The Good Son

After the frost from a clear night, low cloud moved in, bringing drizzle. Then it took to raining in the afternoon. Now, instead of the beads of drizzle slowly seeping through their clothing, each drop penetrated the cotton immediately, biting at Llew’s skin with its cold. Their hair and clothes clung to them, and Jonas’s shirt proved too thin, as the black lines of his gryphon tattoo showed through, even against his golden brown skin. The shirt’s stripes broke it up, but it didn’t take much to resolve the image if you knew what you were looking for. It certainly wasn’t a disguise they could count on.

One advantage of simply having no option but to keep moving was that at least it kept Llew somewhat warm against the damp chill even as the dark of another night set in. Their pace shackled by hunger, and Jonas’s injuries, they hadn’t found a town in which to seek help, yet. The uneven ground presented its own challenges in the dark, and Jonas was starting to make more involuntary sounds as they went. She reached out to offer comfort only to find his hand cold and clammy. She cursed under her breath. There was nothing they could do but push on through mud and clamber over rocky outcrops; just keep on moving.

A little before sunrise, they dared approach a wooden building backing up to the river. The building had no obvious purpose, no trinkets of industry, or decoration. The building was raised, wooden boards hiding an empty cavity beneath, suggesting the currently slow river might flood occasionally.

All was quiet. The only sign of life: the aroma of freshly baking bread – from humble kitchen or bakery, they didn’t know, but either would suffice – and wood smoke. Desperation reeled them in.

They loitered around the side of the bakery. The smell only made them hungrier, emphasizing the fact they hadn’t eaten anything substantial for more than a day. Torturous as it was, enveloped in that smell, it was also their best chance of meeting a friendly local.

The rain eased back to a shower, so they were merely soaking rather than sopping. Time ticked on and Jonas blew out and sucked in shaky breaths, hugging himself in an effort to keep warm. Llew might’ve hugged him herself, but they needed more than that. They needed somewhere warm and dry, like a living space above a bakery. They were running out of options. They would have to take the risk.

“I’ll go in alone,” she said. “If they’re hostile, I’ll get away easier and we can try the next place.” Nothing that would smell as good as this, though.

Jonas nodded and sprayed rain from his lips as he blasted a breath between his teeth. As time went on, he struggled more and more to hide his pain and misery from Llew – or any potential threats.

They had better not be hostile.

A door opened, a bell jingled, a door closed. Perhaps a patron leaving the bakery. Llew waited a few moments, giving the customer time to leave before she peeled away to approach the entry. Steps led up to a door with a single word: Bakery, and a painting of a range of loaves beside. Her mouth watered. She hoped they were friendly.

She gripped the handrail and put her foot on the bottom step. The door opened, its entry bell ringing again, and a young woman about Llew’s age with a jute sack clamped under one arm and about to open an umbrella looked down at Llew. And Llew looked up at her. There was something about the girl. Most would likely call her plain, with brown hair and blue eyes not unlike Llew’s. But there was something else. Didn’t matter. If she wasn’t the baker she was of no use to Llew. Just hurry on down the stairs and away, young lady.

The girl backed up. The door closed again, the girl disappearing inside.

Indecision froze Llew to the spot. Why had the young woman returned inside? Could it be she was such a kind soul she was going to buy another loaf of bread for Llew? It seemed too good to be true, and not nearly as convincing as the idea that a description of the escaped Aenuk had been spread far and wide and right now the girl was telling the baker to contact the authorities. Or worse. What if there was a soldier taking shelter in the bakery itself?

Before she could react, or even decide what she would be reacting to, the door opened again. Without thinking, Llew darted back around the corner of the bakery. She wiped her dripping hair out of her eyes and pressed her back against the wall. Listening.

“What—?” Jonas began.

“Shh.” Llew didn’t mean for it to sound harsh.

There was a creak that must have been the top step up to the bakery, the wet wood squeaking underfoot. Then nothing over the constant hiss of drizzle and the light breeze sweeping along the road.

Llew’s mind was in turmoil. They needed help, but putting their safety in another’s hands meant risking being turned over to the authorities. Think, think*, Llew*. She looked to Jonas. He had his hands up around his biceps, hugging himself. His breath was ragged. And there was a sheen to his skin that maybe wasn’t due to the rain.

Another creak and dull thud. Second step? Last? The girl was taking it slow. Sneaking down the stairs. Not well. Maybe she thought she could take Llew by surprise. Well, if she thought she had the advantage in this scenario, she had some learning coming. Llew could take her on, take her down, and take the bread. Then demand directions to a doctor.

One more dull thud, then soft crunches of feet on mud. Llew tensed, preparing to strike. The girl tottered into the street, sack in one hand, umbrella held up in the other, and her back to Llew. She wore a warm-looking cloak. Maybe even waterproof. But, what was she doing? Her head was to the side, her shoulders angled; her whole back curved.

With her body poised to attack, Llew’s mind tumbled through thoughts of shoving the woman over, stealing the bread, and threatening her for information. She’d take the coat, too. It looked warm. Only … she couldn’t.

Back in Cheer, the crippled children had fared even worse than the other orphans. Some hadn’t even been orphans, not really; just abandoned to the streets. Llew hadn’t known many; only in passing, and not for long.

The young woman turned and looked directly at Llew. She shuffled closer, her body stiff, legs splayed, one foot turned inward, mouth in a crooked grin. She reached Llew and held out her umbrella. Llew took it without even thinking. Dumbstruck, she opened her mouth to say … she didn’t know what. Argue? It was raining and the girl had handed her an umbrella while she dug in her sack and withdrew a loaf of bread. Llew accepted the bread. The girl’s hand swung to hover in front of her umbrella again. A bit slow, Llew handed the umbrella back and looked down at the loaf in her hand. She had bread. And she hadn’t had to steal to get it. She was dumbfounded.

The girl’s hand wrapped around Llew’s on the umbrella handle; gentle, but deliberate, shocking Llew back to reality and the real risk of being identified as an escaped Aenuk. Nothing happened. No transfer of energy.

Llew slipped her hand out from beneath the other young woman’s.

“Th— thank you,” Llew said, the cold forcing a stutter. Rain dripped into Llew’s mouth, making her slurp on the words. She clutched the bread to her stomach, hunched over in an attempt to keep it dry, and stepped back towards Jonas.

The young woman looked past Llew and her face went slack. She took a tottering step towards them, eyes locked on Jonas as if Llew had suddenly become invisible.

“It is you, isn’t it?” she said before taking another look at Llew. That glance held no hint of recognition. At least that told Llew her description wasn’t well known, yet.

Llew wasn’t sure if confirming the girl’s assumptions was a good idea. Generally, admitting a weakness wasn’t, but they could hardly hide Jonas’s feverish state, nor the blood staining their clothing. Informing the girl that Llew was Aenuk might assert a certain power, it might also mean a swift return to the Turhmos’s Aenuk cells. The girl’s apparent awe at seeing Jonas was probably a good sign. There was no reason to draw her focus elsewhere, not yet.

“It’s him. And he needs help, if you know where we can find some—”

“My mama’s a s— surgeon.” Her s’s were soft, though not quite to the point of a full lisp.

Jonas glanced at Llew, dragged a sleeve under his nose, sniffed deeply, and coughed.

Llew looked at him sharply. They didn’t need him getting sick on top of what they already had to deal with. But he shrugged his eyebrows and flicked a glance at the girl. Yes, it had been Llew who’d said there had to be other nice people in Turhmos. But caught in the moment, Llew wasn’t so sure. She glanced down at Jonas’s boot, within which his flesh was dying, and had the sinking feeling that regardless of whether they could trust this girl, they were going to have to. If her ma was the local surgeon, meeting her was a gift. Time, and the time to question, was running out.

***

Pain without purpose was futile. Braph’s pain was for a higher purpose. For that, he would endure it. While Orin was allowed to view proceedings, Braph had enlisted Orinia’s assistance to connect the metal cuff to his bloodstream, not prepared to trust the steadiness of a needle in a child’s hands. Only, of course, she was now in labor.

Braph’s study was his domain – a space purpose built in service to his projects. Just inside and to the left of the door were the two chairs affixed to the stone floor tiles, leather cuffs for ankles and wrists from when he’d had to tie Ieaun, and later his daughter Llewella, for his Aenuk blood collections, and the orphans who had healed them, allowing Braph to draw every drop of blood from them several times over in one sitting. Tucked in the right back corner stood the exercise equipment he’d had installed to make sure Jonas was in as peak condition as possible, despite his infection, for the fight intended to score points with the Turhmos public and draw in Aris to his death.

The rest of the room was dedicated to the crystal-making machinery and Braph’s workbench on which sat contraptions of metal and glass in various states of completion. Thankfully, his nephew, Joelin, was still too short to reach those. Braph’s preference would be for the child to never step foot into this room, but Orinia had insisted that leaving him out of proceedings would be tantamount to neglect and, apparently, that would be bad.

Abandoning her first attempt at driving the high gauge needle into the visible vein in his upper arm, Orinia leaned into his workbench, groaning. Orin looked pained at his mother’s suffering and quivered like he wanted to reach out to her, but then capitulated and sat back in one of the tall caster-wheeled chairs designed for working at the workbench.

“Uh oh,” said Joelin.

Expressing his annoyance with a grimace, Braph rolled the tourniquet off over the round stump below his right elbow, hooked what remained of his forearm through a thick elastic band attached to the wall and flexed, keeping the blood flowing, keeping the vein at the surface full. He reached his left hand out, rubbing it over Orinia’s curved back, memories returning of the day Orin was born. She had appreciated back rubs and hot water bottles. But she wasn’t in full blown labor yet. The contractions were still haphazard in timing, length, and strength.

Her groan turned to heavy breathing, and she relaxed, though she remained hunched over a few moments more. Orin, too, visibly relaxed.

“What number is this?” Braph asked, projecting gentleness for Orinia’s sake. As unattached as he was to this child of the state, his heart felt heavy at the thought of her misuse at the hands of Turhmos.

“I’ve lost count.” Orinia eased herself to stand again. She closed her eyes and slowly released one more controlled breath. “They’re still irregular, but they seem to be getting stronger.”

Braph smiled. “No. I meant the baby. How many half-siblings does Orin have?”

“Oh.” Something crossed Orinia’s face, and he thought she might clam. She hadn’t done much talking since her release from the Aenuk bunker, though she always turned to him when he offered displays of affection; a loose hug, or a kiss on the cheek. Then she spoke quietly. “Seven. This is number seven.”

“Seven?” Orin’s jaw dropped.

“Sa,” said Joelin, mostly distracted now by a rolling contraption Orin had fashioned out of some cogs and scrap metal.

That would be one a year since they took her. A mild pain settled in Braph’s gut. He stopped flexing his elbow, distracted by these unpleasant feelings. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to you sooner.”

Orinia shrugged, most of her attention inwards, focused on the baby. She tightened the tourniquet for him. “Better move quickly.”

Braph bent and unfolded his arm several times without resistance. The cephalic vein was visible. That was all he needed. Once he had magic flowing through him, the rest would be simple. Orinia realigned the needle, and hesitated.

“Go on, before the next one comes,” he said. “This is the hard bit.”

Orinia placed the sharp tip to his skin and pushed against the resistance. Braph felt a slight pop and burning as the needle sliced through his skin. Blood emerged from the top end of the needle and dripped onto Braph’s arm. Orinia gasped looked up at him, alarmed. It was nothing new for him, though. All would be well soon.

“Good. Now the tube,” he said.

Orinia picked up the finely wrought rubber tube, slim enough to slide through the thick needle and into Braph’s vein. The extension of the tube into his vein sent a fiery pain through his arm, but Braph focused on how close he was to tasting the power. All this would be worth it.

Holding the tube in place, Orinia gently slid the needle over it and out of his skin.

“Quickly,” Braph muttered, aware that her next contraction could start any time. If he’d waited any longer, they would have three children underfoot. Two was bad enough.

Sliding the needle free of the tube, Orinia collected the miniature metal cuff parts as Braph had shown her, creating a seal on the end of the tube that would screw into the larger cuff that already had one of Orin’s crystals fixed in place. Braph almost salivated at the closeness of the power. Orinia’s delicate hands twirled the two pieces together, screwing them tight. Braph reached for the crystal’s enclosure, pressing the mini pump a few times. It needed to be manually primed, but once the power was flowing, he could set it to look after itself. Magic was wonderful stuff. The ache where the tube met his body turned to a fizzing sensation then spread beyond the connection site and through the rest of his body. He savored it a moment before turning his concentration to healing his flesh around the tube with plenty of scar tissue to hold it in place.

“Thank you,” he said.

Orinia was already distracted, clearly feeling the next contraction coming on. She pushed the crystal casing into Braph’s hand and turned to grab the bench.

Torn for the briefest moment between comforting her and getting on with things on his own, Braph lined the larger cuff up with his stump. The metal join, where the tube connected to his bloodstream met the tube to the large cuff, kept falling in the way.

“Orin.”

His son moved quickly, lifting the tube out of the way. Braph gifted him a slight smile, pressed the cuff against his fleshy stump, twisted it a little one way, then back again, and corrected a little more. Only when he was totally satisfied by its positioning did he flick the latch that released the clamps. Eight curved strips of metal dug into his skin encircling his arm, setting off eight points of burning pain not unlike when the cleaver had sliced through his forearm some months earlier. He fired magic through his system, numbing the pain almost instantly, then healing his flesh around these new intrusions. Beside him, Orinia controlled her breathing, dealt with her own pain. Pain that, in Braph’s opinion, was pointless. She didn’t want the baby. He didn’t want the baby. They would deliver it to the Palace soon after it emerged. And then they would move on and consolidate themselves as Turhmos’s premiere family. Syaenuk mother, Immortal son, and extremely intelligent and powerful Karan Magician father.

For the moment, the magic flowed into him only, dissipating after several minutes as his body broke it down. While it sat in his bloodstream, though, it was a high he didn’t think he could ever beat. Although, a shimmering tree flickered in his mind’s eye. A return to Taither beckoned.

Filled with magic, in total control of his senses, pain, and dexterity, Braph took a new high gauge, needle and lined it up on his skin where he estimated the brachial artery to be.

Directing some of the magic to the area he plumped up the artery and shifted it closer to the surface, making it clearly visible. Then he numbed the area and held blood-flow back temporarily as he pushed the needle through his flesh, fed another rubber pipe in, slid the needle out, and healed his flesh.

He always preferred to work alone. With magic flowing throughout, he was close to a return.

He held his arm up for Orin to do the fiddly bit: attaching the tube to the cuff. Now the magic could flow through him, and any excess could return to the device to be stored and recycled.

Orin already brandished the new hand, pride putting a glint in his eyes and plumping his cheeks.

“Orn. Orn! Orn !” The toddler demanded the masterpiece as the good son handed it over.

As Braph took it, Joelin threw himself on the floor, hitting his head hard and bursting into shrieks.

Orinia’s contraction had come to an end and she scooped up the child and set about trying to soothe him.

Tuning out the racket as best he could, Braph took the metallic hand and forearm and fitted its nodule into the nest of the cuff. It slid in easily initially, with a final push needed to click it into place, then it was back to Orin to attach the flexible metal tubes connecting cuff and arm.

The fingers of the metal hand drooped lazily, clinking together as Braph shifted. The trio waited while the power from Orin’s crystal slowly built up within the system; Braph’s body and the attached gadgetry. After several minutes, Braph concentrated on moving the index finger. It trembled, bent slightly at the two ‘knuckles’. He’d been trying for a full contraction, but he would accept small victories. He, as well as anyone, knew persistence mattered more than the size of the steps taken to get there. Orin was not so schooled. A muted grunt escaped the child’s throat.

Braph let his left-hand fall, swung it a fraction behind his hip.

Without thinking too deeply on the details of how to move a finger, he simply told himself to curl both index fingers in unison. The new metal right index finger folded its two top joints, while his fleshy left did the same out of sight.

“Yeah!” Orin bounced on the spot and clapped a hand against Braph’s back, then swiftly pulled both of his hands behind his back. “Oops,” he murmured.

Braph let the slight slide, even shared a smile with the boy.

Then Orinia broke the moment with a gasp and another contraction. As soon as she placed Joelin back on the floor he fell, smacked his head, and began to wail again.