Page 130 of Alchemised
She forced herself to sit down at Lila’s vanity and remove the pins holding her braids in place before she stripped for a shower. Her sunstone amulet, tucked under her uniform, was warm from her skin as she lifted it off. She paused, cradling it in her palm, throat working as she studied the golden sunrays and the shimmering red surface of the stone in the centre.
The Holdfast Suncrest, with seven points rather than eight, representing each of the seven planets, except the sun, centre of all.
Ilva had given it to her when Helena returned to the city and formally made her vows as a healer.
It had been a private ceremony, an informal recitation beneath the Eternal Flame’s light with only the steward and Falcon present as witnesses because Ilva did not want Luc to have any idea about the kinds of promises Helena made in his name. He already chafed against the traditional vows his paladins had made about protecting him. Luc didn’t want anyone to die for him, and certainly not to promise to as his paladins did.
Helena had also promised to.
Most healers could practise for decades without consequence, but to heal injuries that cheated death came with a price. It was called the Toll.
To heal a mortal wound or reanimate the dead required vitality, a drop of life itself. The greater the scale of the work, the greater the cost. Healing came with the highest cost; that was why the Faith considered it a purifying act and allowed its practice while forbidding all other forms of vivimancy.
Becoming a healer would slowly carve away Helena’s life span, like a candle being burned at both ends. Someday, she didn’t know when, her resonance would begin to wither and fade, and Helena would go with it. She felt it sometimes while healing, a sensation like sand in an hourglass being diverted, flowing from her fingertips and into her patients.
She never knew how much was left, just that she was spending it.
After the avowal ceremony, when Matias had gone, Ilva had stopped her and draped an amulet around Helena’s neck, tucking it under the neckline of her uniform.
“It’s traditional for a healer to wear a holy amulet,” Ilva had said. “This crest is only worn by the Holdfasts and their paladins, but I think it right that you wear it, too.”
Now Helena stood, staring at the amulet, cold and hollow inside. The protruding sunrays bit against her palm, leaving a circle of indentations, threatening to break skin. She squeezed harder until they sank into her palm and her blood ran across the gold.
HELENA WOKE BECAUSE HER HANDS hurt, a bone-deep ache radiating from her palms to fingertips. Repetitive strain injuries were common in alchemists. She started to massage her right palm to try to loosen the muscles, wincing. The circle of cuts from the amulet reopened, blood trickling down her wrist. She should heal them—blood poisoning was a severe risk in the hospital—but instead she lay there staring at them until they stopped oozing.
Finally she dressed and braided her hair and headed for the hospital—only to be informed that she had no shifts for the next two days. The news should have been a relief, but being left to her thoughts was the last thing she wanted.
Helena departed reluctantly, compiling a list of tasks she’d been putting off. She’d check the hospital inventory first, and then—
As she came around the corner, she found Crowther standing in the hallway, studying a mural of Orion Holdfast.
Every corner of the Institute was beautifully decorated with various forms of the alchemical arts, but that mural was Helena’s favourite. She often found herself in front of it after her worst shifts, or when Luc hadn’t come back for a long time.
In most of the depictions of the Holdfast Principates, there was a sort of indifference in the expressions, likely intended to make them look regal and divine. In this mural, there was a tenderness to Orion’s face, a hint of a smile.
It made him look like Luc.
The sun’s rays were a halo behind Orion, and he wore the radiant crown on his head. His flaming sword was laid aside, still piercing the Necromancer’s skull, while cradled in his palms was a large orb of brilliant light.
Whenever Helena stood in front of it, she told herself that someday there would be paintings of Luc like that.
“I can see why you like this one,” Crowther said, glancing sidelong at her.
Helena knew little about Jan Crowther, even though he’d joined the faculty at the Institute when Helena was fifteen.
He’d been a sponsored student, like her, brought to Paladia as a child after being orphaned by a necromancer in the far north-eastern reaches of the continent. He’d attended the Institute, joined the Eternal Flame, and fought in the crusades, where he’d been injured. When he’d joined the Institute faculty, students expected he was there to train Luc, given the rarity of pyromancers, but Luc had nothing to do with Crowther. After less than a year, Crowther left again, only to immediately return after Principate Apollo’s assassination.
He turned and stared at her. His right arm was strapped tightly against his torso with a harness. Although he still wore ignition rings on his left hand, she’d never seen him use them.
“My office, I think,” he said, gesturing down the hall towards the Alchemy Tower. Helena said nothing. They rode the lift to one of the faculty floors, and he led the way to a door with his name on it.
His hand brushed across a metal panel, and the door clicked and opened.
The office within was clearly lived in. One wall was covered in maps, not only of Paladia but also of the neighbouring countries and other continents. A dilapidated sofa was crammed in a corner.
There was scarcely floor space to walk.
“Sit,” he said, slipping around his desk and seating himself. The only window in the room was directly behind him, leaving him cast in shadow. “What do you know about the Ferron family’s history?”
