baldwin got the better of her, and she nodded once, gesturing for everyone to leave the room and shutting the door behind her.
I looked at the man from where I sat, propped up by the raised front end of my bed, "Hello," I said slowly. "I'm sorry, but would you mind telling me who-"
The man chuckled, and then removed his hat. My jaw dropped. "Anna?" I gasped.
Anna Sayre's long, strawberry blonde hair was twisted into a tangled knot at the back of her head. Her ivory, pointed face broke into a smile when she saw my expression.
"Devious, aren't I?" she asked, her eyes dancing behind her glasses.
I couldn't think of a way to say it politely: "Why are you here?"
"I came to find out why you're here," Anna said, her smile fading and her eyes widening as she got a better look at me. "You look like someone broke you and didn't put you back together right."
I shrugged. "You could say that."
She glared at me. "What happened to you, Nick?"