Page 52 of Alchemised

Four Years Prior

O N THE UPPER PLATEAU OF THE E AST Island, not far from the Alchemy Institute, stood one of the few freestanding houses on the Paladian islands.

Solis Splendour, the Bayard family’s grand old house, was one of the few to survive the city’s stratospheric architectural climb.

As most of the city gave way to vast, interconnected towers, climbing ever higher, the Bayards had kept their original home on its original land.

The city and the more newly monied loomed high overhead, but Solis Splendour had never tried to rise, content to flourish in the shadow of the Alchemy Institute and Tower.

The Bayards were such fixtures at the Institute that Helena sometimes forgot how near their family seat was, and how wealthy they were.

Even in a war, barely maintained, Solis Splendour was beautiful and startling in size, even as a convalescent home.

Its many spacious rooms were now filled with rows of beds for those too injured to return to combat, so that Headquarters would not overflow with the wounded.

Rhea Bayard had been offering such care even before her husband became one of the permanent residents.

Helena stood at the bottom of the steps leading to the front door, trying to summon the will to knock. The air was so cold that her nose had gone numb, and her fingertips ached through her kid gloves. The first day of winter, but it had already been bitterly cold for months.

The hibernal solstice was supposed to be all about looking ahead to brighter days, but after five years of war, it was difficult to believe that things would ever get better no matter how much the days lengthened or warmed.

When Helena was too cold to keep loitering outside, she ascended the steps and rapped hesitantly.

The door immediately swung open, revealing Sebastian Bayard, Lila and Soren’s uncle. He was a tall man, with an agile build, and pale skin and hair that almost blended into each other. The only colour to him was his soft blue eyes that always seemed to be searching for something that wasn’t there.

He’d been Principate Apollo’s paladin primary, among other things, and now, in reserve, he always had a sort of tragic alertness about him, like a dog waiting for its master to return.

“Helena,” Sebastian said, inviting her in, “we’re glad you made it. I know Rhea hoped you would.”

Helena’s stomach twisted into a hard knot as she stepped into the warm interior of the house, discarding her coat but leaving on her gloves.

Several children scampered by, quiet and wan-faced but with shining eyes. Some were so young, they’d never known a day outside the war. They were all accustomed to staying out from underfoot and minding themselves, but solstice was magical for them.

The front rooms were still functional, and they were full of people, some with wheeled chairs, crutches, or bandages, and others in good health, if not spirits.

The mood of the party failed to match the cosy light and warmth, or the cheerful music emanating from the gramophone; the voices and conversation were all low and sombre.

“There she is.” Lila’s voice suddenly broke through the hum as she rose from the far side of the sitting room.

Her pale hair was braided as always into a crown around her head, which made her seem even taller than she was.

Groups parted as Lila crossed the room, hopping agilely on her gleaming prosthetic leg to avoid chairs and tables.

It was uncharacteristically showy, but Helena knew that Lila was desperate to prove that she was more than sufficiently recovered from her injury and ready to return to combat.

The decision would be made by the Council in three days. There would be a full hearing, and as healer and one of the alchemists involved in developing the titanium base of the prosthetic, Helena would be among those consulted about whether Lila was competent to resume her duties as paladin primary.

Lila’s ice-blue eyes scanned Helena’s face in an instant. “You look nearly frozen. Come over here. Luc’s got a fire, he’ll make it warm for you.”

They reached the group that Lila had broken away from, all members of the same battalion.

They were gathered around the fireplace, and in the centre sat Luc, their god-touched Principate, slouched like a schoolboy and teasing the flames with his fingertips.

With the flick of his fingers, the flames took shapes and danced across the logs like acrobats, their light gilding him.

Luc was smaller in both build and height than almost all of them, barring a few of the girls. Even Lila’s twin brother, Soren, who was regarded as small for a paladin, had a good several inches on Luc.

People said it was something about pyromancers, they just tended to be slight, but the sneering few pointed out that the Principate being expected to marry someone shorter than him might also have something to do with their generationally dwindling stature.

Helena knew almost nothing about Luc’s mother, much less how tall or short she’d been. She’d died of a wasting sickness when he was too young to remember her.

“Make some space for Helena,” Lila said, nudging her forward. “Hel, I’ll get you some mulled wine, that’ll get you warm.”

Lila disappeared again.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Lila so helpful,” said one of the boys, a wry smirk on his face.

Helena wasn’t sure of his name. He was newer. A defence specialist. His predecessor had been killed during the same battle against Blackthorne that cost Lila her leg.

“Shut up, Alister,” Luc and Soren, who was sitting just behind Luc, said simultaneously.

Fire flashed in Luc’s eyes, while Soren seemed to lengthen like an ominous shadow. Everyone glared at Alister.

Alister shifted and forced a smile. “It was a joke. I think we’d all be acting just like her if we needed a hearing to resume combat. I just don’t know why she’s worried. She could have lost an arm, too, and she’d still fight better than most of us.”

Soren relaxed, rolling his eyes, but Luc stared stonily at the fire.

Penny Fabien had shifted her legs to the side and, meeting Helena’s eyes, patted a spot next to Luc, but Helena hesitated.

Sit there and in a matter of days, Ilva Holdfast would call Helena in “just for a chat,” and during the conversation she’d make a series of remarks about how tenuous things presently were.

About the need to make sacrifices, and how sometimes caring about someone meant staying away from them.

She would talk about loyalty, how the members of the Eternal Flame had followed the Holdfasts for generations.

The Principate was held to certain standards, and it would be devastating to the cause if their faith in Luc was shaken; if he seemed to prioritise others more than them.

Helena shook her head, mumbling something about finding Lila as she backed away.

The next room was quieter, filled with more severely wounded convalescents. They paid no attention to her.

Sitting among them was former general Titus Bayard.

Although he’d never been a paladin himself, he was taller and broader than his brother, with a wide forehead filled with furrows and creases.

He’d served as military commander for the Eternal Flame for most of Luc’s life, training and approving new members, including his own children, choosing their positions and combat designations.

Now, with that same intense care and concentration, he very slowly wound a ball of yarn in his huge hands.

“Hello, Titus,” Helena said in a low, even voice, kneeling beside him. “It’s Healer Marino, do you remember me?”

He gave no indication of hearing her. He only ever minded Rhea.

“Do you mind if I look at your brain? Won’t hurt a bit, just a little touch.”

He gave a noncommittal grunt. She slipped a glove off and reached out, fingers trailing along the wide scar that started at his temple and disappeared into his hair.

Her resonance unspooled from her fingertips like tendrils of energy cast in a net, examining the tissue and bone and into the brain, looking desperately for any signs of change.

Everything was the same.

There was almost nothing wrong with Titus physically.

Even his brain showed little sign of anything being wrong with it except inactivity.

All the carefully, perfectly regenerated tissue Helena had spent shift after shift reconstructing had saved his life but trapped him inside his own mind.

She didn’t know how to get him out. If he was even still in there.

“You’re very strong,” she said conversationally as she smoothed his hair to conceal the scar again.

His concentration on the ball of yarn broke off briefly so he could give her a grimacing smile. Their eyes met, and she felt the same pang in her chest again, an overwhelming desire to tell him, I’m sorry. I was trying to save you. I didn’t mean to do this to you.

“Helena.”

Her stomach clenched in dread as she turned to face Rhea Bayard.

Titus’s wife was a tall woman with raven-like features, all long and sharp, and deep-set green eyes that Soren had inherited.

According to the stories, she’d been an alchemist at the Institute, and a good one, but she’d retired to marry and have children.

“You came in so quietly, I didn’t realise you were here. Have you already seen Titus?” Rhea was smiling, but it was strained.

Helena knew when she received the invitation that this was why she was invited.

Rhea lived in the desperate hope that eventually Helena would find a way to heal Titus.

She used to bring him to the hospital constantly, even after everyone else had given up, convinced that with time and new science, someone with Helena’s abilities could restore him.

Helena had been afraid that Rhea would blame her for failing to heal Titus, but her enduring conviction that Helena would find a cure felt worse at times.