Castle Kingside

Dimitry returned to the cargo hold after his meeting with the bishop. The entire crew, all except for one man plucking stone feathers from the ship’s deck, huddled around a prideful Zeran knight, showering him with compliments and prayers. The toasting of wooden cups drowned out the creaking of twisting planks. A jubilant atmosphere. Dimitry, however, wasn’t as thrilled.

He navigated past a sleeping Selene and sat beside Saphiria, who stayed almost entirely in the same spot for the past three days. Underneath her cloak hid Precious—the ‘person’ Dimitry came to consult with.

“What happened?” Saphiria whispered.

“The bishop knows I’m the convict with ‘pale green eyes’, but she doesn’t know about you or Precious. She said I have to keep Selene alive, or else she’ll turn me in once we reach Coldust. I need to know if she lied.”

Saphiria tilted her head down. “Precious didn’t sense anyone lying recently.”

Dimitry exhaled a relieved breath. From the start, he intended to nurse the little girl to health. Contaminated bandages encased Selene’s wound, one that would eventually get infected, and treatment required supplies that weren’t available on an unsanitary old boat. Unless there was another way.

And maybe there was.

“I’ll be right back,” Dimitry said. “I want to test something.”

Saphiria grabbed his ankle. “Be careful. The Church can’t be trusted.”

“Normally, I’d agree with you, but I doubt an eight-year-old girl would try to trick me. As for the bishop, that’s another story.”

“… Understood.” She let go.

Dimitry picked up Selene, who slept on two combined crates, and rested her over his shoulder. He brought her to Ignacius.

The old man released a cloud of minty smoke. “Everything all right, my boy?”

“I want to experiment with some magic if you don’t mind.”

“Say no more!” The exhilarated glare in Ignacius’ eyes was like that of a child watching a rocket launch into space. “You’ve come to the right person!”

“Do you know how to cast preservia?” Dimitry asked.

“But of course.”

“Can you enchant an object with it?”

“Unfortunately not.” Ignacius sighed. “It’s a completely different skill. If my daughter were here…”

Although his answer wasn’t the one Dimitry hoped for, his idea could still work. The plan was simple. Back in Ravenfall, he used a preservia blanket to keep severed corpses fresh. Normally, microorganisms like bacteria and fungi decayed flesh, but under the enchantment’s influence, body parts rotted at a decreased rate. That meant one of two things: either preservia prevented germ growth or killed them altogether. Both outcomes served as a means for sterilization—a development that could revolutionize medicine.

As for how well that worked in practice, however, remained to be seen.

Dimitry leaned Selene against a wall. “First, I want you to cast preservia on my arm.”

Ignacius combed four fingers through his beard. “Could you tell me why?”

“I want to see if it’ll hurt me before I use it on Selene. If my plan works, I’ll tell you all about it.”

The old man glanced at the blonde girl’s hand. “If you intend to mend her injury, I’m afraid I can’t guarantee results.”

Ignacius’ comment didn’t deter Dimitry. Chances were that people cast the spell onto infected wounds only to reinfect them shortly after with unsanitary equipment. A blunder he wouldn’t repeat. “Could you just try it, anyway?” Dimitry placed two vol pellets onto the cargo hold’s floor, then held out his arm.

Ignacius tapped his pipe against a crate. Orange powder shifted within the bowl. “One pellet’s more than enough for both of you.” He picked up a pellet. “Just the hand?”

“Yes.”

The vol pellet in the old man’s palm shrunk.

Dimitry felt no different. “Is that it?”

Ignacius nodded.

The spell seemed safe enough.

Dimitry considered unwrapping Selene’s bandage to peek underneath, but changed his mind. There was no point in tearing away fresh scab. It would only result in bleeding from a small girl who didn’t have blood to spare. If the heathen’s blood didn’t have any delayed symptoms, Dimitry guessed that the affected area would look like a severe burn: red and black skin with interspersed blisters. A pathogenic playground. He had to sterilize it right away.

“Now, cast it on her arm and bandage.”

Without a word, the pellet in the old man’s hand decreased in size once more.

“Was that your whole experiment?” Ignacius exhaled smoke from his nose. “Don’t get your hopes up. People have tried it before.”

“Hey, what’s going on here?” A joyful Reece said as he approached. “Is Selene okay?”

“She’s fine.” Dimitry examined the rosy-cheeked knight. “Have you been drinking?”

“Just ale.”

Aside from wine, ale was the only potable liquid they had on the ship. It couldn’t even be considered alcoholic. The knight wasn’t drunk—Dimitry could trust him with the girl. “In that case, can you do me a favor and take Selene to bed? She needs rest.”

“Sure!” The knight placed the small, blonde girl over his metal-clad shoulder. Her blonde hair spilled out of her hood.

“One more thing. Don’t lift her bandage or poke around. I put special medicine on her hand that only works when it stays covered.”

“You worry too much!” Reece pounded his chest and grinned. “Leave it to me.”

“I’m counting on you.”

The knight’s metal boots pounded against the ladder as he clambered out of the cargo hold.

Ignacius chuckled. “Special medicine, huh?”

“I like to keep things simple,” Dimitry said. “Besides, if I told him the treatment was preservia, do you think he would take my advice seriously and resist the urge to look?”

“An overactive boy like that one? Probably not.” The old man took another puff from his pipe. The minty smoke escaped from the cargo hold through chinks between layered oak planks.

Although Dimitry didn’t smoke anymore, he wanted nothing more than to occupy his mind. The burning orange powder tempted him. “What’s that in your pipe?”

“This? It’s just regular feracide.”

The fumes left Dimitry light-headed. Not in a bad way. “Does it have any interesting effects?”

“Aside from keeping pesky thoughts at bay,” Ignacius said, “Not much else. Want to try some, boy?”

Feracide sounded like a substance that could deliver peace of mind. A tempting proposition. Dimitry spent the past few weeks murdering, butchering, and running from authorities without stopping to rest. Every morally abhorrent act, every near-death encounter pushed his adrenergic system closer to its limit. If he kept it up, a sustained stress response would eventually lead to illness. He needed a break.

“Do you have a spare pipe?” Dimitry asked.

Ignacius reached into his robe. “Horn or clay?”

“Horn.”

Dimitry took the pipe from the old man. With no cracked parts or crumbling pieces, he determined it was safe to smoke from. But there was another problem: the lip. Has it ever been properly cleaned of whatever microorganisms festered on the surface? Probably not. He dabbed the edge of a rag with aqua vitae and got to work.

“What’s that for?”

“I heard that cleaning a pipe makes the product taste better.”

“Is that so? Do the same for mine, would you?”

Dimitry disinfected both pipes, removing a layer of dried grime from each. Ignacius filled their bowls with feracide and lit them with a glance.

Every inhalation sent a wave of dense smoke into Dimitry’s lungs. It reminded him of his teenage years. However, unlike the cough-inducing mixture of tobacco and marijuana his ‘friends’ smoked, feracide’s vapors soothed all as they traveled through his throat, larynx, trachea, and finally, into his lungs. Despite the minty taste, there was no cooling aftereffect. Warmth relaxed his body. The perfect compliment to a tense voyage across frigid oceans filled with heathens.

Ignacius heaved a full-bellied laugh. “Looks like you’ve found yourself a new hobby, boy.”

His head lighter, either from oxygen deprivation or feracide’s effects, Dimitry nodded. “I’ll be honest, it’s quite pleasant.”

“A necessity after any heathen attack.”

“It certainly helps.” The drug calmed Dimitry’s nerves, which remained unhinged after that unbelievable sight. He never expected to see a gigantic stone whale housing murderous birds in its back. A combination that seemed to exist only for war. “Do they always attack boats?”

“No,” the old man said, “but it happens frequently in Roland’s Gulf. There are three cities nearby, and vol usage attracts devils.”

Dimitry recalled hearing the same from Saphiria back in Ravenfall. “It would be best if we reached Coldust soon, then.”

The two men sat against the wall smoking until everyone else cleared out, save for a half-awake Saphiria. She nodded off on a twisting oak hull that creaked with every dip and dive from a boat resisting the throes of ocean waves. A small illumina lamp atop a crate brightened the otherwise gloom space.

Dimitry struggled to keep his eyes open. Whether the fatigue sourced from an eventful night or the mellowing effects of feracide was unclear. In either case, he overindulged. With the drug’s long-term effects a mystery, he decided he had abused his respiratory system enough. “I think I’m going to go get some sleep.”

“Just a moment before you go.” Ignacius glanced at Saphiria. “Now that everyone else is gone, it’s a good opportunity for me to bring this up.”

“Bring what up?”

“That the little miss is an escaped servant.”

Icy waves shot down Dimitry’s limbs, perking him up instantly. “Why would you say that?”

“I saw her collar.”

Dimitry jumped to his feet. The sudden movement made Saphiria’s head shoot up.

“Don’t be alarmed, boy. You two are not the only ones at odds with the Church.” Dense streams of smoke escaped the old man’s nostrils. “Besides, the little miss already knows that I know. She promised not to speak of it after... some things happened.”

Saphiria nodded.

What went down while Dimitry lay unconscious? Although he trusted Saphiria, he couldn’t trust Ignacius. Agatha and Delphine’s deception proved that anyone could be an enemy. “Are you sure he isn’t lying?”

“Yes,” Saphiria said.

“How about the part about being at odds with the Church? Was he trying to mislead me?”

“No.”

“So no maliciousness at all?”

Saphiria shook her head.

“How can she know for sure?” Ignacius asked with wide-open eyes. “Is it more strange magic?”

The old man wasn’t plotting a devious scheme, yet Dimitry didn’t risk revealing Precious’ existence. There was no predicting how someone would react to a corrupted creature. “We all have our secrets, but it has nothing to do with you.”

“I must know, boy!”

“That’s enough.” Saphiria walked closer. “Arnest, I apologize for not saying so earlier, but this agreement benefits us both. Allow me to handle this.” Her gaze shifted to Ignacius. “As for you, since you’ve decided to speak, does that mean you’re ready to remove my collar?”

Did Saphiria and Ignacius come to an arrangement behind Dimitry’s back? Although he felt betrayed for being kept out of the loop, he didn’t voice his concern. He had no reason to believe she plotted anything nefarious. Everyone would benefit if Saphiria shed her collar, and the girl deserved her freedom.

“Sorry for getting out of hand,” Dimitry said. “If you do this for her, we’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

“Not a bad turn of events.” Ignacius took a massive pull, and his shoulders slumped. “Truth be told, the only reason I bring this up now is because you became that lamb’s surgeon. You’ll be looking after her all day, and the bishop will hound you until we land in Coldust. This might be my last chance to see your disappearing magic.”

“That wasn’t what we agreed on,” Saphiria hissed. “Arnest needs more time to heal. I won’t let you force him into—”

Dimitry tugged on her wrist. “Getting rid of your collar is more important than a few extra days of recovery. If I’m looking after the child, the Church will be around us even more than usual. I rather not risk them discovering you.”

“But what if your overload worsens?”

“Ignacius fixed it before.”

“And if he can’t do so again?”

The wizard chuckled. “Seeing you kids so passionate makes me feel young again. Guess Remora hasn’t rotted this geezer’s heart yet.” Ignacius covered his pipe’s bowl with his palm, extinguishing the flames. “Don’t worry, little miss. He’ll be fine.”

“If he gets hurt, you die. Do well to remember that.”

Saphiria’s unbridled concern for Dimitry filled his chest with warmth. Her sentiment would be sweeter if not for the sharp language. “You should let Ignacius remove your collar.”

“Are you sure?”

Dimitry nodded.

Saphiria hesitantly pulled back her hood and unbuttoned the top of her cloak. A gray glowing scarf constricted her lower neck. She untied the knot, and the enchanted cloth fell to her shoulders. A collar peeked out from beneath long, raven black hair.

Ignacius reached into his red robe. “This should do it.”

The collar’s silver aura vanished.

Saphiria looked down in disbelief at an engraved steel choker that no longer had its glow. Her indigo eyes reddened, and she sniffled.

Seeing a stoic girl release pent-up emotions choked Dimitry. He retrieved a clean cloth from his bag and draped it over her trembling hand.

“Thank you,” she muttered.

Ignacius discreetly wiped his face with his sleeve. “I’ll… I’ll be using meltia next. That was only dispelia.”

“One second.” Saphiria dabbed her eyes with the makeshift handkerchief. “Dimit—Arnest, can you give me another?”

“As many as you need.”

She spread the second strip of cloth at her feet. After shoving her enchanted scarf into Dimitry’s bag, Saphiria leaned forward. “I’m ready.”

“Don’t move, or I’ll melt more than just your collar.” Ignacius reached into his robe once more.

Droplet after droplet, steel dripped onto the rag below Saphiria’s neck. The metal didn’t radiate heat. Instead, as if violating the laws of physics itself, lustrous molten steel hit the floor without starting a single fire in a cargo hold full of flammables. A vertical gap cleaved the collar’s front, and before long, another through the back.

The collar split into two.

Both semicircle fragments fell with a loud clang.

“I-I…” Saphiria dropped to her knees.

Was her reaction purely emotional, or did the magic injure her? Perhaps the sudden removal of the steel collar pained her. Restrictive tightness over years could have resulted in permanent nerve or structural damage.

Dimitry crouched beside her. “You okay?”

Silent tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Do you mind if I take a quick look for injuries?”

She shook her head.

Aiming not to bother her for long, Dimitry performed a brief visual examination of her neck and palpated for deformities. There were none. All that remained were bruises and hematomas from years of carrying heavy metal upon her slender shoulders—fleeting glimpses into the hell she endured.

“Is it really gone?” Saphiria whispered.

“Yeah. It’s really gone.”

Conflicting emotions took residence within Dimitry: one that weighed him down as if to pay respects at a solemn funeral, and another that filled him with the ecstasy of seeing a wardmate send their cancer into remission. Pity at a society that enslaved fellow humans and boundless pride that a good friend overcame it.

For a while, all one could hear were sniffles, waves washing against the hull, and wooden creaks from planks warping under the boat’s rocks and sways.

Wiping her eyes with her sleeve now that both handkerchiefs became wet, Saphiria stood up. “I’m sorry.”

He gave her another cloth. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“To finally be free of the Church—I know that feeling well.” Ignacius softly chuckled. “Of course, my situation differed from yours.”

Dimitry tore his eyes away from the girl who finally tasted true freedom. “What kind of situation is that?”

“Oh, that’s a long story, my boy. I don’t think anyone would be interested in this old fool’s life. Besides, it’s time for you to hold up your end of the bargain.”