Part 3

The Ruveris Plague

Yet, here there is a mirror

that seems to reflect my heart.

It was once so pure and clear

that in it, I saw only myself.

~ from The Room,

Ruminations on Vampirism (1811),

Wilhelm d. Blanc

“There is a standard procedure for all cases within the agency, and no agent remains on a case for more than a few months at a time. This is intended to buffer us from emotional attachment to the subjects of these cases, and their outcomes.”

~ Bek Trent, M.A.S.O

Autumn was, slowly but certainly, eating away at the stifling summer heat. Where the earth had radiated a cool, dry scent in the early mornings of the past few months, it had begun to carry within it the crisper wetness. The times just before dawn sometimes brought a brittle frost of half frozen dew over leaves and ferns and spindly sprigs of waist-high grass that sprouted up between the tree roots. Even the soaring trees spoke of the change, sighing softly in the more frequent breeze, and the birds did not wake so early as before. When the long nights engulfed the sky in a dark haze in the last golden minutes before sunset, there was often a tinge of pink to be seen, but now it was sometimes also seen at dawn. It was the rosy harbinger of incoming storms that might strike against the northern mountains and never reach the farthest southern borders of the Issurak where Illian and his men traveled. The days were still hot, the earth parched in places, but the nights set in with a frigid breath and each day gave in less willingly to the coming morning.

Silver noticed the changes more on their final night in the wilds because their group had fallen uncharacteristically quiet. No one seemed keen on questioning her about what she had learned from Relsrir, and whenever they did, Illian drew them away with some legitimate-sounding issue or point of conversation. It seemed to her like he was trying to keep her from slipping up and spilling the fact that she was not actually from Atlantis. To everyone else, though, it probably came off as a clear sign to leave her be.

So they did.

When the group finally reached the outpost, there was a nearly tangible sense of relief. Silver wondered if they all, like her, were tired of the salted fish and dry bread that had been their travel rations. She welcomed real food.

“You are truly a simple creature, human,” Seijelar smirked from her side, eyeing the invisible space the outpost occupied as they approached it. Silver thumped the dragon’s back reproachfully, and Seijelar let out a cough that was mostly snort and possibly a great deal of laugh, something that she sensed in that little space at the back of her mind reserved only for the dragon. “I didn’t even feel that.”

All of the hatchlings had grown radically in their short expedition. Soon, very soon, they would be able to fly with their riders.

But not yet.

The dragon proceeded to yawn lazily, apparently showing off its glittering lines of incisors. “I look forward to a long nap.”

“And I to finally sleeping in a place that does not smell of dragon-breath,” the wolf huffed.

Silver felt a smile tugging her lips despite everything. As they passed beneath the veil that protected the outpost, she had the overwhelming sense that they were, finally, home. Before they had taken five steps down the central street, however, someone spotted them and stopped dead in their tracks.

“Illian, Gormin! You’re just in time!”

“What on earth…” Cevora wondered aloud as someone Silver recognized as one of Holtson’s trainees ran up to greet them. His face was a mess, dirt smeared from his chin to the edge of his hairline, and a nasty bruise formed across is collarbone.

“We’re trying to take down Holtson. He’s staged a demonstration,” the man exclaimed.

Terald moaned.

“He does this,” Kit explained when Silver glanced in their direction, “whenever one of the newbies f—”

“Excuse his language,” Sori smiled, smacking Kit in the back. “He’s trying to say that Holtson gets a bit overexcited when someone does something incredibly stupid.”

“Who challenged him, Ven?” Illian asked, rubbing the bridge of his nose wearily.

The trainee, evidently Ven, cast him a sheepish smile.

“I wouldn’t say challenged. Kelias got a bit frustrated and took a stab at him with a short sword…”

“Lead,” Illian barked, even though it was obvious where they were headed by the noise of a crowd somewhere in the vicinity of the training grounds. It did not take them long to find the source of the sound. As they approached, a great roar of approval filled the flats. It was followed quickly by a sound of disgust and loud catcalling.

“There you are, Illian,” Sara said, seeing them and detaching herself from a group of guards at the edge of the crowd. “We expected you days ago. What happened?”

Illian started to explain, but was interrupted by another roar from the crowd. Sara exhaled through her teeth, looking furious.

“Do you know how many scrapes I’ve treated in the last hour, Illian? Thank the keliarn’s stars Holtson knows how not to break a bone. That would take me at least a month to mend. Would you go in there and talk some sense into that half-wit trainer of yours?”

“He’s brilliant at what he does, Sara,” Illian reminded her, standing a bit straighter in an attempt to see over the crowd. Sara snorted.

“And I’m brilliant at what I do. Doesn’t make people hate the smell any less. I know you have business to attend to in Altiannia, but do,” she tapped him hard on the chest, “something.” She tapped him again before turning on her heel and shuffling off in the direction of her workshop.

“You know he won’t be deterred by anything you say,” Ren had come up behind Illian and Cevora, glaring in the direction of the crowd.

“Best to humor him,” Illian agreed. He bellowed something, and the people at the edge of the crowd turned sharply, surprised, moving out of his way already. Silver followed him because everyone else did, shuffling along as he continued to shout, slowly making his way towards the center of the grounds. There, someone was slowly brushing themselves off and backing away from Holtson.

“Holtson,” Illian barked as they approached.

“Glad to see ya’ alive!” Holtson grinned, sliding a thick wooden sword into his belt. “There were a few as were startin’ to worry.” The crowd backed off a little, giving the two of them space.

“I’m sure,” Illian replied dryly, “So, what’s this?”

“Just keepin’ the fresh stock fresh,” Holtson growled, “a little breakin’ in. I gave ‘em the right to end this ages ago, but they keep choosin’ new champions. Can’t turn down anyone as wants to know what a good solid beatin’ really feels like. Not with what they’re facin’ soon enough.”

Bek made a noise of disapproval, but said nothing. Silver was sure no one else heard.

“Three more,” Illian commanded, staring around the crowd harshly. “Three more rounds and this ends. Fair?”

Shouts rose up around them, but for the most part, they were shouts of agreement. “Choose your champions wisely.”

It was immediately clear that Illian and Gormin were the crowd favorites, but Gormin refused outright. Illian declared himself the last round. “Two others,” he held up a hand, listening as several hundred people shouted names at him. The guard captain was one. He agreed.

“One,” Illian waited, listening to the chaos. After a moment, he turned to Bek, whose name was being chanted by half the people around them. Bek glared at them all.

“I refuse, Illian,” he said coldly. Illian shouted his answer.

“They want one of the rank five trainees,” Sori said, listening as the chaos reached a new level. Two more people refused. Silver knew how few rank five magic users there were in the outpost, and it was inevitable that finally, her name came out of the hat. Illian turned to her.

“How about a go?” Sori asked mischievously, rubbing her shoulders from behind. “The faster we get this over with, the faster we can eat.” Silver looked the older woman in the eyes, well aware that Sori knew exactly how to get her to agree to anything.

“Fine,” she said turning back to Illian. He did not look happy, but he shouted her answer to the crowd anyway, and then gestured her forward.

“Easy, Silver,” he said in a low voice as she passed him, “I’ll put on a good show for them. We don’t need any more injuries.” Silver nodded at him as she passed. Judging by the number of torn and dirtied clothes, scrapes and bruises and nicks, most of the people in the crowd had already had a go at Holtson – and lost miserably.

“Ya’ve a lot to learn still, Silver. I know yer just doin’ this for the lot o’ them, but give me yer best,” Holtson remarked, drawing his wooden sword again. Someone, Silver did not see who, pressed a similar weapon into her hands, and she stared down the length of battered hardwood with some trepidation.

“Go get him!” Someone shouted.

“I bet on the girl,” came another, choked with laughter.

“Not a chance.”

The catcalling got worse the longer she stood still, and Holtson motioned her further from the edge of the crowds. Silver went reluctantly, feeling a hundred eyes on her back. Already, she was wondering why she had agreed to do this. The best she could hope for was that Holtson would wipe the floor with her quickly.

“Given’ up already, are ya’?” Holtson growled. “Is that how it’ll be on the battlefield? Ya’ see someone stronger and ya’ curl up and die? Huh?” Silver swallowed, not saying anything.

Before she could form a response, he leapt forward, probing with a quick stab. She blocked it reflexively, thanking weeks of his repetitive drills for the fact that she was not already laying the dust. The next strike was slightly heavier, quicker. She blocked it, too, taking a step back and away. Holtson smiled gruffly.

“There ya’ are. I’m getting’ serious now.”

Silver threw her sword up a second too late when he swung this time, and felt his weapon graze just below her elbow. It hurt like someone had jammed a hot coal against her arm, and sent her reeling two steps back. Vaguely, she wondered if the match would end if she hurtled back into the crowd.

And then she realized he had left an opening for her to strike him, but she had let it pass. Holtson always told them not to ever consider defeat, to never lose focus in the midst of battle, and suddenly she understood why. One second too late, of course. That was the difference between life and death. One second. One breath.

She cursed herself as he struck again, smacking the side of her leg painfully. Holtson knew exactly where his blows would hurt the most. She felt everything down to her ankle go numb. Still, she blocked the next strike. And the jab after it.

And then she saw the trees.

Not the trees behind Holtson, at the edge of the outpost. Rather, the trees in her mind, plunged into infinite night, the chill of the Zara making her breath mist in front of her.

She saw Holtson’s next swing out of the corner of her eye, and rolled away. It was a valid escape, and he nodded appreciatively, but not before he came at her again. No blocking now. She dodged instead, feeling the wooden sword in her hand growing warm. There was magic in it, flowing through the blade. When she looked, she saw the flash of metal. Her eyes widened. Now it was wood. Dead, magic-less wood.

Holtson found the point just below her diaphragm with the edge of his sword, and she doubled over, trying to catch her breath.

“Yield,” he demanded, looking down at her.

“Where will you run?” a voice split the roar of the crowd around them.

Her body was shaking. It was so cold. So unbearably cold. In the distance, she could hear bones snapping. Cracking. Over, and over, and over, and over…

Silver froze as she looked up at Holtson, feeling him shift his wooden blade to her throat. His mouth moved. There was a sound of disappointment from the audience that drowned out his words. She felt her insides quail as their eyes met, and for the first time she saw something in his gaze that shook her to the very roots of her soul.

Heat seared through her bones. Red hot, burning like fire, and her weapon threw his aside.

Shock. Not hers, from the audience. She felt it at the same moment she saw the surprise register in Holtson’s expression. Throwing all of her strength into her swing, she repelled his blade as he struck again, and took the moment when he stepped back, still slightly surprised, to leap to her feet and get out of his reach. The fire was receding, but something was different. The energy. The way her weapon felt in her hand. The way her mind seemed to have switched gears.

He came at her again, swinging wide with his blade, looking to end it with a powerful and decisive blow. It would work against someone who was afraid, someone off balance and overwhelmed. Silver stepped aside, jabbing straight towards his chest. Holtson countered. Her hands rose with unexpected speed and she countered as well. And again. After a few rounds, there was no space left behind her, so she dug in. The blows rained down, and she blocked each, acutely aware that they were growing stronger and stronger. So she began to use them, taking the energy behind each swing, letting it fall on a dull and dead blade and then deflecting it back. Finally, he came from the top, and she blocked, lashing out with her foot and pushing him back by instinct...

No. Not instinct. Something else. Something better; muscle memory. Blocking correctly by instinct was only luck, but blocking on purpose was different; blocking on purpose was winning.

Silver twisted her wooden blade around, changing her grip and slashing forward. Holtson dodged it, of course. It was a clumsy swing. She knew that, even as she realized that she was not fighting the way Holtson had taught her to fight. These memories…these were more ancient, rusty, skills that had gone unused for too long and had almost been forgotten, and yet…in the curious way of the mind, they had always remained. They were not made for the body she had now, so they came slowly, sluggishly, telling her how to move, how to step, but balking at the length of her stride, the arc of her swing, the strength in her hips.

Her eyes narrowed. The differences were not so large as they first seemed. She was already adjusting. Her steps were wrong, and Holtson could see her every mistake. He was much more experienced than she was in that way. But even so, she sensed that she could defeat him.

Silver blinked, blocking his downward slash, and turned her foot slightly, pushing off to use what she would always use against someone so much bigger and stronger than she was - an attack from behind. She was already beside him. Again, there was surprise in his expression, but she thought nothing of it. To feel was to die. No exhilaration, no joy; nothing but the next blow.

One step brought her up behind him, and she rotated, slashing viciously at the unprotected backside of his head. Blocked. She felt her wooden sword slide against his, and knew she must have imagined the rasp of steel against steel. The slipperiness was different, between metal and wood. The width of the blade was different, the balance…. balance...

She had an idea.

When Holtson swung around, Silver went with the flow of his swing, letting him press her blade down as her magic snaked out into the air. He rotated his grip to slash up at her chest, and she was ready. Her entire body leaned, avoiding by the barest of centimeters, feeling the breath of his sword across her throat.

Moments ago, that feeling would have frightened her. Now, she took it in stride. This was living. That hair’s breadth between her and death was all she needed.

Exhaling slowly, Silver dropped, feeling his next strike pass over her head, whistling through the open air.

Slowly, the world was narrowing. Thinner and thinner and thinner, like the edge of her blade. She tilted her head slightly, observing the man before her fully, focusing on his face and not knowing what she saw there, but sparing no thought for it either. She thrust upward ruthlessly. The strike was a feint. She had already planned that, and was in motion again when he tried to block. His sword came down – and she jumped up.

Perfect. Her legs were faster than even her thoughts. Just as it should be. The rusty cogs were sliding back into place.

Light as air, her feet found the dull spine of his blade, one foot pressed against his wrist, preventing him from turning to its lethal edge to cut her or shake her off. She bowed slightly, balanced there in an ethereal pose, both eyes focused on his face. Holtson was staring at her, transfixed. Perhaps he saw death in her gaze. Perhaps he saw the nothingness eating away at her heart.

“Estilo. Ruv shivatju.” The words escaped her before she could stop them.

Rest now. Death comes for you.

She threw her right arm out, preparing the swing that would take his unprotected neck.

“NOW, HOLTSON!”

Motion. She felt the blade bob beneath her. He had been done. He had not seen it coming, but someone had interfered. Her eyes narrowed. As quickly as it registered, the thought was gone. She had no thoughts for anything. Only defeat. Only victory. Only life.

Or death.

She landed feather-light, knowing it was too late for him as the power she had almost lost, but not quite, gathered in her right arm. Magic glimmered along her wooden blade. Only her toes were touching the earth. Already, she was swinging.

“STOP!”

Bek’s voice? Sori’s? Illian’s?

For half a second, Silver turned. Her eyes found Illian, and their gazes met. She felt her arm jerk to a halt almost of its own accord. Her blade shivered to a halt as well, inches from Holtson’s neck. Even so, her magic just barely cut the skin. A fine trickle of blood oozed from the wound.

That was enough to bring her back to her senses. The wooden sword dropped from her suddenly slack grip, leaving only her unsteady and trembling fingers, all of the warmth, all of the calm, all of the sureness gone.

But not gone without leaving anything in its place.

Pain. Burning, searing, horrible pain. It was in her flesh, her blood, her very bones. It was more terrible than fire, and it was burning from the inside out. Her insides were melting. She sank to her knees, clutching at the cool soil as if it could ease the burning in her flesh.

Two pairs of feet were rushing towards her. More were coming, but they were more distant, and she did not have much room in her mind for them anyway. The pain was swallowing up everything else, freezing her in place. She was afraid to scream. It hurt too much.

“This was a bad idea—”

“Bek, wait.” Sori’s voice; Sori’s sweet, kind voice. Silver grasped to it to hold onto her consciousness.

“Burning,” she choked, the words like salt in her mouth, “It burns, it burns, it burns.” Her head felt like it was splitting open. Everything around her had gone silent.

“Call Sara,” Illian’s voice filled the silence. “Call her now! You…”

The instructions faded. Sori was talking. Bek was talking. Silver heard the rise and fall of their voices. Vaguely, she realized she was on the ground. When had that happened?

“Ruveris Plague? What? How is that possible?” Sori’s angry voice was like hot irons in her eardrums. Tears streamed down her face.

Everything they said, Silver could hardly comprehend. Their voices washed over her like so much ocean water on a stark and stony beach. There was no foothold, no place for the words to linger. She was only vaguely aware of the murmur of voices growing more insistent even as they grew more distant. Ami. Cevora. Holtson. Her brain hinted recognition.

Someone was shaking her. Seijelar was screaming into her mind, filling up the nothingness that chased her down. Pins and needles spread through her arms, her neck, her head. Her vision was gray and black and she saw more of what was in her mind than in reality. At some point, she was aware of leaning away from someone’s warmth, struggling against the heat spreading like wildfire through her joints. So weak…she could not fight.

More voices, pins in her head, knives in her skull. How she wanted them to stop. Her head and heart felt ready to explode, her lungs starved of air and her throat burning with an insatiable thirst. That alone drove her half insane. She could feel herself withdrawing, seeking out that warm and safe place at the center of her being, the light that she had sought out in the past when the darkness became too overwhelming. Anything to escape.

Against her chest, she could feel the hot touch of metal. Zeharial’s necklace, pressed against her skin, burning with the heat of her own body. Spinning through space, it seemed impossible that she could be lying still. Her mind’s eyes probed the oppressing shadows, seeking out one light in an endless stretch of nothingness.

She never found it.