Page 174 of Swords of Soul and Shadow
HARLAN FOUND A STEADY COMFORT in the old mechanical clock his adoptive mother, Aurelia, had given him. Family lore said the device had been crafted by one of the Shackley ancestors, though the stories disagreed on exactly whom. Whoever it was had been a master craftsman exemplified in the base’s design alone. Three roses bloomed in the center, their leaves curling and scrolling outward, upward, and downward. Along the clock’s trunk, thorn-cloaked vines crawled toward the clockface, twisting themselves around ionic columns until they kissed atop the twelfth hour.
Aurelia kept careful watch over the clock since she’d discovered it in the Manor’s attic a year after she’d married. Over time, its upkeep helped her process the knowledge that she would never bear her own children. She hadn’t stopped caringfor it when they’d adopted Harlan, and it was her gift to him upon Jove’s birth.
Harlan took care of it himself now it was in his new office at the Jayde Center, winding it each day, cleaning it weekly. It was as comforting as caring for his uniform, weapons, or medical equipment on the front. Now that he was in the capital as Brigadier General of the Medical Corps, he’d been deprived of his daily rhythms and found them again in the care of the old longcase clock.
He clung to those rhythms. He’d fall apart without them.
Les was to have their fourth child any day now, and the deep, earthytick-tockechoing off the solid oak housing reminded him that time continued moving no matter how long the world held its breath. His clever wife had adjusted the hour chime to a three-note melody that reminded him of the song they’d danced to at their wedding feast—her idea, not his, but he didn’t mind. It helped with the headaches, and the maintenance routine kept his life in order.
Everything was as it should be, yet it was only a matter of time before the house of matchsticks tumbled down.
The orderly had delivered the midday paper and laid it neatly on Harlan’s desk a few hours earlier. With a moment to himself to listen to the clock, he allowed a quick reading of the day’s most pressing stories.
The quick snapping as he opened it to the front page added a comforting ambiance at the end of a busy day full of meetings and posturing. The small amount of peace the paper supplied was much appreciated.
He had a military dinner to attend that evening. He’d rather go home to his wife and children and work in the Manor’s study, but the dinner was to celebrate the anniversary of the Lord Kapitan’s ascension. Les was determined to make it, though Harlan was wary. What if she went into labor duringdinner? What if the midwife didn’t make it in time in the event of a disaster?
What if, what if, what if?
And if he insisted she stay home, he’d get an earful. She knew it was an important dinner and only wanted Harlan to feel comfortable. With each promotion, he gained the ability to change the world for the better, and she insisted she be with him each step of the way. Her determination was one quality he admired most. He’d married the woman he’d needed even if he hadn’t realized it upon their first meeting.
Maybe he was being paranoid about the dinner. She would be fine. If she willed it, then it would happen.
He was only worried because while her last labor with Kase had been the quickest, it’d taken her longer to recover. Harlan wanted to stop having children at that point because of the stress that pregnancy and raising three boys took on her, but Les wantedjustone more. He’d rarely been able to deny her anything, but it’d only been 18 months since Kase, and Les was nearing forty.
He rustled the newspaper again, and the sweet, dusty aroma soothed the stress of the day. The top story was about how the Cerl Queen made her first public appearance since losing her youngest son in infancy a year ago. Harlan didn’t read that one too closely. It would only give way to his own fears.
He moved on to the next. Ezekiel’s haggard face stared at him from near the center fold. The years since Rose and the newborn girl’s death had carved shadows into his once full cheeks. The portrait was one of the only ones included in the paper due to the more labor-intensive process it took to recreate it. His brother-in-law’s work with electricity and Zuprium might help in that regard, but it would be a while yet. His advancements were better suited to military uses at present.
The accompanying article detailed that Lord Ezekiel Fairchild, inventor and engineer, would be part of a diplomatic mission to Sol Adrid, the capital of Cerulene within the next few weeks to sign a trade negotiation. What the papers didn’t detail was that Ezekiel had been working with the Cerl Engineering Corps for the last five years trying to ascertain their capabilities—all with a mask of civility and working for a better future.
It'd been the Lord Kapitan’s idea—not Harlan’s, though he was proud of Ezekiel’s accomplishments. With electropistols now in mass production, a tentative peace grew between the nations of Yalvara. Jayde had the strength of advanced technology to keep their enemies in check.
It was the Yalvs who were giving them trouble—something about the misuse of Zuprium, but what they didn’t realize was that Jayde’s burgeoning military prowess was the only check against Cerulene. If Jayde didn’t stand in their way, all Yalvara would resemble the ruins of Ravenhelm. The Yalvs—those that were left on this side of the world—would understand that in due time. They would feel the Cerl wrath unchecked. Only a few pockets of the Yalvs still lived in Cerulene.
Ezekiel’s technology was indeed saving men on the front—misuse of Zuprium or not. Harlan just wished the friend he’d known over eleven years ago could’ve enjoyed the fruits of his accomplishments. Instead, he stayed buried in his work, his sons being his only assistants when they were not in school. The Fairchilds visited Shackley Manor for the odd dinner about every month or so. That was Les’ doing, and their nephews, Sullivan and Randall, were teaching Jove to play cricket.
Harlan only allowed it because he’d been too busy to play groggon with his son the last few months. Temporary, he hoped. He also hoped Jove took more to his sport rather than his nephews’, but that was only for selfish reasons.
Ezekiel merely sat eating silently at the dinner table, making a few remarks when questioned directly. Harlan wished he could do something, but he was powerless to the grief his friend knew intimately.
Grief was personal.
Sometimes it looked like buying too many dining room chairs after losing your husband of nearly 70 years like the woman in the manor down the street. Others, it was dozens of brown glass liquor bottles to numb the pain—deep, drowning, and desperate. With Ezekiel, it was pouring any life he had left into improving the world for others at his own expense.
For Harlan, it was in trying to forget the mountains he’d come from. It was in keeping Cerulene from hurting anyone else he loved again—no matter the cost. It was in the care of an old clock.
And Les. She was one of the few people who kept him from the darker side of himself.
He finished the article, which hadn’t said much other than what was on the surface and was setting it aside when a terse knock came from his door.
He bit back a sigh. He’d been about to leave.
He had a distinct feeling it was a missive from the Kominder General about the supply budget argument they’d had in the midday meeting. Harlan had been right, and the Kominder General would realize they needed more money allotted to medical personnel soon.
The orderly opened the door a crack, making sure Harlan was available, before widening the gap further. He saluted. “Lord Fairchild here to see you, Brigadier General.” The young man’s obsidian eyes flicked toward the corridor behind him. “Said it’s urgent, Sir.”
A twinge of annoyance nipped at his emotions, but someone as familiar with military protocol as Ezekiel wouldn’tdo something as outrageous as demand to see someone as senior as Harlan without an appointment unless…unless…
