Chapter 66: Vivianne – The Human Storm
People find routine no matter where they are, Vivianne thought. For a week now, Vivianne woke up, had breakfast, tried to find a way to get back to Lune. For a week now her leg throbbed whenever she got too close to the gates of Tuen. One day she tried to move on, in spite of the pain. Coalim found her unconscious just outside the gate.
‘It’s the story,’ said Líran. ‘It’s using your leg as an anchor.’
Every day Líran strolled down the corridors of the Plume and wondered – Vivianne could see the questions wrinkling Líran’s forehead, but she didn’t’know what Líran wanted to know. Every day, looking at the other mortals, wondering.
Every day Joanna cleaned the Plume and Coalim said:
‘It’s clean. Everything is clean.’
‘I know,’ Joanna always answered and she always kept on cleaning. If she could, Joanna would clean the very air of Tuen.
In the morning, Germon and Bojet cleaned Joanna’s already clean Plume . They didn’t argue, just cleaned, then sat down, Bojet with his poems, Germon pickint at the scabs on his arms and neck.
Vivianne always turned away from that. Líran was by the window, uncannily still. How can someone be uncannily still? Vivianne wondered. But there was Líran, standing like a cloud: at the same time still and moving. Why?
The previous night, Líran had opened the window and leaned outside to see the stars. Distant, out of reach; stars that had once existed inside Líran.
‘It’s strange to have a past,’ she said to the sky. ‘Strange to have a future.’
Perched on the window at her left elbow was an eagle. Her feathers were limp and thinning.
‘It is strange to have a past,’ said the eagle, ‘and not a future. Tell me, you were a mystery once. How does it feel to end?’
Líran had never thought of herself as something that had ended. To her, becoming mortal was a beginning, not an end.
‘You shall witness my end,’ said the eagle. ‘I can’t see anymore. War has blinded me. I can barely move. My feathers weith on my like I was bathed in oil. I hoped my people would help me, but they are just as blind and heavy.’
‘But you have the story,’ said Líran.
‘A story without Nuille’s voice. I didn’t have the power to summon him. What little power I had, I used to pull a thread of destiny, but I don’t have the strength to make the story happen. I depend on these mortals and I thought the archer,’ said the eagle. ‘I thought the prince. But neither. I thought the mystery-mage, I thought that Lune, but they are too slow.’
‘There is Pierre,’ said Líran.
‘Pierre is alone. I can’t help him anymore.’
Pierre is alone, thought Líran. But I am with him. What difference did she make? Was that what it meant to be mortal: not make a difference? Such were the questions that plagued her while Vivianne had her coffee, Joanna cleaned her counter in spite of Coalim’s protests, Bojet read his poems, Germon scratched his scabs. Maurice begged Pierre not to leave, but Pierre came down from his room with his backpack that morning. He had the Satironese sword and wore his travelling clothes.
The routine is broken, thought Vivianne.
‘The Frontier will be here soon,’ said Pierre. ‘You won’t be alone. I need to find the dragon.’
Pierre strode to the exit. The moment he reached out to open the door, a human storm broke down into the Plume. Captain Gaul of Tuen came in carrying a man on his shoulders. Mayor Maurice and two soldiers followed, but all the noise came from Master Healer Marie, her chubby arms shooting up and down in horror.
‘This is no way to carry a wounded man,’ she shouted.
‘Oi, Pierre,’ said Gaul, unloading the man on a table. ‘I found another poor soul for you. He doesn’t have the charm of the burnt ones, but he’s near death, just the way you like them.’
Vivianne looked at the man on the table. He had Eslarian features. His swolen eyes were circled bu black and purple, his face was deformed by cuts and bruises, there was blood in the root of his hair and his left elbow was turned the wrong way.
‘My men found him in the garbage,’ said Gaul of Tuen.
‘How did he end up in the garbage?’ asked Joanna.
At the same time, Vivianne asked:
‘Who is he?’
Then Líran pointed to the door.
‘He has the answers.’
A soldier was standing at the door. He wasn’t from Tuen or Chambert. A coat of grey dusted his eyelashes.
‘Who are you?’ asked Captain Gaul.
‘My name is Manó, captain. I’m here under Neville’s orders.’
Even Marie stopped what she was doing at the mention of Neville.’
‘Neville of Fabec?’ asked Mayor Maurice. ‘Do you know where he is?’
‘Last I saw him was in Fabec,’ said Manó. ‘He gave me orders to come to Tuen and find this man’s daughter.’ He pointed to the Eslarian on the table
‘Pierre,’ called Marie, ‘hold down his shoulders. Bojet, Germon, his legs.’
‘But he’s unconscious,’ said Germon.
‘This might wake him up.’ Marie climbed onto the table, took the man’s broken arm, pressed a foot against his armpit.
A pull, a clack of bone, cartilage and flesh, a bellow from the table, and three men using all their weight to hold the Eslarian down. Maurice stood back, a hand covering his mouth.
‘Thaila,’ the Eslarian whimpered and went back to where there was no pain.
‘It’s his daughter,’ said Manó. ‘Olivier took her.’
‘Did Olivier do this to this man?’ Vivianne asked.
‘I think it was the woman,’ said Manó. ‘I haven’t seen Olivier since I got to Tuen, but I know he is in the palace because I saw Thaila. She was trying to jumpo out of the west tower window. If Thaila is here, so is Olivier. But it is the woman, Erla, who takes care of all threats.’
Manó came closer to the table and asked in a very low voice if the Eslarian would die.
‘My captain would never forgive me,’ said Manó.
‘Did you beat this man then threw him in the garbage?’ asked Marie.
‘No.’
‘Then there’s nothing to forgive.’ She spoke brusquely, no time or patience to someone else’s heavy conscience.
‘I’ve been watching the palace for a chance to rescue the woman, but I haven’t found an opportunity yet. When the Eslarian arrived I tried to warn him, said we had to wait and plan, but I think a man loses sanity when it comes to his daughter’s safety. He walker in through the front door.’
On the table, the Eslarian began to sob. Vivianne saw pain on his face every time he sobbed. Marie examined the Eslarian’s ribcage and shook her head with her lips pursed.
‘Are there no laws in this land?’ whispered the Eslarian. ‘No laws that protect our daughters?’
Every word was pain, but anger gave him strength.
‘In Franária they won’t steal your daughters, I thought. Where are the authorities of Franária?’
Vivianne clenched her teeth. If this was Lune! But it wasn’t and Vivianne had no power. She looked for Maurice and Gaul but they were both looking at their feet.
‘We’re here,’ said Pierre. He dropped his backpack, but not the sword, and opened the Plume’s door. The sun hit him square and Vivianne thought that he was very handsome.
‘Gaul,’ he said. ‘Maurice.’
Gaul and Maurice straightened up as though they’d just woken from a slumber. They followed Pierre, as did the two soldiers of Tuen, Germon, Bojet, even Joanna. Vivianne picked up her crutches, Coalim followed beside her. She had never seen Coalim follow anyone. Then again, she had never seen herself follow anyone before.
Pierre crossed Tuen like a flood, dragging everyone behind him: elders, children, merchants, soldiers. The city followed, mesmerized. It was the first time the three burnt ones came out of the Plume, and there was that man covered in the ashes od Fabec. The sun played on the burnt skins, making the illusion that they were still melting and that those men were liquid shadoes of Pierre.
Olivier’s palace door was polished yellow wood arorned with elaborate metal leaves, framed with blue and rose marble. A black chain rang a bell that could barely be heard from the outside. Just to be sure, Vivianne pulled it twice.