Mistress of Helena

Chapter 24

Later in the evening there was a faint echo of rhythmic pounding that haunted the stairway leading to Carrack’s room. Should a visitor wander in, they would discover the commander alone, a silhouette against the dim walls, the room bathed only in the flickering light from a few candles on his desk. His mind was a battlefield of conflicting thoughts, numb yet relentlessly confused. The only manifestation of this internal struggle was the constant rhythm of his fist colliding with the hard stone wall. The sting against his knuckles was painful, yet it anchored him, preventing his mind from spiraling into an endless, chaotic trance.

He couldn’t recall how long he’d been hitting the wall; time often blurred during these spells. Usually, his instincts pulled him back before causing any significant harm. But tonight, overwhelmed by a maelstrom of worries, he struck once too hard. A sharp pain lanced through his hand, snapping him back to reality. He stared at his knuckle, now smeared with fresh, bright blood. His clenched fist resisted, but with effort, he managed to uncurl it. Muttering a curse at his lapse, Carrack slowly retreated to his desk and sank into the chair. Before him lay his journal, opened to a fresh, untouched page.

Carrack gazed at the pages before him, a multitude of thoughts swarming in his mind, each begging to be expelled onto the paper in a literary purging. But each idea seemed to be hidden within a fog, remaining tethered within his mind, continuing its silent torment. He picked up his pen and began to trace the ghosts of unborn words, but as he tightened his grip, a jolt of pain pierced through his hand. In his daze, he hadn’t realized it was his writing hand he had been abusing.

“Damn fool,” he muttered, slumping into his chair.

For a brief moment, he began hastily flipping through the preceding pages of his journal. Each page flew by, too quickly to discern any written words. Then, abruptly, his pace slowed. He methodically turned each page, his eyes scanning the words, but not truly comprehending them.

He seldom revisited his past entries, believing that the act of penning his thoughts was a means to free them from his mind. Yet, there was a time when he frequently reflected on his previous writings. As a young officer, fresh from training, the solitary discipline of journaling was his anchor amidst the isolation of his introduction to the Orenian military. He’d kept a compact crate, packed with filled journals, that accompanied him during his assignments. It was a means to converse, indirectly, with his younger self and to gain perspective on the hurdles he faced. It often amused him how, in the past, he would view challenges as insurmountable or dire, only to later realize they were fleeting concerns. These trials, in hindsight, often felt trivial. And that perspective was precisely what he needed to ensure he didn’t exaggerate his present dilemmas.

Before arriving in Helena, he had ceased this dialogue with his younger self. During one particularly bleak period in Oren, in a moment of overwhelming despair that was hard to remember clearly, he had set all his memories and reflections ablaze, inaugurating an era where he would destroy each journal upon filling its pages. The journal he possessed now was the lone record of his thoughts since his arrival. Though initially resolved to abandon the habit on Helena, the worn leather cover of this journal beckoned to him from Dr. Mortier’s store during his initial rounds of acquainting himself with the island. It was then that he chose to rekindle his practice of journaling.

As he turned through the prior pages, the words seemed distant and failed to resonate. Yet something did catch his eye. It was the very first entry he’d penned nearly ten months prior. He found himself puzzled, having forgotten how sparingly he’d written then. The entry read:

6 November 782

I won’t burn it.

To a casual observer, the words might have seemed simple, even devoid of context or significance. But for Carrack, they were neither simple nor vague. They were the culmination of a prolonged inner debate about an item he’d brought to the island. He found himself staring at the words, his eyes traversing the page as though seeking hidden text between the lines. An unconscious nibble on the inside of his cheek preceded his gaze shifting to his bed.

He approached and knelt down, gently pulling out a slim wooden chest secured with a basic three-digit combination lock. For a moment, he simply cradled it, letting his good hand trace its smooth surface and the seams of its lid. While he wasn’t particularly compelled to open it, his thumb mindlessly dialed the lock’s combination: 717.

The soft click of the lock felt jarringly loud, muting both the relentless rain outside and the fireplace’s intermittent crackle. The sound seemed to weigh heavily on Carrack’s heart, especially when he noticed the chest was not fully closed after the lock disengaged. With trepidation, he lifted the lid, revealing a violin. The instrument’s worn chestnut hue shimmered faintly in the firelight. Carrack’s hands found themselves resting in his lap, his eyes fixed on the violin. A profound melancholy consumed him, a sensation akin to grieving a departed loved one during their wake.

The violin had been a constant in Carrack’s life, a cherished gift from his father. Like most in Oren, his father was a merchant and had acquired the instrument almost accidentally. A man eager to part with it had added the violin to a deal at the last minute. Initially, Carrack had neither knowledge of nor passion for musical instruments. But during his formative years, curiosity drew him to it.

His early attempts at learning were a torment for those around him, his mother most of all. Consequently, he was banned from practicing at home. When Carrack began accompanying his father on business trips, he was allowed to play while they traveled by land. At sea, however, his father feared that the cacophonous noise might either summon a leviathan or incite a disgruntled sailor to toss Carrack overboard.

Practicing an instrument, or mastering any craft for that matter, without guidance often leads to mere mediocrity. Fortunately, during his travels, Carrack encountered a stranger who offered to teach him the intricacies of the violin. The man’s name, if ever known to Carrack, had faded from memory. But his appearance was unforgettable: skin as pale as ivory, seemingly aged by a century, yet possessing the agility of youth, particularly when handling the violin. Despite the kindness and invaluable lessons the old man provided, Carrack’s father and accompanying crew tolerated him only for so long. After roughly a month of tutelage, the stranger was asked to leave. But in that brief span, Carrack’s skill had improved significantly. His melodies transformed from being a mere disturbance to being celebrated and enjoyed, even becoming the highlight of many a tavern gathering.

The violin proved to be a godsend after he joined the military. Long voyages, both by sea and on land, and assignments to remote outposts devoid of the comforts of civilization—such settings were enough to drive many to the brink of madness. Yet, for Carrack, his instrument was an anchor. It offered both himself and his companions a brief escape from the harshness of their realities. His tunes, often described as magically calming, provided solace during the most trying circumstances. In a moment of drunken jest, an individual at a tavern once dubbed him a “musical mage”.

His mind drifted as he stared at the violin, and he found himself unable to recall why he stopped playing and also why he was even debating to destroy it.

Carefully, Carrack lifted the violin. He positioned it on his shoulder, poised to play, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so and left the bow resting in the crate. As he scrutinized the instrument, the firelight revealed layers of dust and grime that marred its surface. A grimace formed on his face. Compelled to clean it, he reached for one of the cushioning rags from the crate. There, by the fireplace, he meticulously wiped away the dirt, all while softly humming snippets of melodies. The rhythmic sound of rain provided an unwitting backdrop, harmonizing with his tune. There in his eye, the faint glimmer of a tear appeared.

Carrack was abruptly roused from slumber by an insistent knocking at his door. Blinking away the remnants of sleep, he caught his violin just in time, preventing it from tumbling off the bed. Confusion clouded his mind; he recalled cleaning the instrument by the fireside, seemingly mere moments ago. Retrieving his pocket watch, he was startled to find that two hours had elapsed.

Another series of knocks jolted him to his senses. Setting the violin gently on the bed, he moved to answer the door. A fleeting shiver overcame him as he glimpsed the instrument resting there. Shaking off the odd sensation, he opened the door to reveal Alaina, her knuckles raised, ready to knock again.

“Lord Carrack,” she began, slightly taken aback by his sudden appearance, “I’m sorry, did I disturb you? Were you asleep?”

His gaze unconsciously drifted back to the bed. “I suppose I dozed off for a brief moment. It’s alright; it wasn’t a deep sleep.”

Alaina hesitated at the threshold, a question in her eyes. “May I come in?”

“Of course,” he replied, stepping aside to grant her entry. He gestured for her to sit at his desk, discreetly shutting his journal in the process. Settling on the edge of the bed, he asked, “What brings you here at this hour?”

Alaina laced her fingers together, her gaze briefly wandering around the room. “I wanted to check on you, see how you’re holding up.”

Carrack raised his eyebrows, pleasantly surprised. “I’m managing, all things considered.”

“Your wounds healing well?”

“As well as they can,” Carrack sighed. “Not as resilient as I once was. Age doesn’t make recovery easier.”

Alaina nodded empathetically. “Understandable.”

“How about you?” Carrack probed. “How are things in your quarters?”

A half-smile graced Alaina’s lips. “Keeping busy. Experimenting with different mixtures, tending to the wounded when possible.”

“I’ve heard you’ve been quite reclusive lately,” Carrack mentioned.

Alaina paused, choosing her words carefully. “There are certain processes that might be … misunderstood by those unacquainted with my methods.”

Leaning in, Carrack recalled Weiss’s hushed whispers and the murmurs of the soldiers. “Can you explain what exactly you’re doing? It’s difficult to allay fears when I’m equally in the dark.”

She sighed deeply. “Lord Carrack, as the fort’s commander, you have every right to be informed. However, I must respectfully request your understanding. There are things I’m working on that I’m not ready to disclose.”

Carrack’s nod was thoughtful, but his eyes held a hint of unease. “While I respect your stance, you must realize that such an answer only heightens my own concerns.”

“I understand.” Alaina’s voice was a murmur. “Yet just as you cherish the sanctity of your private quarters, might I not be afforded the same discretion? Can you not understand the value of privacy?”

Carrack’s gaze held firm. “It’s not about mere privacy. There’s an air of unease because of what you are.”

Alaina’s jaw tightened. “Ah, mages—the crafty lot, masters of deceit and intrigue.”

“No,” Carrack retorted, a touch defensively. “That’s not what I said. Nor do I hold such views about mages.”

“Regardless of your personal beliefs, Lord Carrack, you allow the unfounded suspicions of others to color your questions,” Alaina countered sharply. “Which is worse, harboring prejudices or being swayed by them?”

“There’s more complexity to my inquiries than merely echoing the groundless fears of others,” Carrack replied, his voice carrying a hint of frustration. He wasn’t accustomed to being on the defensive in conversations, and being indirectly accused of intolerance didn’t sit well with him.

Alaina recognized Carrack’s growing irritation but chose to provide an answer. “Very well. If you must know, I’m growing your food, or I should say I’m making it.”

A mix of relief and a sudden troubling realization played across Carrack’s face. Recollecting her known practices with organs and fluids, he hesitated before finally venturing, “Alaina … you aren’t using …” His eyes bore into hers, the question hanging in the air.

Alaina looked genuinely shocked. “By the Gods, no! Do you take me for a monster?”

“No!” Carrack responded swiftly.

“Then why even suggest such an idea?” Alaina said. “Have you so little faith in me?”

“Alaina,” he sighed, the weight of the situation bearing down on him, “I didn’t mean … Look, I apologize. Just explain to me what’s happening down there.” His voice, though apologetic, carried a clear demand for clarity.

Alaina hesitated, her expression still somewhat indignant.

“It’s soma,” she finally conceded.

“Soma?” Carrack’s brows knitted in thought, recalling a memory. “That’s a dessert from Shar, right?”

“Yes, in Shar it’s a dessert. But east of the Miastan Range, it’s different. The hamlets and villages there have a unique version, a paste supposedly crafted by druids,” Alaina explained, her initial irritation giving way to the enthusiasm of someone passionate about their subject. “The term ‘soma’ was humorously coined by traders who couldn’t pronounce its actual name.”

Carrack pondered this, nodding slowly. “So it’s a paste. But why all the secrecy around its creation?”

“It’s versatile. Think of it as an all-in-one food. It feeds, energizes, aids sleep, hydration, focus, and much more.”

Carrack considered this. “Like the food supplements hospitals give to patients?”

“Exactly!” Alaina said, excited now. “But unlike those supplements, which are made from real food, this Soma is conjured from …” She hesitated, making vague gestures with her hands as if to grasp the intangible.

“So, you’re essentially creating this all-purpose paste from the air?” Carrack asked, eyebrows raised in intrigue.

“Air and other non-food elements, yes. The wonders of the arcane,” she stated proudly.

Carrack’s face darkened with concern, “Such a powerful spell must be taking a toll on you.”

“It’s draining, to say the least,” she admitted with a weary sigh.

“You promised not to overexert yourself,” Carrack chided gently.

“I did promise, true.” Alaina said, her gaze distant. “But as every day passes, I grow more concerned for the people in the city. Their plight … It’s almost palpable.”

“You sense their pain?” Carrack asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Yes, it’s hard to describe,” she began. “While I can’t accurately discern individual emotions, I’ve always been attuned to the island’s collective aura. It’s as if I can feel a faint shift when strong emotions resonate together.”

“And now you sense they’re in distress?” said Carrack.

“It’s akin to sensing an impending storm—the change in the air, the faint smell of rain,” Alaina tried to explain, her voice quivering slightly. “But recently, what I’ve been feeling is far more intense, and, in a way, more unsettling.”

“How recent is ‘recently’?” Carrack pressed.

“Ever since that derelict appeared on our shores,” Alaina responded. “Experiencing this overwhelming sensation of their struggle … It’s made me less cautious about my own well-being, especially when casting these spells.”

“Alaina,” Carrack shook his head, “you can’t.”

“Carrack, I need to do this! From the moment I set foot here, I’ve fulfilled every request you made of me, even those that … troubled me.”

Carrack frowned, clearly taken aback. “Troubled you? I can’t recall any such request that might have been so unsettling.”

She hesitated, her eyes momentarily darting away. The brief lapse into silence was punctuated by an uneasy shuffle. “When I first arrived, there were a few things you asked of me that … felt unfamiliar … disconcerting. But it wasn’t anything too extreme. It was just … unexpected.”

Carrack’s expression softened. “Alaina, if I ever made you uneasy, even inadvertently, I’d want to address it. We should talk it out.”

She met his gaze, her face a blend of gratitude and lingering discomfort. “It’s okay, Carrack. The past is in the past. Perhaps I was just overly sensitive after first arriving on the island.”

“Are you sure?” Watching her easily dismiss her previous discomfort unnerved Carrack. She waved away his inquiry with a gesture that spoke volumes. “Regardless, I want to see the Soma process firsthand. Just as I observed how you dealt with the body.”

“Lord Carrack,” Alaina said, the disappointment evident in her voice, “have we reverted to our trust issues?”

“Alaina, you pointed out that I should be aware of what transpires within these walls. It would be negligence on my part if I remained ignorant while ignoring the concerns of my men,” Carrack reasoned.

Alaina sighed. “I understand, but you can’t approach this ritual.”

Carrack’s eyes narrowed. “Why not?”

Alaina paused, her gaze drifting to the ceiling as she collected her thoughts. “The rituals I conduct are intense. While they exact a toll on me, well-versed as I am in arcane arts, they could be deadly to someone untrained like you. Picture standing beside a raging inferno. While I might get singed, you’d be consumed by flames. Instead of fire, however, imagine chaotic magical forces. And instead of burns, imagine tumors and other horrendous afflictions.”

Carrack pondered her words, remembering a trial in Oren. The “Cancer Cook” – a mage who, under the guise of a humble cook, had enchanted his dishes and surroundings to self-clean, inadvertently exposing his neighbors to dangerous magic. The memory of the victims, debilitated by tumors and scars, still lingered in his mind when he sat on the jury for that trial.

Carrack let out a heavy sigh, feeling the weight of the conversation bearing down on him. “This is maddening,” he muttered in frustration.

“You think I’m lying?” Alaina shot back, her eyes searching his for doubt.

“It’s not that I don’t believe you,” Carrack admitted, running a hand through his hair. “That’s precisely what’s so irritating.”

Alaina’s tone softened. “Lord Carrack, trust in me this once. I won’t let you down.”

Carrack felt a tightness constrict his chest, each breath slightly labored. While he couldn’t grant Alaina his full trust, he felt compelled to offer a gesture of understanding. As he gave her a nod, a fleeting expression of relief crossed her face. The room’s atmosphere shifted, the tension subsiding, but in its wake, an uncomfortable silence settled.

Restlessness gnawed at Carrack. The lure of sleep tugged at his thoughts, though his body resisted the notion, as it often did. Yet, beyond the immediate concerns, something else lingered in his mind—something he wanted to share with Alaina, but not within these walls.

Pushing himself up, Carrack stretched. “Care for a walk? I could use some fresh air. And there’s something else I’d like to discuss—nothing grave, so don’t worry.”

Alaina chuckled a little, “A nice walk in the rain in the middle of the night. What more could a lady ask for. Sure, I’ve got some time to spare while my latest concoctions are still fermenting.”