Chapter Seventy-Seven

The Weight of a Name

Michael’s heart beat so fast he feared the guards might see it through his tattered shirt.

The Watch-Commander dismounted from his horse and his armour shifted heavily as he stepped close to Sarah. She kept smiling like there was nothing in the world that might merit a frown.

The other two horsemen took off their helmets. The commander did not.

Gruff and to the point, the Watch-Commander stated, “The two of you are not of this neighbourhood. And this Dock-Side rat-“ he said, like they were his first words, “-does not belong here. Who are you?”

Sarah looked the soldier sharply in the eyes through his visor, still smiling brightly. “He is in my service. And I do not live in this neighbourhood, but my mother, Lady Nala Cox, does.”

Michael could see the surgeon’s house at the end of the street. He knew the guards weren’t there to discuss who lived where. Their heavy armour would slow them down but not their crossbows.

The Watch-Commander smiled quietly through his visor and placed a hand on his sword, as though just resting it. But the gesture was pointed. “Your mother is Lady Cox? Great. Yet that was not the name I asked for. This district is for Istolian nobility, not unattended, second-born outsiders.”

Sarah’s smile sharpened at its edges, and a dark amusement warped her performative smile. She cocked her head, as though she didn’t quite hear him. With perfect, dangerous clarity, she said, “Run that by me one more time.”

A drop of sweat crawled down Michael’s temple. His hand crept toward his waistband, knowing Carter’s blade would do him little good against fully armoured guardsmen. “Sarah, let’s just go.”

“No, its okay, Michael,” Sarah said, her eyes locked on the tall guardsman. “I’m happy right here.”

“We do not cater to undocumented, unauthenticated gentry.” The man’s head swivelled to Michael and his eyes were cold and hard. “And we do not allow street-scum in Top-Side.”

His hands shot out, grabbing Michael by the shirt when in a flash, the flat of Sarah’s blade kissed the guard’s hands.

The man’s eyes were wide with fury. The other guards spurred forward.

“You dare draw steel on-” his eyes spotted an item in Sarah’s other hand. Her Coin of Writ between her fingers. He glanced at the sigil, flickering in the lamplight and went quiet as a tomb.

Michael was shaking in the grip of the soldier when suddenly his grip relaxed.

Michael frowned, until he too saw the sigil. It was a robin perched on an ivory, Otylian spire. He felt his entire chest empty itself of breath.

Sarah tucked the coin back in her pocket and cleared her throat. “Allow me to introduce myself, formally, as you declined to offer me even the slightest courtesy yourself, Guardsman.”

The man fumbled his helmet off his head, revealing a sickly-face with shaven, blonde hair and a square jaw. He bent to a knee and stared directly ahead. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I am Baroness Sarah Dae Robinson, Daughter of Baron Philip Robinson of Otylia, Royal Financial Advisor to the Imperial Throne and to Emperor Ardic Grimhold the Second.”

Michael stared at her like he’d never seen her before, and before he knew it, he realised he’d spent the last cresk or so making extraordinarily sexual jokes with perhaps the most powerful daughter in Talisatia. The Baron of Otylia was not only the richest man in Olympium, but held extremely close favour with every provincial leader, as well as the Emperor himself. Michael also realised, that having looked at her in only a brassiere was punishable by hanging, if she so chose.

During the Conscription War, there were fourteen assassination attempts made on the emperor’s life. There were twenty-five, made on Baron Robinson.

Michael glanced at the woman’s face. It was lined with dread, made by the sudden reunion with a title that she’d clearly been long avoiding.

Sarah looked back to the devastated guardsman and said, “I’m taking your horse. Me and my friend. And you can go to Enthall.”

The guard nodded silently, doing all he could not to say anything else which might get him arrested or executed.

She effortlessly hoisted herself into the saddle and she muttered, “Not a word, Williams.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Baroness,” he muttered, clambering up after her.

*****

The door to the Beaumont manor swung open once more to reveal a tired, very tall and thin man. He wore a pair of silver-rimmed, oval glasses on his nose and a deep purple shirt tucked into a dark, check-patterned skirt. Over it all was a dark, black-leather apron.

The man saw Sarah and bowed deeply, despite his tired eyes, and said, “Fair Lady, what can I do for you...” he then saw Michael, fiddling with his fingers behind her, “...and your friend?”

She returned the courtesy and said, “I assume you’re Sir Nigel Beaumont?”

The man adjusted his glasses and nodded. “I am.”

“I’m Baroness Robinson. My brother came by earlier with my b-, with a boyf-, with a friend of mine. We expected him back some time ago.”

The tall man gave a sigh of realisation and nodded. “I see. Do come in.”

Michael followed Sarah into the mansion and muttered, “Sweet Rii,” as he looked about the house.

The ceilings were so high that if someone fell from its peak they likely wouldn’t survive. The floors were so polished that his own reflection looked around the room with the same look of surprise plastered on his face.

Beaumont guided the pair of Legacies through multiple rooms of marble sculptures, fireplaces, and dinner tables. They then ventured through a very heavy door to find a basic surgical table, though rather than polished rock or smooth leather-wrapped stone, it was a table of steel, smooth as resting water.

Sarah choked back a gasp to find Oliver lying upon it, still as death, wrapped in fresh, white bandages.

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They pushed passed the surgeon and rushed to the boy’s side as Michael yelled, “What’s wrong with him? Oliver, can you hear me?”

The surgeon stepped to the other side of the surgical table and produced a small hand-sized mirror. He held it under Oliver’s nose and breath quickly steamed across it. “Nothing at all.”

Sarah glared at him. “So why is he asleep?”

The surgeon drew a stool over from the side of the room and picked up a clipboard. He sat and looked over the notes down the through glasses on his nose and said, “He’s in a comatose state. He went into it after I clotted the blood flow.”

Michael looked around the room to find it was pristine and orderly, lined with shelves piled high with medical bandages, bone-splints, and surgical tools. “Where’s Carter? The nobleman who came in with him!” Michael gestured to Oliver.

As Michael spoke, the door behind the surgeon opened and Carter stepped out, looking worn and tired, but upon seeing his friend and his sister, his eyes lit up.

“Has the doctor caught you up?” Carter asked, giving both of them a small hug.

Sarah anxiously wanted to rustle her hair but it was tied up too neatly, and she was unsure if she’d need to keep up appearances. “Could you elaborate, Doctor?”

Nigel Beaumont put his clipboard down and gestured to Oliver’s sleeping face. “He’s suffered a blow to the head sometime recently. Now, I can’t be completely sure, but there’s a term some in the Medical Community refer to as Dead Rest. It means he’s undergone trauma to his brain, and it’s repairing itself. Now, Dead Rest, unfortunately, is a heavy state. Often, patients don’t wake up from them. In rare cases, they can be coaxed out, but usually it just takes time.”

Michael wrung his fingers, looking down at Oliver. “What kind of cases? What has worked?”

The doctor sighed and gestured aimlessly. “It can be anything. A voice. A smell. A feeling. A sense of urgency.”

Sarah chewed on a thought for a long moment and finally said, “Can I have a second with Oliver?”

Michael and Carter both nodded, though a tinge of softness lingered in their eyes, and they steered the doctor out of the room.

Sarah stayed standing for a moment and then sat on the table where Oliver lay. She leant in close and looked up and down his muscled chest, only to realise just how many pale scars were dotted upon him. Rather like Nichole, he was almost freckled with faded, ancient wounds. She looked up to his face and wondered if he’d slept the night before. For a moment, she even considered letting him sleep, disregarding how much Fort Guardian would need him, how much they all relied on his strength of heart, just so he could doze a little longer. Sarah gritted her teeth and knew she couldn’t, not yet, and leant closely to his ear.

She spoke a word as softly as summer rain and Oliver eyes opened like spring flowers, as though he’d spent every moment of his life, waiting for that word.

“Hi there,” Oliver whispered, smiling softly as she relaxed in relief, draping her arm over his chest.

Sarah touched his face and her smile spread across her cheeks. “Welcome back.”

They sat there, inches from one another for a moment just long enough that Oliver could feel the warmth of her skin, and Sarah could feel the beat of his heart through his bare chest.

Instead of pulling frantically apart, they simply didn’t. Sarah lightly traced a small scar on Oliver’s collarbone. Oliver squirmed ticklishly, his smile bright and warm.

The surgeon walked back into the room and said, “It worked, you’re awake. Fantastic.”

The warriors pulled away from each other and Sarah stood, dusting off her gown, abating her eyes so Oliver could put his shirt back on in privacy. When he finally turned back around, he blinked, having only been looking at her face since he opened his eyes.

“You’re wearing a wedding dress.”

She looked down at it, feeling self-conscious for the first time since putting it on. “I am.” Her words were soft still, as though she was afraid to speak too greatly and break the gentle edges of their moment.

*****

After the doctor cleared Oliver’s condition, warned him not to stress it again or he’d tear the stitches, they ambled back out into the streets of Dim-Side to find ten Iron Suits, all mounted on white horses.

Michael and Oliver had to fight the urge to bolt when a woman in full steel, with military stripes painted down the helmet and chest plate, stepped forward. She removed her helmet and bowed before Sarah and Carter, offering the four of them an escort to their next location.

Carter and Oliver both frowned in confusion and Sarah humbly accepted the ride. After a bewildering request to be taken to Dim-Side to collect their companions, the storm of silver horses carried them through the dark streets, scaring off any ill-intentioned Dim-Siders even better than Magnus.

Once they’d been dropped off at James’ apartment building, the Legacies sent them on their way, not wanting to put the fear of God into everyone from the roads to the docks.

Sarah vanished into an empty alleyway with the Nichole and Aroha and changed back into her clothes. Soon the Baron’s daughter returned, looking like her regular self.

Despite wearing thick bandages over his shoulder, Oliver spent much of the walk smiling ear to ear as he looked to his feet.

Carter pulled off his jacket and threw it around his neck, showing off his throwing knives to any eager parties as they made their way back to the main road and James hauled a large sack of dried fruit and fresh bread on the end of his Merhoii spear.

The company left Istol with very little fuss. The guards merely glanced up to wave Carter off, entirely dismissing everyone else.

As Michael and his company left the Imperial Highway, bee-lining for the hills of Fort Guardian, a day’s march away, he thought about the path to his old home from that very spot. He knew every cobblestone he’d tread to get there. He knew exactly what he’d find if he did. A tired house, un-swept and gathering more dust every day. Crumbling walls and rotting foundations, heavy with memories.

Rose glanced over at him as they walked. Every now and again she’d see him glancing back to the walls, and after a moment he’d wrinkle his face and close his eyes for a moment. “Thinking about home?”

James cursed, realising they’d spent hours in the city, without making so much as an effort to visit. “Sparky, we made alright time, I’m sure we can spare-”

The bowman shook his head. “No, it’s okay. We have somewhere to be. Anyway, I know she wouldn’t be there.”

Carter put a soft hand on his shoulder in silence.

Through fields of cropland, they walked, speaking only seldom as the weight of their final day away loomed over them. The Legacies put in good time, regardless, knowing they’d rather get back and face the situation head-on than come back late and well-rested.

The Thirteenth of Bronzing fell to dark and slowly the Fourteenth rose. They trudged through the sloping hills of north Bawdion, fighting through long grass and cold wind, resting only for short periods before they forged on again. As the night yawned over Draendica once more, however, they spotted a familiar hillside, rising taller than all the others in the valley in the distance, and it wasn’t until nearly Nigh when they finally came to its peak.

As they looked out over the majesty of Fort Guardian, an icy cold washed over them and Nichole muttered, “Defence Enchantment?”

Rose shook her head, gesturing to the central keep. “Warning bell. I’ll bet a hard coin that Amekot just got alerted that we’re here.”

The noise of chirping insects echoed into the meadow as the Legacies headed down the hill in silence. They stepped lightly around the great crevice which they’d ventured into only several days ago.

Cold winds swept into the bowl and moonlight showered over the old stone. Thick, smoky clouds rolled through the night sky the colour of dread and ash, and the taste of a brewing storm whittled their teeth.

They made their way down the greying hillside and onto the flatlands in the wake of the main gate, only to find the drawbridge hoisted.

They all looked down into the swirling, black water when a voice barked with magical enhancement from above, “State your title and business!”

James recognised the voice as one belonging to Kresta Sampson, a rather irate history teacher at the fortress whose side-hobby was licking Amekot’s boots. James sighed and shouted, “Sampson, open the gates! Archangels Cox, Jacobs, Oswald, Robinson, and Hawthorne, and Paladins Williams, Huntress, Andevār, and Taylor, reporting back from mission!”

The dark figure crossed her arms sternly, backlit by a torch. “I wasn’t informed about a mission!”

James took a deep breath but his temper couldn’t be quelled. It had been a long spell. “Kresta, I am not waiting out here for one more minute!”

As if just to make a point, Kresta raised her right hand and ten bowmen stepped forward, nocked and aiming, though looking extremely apprehensive. “I’d lower your voice.”

The Legacies began shouting up the wall-guard as Kresta shrieked back down, and quite quickly the melody of nature in the valley of Fort Guardian was uprooted.

The only other Legacy not shouting was Oliver. He turned tiredly to Michael and muttered, “Who would’ve guessed that out of Nithes, Yiraa, Obthraie, Merhoii, Auderah, and Muggers it would be Legacies that get us killed.”

Michael sucked his teeth. “I probably would’ve guessed.”