Magician’s Touch

Despite the cold and pain he must have been in, he was playing dead. And all Llew could do was play along. And hope.

“Stay dead this time!” A gob of spit landed on Jonas’s rib. It oozed across the black lines of the tattoo, leaving a shiny trail of filth.

Jonas didn’t flinch.

“Looks dead to me.” Another voice from the gathered crowd.

“He’s dead,” Llew muttered through teeth gritted at the strain firing through her arms, shoulders and back.

“Yeah, but he was meant to be dead months ago.” The spitter.

“Just a rumor, though, wasn’t it? I mean, we saw the fight and here’s his body. It’s gotta be real this time, eh?” A booted toe jabbed Jonas’s side.

Llew clamped her lips. Unlike Jonas, she looked local. All she had to do was act like it.

“Good riddance to him, I say. Filthy Quaven.”

“Where you taking him?” Spitty, again.

Illusions held best when you let people decide for themselves what it was they saw. Llew had lived most of her life across the seas in Aghacia. To her, these people had an accent. To them, so would she.

Llew kept her mouth shut.

“Oi!” Spitty shoved her.

Llew lost her grip with one hand and Jonas lolled, convincing in his performance of death yet to rigour. Llew lurched, reaching for his shoulder before he hit the ground, but her other arm trembled in her efforts, threatening to fail, and she settled for easing his descent only. Liberated of his weight, she straightened and glared at the gathering crowd while she caught her breath.

“Where you—?”

Llew turned her fury on the man.

“ …taking him?” Spitty’s voice trailed off.

Llew blinked and swept her gaze across every member of her audience. Some took a self-conscious step back. Some looked vexed. Most looked confused.

She stretched one arm behind her, then the other, loosening her muscles some. She rolled her shoulders, shook them out. Then she bent, slipped her fingers under Jonas’s shoulders, curled them into his armpits, took a brief moment to prepare her already fatigued muscles and hoisted him up. His head fell back. It had to hurt—she couldn’t imagine how it couldn’t—but still his body hung limp. He didn’t tense, uttered no sound. He didn’t even open his eyes, even though she would likely be the only one who would see. Don’t be dead.

Surrounded as they were, she couldn’t afford to lift his head or make any attempt at improving his comfort. And so, she simply took one back step at a time, his hair dragging on the ground, his head swinging. Don’t you dare abandon me now, you bastard.

Not a bastard. Unless you’re dead. So don’t be.

The small crowd lingered, watching her go. Spitty looked from one of his supporters to another before stepping forward, following Llew. At first he paced himself so he was always a couple of lengths behind, but after a while he lengthened his gait, closing the gap.

“I asked where you were taking him. ’S’fair question.”

As much as she didn’t want to, Llew had to agree with him. Jonas’s death had been rumoured once before. And these people had either just seen or heard about a fight involving Jonas, the Immortal Aris, and Braph with his magical device. Llew counted herself lucky enough not to have witnessed it, but she had seen Jonas and Braph fight before, and Jonas and Aris had faced each other at her tree. It must have looked so mystical and magical to these folk who had probably never seen the like. If she wanted them off her back, she would have to tell them something. And so she spoke, concentrating on the slight lilt they had. They would hate to hear it, but to Llew they sounded little different to Quavens, only having a greater tendency to pronounce their G’s. She also forced her voice down in pitch. She’d passed as a boy for years and always found it simpler.

“Kadesh— Ah, I mean, the president—” Thank you, Braph. First-name basis with the elite never hurt anyone. “—wants you all to have plenty of time to celebrate the Syakaran’s death. But he’ll stink up the place in a couple of days if he’s not embalmed first.” And she could thank the late Cassidy for teaching her about that one. “So I’m taking him to the embalmer. And he doesn’t want to have to work with a body covered in your filth.”

Several of the rabble had the decency to look sheepish.

Spitty held his ground a few more moments, but sensing the others no longer backing him up, he relented.

Llew looked like them. That helped her lie hold.

Well, she shared their pale skin tone, anyway.

She was lankier, longer in the torso and, thanks to her lack of discernible breasts or hips, looked like a young lad of about fifteen: the kind of person that might find themselves with the task of dragging a body to its final resting place. Her shirt and trousers enforced the illusion. They were prisoner’s garb, but few would have seen a prisoner from Turhmos’s Aenuk camps.

Llew was counting on it.

“Now, my arms and back are already killing me, and I’ve got miles more to go.”

She stepped back, stepped back, stepped back. No one followed.

If she could find some clothes, then hopefully she and Jonas would be able to move through Turhmos anonymously. Braph had sent Jonas out into the stadium shirtless, of course. All the better to prove to the Turhmos audience who they were watching their countrymen fight, and defeat. None of those men—fighters or audience—would have known Jonas was weakened by a bug ravaging his blood, rendering him powerless; no stronger or quicker than they.

Her gaze lingered on his huge tattoo. Such a comfort to her at times, right now it was likely to get them both killed. Everyone knew Jonas had it. Everyone knew only Jonas had it. If she could find some clothes, then hopefully she and Jonas would be able to move through Turhmos anonymously.

Of course it would matter none if he was already dead.

She wished she could ask some sign of him, but it was too great a risk while he was so clearly him and they were still in the heart of Duffirk. Their only saving grace for now was that most of the city’s population seemed far more interested in Braph. That left Llew and Jonas largely unmolested.

Despite her own opinion of the man, Llew found herself thanking Braph again. Never again.

Back and back and back she trudged, Jonas’s boots scraping across the ground, her body aching. The farther they left the fight behind, the fewer people there were in the streets.

A shudder jolted through Jonas. After all this, had he died? But the muscles beneath her grip tensed and released, and he grimaced. Not dead, then. Just cold.

A few stray Duffirk locals forced the pair to continue their charade well into the outer suburbs, where strings of damp laundry offered promise of disguise. Outside an isolated house on the outskirts of the city, Llew dragged Jonas up to a low fence. “Sit,” she commanded as she eased him back. Now somewhat safe, his eyes opened and he took the weight of his own head. He also shivered.

She checked the narrow lane in both directions, looked across the field over the road. All clear. She stepped over the fence, keeping the hanging clothes between her and the house. Peering around a sheet, she made sure the yard was empty and she wouldn’t be seen from the house. All clear. Small mercies.

Llew commandeered a damp, loose green and white striped shirt and a long black coat and returned to Jonas.

“Are you still with me?”

He nodded, although he looked like he was about to pass out. She pulled him forward and slid the shirt across his shoulders.

“You’re going to have to walk. Can you walk?” She pulled one arm and then the other into the sleeves, fighting all the way, the damp material clinging to Jonas’s skin at every opportunity.

He nodded again, tried to speak, cleared his throat. “Don’t know if I can run, though.” Despite his pain, he quirked his lips at his joke. Llew wasn’t in the mood for laughing.
“Hopefully we won’t have to.” She passed the coat behind him. “But we’ve got to put some distance between us and Duffirk before Kadesh realises I’m gone. All this with Braph and Aris will give us a start, but I’d hate to have to count on it.”

Gripping his arm, she hauled him to his feet.

Jonas took a tentative step and it was clear his right leg could barely take his weight. Llew slipped her arm behind him, hefting his across her shoulders. She still ached all over, but she would be using a new posture and set of muscles now. Let the mercies continue.

* * *

Braph leaned over his workbench, flicking the tip of this new right index finger with that of his left. The metal pivoted on its joint easily. Too easily, really, as it folded nearly ninety degrees both forward and back. But that would change as his work continued. The three segments of the finger were attached to a longer metal tube that extended to a partial cuff. Beginnings. That’s all he had. One finger, five metacarpals, and an inelegant germination of a wrist of sorts. Yes, it was a start.

And, really, what better way for a father to cement his relationship with his eight year old son than to work on a project with him. Orin brought the pair of hands where Braph brought the ingenuity. Working alone was more Braph’s style, but Orin was a good boy, a sensible boy, an obedient boy. And the power flowing through his blood …

Beside him on the bench sat a newly pressed crystal, so deeply brownish-red it looked black. When the light hit it right, purple glints fired off its surface, reminding him of the crystals he’d made from Llew when she had been carrying Jonas’s offspring. But he had no use for her toy jewellery, now. The power in the crystals he was getting from Orin well and truly eclipsed hers, though he would only know by how much once he drew it into his own bloodstream.

Braph breathed deeply—but denied himself an audible sigh with this son sat to close—at the mere thought of that power flowing through his own veins. Braph understood other people enough to know that sort of thing was considered taboo.

He’d already removed the device Jonas had helped him build and attach to his stump. That bracelet was designed for raw blood, not crystals, and it had been thrown together out on the road. The new device would be superior in every way, made in his own workshop with materials from suppliers he trusted. He’d removed it in order to remove the temptation to draw on Orin’s blood. The tubes of raw blood emptied quickly, the torrent of power so fleeting it was nothing more than a distraction from what he wanted to achieve.

He spied over his shoulder to where Orin sat at his own branch of the workbench, riveting phalanges together. The boy looked up, smiled. Braph smiled back, doing the proud father thing. That was what the kids were after, wasn’t it? It was a relationship that worked. Orin wanted paternal approval, Braph wanted the power in the boy’s blood. And Orin was willing to give it. Unlike the Aenuks, Immortals didn’t need to drain life from outside sources to heal. They needed to eat. And eat. And Orin liked to eat: fruits, meats, breads, and cheese. Oh, yes, he liked his cheese. There was no need to restrain the boy. He simply got himself comfortable and inserted the needle, and ate. Braph had already amassed a small collection of his son’s crystals. So close, but so far. His new device couldn’t be finished soon enough.

The boy’s smile dropped into a thoughtful consideration, then he asked, “Does it really matter that you’re Karan and not Syakaran?”

The question caught Braph off guard. And touched a nerve. He managed something of a smile while he schooled himself not to take offence. Being the half-brother of Quaver’s revered Syakaran hero would always be a sore point. He’d dulled it by moving to Turhmos—where Kara were loathed rather than revered; especially Jonas—and further by developing his inventions and, by extension, his mind. He was better than Jonas. He knew it. His brother knew it. The rest of the world was still in the dark. But that would change, and soon.

“What that man said,” Orin continued, “that I was the son of a ‘mere Karan’. Does that mean I would be a better Immortal if you were Syakaran?”

The boy certainly was perceptive. More so than Braph might have expected from an eight year old. Then again, Braph would be the first to admit he knew little of children.
“But you’re not just the son of a Karan and a Syaenuk. You’re the Immortal boy who absorbed the power from another Immortal. You contain more power than any human has since Aris himself lots his powers the first time. And this time he’s dead, so he won’t be getting them back. There is no better Immortal,” Braph said. “You have more power than any other boy on the planet. You only need to grow into them. And by using those powers on your behalf, I can ensure you do exactly that.”

A smile showing some relief played on Orin’s lips and he turned back to his work.
Braph watched him awhile. He had often wondered how much to share with his son. The boy was only young, after all, and Braph had spent far too little time with him to know him all that well. But in these few days they’d spent together in his workshop, Orin had proved himself a keen listener and learner, and now a true partner. In his son’s eyes burned the same fire, the same desire for greatness. Not necessarily to lord over others; mostly, Braph wanted recognition. Just what he’d always deserved though never received when standing beside Jonas. But Jonas could no longer overshadow him.

Braph placed the partial hand on the bench near his son, who snatched it up to attach the remaining fingers.

“You will be a god among men, and your mother and I your heralds,” Braph said. “We will show the world the gifts great power can bring to those who follow, and I see no reason why we couldn’t end the rift between Turhmos and Quaver once and for all.”

“Like heroes.” Two words and the glint of an eye reminded Braph he was talking to a child. How fleeting these moments of true camaraderie could be.

“Exactly like.”