I got back in my dorm late Thursday night. The walk home burned something fierce, but my sessions with the miracle workers were exactly that—miraculous. I collapsed onto my sofa, rolling in my hand the silver pendant inlaid with an opal that Archmage Bastilion gave me before I left.
“Call upon me when you have the bastard cornered,” he had said. “I’ll be there in an instant, with the full force of the Citadel behind me.”
Bastilion was not surprised when I told him I’d go after Haslow. Nor did he pry when I left it at that. The fatherly, somber glint in his eyes told me he understood my reasoning. It was written upon my face, clear as day.
I sighed, and set the pendant on the side-table. I had no clue where to begin searching for Haslow, nor any notion where he might deign to hide. His lease had lapsed months ago, so he wouldn’t be in his dorm. He had no friends other than me—that I knew of—who would harbor him.
Sore and exhausted, I decided it best to rest and think about it all in the morning. I didn’t bother treading the scant paces to my bed. I sank into my sofa, shuddering as the thin layer of ointment spread across my skin and clung to the leather as I laid down my head.
Most nights I’m beset by vivid dreams the moment I shut my eyes—usually nightmares about death and dying, about failing and falling short. I must have been all dreamed out after my three-day long nap, only lights like shooting stars danced behind my eyelids as I drifted into a fitful slumber.
Perriander Lafey found himself standing in the boiler room, swearing up and down to the questioning constable that he had been occupied the night of the alleged murder.
He couldn’t avert his eyes from the corpse, into the dead man’s glazed over eyes. He hadn’t lived in his building—that much was clear. Who had done it, and why dispose of the body in a place like this, where it would be swiftly discovered?
Reliving this experience for the umpteenth time, Perriander joined a connection he hadn’t before—the victim had been burned. At the time, he assumed it was the boiler. But no—the burns were too severe, too fresh. The dead man’s pallid flesh seemed to crawl, as if it were somehow still living, writhing against its host’s wrongful demise.
I awoke sometime after midnight and surged to my feet. I couldn’t tarry, I had to act on the realization that came to me in my sleep. Hurrying around the dorm, I changed into reasonable attire—a light cotton tunic and trousers, along with a long, dark overcoat—and donned my best moccasins.
Though I’d never before thought to carry it outside of class, I picked up my wand. It was a sorry thing, even more so than Haslow’s. We’d gone together to purchase them when we were freshmen. He had had a bit of money saved from his days in the clans—probably spent raiding and pillaging, I began to think—and so he could afford a new wand.
My wand, carved from beech, had been thoroughly used. The registration showed three-previous users. All of them had carved their initials somewhere on the shaft, a quirk from the first owner that the others followed suit. A charming sentiment.
I hadn’t carved my initials into it. Not yet. I had no clue when the previous owners had done so, but I liked to think it was only after they graduated and could afford a highend catalyst. I liked to think my wand had guided three talented and spirited wizards into their careers and I wanted to earn my way into their ranks.
As it stood—I remained a rather shit wizard. That needed to change before I claimed and passed down such a storied item.
In my haste, I didn’t think to bring anything else with me—I just rushed out the door into the night (rather, into the dark, empty corridors of my tenement). First, I went down to the boiler room. It was ghastly hot and immensely unpleasant. Still, I whispered a cantrip and conjured an orb of light to illuminate my search. Miracle workers had already collected the body, but I hoped I might find something there. Half an hour later, all I turned up was a single drip of dried blood encrusted on the concrete floor.
I patted down my coat and sighed in relief that my notepad was in the front pocket. I always forgot to remove before I hung up the coat at night. Tearing out a page, I used it to scrape up what I could of the old blood. There was nothing I could do with it, but blood is a useful thing among certain sorcerous circles. Besides, I had nothing else—I may as well collect it.
Against my better judgement, I then stole out into the streets and walked several blocks down to the constables’ outpost. It was nearing one in the morning, but lanterns lit the office as they did every night until dawn.
Striding through the door, I made eye contact with the middle-aged Ionian woman sitting at the reception counter. Her copper face was remarkably smooth, and I’d never have guessed she was any older than I save for her long, frizzy gray hair. She made no move to acknowledge my presence as I approached the counter.
“Good evening, madame.” I said, suddenly feeling completely out of my element. What am I doing? I was usually in bed before sunset—yet there I stood in the constables’ outpost in the middle of the night. “I am searching for someone on behalf of the Citadel.”
The woman looked up at me, yawned, and picked up a broadsheet.
“I need to examine a body—can you give me access to the morgue?”
She thumbed a page.
“Madame?”
Finally, she rolled her eyes and sighed. “If you’re really on official business, come back in the morning. Only loons come in this late.”
Her eyes were trained on the bad side of my face as she uttered those last words. I fought to swallow a swell of resentment.
“Please, Madame… it’s important I get down there—”
“Important matters begin at eight in the morning, after shift change.”
“But—”
“If you don’t leave, I will be forced to remove you.”
“Fine!” I yelled, flinging my hands in the air, my surge of dream-fueled inspiration ousted in an instant—replaced by dread, just as swift. I slammed the door on my way out.
I need to see that body… But that would have to wait. In the meantime, another lead? I had none, nor a clue where to check next. I thought of circling back to my building, checking Haslow’s old dorm, but I remembered someone else had recently moved in.
Before I’d even started, I was out of ideas. Not knowing where else to go in the middle of the night—I didn’t want to go home, I’d had enough sleep to revitalize a whole town—I found myself walking to the only part of town I knew that might accommodate a wretched “loon” like myself at such an ungodly hour: Brewer Street.
I found myself lingering again at the threshold of Colover’s Tap. I was ready to collapse at the bar and drink my night away, but an intrusive prodded into my head as I opened the door: You don’t want to be seen like this… you know people in there… It was a compelling argument. I wasn’t sure I could face Colover and his regulars. Not like this—not after what happened to me.
One of the ethical issues surrounding the topic of forced miraculous healing is that natural healing provides time for reflection, for processing of one’s new state of being after an injury. Miracles provide no such repose. I was me on Monday morning, I went to class and next thing I know, I’m waking up three days later as a monster.
The thought made me nauseous.
Then everything was making me nauseous. Suddenly, I was beset with vertigo and found myself stumbling to the bar against my better judgement.
“Water,” I groaned to whoever was bartending. “Now.”
I hunched over the counter, rubbing my temples, trying to breathe my way back to normalcy. That was when the pain set in. My mottled skin began to crawl, undulating on my face and skittering down my entire body. You could argue I would not have survived if not for the intervention of the miracle workers—Haslow’s Worldfire had consumed me. I was more burn-tissue than man at this point, and that carried with it unforeseen complications.
“Perry… Gods in hell, what’s happened to you?” a man said, setting a tin cup of water on the counter.
I looked up, grimacing as my vision went bleary and my head seared, as if my brain were swelling in my skull. Venturing a sip of water, I savored the cool liquid trailing down my throat. I’m not sure long I was incapacitated until the episode passed.
Colover stood on the other side of the counter, his hand was on my shoulder, pressing into the strained of muscles on my shoulders. He was fit for being in his fifties, grey all over. His was skin hard and creased from years of overland travel, his blue eyes filled with concern, unease.
“I heard…” he said at length. “But I hadn’t seen’ya. You alright, Perry?”
I nodded, finished the small water cup. “I’m—I’m not sure what that was.” I heard faint murmur’s around the bar, but I didn’t dare look around at all who were around. Every time I moved my head was like an underground river sloshing side-to-side.
“If you’ve heard about me…” I said, a shiver rolling down my spine. “I imagine you know what happened on Monday.”
Colover nodded, a grim expression painting his face.
“I don’t suppose Haslow has come by for a drink?”
He shook his head. “I suppose you’d like a word with him.”
“A few. To be sure.”
“I ain’t got anything that can help’ya with that…” the bartender looked about the room, as if worried someone were listening. “But I’ve been hearin’ rumors roll round—maybe something to’em.”
I laughed, disheartened. I felt like a damned fool. “I have no idea what the hell I’m doing, chap. I should be dead.”
“Aye,” Colover said, refilling my water cup. “From what I’ve heard, I’m bloody shocked to see you shamblin’ in here.”
“So…” I said, running my unmarred fingers on the cool surface of my tin cup. “Rumors. Tell me.”
“Until Haslow blew up a classroom, talk of the town was the poor fool they found dead in a tenement.”
“That was my building—they found him in the boiler room.”
“By Bridget, man, you can’t catch a break.”
“Cheers to that.”
I raised my cup. Colover scoffed, flashing one of his rare smiles. “Let’s have toast with a real drink, eh?” He went over to the tap and pulled two pints of northern mead, filling them with perfect foamy tops in his best, oaken steins.
“Ain’t much more of that to go around, I’d reckon.” I said, savoring the smell of hops and honey.
“My last shipment for some time,” he said before taking a deep pull from his own stein. “They’re not letting merchants from the clans through the gates…” anguish danced across Colover’s features and he averted his gaze. “Anyway, what I wanted to tell’ya is that I’ve heard bodies are turning up almost every week. With all the political turmoil going on, people ain’t talking much about the dead students in the street.”
“Right…” I thought about it, recalling a time when Mister Hamator came in the office looking particularly perturbed. When I asked him, he mentioned something a sharp increase in first-year drop out rates. In my mind’s eye, I saw his haunted eyes and wondered if there was more to story. Perhaps I needed to pay my old supervisor a visit.
“Thanks for the info, chap. And the drink—add it to my tab, will you?”
“On the house, friend.” Colover smiled, not his usual fleeting grin, but one that seemed altogether insincere. As I had been the one to pay for his drink. “On the house.”