They may as well send her there, Gregg thought. Six weeks had passed, and Briar made her rounds silently. She exercised her healing hands with as much precision and commitment as her vow. Wren slept in the cot beside hers, soothing her when she woke from troublesome dreams. The reports varied, but sometimes they made him dither. Apparently, her episodes brought the occasional cry. She was lucky that Wren was a compassionate woman, claiming the sounds as her own.
In waking, her reticence was unwavering as this fortress. The seasons changed, but her foundation never shifted. The cool summer rain soon became frigid autumn volley. She'd done such a good job playing the mute, his fears were lessened. Still, in the absence of speech, he pondered her mind. The things she'd seen might have wounded her beyond repair.
"Aurora, hand me the magnifier," the doctor ordered, man on the table sedated. He looked into Briar's inquisitive eyes as she handed him the glass. Doctor Tavis held it over the area in question, pointing out the small back tethers around the man's wound. "Do you see the way his veins spider around the entry point? The veins reconstruct themselves, forming a web around the foreign object. It causes the blood beneath it to flow nearly black."
Briar shuddered, remembering. Doctor Tavis placed his thumb over the man's veins, pressing down to demonstrate. A few of the nurses standing around took notes. Blood came to the surface that looked so dark, it was nearly ink. His finger became bulbous underneath the magnifying glass.
"I can press on it, because this type of wound never bleeds out, or becomes infected. Not inflamed in the usual way, at least. The arrowhead was tipped with noxiom powder. It's a poison of sorts, supposed to kill on contact if it reaches the heart. It is popular among sharp-shooters. However, it is quite the double-edged sword.
"If you survive the impact, the substance has a sort of consciousness, if you will. It works with the body to push out whatever delivered it, so that it can make you well again. In fact, it makes you more than well. Some of the men who survive the initial inoculation report increased strength and mental abilities. We are trying to synthesize it into a medication, but there have been kinks along the way."
"Why does the opposition use it, if it's a life elixir?" Justine asked, eyes wide.
"Kills three fourths of the men it touches, so it's still a potent weapon. Besides that, even if one does survive...there are many side-effects that outweigh the benefits. There's a degree to which the substance becomes a parasite. Some organisms can live in symbiosis with mankind, but this one has a very unpredictable agenda. Most, but not all, experience what we can only deem hormonal surges."
"What is the nature of these surges?" Shirley posed, pen in hand.
"They go a bit wonky," Tavis explained, draining some of the black blood into a small bowl. He funneled it into a small vial marked with the words: Queen Strain. "They each react differently, but all of them became a bit...off. Some of them become like boys in puberty again, fits of rage and the like. They're like Middern fighting bulls."
The doctor gazed at Briar, who understood the reference, simply from the stories of her mother. Fighters stood in crumbling coliseums, packed with locals of every age and class. They watched as clowns released a bull from a cage, barreling down a stretch of packed sand toward a fighter waving a cape. To ensure he was angry enough, the bull's testicles were bound.
"Their desires often become incredibly irrational, to the point that one man is now convinced his wife is a flagpole," Tavis continued. "Many of the survivors are convinced they can move objects by looking at them, but we have yet to determine if it's a delusion of the noxiom, or collective hysteria. The Lunatic Wing has doubled in size for it."
"Where is it coming from? The noxiom, I mean," Justine asked again, sloe-eyes even bigger than the last time.
"Rumor has it that the Highlanders found a source in the far north, beyond the Shetlands. Others are saying it comes from Skye. Both regions are inaccessible to the Empire. In truth, no one knows where it comes from, or why it causes the body to react this way," he pressed down on the veins again, beckoning Briar to examine the liquid. It was cold and sticky, staining her fingers in a way that made her shiver. Tavis took note. "No need to fear. You've probably never seen anything like this before, I know. Most haven't."
Oh, but she had.
"The noxiom is taking to this wound very well, but we ought to speed up the expulsion process for the sake of time. God only knows when the next battalion rushes back from the mountains. Aurora, bring me my scalpel."
The girl shook in her boots, grey woolen dress puckering at the nervousness of her knees. As much as she'd been through, he knew that Briar was naturally strong-stomached. Something like this would have perplexed and enthused the child he knew. He worried for her, wondering what she saw that would cause such trembling.
If only the Mind House was a place of healing, like the clinic he helped to build on the Mainland with Father Krissel. It was a true house for the psyche, unlike the place they called the Lunatic Wing, for lack of better words. That place was a warm and full of Elion's coastal air. People came from all of the surrounding provinces to be treated free of charge, and cared for without the fearful electrodes most other doctors used on the ill of spirit.
Doctor Tavis remembered the first time he saw them used on a human being. It was during his own apprenticeship through the Magistrate's Medical Council. He never forgot the moment that the 10th caste woman ran into their clinic, little boy draped across her arms. He was rail-thin and unresponsive. The nurses took the child to a room for examination, but the mother wasn't permitted to enter. She stood outside, pounding the walls and raving. His mentor, Doctor Shaw, placed his hand gently on the woman's shoulders.
"Gregg, my boy, this is an excellent teaching moment. I will show you how we comfort her kind," the doctor patted her calmly. His demeanor made her ease back a bit, although she was still shaking. They ushered her into a windowless exam room, walls dark and lit only by the flicker of candles. "To calm them, that most will enter willingly. They seldom remember what happens next."
Doctor Shaw snapped his fingers, and two bulky orderlies entered the room and locked the door behind them. They grabbed each arm of the frail 10th caste, lifting her onto a cold metal table. She struggled against them, but they bound her with leather that's musk could only come from repeated charring. Gregg watched in horror as they placed a wooden block between her tongue and teeth, strapping her neck and head to the gurney. The doctor stuck several electrodes to her forehead, and two around her temples. Barbaric static followed, drowning out the woman's muffled cries.
Here, the methods were like Doctor Shaw's.
To deny that the mentally ill were anything but devoid of spirit was blasphemy. Doctor Tavis prayed that she would keep up the silence, explaining it away to his superiors as a result of her injury on the journey there. The minute she made a sound clearer than a hoarse, scraggly grunt; they would assume it was unwillingness of the spirit. Briar was determined, but that might not be enough. What if someone surprised her, or attempted to harm her, God forbid? To scream would be the end of her sanity.
She reached for the scalpel, but the nervousness of her spirit betrayed her hands. She grabbed it incorrectly, despite all of her training, and dropped it onto the tile. As it left her hand, it sliced open the side of her finger. Tavis held his breath, and Briar closed her eyes. She opened her mouth, struggling not to let the cry leave her throat.
"Poor thing!" Wren shouted, rushing over with gauze. "You must be more careful, love. It looks like this will need stitches."
"Take her out of here and stitch it, then," Tavis told her sharply, secretly breathing relief.
Wren led her into the main room of the infirmary, setting Briar on a gurney with crisp sheets. They were so fresh, she felt the warmth of the fire that dried them. The room was nearly empty. Wren disinfected the wound, then began stitching it closed with a curved needle. She winced, but never once did the Gael shriek. What made her voice return didn't come from within.
"Seems ya got yourself a wee cut, a sheòid. Nothin' to let someone else take charge of your hands for. Where we fight, men stitch their own wounds. I think you're mighty capable of closing that yourself," someone spoke up. Briar turned her head to see a man covered in war paint, chained to a gurney on the opposite side of the room.
Bard.
Her lips fell open. She patted Wren with her free hand, grabbing the needle and thread to finish the wound herself. Even without speech, Briar shot Wren a look that begged her to leave the room. As soon as she left, Briar finished suturing and ran to Bard's bedside.
"Bard," she meekly whispered, the air leaving her lungs with difficulty. It was a strange sensation, moving it so that noise came. It was breathy, coarse, and difficult to control. Did speaking really involve so many muscles?
"Little Briar. I'm glad to see a familiar face. We may not be blood kin, but Callahan is a brother to me. I am as relieved to see ya safe as he would be."
Cal!
"Is he alive?" A large huff of air came out with the words, causing her to cough.
"Aye, lass. Alive, in the Western Highlands. After they sent the women south, we overtook the prison wagons. Stole em', went the long way up the Highland Road. The Imperial Dogs're weak."
"If they're so weak, how did you end up here?"
"They've taken us before, but we've escaped every time. This is their third attempt, but don't count on it keepin' me here. This time, I'm the only prisoner. Should be easy enough, with a sheòid to set us free."
Bard's eyes glimmered, and so did Briars. Us. There was a resurgence of hope in her bones. Free. She wished it more than anything else in the world. What she wasn't certain of alone, perhaps she could accomplish with the help of a warrior. Bard knew this as well, calculating that he needed the healer just as much.
"And, me auntie?" The rebel asked. She darkened, and no more needed to be said.
Briar's ears perceived a commotion that made the hair on her neck stand at attention. It might have been the drop of a pin, but she heard the clamor of an elephant. She turned around to see a silhouette in the door curtains. Someone leaned against the opposite side of the door, perhaps reading, or checking their clipboard. Had they been in the room when she spoke? Could they hear it through the door? Being seen as a madman would be a mercy here, compared to a spy.
She returned to her cot that night, stomach churning. There was as much hope in her as there was fear. Briar wasn't certain which one had the strongest grip. When she couldn't sleep, she felt a strange presence encircling her. Its aura was persistent, begging her to close her eyes.
"Keep silent for them, my keep. You've done well thus far. You mustn't break it for him," the raven cooed that night.
No sooner than it flew down from the adder, the raven became a man. His eyes were piercing silver, pupils cat-like slits in the middle of gracefully woven irises. His hair was not unlike the raven's feather. His snowy skin seemed to glow in the moonlight, and so did hers. Where he landed on her shoulder was now the place of his hand, the other arm wrapped around her waist. Briar didn't protest. She fell into a trance, leaning on his chest. The alder became an apple tree, and together they stood in a grove that was in full-bloom beneath the moon.
"Am I under a spell?" She asked him, his touch familiar and foreign at the same time. She could barely remember him, yet, she felt that she knew something of his innermost parts.
"By no means. I've come to warn you, but I do so with comfort" the man replied. He placed a strand of coppery hair behind Briar's ear, nearly losing himself before delivering the message.
Faolan couldn't help it, stroking her cheeks as he had tried with another woman. Then, he was under the power of the Darkness. It willed him to lust without compassion. The Curse wanted nothing more than for him to sew a seed. Now, his will was free, and the feelings intermingled in a way he almost wished they wouldn't. Instead of wincing, she curiously welcomed his touch.
"If it is no spell, why am I so weak, ilchruthach? Why do I feel I know you?" The girl asked, knees buckling. He steadied her and smirked.
"You know my name, Briar of Clan MacLeod. Although, I know you better," he grabbed her hands and kissed them impulsively. "Perhaps better than you do. Your hands smell of Moorland heather, but your heart is in the Highlands, with your ancestors on Skye."
"My ancestors are dead as my parents," the girl remarked, face darkening.
"Your family lives, Snow Lily," he caressed her face, then retracted when the name escaped his lips. Had he truly uttered that name, the Queen of Beloveds? A poetic musing, best left to his unquestionably sinless brother. He commanded his hands from her pale cheeks, stiffening.
"Your kin guards Skye. They will open their arms to you, Briar. When you have the opportunity, leave. Tell no one of it. I will do all I can to help you, but if you are to be kept safe, I cannot let them see my powers. Do not go with Bard to look for your brother. Go to the Isle, where peace still persists."
"Cal," she remembered. Her mind became sharp, even in the haziness of the dream. "Why wouldn't I look for him? He's my brother, the only family I have!"
"You mustn't," the Wolf King commanded. He tightened his grasp. "Abandon your search for him. The Magistrate is in the mountains now. Your brother fights for the resistance, and to see him again is to take up arms. It means death, Briar. I cannot save you from it."
He brought her in again, arms tight and gaze intense. Even here, where there wasn't any real air, it left his nostrils in warm tendrils across her forehead. His face lingered inches from hers. She flushed, chest rising and falling heavily. He tried every tactic he knew to derail her, short of going deeper into her mind. He couldn't, or wouldn't influence her. Just as he began to, new apprehensions surfaced. The thought of having her on strings was disturbing. He stopped the enticement at once, but realized as his heart pounded that Briar was unable to cease hers.
"Say what you must, but I will not give up my brother," She asserted. She pulled away. "Who are you? Your warning comes with no 'comfort.' Only the treachery of seduction!"
"If I wanted to seduce you, by Plateau, I could," Faolan narrowed his gaze, then worked his way into a sigh. "Comfort is perhaps...not my strong suit. I try, Briar. I draw from what I know is good, which isn't much. You're so innocent, it's difficult for me to piece together something that won't interrupt your sleep. I am not usually a man of benevolence. I've never understood why, but your countenance compels me to...treat you gently."
With the last three words, he nearly choked. His words before this were like the smooth glass of an icy lake. Deep, and clear only a few feet below the surface. Beneath that, there was a darkness that was mysterious, yet solid. Now his words came with an air of uncertainty, as if he used them for cover.
"Heed what I say, Briar," he continued, eyes blazing. "I am still the beast to your mouse. I am the wolf that will never harm you. You are surrounded by many others, but they will not be as careful with their desires as I. Their powers are weak, but the hunger of a lesser monster can be more dangerous than a wraith with self-control. Choose your voice carefully. The beasts are listening."