“Curse it to all the hells and back again,” Niamh grumbled as she dragged her satchel-strap into place on her shoulder for what felt like the thousandth time that day. She hated to admit it, but getting around in a huge, foreign city as a recently healed amputee was hard work.
She had never liked crowded streets to begin with, and today, Easthaven felt like a circus of traffic and noise. Mage-carts rumbled over roads and sidewalks, adding to the racket of hawkers shouting on every corner. Niamh bit back the unkind retort on her tongue when the portal guard offered rather sheepishly to help her up the stairs to the dais.
“I’m fine, thank you,” she managed, and placed an extra silver crown from the pouch Captain Hawke had given her in the guard’s open palm.
I’d best not fall on my face after turning such a scowl on that poor woman…
Niamh navigated as sure-footed as she could manage, the rhythm of crutch and left foot now practiced and rote. When she appeared on the connecting portal platform, she took a deep breath and began the entire process in reverse. Get her balance, shove her bag back in place, and make her way down the steps and onwards into traffic.
Hyacinth Way was near where she had disembarked, just as Jeron had said. Late-morning sunlight dazzled rows of shop windows, and colorful awnings hanging from the gray stone buildings snapped in a capricious breeze. Niamh detected the scent of warmer weather tinged with a tang of sea salt on the wind.
She parked herself on a corner out of the way of foot-traffic and looked down at the map in her hand. Jeron’s directional lines were practically to scale, his lettering so crisp it looked press-printed. Niamh gazed west of where she stood. Sure enough, the shop Jeron had described was in her line of vision—an apothecary, rows of bottles and jars glinting in the window display. She pocketed the map and made her way up the steep avenue toward the shop.
“Niamh?”
She turned to see Jeron waving at her from across the street. She nodded back, palms suddenly damp, heart thudding. How did he always do that to her?
“I was getting us something to eat.” Jeron paused in front of her and watched her for a moment, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “No need to be ill at ease. It’s only me.”
“How do you know I’m nervous? Do I have a sign pasted to my forehead declaring my anxieties?” Niamh asked, betrayed by the waver in her voice.
Jeron moved to her side. “Eyes wide as a snared rabbit, and I even think your ears are twitching. And who wouldn’t be nervous on an important day like today?”
“Some brave hero I am,” Niamh said. “I’m just—I’m not used to this.” She waved a hand in the portal’s direction and the bustling street in front of it, a gesture of frustration. “I’m not used to cities at all. Easthaven is busy and narrow and so tall.”
“It’s tricky going even on the best of days, especially with fancy new mage-carts crowding the sidewalks,” Jeron said lightly. “Not that I’m complaining, as it’s job security. But you’re here now, and if I may.” He offered her an arm.
Unlike the offer of help from the portal guard, his help was welcome. Niamh allowed herself to lean into Jeron’s side, surprised by how easy it was to fall into step with him, guiltily relishing the sparkling-wine giddiness and warmth she always felt when close beside him.
They made their way up a set of sturdy wooden stairs, and Jeron shifted his basket, unlocked the door and ushered her into his quarters. Niamh looked around, fascinated. Shelves lined the walls from ceiling to floor, and ephemera covered every surface in the room—machine parts, bottles and flasks, strange contraptions that sometimes blinked or whirred, tomes and teetering sheaves of parchment. The chaise and matching chair in the room where she stood were clear of everything except for knitted blankets, and a side table already boasted a tea set steaming merrily away.
“What a remarkable place,” Niamh said, forgetting to be nervous.
Jeron laughed. “I’m glad you think so. A great wonder of Ahra that I can find anything. Though I promise you, it has its own sort of order.”
“I like it,” Niamh replied and stood with her satchel still on one shoulder, taking it all in. “It’s homey. And it’s very you.”
“Very me?” Jeron raised an eyebrow.
“Busy and comfortable and one of a kind.”
“You flatter me,” Jeron said, beaming. “Here, hand me your bag.” He reached out, relieving her of her burden. “Source, woman, what have you got in here?” Jeron made a show of plunking the satchel onto a side table.
“Provisions and supplies, just in case,” Niamh replied, feeling silly. Like anyone would need to pack supplies in such a merchant-crowded, busy city.
“Always a soldier. I’d wager Captain Hawke appreciates that.” Jeron grinned at her. “Get comfortable. Sit.” He bustled off into another room, calling out over his shoulder. “I’ll bring food.”
Niamh did not sit. All the curiosities surrounding her fascinated her too much for lazing on cozy chairs. She navigated the sitting room slowly, careful not to knock anything over with her crutch. She ran her fingers over a stack of parchments covered in Jeron’s neat handwriting, bumping her hand against a purple sphere that emitted a shrill buzz when she disturbed it.
“Ouch,” she cried out as a shock jolted up her arm.
“You might not want to touch anything,” Jeron scolded. “Curiosity, cats, and all that. I can’t even remember what half of these things do.”
He prodded Niamh back toward the sofa. This time, she let him.
“Pour tea for us both, please,” Jeron ordered and bustled away again into the other room.
Niamh sat with a mug of tea and a plate of honey-butter and bread while Jeron darted around the crowded room, talking excitedly to himself, muttering unfamiliar words. He was amassing a peculiar array of items on the table next to the tea set. She watched, now more curious than nervous.
“Spanner, yes. Sixpick, wrench, check and check. Gear oil—wait. Ah, there it is. And this,” Jeron stood next to a large, rough-wood crate. “The reason you are here, Niamh Starsong,” Jeron announced like a carnival busker. “The main attraction.”
Jeron reached into the crate and brandished a metal object Niamh recognized from his early schematics as her new leg. A curved shin piece formed the bulk of the leg, with two knots of delicate gears mooring the foot to what would probably be the ankle and again to a spongy-looking cup where the knee might be.
“It’s not straight, just like you told me it would be,” Niamh said wonderingly as she rose from the sofa. She moved closer to Jeron’s side and touched the shin piece hesitantly.
“Neither is a human leg,” Jeron explained. “Spines, arms and legs—they’re not ramrod straight. It’s no wonder the peg-legs hospitals foist on people are useless.” His expression hardened into a scowl.
“You made all of this from Sister Hilde’s measurements?” Niamh could not take her eyes off the metal leg, fascinated.
“Parts of it. Some bits I designed and sent to artisans I knew who could hasten the process. Premier Riva donated the truesteel part. It’s of course not leytemple grade, but still excellent quality as a badge of honor. I had it mage-tempered by the best magismith in Tanahr, then doubly reinforced by yours truly. And I did all the gear assembly myself.”
Niamh shook her head. “Amazing. How does it work?”
Jeron grinned. “I thought you would never ask. Take off your shoe, and—” he paused, casting an assessing glance at Niamh’s legs. “I promise this is necessary. If you could hike up your trouser leg a little higher, it would help. You know, keep it out of the way.”
Niamh looked at Jeron, fighting a laugh at seeing his freckles darker than usual, his cheekbones flushing. She ducked down and rolled her loose-fitting breeches as far above her knee as she comfortably could.
“Over here in the light, please,” Jeron said, pointing toward a tall magelamp that stood cater-cornered to the sofa. “It helps me see when I make the fine calibrations,” he added.
Jeron dragged the table with his tools and the tea set closer and positioned a sitting-stool in front of Niamh. He placed the mechanical leg on the stool.
“So, how it works. The device will use your own weight, height, and way of walking to get you more mobile. The foot stores and releases energy. This piece, the shin—” Jeron ran his fingers along the curved metal, “is supported by a clockwork ankle joint and artificial knee. Our bodies make energy, Niamh, a natural current that will flow between the foot piece and where the leg attaches above where your knee would have been. It powers these little gears in the knee and ankle, and you’ll move with precision if all goes well.”
“With precision,” Niamh echoed, unbelieving. “Will it be painful?” She at once regretted her words. “I’m not afraid of pain,” she added. “But if Captain Hawke wants me at the Northgate, I can’t afford to be distracted.”
Jeron scrubbed his hand over his stubbled chin, thoughtful. “Likely at first it will cause some discomfort. The way new boots make your feet ache. But I’ve created this,” Jeron mashed down on the knee-cushion, “both to adhere to your leg, and to cushion it. You’ll grow calluses over time, but I’m hoping the mechanisms of the leg itself will take on some of the shock.”
“Let’s try it.” Niamh leaned closer, breathless with excitement.
“That’s the spirit. Succumb to my machinations,” Jeron laughed. “Brace yourself on the counter there. I need to mold it in place and create a good fit. It’ll be hot to the touch at first. Tell me if it’s too much.”
Niamh grabbed her crutches and picked her way carefully across the room. She navigated into place, bracing her back against the workbench table.
Jeron sank onto the stool in front of her, looking too big for the little piece of furniture, wide shoulders hunched as he murmured a spell over the cushioning on the leg. There was a flash of golden light, and then a scent like the breeze before a thunderstorm filled the air.
“You ready?” Jeron looked up at her from where he knelt.
Niamh gazed down, Jeron’s head near her waist, the leg held steady against the floor with one firm hand. She was so nervous that the normal barrage of fireworks his closeness caused fizzled to mere pops and bangs.
“Do it,” she said.
Jeron reached out and guided Niamh’s leg so it fit into the cushioned socket.
“It burns,” Niamh hissed through her teeth.
“Too much?” Jeron stilled.
“No,” she bit out.
Jeron nodded and pushed the cushion harder into Niamh’s leg.
“Press down,” he said. “It will mold to your shape.”
Niamh let her weight fall into the cup until she felt the resistance of solidity, something propping her, stability that had nothing to do with a crutch. The gummy material yielded beneath her, cooling to the temperature of her skin.
“Good. Wonderful, even.” There was a note of repressed excitement in Jeron’s words. “Now, I need you to stand as normally as possible so I can calibrate the proper height. Take all the time you need.”
Niamh concentrated on balancing and let go of her grip on the workbench. She shifted from her left foot, placing more and more weight on her right leg and the metal foot. With each step she grew steadier, and she smiled in glee, staring down at the top of Jeron’s head as he knelt beside her. He was helping her, yet again.
This man—clever, light-hearted, kind, far too handsome for his own good—had spent hours, even days working on this for her. The thought brought back the entire fireworks display in her stomach with reinforcements.
Jeron’s fingers danced around the ankle and knee gears, the ticking and clack of precision tools on metal an oddly satisfying music to her ears. Niamh felt herself balancing naturally as the clockwork knee and ankle gears clicked into place. She studied the apparatus—the cushioned cup rose well above where her actual knee would have been, tight but not painfully so.
“Here is the real test,” Jeron said. “Take a step or two. Go slowly, please.” He scooted the table and stool out of the way and watched Niamh, expectant.
Niamh focused on her posture and then took a step, artificial leg first. The metal foot landed with a thud on the wooden floor.
“I’ll fix that by adding a layer of rubber to act as a sole and mute the noise. I’ll have to adjust the height again, but please, go on.” Jeron watched, expression carefully blank, hands in tight fists.
Another step, right foot forward.
Two more, the thud less pronounced.
Before Niamh realized it, she had crossed the room and wandered into the kitchen, where she stood in a bar of sunlight.
“Jeron,” she cried out. He was already beside her, arms out in case she fell. “It works. Why does it stay on? How is this possible? How could you have done this in such a short time?” Niamh could not keep the excitement out of her voice, words tumbling from her tongue faster than she could manage.
Jeron laughed and took one of Niamh’s hands in his, sending goosebumps up and down her arms and heat to her face.
“Science, magic, and some midnight oil, that’s how. The weight of your body on the cushion creates suction. You’ll have to pull a little to remove it, but if you sit down, it shouldn’t prove difficult at all. Niamh?”
Niamh gazed up at Jeron, uttered a sound that was half laugh, half sob, and danced a joyful circle around the kitchen, only stopping when she pirouetted into a dangling string of dried herbs, knots of garlic smacking the back of her head and bending the tip of her right ear.
Jeron smiled even wider, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Amazing. This is amazing,” she said.
“I still need to do a little fine-tuning, but I’ll bring it to your place tomorrow, and then you’ll walk, dance, and march all over Easthaven.”
Niamh watched Jeron start toward her and walked to meet him halfway. Her gait was so natural she couldn’t believe that an hour ago a passer-by pitied her as she limped by on crutches.
She moved closer to Jeron, hoping to hug him again, careful not to tread on his toes with the metal foot. She opened her mouth to speak, but there were no words. It was too much.
Jeron threw his arms around her, drawing her into an embrace that knocked the breath from her lungs. Before she realized what she was doing, Niamh tilted her face upward and pressed her lips to his. Waves of chills and shocks of heat raced over her arms and through her belly. His clean scent, the taste of spiced tea on his lips…she felt sparkly and dizzy from his nearness.
Jeron’s hold tightened, his fingers curling into her back, and Niamh pressed tighter against him. He was so warm, so immediate. His kiss intensified, lips trailing to her cheek, down and along the line of her jaw and further, until he nuzzled her neck. She reached up to tangle her fingers in his short hair as he spun her, backing her towards the wall, hands lower than before. Niamh jutted out one foot to steady herself, then they both teetered to the side, Jeron’s elbow dangerously close to the counter.
Something crashed to the ground. Niamh backed away from him to see a riot of tiny machine parts scattered over the wooden flooring, the metal bowl spinning for a ridiculous amount of time before clanging to a stop against a crate.
Both laughed until they couldn’t breathe.
A knock sounded on the door, bringing them back to the moment. Niamh was suddenly aware of her disheveled hair, her ears afire, her shaking hands. She tried to smooth her braided half-tail back into at least a semblance of neatness while Jeron darted toward the parlor.
“Moya, Kate! Come in. I can’t wait to show you this. It worked!”
Niamh felt a grin cross her face at Jeron’s excitement. She walked into the front room to greet the other women, bowing with a little flourish when she saw them, because she could.
“Amazing—” Moya started, then crossed the room to tackle-hug Niamh. Niamh laughed, allowing Moya to crush her in a hug for the second time that day.
“Absolutely amazing, Jeron,” Sage Kate said, her excitement quieter but still clear. “This will change so many lives, starting with Niamh’s.”
“I still haven’t even wrapped my head around it,” Niamh said, shaking her head. “He is so good to me.”
“No kidding!” Moya grinned. “I mean, he’s a nice guy, but he did that big old Hallowed Healing thing for you, and now he’s helping you walk again. I think he might actually fancy you or something.”
“Moya,” Sage Kate said quietly, expression strange. “He’s right there, don’t tease—”
“Wait, Hallowed Healing?” Niamh blurted out. Her heart thundered, but this time not in a good way. Not if this meant what she thought it did. “Is that anything like a Greater Healing?”
Greater Healings were rare among her people, since the cost of using them was life essence from the mage performing the spell. Jeron couldn’t possibly have done that.
Sage Kate flashed a look at Jeron but said nothing, and Moya stood in place, eyes wide.
“I’ve heard of Greater Healings, yes,” he said finally, but offered no more.
“You did not answer my question,” Niamh shot back, tone hard.
Sage Kate reached out for Moya’s arm, pulling the other woman toward the door. They both bowed in Jeron and Niamh’s direction before leaving the apartment.
“Yes, a Hallowed Healing is like a Greater Healing. In fact, I believe they’re nearly the same thing.”
“You never told me.”
“I’m sorry,” Jeron said, stricken. “I didn’t know how.”
Niamh took a deep, shaky breath. He had created this amazing invention for her. He had healed her in a way most mages never risked, costing his very life essence. Guilt twisted sharply through her chest, mingling with a painful sense of betrayal. Not at Jeron, but at herself for putting him in such danger.
How had she not considered this before? What madness had kept her from seeing it? She knew what healers gave up when they saved a life. She’d seen it happen before. Why in all the world had she assumed he had done a normal healing, had acted fast and gotten her to safety without harm to himself?
Shock froze her for a moment in place, then she backed away. She didn’t deserve him. Not when she had so many secrets. Not when her work might drag her away from him.
“I have to go,” Niamh managed, voice breaking.
“Go?” Jeron echoed, eyes wide. “We need to talk about this.”
“Not now. No, I have things to do and, well, to think about, and I’m not sure how to even begin—” she babbled, then broke off, taking a deep breath.
Niamh moved toward the door, suddenly aware of the heaviness of her new leg, mirroring the weight she felt in her heart. She turned back and then collapsed onto the sofa, head in her hands.
“What happened? Are you in pain?” Jeron hovered nearby, voice tight with worry.
“No. I mean, yes. Can you help me take this off for now?”
“Of course.” Jeron knelt on the floor in front of her, looking more serious than before. “You don’t want to tug. Like this instead,” Jeron said quietly. He reached over and pried the prosthetic leg with a sharp twist. The apparatus came away easily.
“It’s an amazing invention,” Niamh said. “Truly. Just you should have told me. I should have known.”
“Niamh, how was I supposed to tell you? You were healing, both in body and mind. You were trying to get back into the world, and you had more than enough to deal with without that kind of burden.”
“I could have handled it,” she said, a tear escaping to roll down her cheek, betraying her. She swiped it away, her expression set. “I need to go. To think.”
“I understand. Can I walk you to the portal?”
Niamh shook her head. “Thank you, but I’ll be fine.”
“If you’re sure, I won’t impose,” Jerson said, his voice carefully neutral. Niamh didn’t miss the tiny waver creeping into his words.
She lifted her satchel and gazed up at him one more time, strengthening her resolve. How could he have given away part of his life to save hers? And when she might be called back home at any moment, leaving only heartbreak behind?
“Thank you, Jeron. You are a remarkable man, and I’m grateful for all that you’ve done,” she murmured and fled through the front door, out into the busy street.
Lizzie Sinclaire 