BMT belongs to Trudi Canavan
Chapter 20 – Firehead part 2
Akkarin arrived back at his residence in the early evening. The rain had continued relentlessly all day, and despite his protective shield, the inclement weather seemed to have seeped into Akkarin's bones.
Without looking over at the fireplace, the High Lord called flames to life in the kindling that Takan always had ready; heating a whole room used a lot of power, even for a magician such as Akkarin. Smiling faintly as he thought of the pleasant meal he had had with his sister and the other of Merin's guests, Akkarin strode over to the wine cabinet.
He carefully placed down a small, rectangular parcel on a small console table to the side of the cabinet, and his dark eyes lingered on it as a small frown replaced the smile. He knew that nothing would make amends with his novice for his refusal to visit her relatives earlier, but it was the girl's birth-anniversary and he wanted to buy her a gift – it was the least he could do.
As he considered locating where his novice was, and requesting her return, Akkarin opened the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of a strong, warming spirit that he did not often indulge in, but he could not shake the chill that had taken hold of him. He sighed in irritation as he noticed that there were no suitable glasses for the liquor.
_Takan- he began, before remembering that it was a freeday, and also his servant's day off. Placing the bottle down, he walked over to the door at the back of the room that led to the kitchens and servants quarters beyond.
The late afternoon sunlight that filtered through the gloom of the day at last was thin and watery, and, as it faded, long shadows were cast across the room. Akkarin absently conjured a globelight and it hovered above him, chasing the shadows as he walked. Then, he stopped.
A dark, red line traced its way between the stone-flagged floor, making its angular way until it petered out just in front of Akkarin's booted foot. He knew with clear instinct what it was, and the faint drone of a magical shield pervaded the air instantly. With hammering heart, the High Lord's sharp gaze followed the bloody trail back to its source, near to the low couch and table that were placed in front of the fireplace, and his heart lurched painfully within him as he located its origin.
Immediately, he recognised her; the brown silk of her robes, the mahogany of her hair and the improbable smallness of her. In a moment he was kneeling beside her, pushing the table aside so that he could more easily turn her onto her back.
With rising dread, Akkarin took in the gash on her forehead and the sickly hue of her skin, and one word clamoured to be heard above the dull throb of his pulse – Ichani. For, in that moment, that was the High Lord's only assumption; that an Ichani slave had somehow managed to breach his increased defences, and had once more entered his abode and had attacked his novice. He knew that his priority should be to seek out the slave and tend to Sonea later, but instinct took over and that could only mean one thing.
With perfunctory fingers, he gently felt for a pulse whilst simultaneously entering her mind and confirming that she lived.
She was alive, and, what was more, her power seemed untouched within her. Akkarin looked more closely at the cut on her head, and noticed now the ugly bruise underneath the blood – not the clean slice of a knife, but rather an impact wound. Maybe this was not the Ichani attack he first feared.
He carefully placed his still cold hand on her brow, and gasped at the heat of her skin that met his own. He steadied himself and a frown of concentration creased his brow as, slowly, the edges of the cut came together and knitted before his eyes, until only a fine, faint pink line remained under the smeared blood.
Letting his hand remain lightly on her head, Akkarin sent tendrils of his power to weave through her nerves and sinew, and he felt the rush of her blood as her heart pushed it around her body – too fast, too eager; the instinctive act of a body protecting itself – hurrying to build its defences against attack.
And the heat! Despite her grey pallor, there was a fire raging within Sonea. Her face was drenched in sweat and her skin was searing hot. Akkarin's Healing knowledge did not go beyond what was taught in the novitiate, and, whatever ailed his novice, it was beyond him.
He straightened, rocking back on his heels and forcing calm upon his mind.
_Vinara!
_High Lord?
_Sonea is sick. She is feverish and unconscious; please come quickly to my residence.
_Of course Akkarin, the Head of Healers responded, the unusual anxiety she detected in the High Lord's tone causing her to forget to address the Guild leader with the required deference.
As Akkarin communicated silently with Vinara, Sonea's head rolled slightly, and her lips murmured incoherently, whimpering. It was a sound so inhuman, so... animal, that fear prickled at every nerve in his body.
"Shhh, Sonea. Peace. Vinara is coming; she will help - I promise," Akkarin soothed in a voice unrecognisably soft.
Carefully, he gathered her to him and slowly stood. She felt disconcertingly unfamiliar and unnervingly light in his arms, and her limbs hung limp, like a dolls. The High Lord then carried his novice up the stairs, to her room, and laid her gently on the bed.
_Takan!
_Yes master?
_ Come quickly to the residence. Bring as much cold water to Sonea's room as you can carry – and cloths.
Takan had known his master long enough, and understood his mental tone well enough, to know when to act first and ask questions later.
Akkarin then worked swiftly, removing Sonea's outer robes until she lay, clammy and burning, in her under-clothing. He cooled the air around her with magic, before leaving briefly to fetch water. Takan arrived shortly after, and seeing what needed to be done, he soaked the cloths he had brought in the bowls of water which Akkarin had turned icy cold. Wordlessly, master and servant worked together until Sonea's torso was covered in the freezing, water-drenched strips of linen.
When it was done, the Sachakan stood back and studied Akkarin's face, seeing beyond the frown and hard line of his mouth.
"Is there nothing you can do? With magic, I mean," Takan asked anxiously.
"Her body is fighting an infection; a disease." And Akkarin met his servants's eyes, and his eyes bore a hopelessness that sent a shiver of panic scraping down Takan's spine.
The High Lord turned to look at Sonea, and he sighed wearily.
"It's complicated. When the attacker and host, if you like, are so closely woven together – locked in battle – it can sometimes be hard to safely separate the two and kill the disease without damaging healthy tissue. Destroying some virulent illnesses can sometimes be difficult, occasionally impossible. Whatever ails Sonea, it has taken a strong hold," and Akkarin's jaw clenched as he spoke. "I haven't the skill to help her. Vinara is on her way."
Suddenly, tremors began to shake Sonea's slight frame, and Takan hovered helplessly, his golden eyes wide.
_Vinara! Where are you, damn it?! Akkarin demanded.
_I'm just approaching.
The High Lord grabbed at Sonea's desk chair, and he pulled it over to the bed, sinking heavily down onto it. He leaned forwards and took his novice's hand, clutching at her small fingers, and she instinctively gripped his with surprising strength, as if her life depended on it. It hurt, but it was a pain he could easily bear.
"Firehead. I'm almost sure of it," Vinara said. She inhaled deeply and raised her eyebrows. "Though it's been many years since I've seen it." The Healer glanced around the magicians present in the High Lord's guest room, before her sharp gaze rested on the High Lord himself.
"You did well, High Lord. Keeping Sonea as cool as possible was exactly the right thing to do. I'm impressed."
Akkarin responded only with a faint, bleak smile, but he remained silent. Director Jerrick had replaced his customary scowl with a look of thoughtful anxiety, as his mind began to process the possible implications for the University.
"I will check Sonea's class schedule and alert her tutors to be vigilant for any possible symptoms in their novices. Maybe they should be isolated for a few days as a precaution – to minimise the spread," he mused quietly to himself.
"Really, Jerrick, there is no need for that; I do not foresee an epidemic, " Vinara responded to Jerrick's concern.
Lorlen, who had been frowning and pulling at his lip, turned to the Head of Healers.
"Then why is Sonea sick with this illness that has all but died out?" And he could not help the flicker of his eyes in Akkarin's direction.
Vinara sighed and glanced at Lorlen sternly, her lips pursed.
"You have been too long out of the green robes Administrator," she said brusquely, but she could see that an explanation was needed.
"Firehead was only ever prevalent amongst the wealthier classes of Imardians, and, occasionally, their servants. Rarely did a case emerge outside of the Inner Circle." Vinara paused and shrugged her shoulders matter of factly before continuing.
"Over the years a resistance to the disease grew until live cases became virtually unheard of, though I'm sure many still carried the dormant disease."
"And Sonea , who has lived all of her life in the Slums, mixes suddenly with the children of the Houses, the dormant disease is passed to her, she has no resistance, and we now have a case of firehead in the Guild! "Jerrick completed the picture, raising his hands in exasperation.
"Wonderful! That is just what I need!" And the Director's scowl returned.
"You are not the one who is sick, Jerrick," Vinara said reprovingly, pinning him with a stern, admonishing stare, "and, as I have just said, I do not see a problem. At the most, I would say that Sonea should not see her friends or relatives from the city whilst she is ill, so there is no need for dramatics, Director."
Jerrick raised his eyebrows and pulled his mouth to one side in a thoroughly unconvinced expression.
"What can be done for her, " Lorlen asked as he frowned, trying to recall his Healing knowledge, so long unneeded. "I seem to remember that it is extremely aggressive and not easily contained"
Yes," Vinara responded with a sigh. "It was always an illness that defied our treatments; it was a relief when it seemed to fall victim to its own proliferation. I have examined Sonea, and the firehead is too far advanced to be contained. She must be kept cool, and we must minimise the severe pain of the headache – this should alleviate the main symptoms which give the disease its name," she paused, looking sad and helpless. "The rest is up to Sonea I'm afraid. If her fever breaks in the next twelve hours, her chances of recovery will be greater."
Akkarin, who had been standing still and silent amongst them, absently staring at the geometrical line of blood that still traced across the floor, finally looked up and spoke to Vinara. His face was impassive; he had learnt, over many years, to crush down all open traces of feeling, all reactions. Or he thought he had; where Sonea was concerned, nothing was certain. As he looked at the Healer, his eyelids flickered slowly, and she thought that she detected some emotion – concern perhaps?
"What are her chances of recovery?" he asked, his voice deep, but steady.
Lorlen turned to him and openly gaped in disbelief, unable to stop himself. Oh, how convenient if the problem of Sonea ceased to exist!
"I wouldn't like to guess-" Vinara began, wringing her hands together.
"Then don't guess!" Akkarin snapped, before sighing remorsefully, and momentarily closing his eyes. "I'm sorry, Vinara – forgive me, but she is my novice, and my responsibility. Her welfare is my concern."
Lorlen's eyes widened at that, and he forced down a choking disbelief at the hypocrisy of the High Lord's words.
"Of course, you are worried, Akkarin, " Vinara said with soft sympathy. "I understand."
The choke escaped and Lorlen coughed to disguise it, bringing his fist to his mouth.
"Excuse me," he mumbled, and Akkarin's black eyes snapped to his, but the Administrator looked away.
Oblivious to any underlying tensions, Vinara answered Akkarin's query with the officiousness of a Healer.
"In all the cases of firehead that I have encountered, I would say that approaching half of patients died." She paused as the others took this in. "It is a very nasty illness."
"But...but, Sonea is so..." - Jerrick struggled for a polite word, eventually opting for the most honest – "..small. She was raised in the Slums, and we all know what that means for your health, "he concluded grimly.
"And yet," said Vinara, tartly, "firehead is a disease of the rich, and the poor were largely unaffected. Maybe our indulgences are equally detrimental to our health, as the malnutrition faced by the dwells is to theirs."
Akkarin, who had moved to stare out at the inky blackness beyond his window turned back towards the others.
"You equate smallness with weakness, Director; a mistake that Garrel's nephew also made, to his cost," the High Lord said quietly, and a faint , sour smile played across his face.
"She is stronger than most give her credit for, " he continued. "She has to be, living here." And he did not just mean the Guild that Vinara and Jerrick assumed he did.
"Nevertheless, " Vinara said, clasping her hands decisively, "I would prefer that she was removed to the Healing Quarter."
"No," Akkarin's tone was equally emphatic – unequivocal.
The Healer's eyebrows shot up in surprise.
"No? By the Eye, Akkarin, why ever not?"
The High Lord turned to address her, fixing her stern features with his intense gaze.
"You said yourself, there is nothing to be done except wait. I think even myself and my servants can manage to keep her cool and ease her pain," he said with faint acerbity, and then a humourless smile tugged at his lips. "First year Healing, as I recall."
"But – " Vinara began to protest, whilst Lorlen and Jerrick looked on, not wishing to intervene between these two.
"I will not unnecessarily expose other areas of the Guild to this disease, " Akkarin interjected. "Her needs can be met here – there is no need to move her," the High Lord concluded before tilting his head, considering.
"Though, you may send a Healer to check on her periodically."
Vinara acquiesced with a stiff nod of her head, though there was a disapproving inflection to her voice when she spoke.
"As you wish, High Lord."
There was a click as the door to the rear of the guest room opened, and an out-of-breath and anxious-looking Viola entered. On seeing the gathered magicians, she swallowed and bobbed her head.
"My Lords, my Lady," she mumbled, before addressing the High Lord directly.
"I came as soon as I got the message, my Lord. May I go up?"
Akkarin smiled kindly at Sonea's servant, noting the concern in the usually aloof and perfunctory woman.
"Of course, Viola, though," Akkarin paused, "you are under no obligation, like Takan. You have been told of the risks."
"I have, my Lord, but my mother and father both served for House Telan; I was born in the Inner Circle when firehead was still around. I'm sure I'm not in danger. Anyway, I'll take my chances – I'm her servant and that's that," Viola concluded with surprising conviction.
The High Lord gestured for her to go on up to Sonea's room, and she scurried to do so.
"Now, I'm sure that you all have better things to be doing on a freeday evening," Akkarin said as he moved towards the door, indicating that the meeting was over. He paused suddenly and turned to fix them with a hard stare.
"I trust that you will be discreet; we do not want to spread unnecessary panic, and, " he glanced at Lorlen, "I will inform Lord Rothen myself, I know he is still fond of Sonea."
As Vinara and Jerrick left the residence, Lorlen hung back. When the Administrator was satisfied that the other two were out of earshot, he turned to Akkarin who stood at the open door, watching his one time friend closely.
"If you have anything to do with this," Lorlen quietly seethed. "If anything happens to her, I will tell the Higher Magicians about...about your forbidden practises, and damn the consequences. As if her life is not miserable enough!"
"You understand nothing about her life!" the High Lord snarled as the final tether of his patience snapped. There was a harsh light in his eyes as he held Lorlen's, and he heard the brutality in his own voice as if from without, looming menacingly over a man that was once his closest friend. But today, Lorlen was not so easily daunted.
"I understand, " the blue-robed man muttered bitterly. "I understand all too well that she is your prisoner; I understand what you are," and his revulsion was clear.
Akkarin stepped suddenly closer, so that the pair were almost toe to toe.
"Very well, I'll complete the picture for you, shall I?" As you so obviously know me so completely!" And his voice was clipped with venom.
"I have no conscience, I have no ethic; I am exactly what you take me for, Lorlen. I bring torment to others – to her – for the pleasure it brings me, it is my sole purpose for living!" Akkarin took a grip on himself and added with tightly controlled ferocity:
"Does that satisfy you, old friend?"
Lorlen met the black eyes of the High Lord steadily, his breathing rapid as he too sought to control his emotions. His jaw clenched convulsively.
"I should go," the Administrator stated coldly. "Look after her," he added, and then he turned abruptly and strode away.
Akkarin stood a moment, his knuckles white as he grasped the door handle, then, he looked up at the ceiling as hurried footsteps could be heard from above, quickly followed by the rapid tapping of boots on the stairs.. Then, the door to to the guest room burst open to reveal Viola, flustered and panic-stricken.
"High Lord," she said breathlessly, "please come; she's scalding hot and shaking all over. We need your magic."
All thoughts of Lorlen forgotten, Akkarin closed the front door and hurried upstairs to tend to Sonea.
And that was all there was for a while.
Hours later, the High Lord stood over the still figure of his novice in the bed. She was peaceful now, breathing with the deep, easy rhythm of normal sleep, though her face remained blanched of all colour, and her eyes looked sunken and bruised. He bent down and looked into her face, and ran a finger lightly over one pale cheek. Then, reluctantly, he straightened and crossed the room to the window, snuffing out his dim globelight as he went, his spirits feeling as dark as the room now looked.
He gripped the sill of the window and forced back the emotions that threatened to take hold and break through the barriers he had raised against their onslaught, as he thought about the events of the last hours.
At Viola's urgent request, Akkarin had sped to Sonea's room to find her writhing and shaking in her bed, twisted in the sodden sheets as Takan tried to soothe her, placing water-drenched cloths on her forehead. With quiet command, he had instructed Takan and Viola to bring water and fill his own private bath in a small chamber adjoining his bedroom. Then, when it was done, he wordlessly carried Sonea and placed her in it, cooling the water with his magic.
She had protested; incoherent pleadings, pitiful to hear, and Akkarin had knelt and had gently, but firmly, held her in the water, his arm across her chest and his thumb stroking across her cheek as he sent a steady flow of Healing.
As Sonea snatched unknowingly at his fingers, and had clasped them tightly once more, the High Lord's face went rigid and his jaw clenched. Finally, she had quietened, and her burning skin cooled. Akkarin had then lifted her out of the water and took her to his bed, leaving Viola to dry her and cloth her in a simple nightgown. They had then laid her back in her own bed, and, though she was still as white as the fresh linen sheets, Akkarin and servants alike knew the crisis had passed. But for Akkarin, it marked only the beginning of a new crisis, one that had been over three years in the making.
Ever since that night in the Slums when he had first looked into Sonea's darkly intelligent eyes; saw the wilful, fighting spirit behind them and detected the great store of power in one seemingly destined to a life of poverty.
He had felt an urgent pity that night, and a keen sense of injustice, and also the faint stirrings of intrigue that only grew with her unexpected appearance, three years later, at the Guild. The intimacy of reading her mind on that dreadful day of discovery only served to magnify his fascination, and her presence in his residence, despite her reticence, had become a welcome interruption to his previous solitude.
Sonea – the Slum girl; the 'natural'. The determined, clever, brave, remarkable, and certainly defiant, Sonea. With her bright eyes and her rare, luminous smile. With her alabaster skin and the dark silk of her hair. With the endearing bird-tilt of her head; the very smallness of her; the honey-sweetness...
Sonea. She had sneaked, like a thief, past all his defences, built over long years from hard bricks of guilt and self-denial, until now – undeniably now – from the hollow of Akkarin's heart, where there had been only enmity and bitterness, came a slow pull of...longing.
He'd thought he had cut out all feeling, had carefully nurtured and cultivated his coldness. It should not have been possible to feel this..., this urgency, this tumult. But faced with losing Sonea, as he had been today, the whispers of his soul, splintered and buried deep as it was, could no longer be ignored, and the words, Takan's at first, but now his own, thundered in his ears and he could deny them no longer.
You care for this girl, don't you?
You care for this girl...
You care...you care.
In her darkened room, in the peace, like the calm after a storm, Akkarin sat. His long fingers traced methodically over the wrappings of the small, neat, rectangular parcel he had brought back from the city earlier. He glanced back at Sonea in the bed, and he was reeling. Here was the impossible, and it was wonderful, and it was terrible, and it flayed open his chest.
Takan entered the room then, quietly, tentatively, bringing food for his master, and bringing something else, less tangible – if it was required. The Sachakan caught Akkarin's smouldering glance as he tore his eyes from his sleeping novice, and it was such a haunted look, so stricken, that Takan felt a stab of fear, recalling his master as he was when he had escaped from Dakova – bereft and broken.
The servant gathered himself and laid down his tray on Sonea's desk. He stood a moment , staring at his master as he, in turn, sat staring out of the window, raking his fingers wearily through his unkempt hair.
"Master?"
Nothing.
"Akkarin," and Takan's voice was a whisper. "It is alright, you know."
Akkarin did not turn to face him, but he did speak, his voice low and charged.
"Which part is alright, Takan? The threat from the Ichani? That only I, and forbidden magic, stand between them and the destruction of everything I hold dear." He paused. "Is it alright that the woman I loved was used and killed for no other reason than to bring me torment?"
The High Lord's voice gathered strength, cold and bitter, as though the very words themselves pained him.
"Or maybe, the part where I forced a mind read on my closest friend, and lie to all around me. Is that alright? Or, is threatening an old man and holding a young woman hostage in fear and misery – is that alright, Takan? Or maybe," and he laughed, a soft, hollow sound,"maybe the part where I kill – again and again and again – is that the part that is al-right? "
And Akkarin turned to face Takan accusingly then, his features a strange mix of aloofness and torment, of defiance and pleading, but the servant held the black eyes unwaveringly.
Quietly. "No master, you misunderstand me; it is alright to love her."
Akkarin felt a jolt go through him at the unexpectedness of it.
"I don't – "he began before the words choked off. No more self deceit - not today; not any more.
"Do you think I don't know you at all?" Takan stepped nearer, his brow creased and his golden eyes soft with sympathy.
"I'm not going to say that there is some easy future for you, or even any future at all. I only want you not to punish yourself. You've always felt the truth in her, then and now. Your heart is not wrong. Your heart is your strength, though you have encased it in stone. You do not have to be ashamed."
Akkarin stared at Takan, blinking away the startled tears that had gathered on his dark lashes. Why was Takan saying this? There was no way , surely he could see that? Why was he talking as though there might be. There wasn't. There was not.
The High Lord's jaw worked and he swallowed hard, looking to the bed once more, before turning back to the blackness of the window.
"It is wrong. The way I ...feel, for many reasons. It will only complicate things, inform my judgements, my actions – it already has. Kyralia's safety is paramount – it must come before all other considerations. My loyalty is to the Guild, " his voice dropped to a whisper, hoarse and low, "and to Her – I promised."
"Master," Takan began, taking another step forwards, but Akkarin interjected before he could say any more.
"Besides," he said ruefully, bleakly, and his mouth twisted in a bitterly ironic half-smile. "She hates me." And his head inclined infinitesimally towards the bed, though he could not look at it directly.
There was a silence. Takan closed the last paces of distance between them, and placed his hand on his master's shoulder, but there were no words of comfort. When Akkarin spoke again, his voice was hard with command.
"She is to be told that you found her unconscious downstairs, and that you and Viola cared for her. I will keep away from her as much as possible now. I cannot allow the way I feel to test my loyalties." He took a deep breath. "I do not want to speak of this again." Akkarin met Takan's eyes and his gaze was implacable and resolute.
The Sachakan sighed, but inclined his head resignedly and withdrew his hand. Akkarin stood suddenly, and without a backwards glance at his servant or his novice, he gracefully strode from the room, and all the while he gripped the small parcel so hard that the paper wrappings tore beneath his fingertips, revealing the gold-embossed, soft leather bindings of a book, but he did not notice.
"As you wish it, master," Takan murmured to the stillness of the room his master had just vacated, and he looked to Sonea and shook his head.
And so, the weeks and months passed, and Akkarin saw little of Sonea. He no longer met her every night in his guestroom and, sure of Regin's new compliance, he no longer secretly watched her from the hidden passages of the university.
But he could not deny himself the weekly dinner, and told himself they were a necessary duty of a guardian – to enquire and take an interest in his novice's studies. So, for one hour every week, Akkarin drank every detail of Sonea in. With downcast eyes, she was oblivious to the covert tenderness of the intense scrutiny, and so he indulged himself, knowing he was safe from suspicion of any of the gentler human emotions.
And the Ichani kept sending their slaves to prey on Imardians with ever more frequency, and Akkarin kept on killing, and so it went on and on and on. A chain of events that coiled tighter and tighter; a spring that one day would have to give, sending out a wave of destruction that would affect the lives of many, not least the man at its centre – Akkarin, the High Lord.