The butler’s eyes flicked up to the newcomer. He straightened as he reached the wagon, a studying interest flicking across his face. An eyebrow raised in appraisal of Ōbhin. The curiosity in the butler’s face was shown for Avena to see. Pharon was always so prim and proper, more suited to serving at court than the more informal setting of Dualayn’s manor.
Avena missed the old butler, who’d slipped and fallen nearly two years ago, cracking open his skull. His wife, Kaylin the cook, had not been the same since.
“Who is he?” Miguil asked, his voice low, his hands tightening on her waist.
*
The fussy man’s scrutiny had Ōbhin squirming. The gleam in the man’s eyes brought a tinge of warmth to Ōbhin’s cheeks. He knotted the leads around the driver’s seat and, unsure what else to do, slipped down on the other side of the wagon from Avena and her promised. The young man’s glare brimmed with jealousy, a drink from which Ōbhin had once suckled.
“Master Dashvin,” the fussy man said, flicking his eyes up to Dualayn in the back of the wagon. “Who is this man?”
“This is Ōbhin, Pharon,” Dualayn said. Then he turned to Ōbhin. “And I am so sorry, I never got your family name, young man.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Ōbhin said. He was certain his family wouldn’t appreciate their name being soiled any further.
“Well, Ōbhin is our new head guard. Misfortune befell poor Ni’mod. Ōbhin, partly to blame, is making recompense.”
“Is that wise, sir?” asked Pharon, glancing at Ōbhin again. “He certainly is a . . . capable-looking man.”
“Dangerous-looking,” muttered Miguil.
“Yes, I do think it is wise,” said Dualayn. “And Joayne, you brought her. My thanks.” The tone of the scholar’s voice shifted. It had softened into a mix of pain and longing.
Ōbhin noticed the motherly woman, her graying hair pulled back into a simple bun. She pushed the wheeled chair holding a wizened woman. She looked decrepit, her hair stringy and gray. She wore a dressing gown, a colorful blanket draped over her lap. Her head lolled to the side, eyes staring sightlessly ahead. A bit of drool dribbled out of the corner of her mouth. She looked ancient, and yet Ōbhin sensed she was younger than the woman pushing her chair.
“I am sure she’s eager to see you, dearie,” Joayne said. She smiled and pushed the wheeled chair forward.
Dualayn grunted as he slipped off the back of the wagon. He smoothed his dark waistcoat then hurried over to Joayne and her charge. He took the wizened woman’s bony fingers and raised her knuckles to his lips. He kissed them with a delicate brush. The emotion in his eyes as he stared at the woman swept over Ōbhin. Pain, grief, love, longing.
“I’m getting close,” Dualayn said before leaning in and kissing a wrinkled cheek. “You’ll be whole soon.”
“His wife,” Avena said.
The young woman had rounded the horses to stand by Ōbhin, her promised groom hovering nearby, still glowering with his too-pretty face. It was almost feminine save for the square line of his jaw.
“She was injured not long after having their son,” said Avena. “Broke her neck falling down the stairs. An inept physician gave her a tonic that destroyed her mind. Dualayn’s poured all his fortune he made from his inventions into finding a cure. It’s how the topaz healers came about. He’s searched for everything. He took her to Roidan three times on the first day of spring so she could be exposed to the miracle of the Healing Staff. It always failed her.”
“So when he found out about ruins uncovered in the midst of the Upfing Forest, he had to find out if there was anything the ancients knew,” said Ōbhin.
Avena nodded, her eyes distant. “We are going to save her.”
“We?”
Her cheeks pinked. “I mean, Dualayn. With my help.”
“Miguil, will you assist Ōbhin in carrying his wounded compatriot up to my lab?” Dualayn said, straightening from his wife. A raw croak roughened the edges of his words. “Avena, we need to ready for surgery.”
“Of course, Father.”
Dualayn gave one last tragic smile to his wife, then whirled and motioned to Pharon as Ōbhin and Miguil headed to the wagon. The younger man had a sullen look on his face as he took the bottom end of Carstin’s stretcher. Ōbhin held the other end and walked backwards up the stairs to the porch. Dualayn led with Pharon carrying the cloth-wrapped Recorder.
Ōbhin studied the pale face of his friend. A tightness grew in his chest. The White Lady’s harmony sustained him. For now. But it wouldn’t heal him. Could Dualayn’s skills do it? A desperate ache filled Ōbhin. If he could save this one man, would it wash the stains from his gloved hands? Could anything take away what he’d done to Taim?
I robbed him of his future, Ōbhin thought. Is there anything worse to do to a man?
No. So what did that mean for Ōbhin? Could any act create harmony in his song? Was he forever condemned to an unbalanced life? If so, what was the point?
I can’t undo my actions, but I don’t have to resonate with that Dark Tone. Ni’mod is another life lost because of my actions. Now not just Carstin is depending on me. I have these people to protect.
A resolve swelled through him as he passed through the manor house’s ornately carved doors. They were decorated with the seven gems, the hexagonal topaz at the pinnacle of the star they formed, the only one bisected by the divide between double doors. An older guard leaned against the jam, his eyes studying Ōbhin with a
