Jeron waited outside Niamh’s lodging, even more nervous than he had been with Captain Hawke. She had promised via courier messages to make time for him after her recovery training. Now, he knocked on her door, butterflies and snakes and all other wriggly things in his stomach and an absurd grin on his face. Niamh opened the door to him with a cautious smile of her own.
“Jeron, it’s good to see you. Come in,” she said and waved him through.
He looked around the sunny foyer, at Niamh moving with as much ease as the crutches could afford her as she let him into the house proper.
“You’re going to want to sit down for this, Niamh,” Jeron said, trying not to sound breathless.
She blinked at him, and then motioned him to a small sofa. He lowered himself next to her, hyper-aware of how close she was to him, of the sweet and light perfume of her golden-brown hair, styled in a shiny, braided half-tail. Her pointed ears peeked above the looped plaits. It was all he could do to stop himself from reaching out and trailing one finger over the sweep of her ear, down her cheek, to her jaw…
“She is too lovely for my own good,” he thought, and then steeled himself for the business at hand.
“As you know, I’m a sage and artificer. I make things. Odd things sometimes, but always and forever, functional things.” He gave her a sidelong look. She was staring ahead, her expression intense. “Well, I got to thinking. A leg is a mechanical construct like any other. After I arrived in Easthaven, I started drawing up plans. I studied my old notes from Sage Boran’s lectures in healing and anatomy. I did extremely cursory research, but I’m confident I’ll be able to create a prosthetic leg for you. Something to help you function better than those,” he said, nodding toward her crutches, which rested on her side of the sofa. “Something that, if I’m lucky, might help others with similar injuries.”
“Jeron.” Niamh’s voice was quiet. She turned to look at him with an intensity that gave him chills. “Please tell me you are being serious. That whatever you’re planning is not some pie-in-the-sky idea that could never come true.”
“Heh, Hawke asked the same thing. I would never, ever give you hope where there is none to be had. I’m a man of science, and the son of farmers to boot. Hope does not bring in the crops. Hard work does. Same with healing the sick, same with engineering. If you’ll allow me, I can show you. I can explain how it would work.”
Niamh sat up taller next to him, her expression cautious but interested. “I would like to understand.”
“Excellent,” Jeron waxed businesslike, and dropped a sheaf of parchment on Niamh’s lap. “Read through this. The design is unorthodox, but I know a good bit about human anatomy and mechanical creations. I’d like to think I’m the best person for the job.”
“Your confidence is thorough,” Niamh said with a light chuckle.
“I’m serious. Study these designs. Ask me questions. Let me know what you think. You deserve the best I can create.”
“Thank you.” She stared down at the sheaf of parchments he offered, tracing some lines with one finger. “The shape is strange,” Niamh said, unsure.
“Absolutely, it would seem that way. But it’s strange for a good reason.”
He explained the curved foot to be made of a light and flexible metal jutting from a cog-and-gears leg piece and adjoined to the body by soft moldings cast to the amputee’s measurements. He watched Niamh’s expression change, interest and even a slow excitement replacing her earlier skepticism.
“Sponge-tree fibers and blessed leywater?” She mused aloud, gesturing to one set of schematic instructions.
He nodded enthusiastically. “Cushion, and suction—no need for bulky harnesses and straps. I’m not even calling it a false leg. This will be far superior, hopefully something others can use in the future.”
“I have never seen the like,” Niamh said, already flipping to the next page. As she read more from the list of needed materials, her eyes widened. Jeron watched as she tapped through the list with one short nail, murmuring the names of some items.
“So much of this is rare. Expensive,” she whispered.
Jeron laid his hand over the list, palm brushing her hand.
“You should know that everything I need is to be donated by the Premier on not only your Captain’s orders, but on Loremaster Olangah’s recommendation, and my own suggestions.”
“I’ll never be able to pay you or anyone back for all of this, you know,” Niamh blurted out, not meeting his eyes. “It will take time you do not have, any of you. I wasn’t even supposed to be in Tanahr for long. I refuse to be a burden.”
“I have just said, I’m not the one paying the bill,” Jeron replied.
“But your time—don’t you have other urgent projects? What about the Mageguild?”
“I freely give my time in service to Tanahr and her allies, and that includes helping you. We need to hurry if you’re going to be outfitted before the expedition departs. I’m asking you to let me do this. Your help will aid others, as it has done before.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Niamh said, handing him the pile of parchments.
His fingers again brushed hers, lingering, before he shoved the schematics back into his satchel. He shivered, unable to hide the frisson he felt at her touch.
“Say, ‘When do we start’?” Jeron laughed.
Niamh smiled, a full and real smile this time. “When do we start?”
“Today! The first step is for you to take this list to Sister Hilde this afternoon, if possible. It’s instructions for your measurements. I’ll need your height, the size and shape of your left leg and your uninjured foot, all of it. When you’ve completed that, the next step would be to get you to my workshop so I can test the device, calibrate and do castings for molded parts and such. You can see the ramshackle workshop I call home and let me perform my mad-science experiments on you,” he said, packing away his notes.
Niamh nodded. “Hmm. I’ll allow it. For science and our countries’ alliance, of course.”
“For science and our alliance! I’ll let you get back to your day, but Niamh? You’ll be hearing from me soon.”
Jeron stood at the same moment Niamh did, less awkward with her crutches than the last time they had visited. She rested her hand on his arm, not letting him go for several long moments.
“What is it?” Jeron asked, watching the expressions flitting over her face like cloud shadows over a meadow.
“This is just—I can’t believe it. Why? Why do you care so much?”
Jeron winced at the tightness of her grip, her fingertips bearing down painfully into his flesh.
“Oh, sorry,” Niamh said, loosening her grip. “I forget my strength sometimes.”
“Exactly,” Jeron said.
“What?” Niamh looked at him, expression blanking.
“Your strength, that is why I’m doing this. You are a soldier at heart. Just like no matter how many healing spells I sling or potions I brew, I’m still also a tinkerer down to my bones and not back home working the fields like my brother. It’s clear as day that being a Valiant is what you love. And you’re stronger than anyone I know, I’m reasonably sure. It seems like a beneficial use of my talents to help with that.”
“Thank you,” Niamh said. “You mad mages are the best.”
Before he realized what was happening, she leaned in and hugged him, an achingly sweet, careful gesture that would have him levitating with joy for days.
“It’s true,” he said, breathless, when she backed away. “Madness is a great part of invention, I’m told.”
“I’ll make this worth your while,” she said with more warmth than he had ever heard in her voice, her cheeks darkening to gold. “I should probably get back to what I was doing, but… again, thank you.”
Jeron grinned, soaring up into the stars on the inside while trying to appear calm on the outside. He waved his goodbye and struck out into the Garrison district, heart lighter, that same grin refusing to fade.
—
Three days had passed since Jeron had met with Niamh to tell her about his project to help her. Three of the busiest days of his not at all idle life. Couriers, vendors, and artisans had come and gone, and he himself had traveled back and forth between the Demesnes and his own workshop, gathering parts, refining schematics, and signing forms for the artisan’s reimbursement requests.
He had met with Sister Hilde, with Captain Hawke, with at least three other engineers, with his own Loremaster, and once attended a session with Niamh and her trainer Eren-Ras, a powerful Xereth warrior with years of experience helping other warriors hone their skills. Eren-Ras had helped measure Niamh’s stride and observe her in motion during practice.
Jeron collapsed, still dressed, onto his unmade bed. The windows were dark, the magelamps in the room in desperate need of recharging spells, but he was too lazy to do anything about it. Soon it would be dawn. He kicked off his shoes and yawned, exhausted from working until his hands ached from the effort, and he could barely sit upright.
It was worth it. Even the parts he had ordered from the Premier’s smiths based on Sister Hilde’s first measurements had all arrived on schedule. Jeron labored without a break, fitting each piece in its place. His design was perfect. At least, that was the hope.
Jeron smiled, imagining Niamh rejoining the Garrison ranks, traveling the busy streets of Easthaven with ease, maybe even now and again wandering over to Hyacinth Way to visit him. They could have dinner together, talk long into the evening in some cozy cafe or inn as spring rain fell outside the windows, and smile at each other over tea and cakes. They could even venture out into the starry night to stroll, arm in arm, along the Garden District riverside trails. Did she like to dance? The music at the Duskcat Inn was always lively…
“Let’s not put the cart before the horse,” he scolded himself sleepily.
In that tiny hospital parlor and once more in Niamh’s sunny quarters, it had felt natural to touch her, to sit quietly by her side like he belonged there. Her presence had been so bright, and each time he spoke with her, she warmed to him more and more.
Jeron had worked like one possessed, pouring everything he was, all his hopes for Niamh into tempered steel, gears, precision fittings and the proper spells of strengthening, balancing and ease. He wanted Niamh to thrive. He wanted her to be happy.
It was far too early to be thinking what he was thinking, feeling as he did, but Jeron knew these things didn’t always follow the path of logic. He let his head drop back onto the pillow, moonlight on his face. With a soft sigh, he fell into dreams of a smile shining light on his entire world.
Lizzie Sinclaire 