The Monsters Within

Chapter 7

Ricard Alphonse opened his eyes and regretted it. Blinding light pierced his retinas, and he groaned at the spikes of pain that shot through his head. He had to squint, but as the seconds passed, blurry shapes resolved themselves.

He was in a musty chamber. Weak light--it had seemed so intense at first--sputtered in a corner of the room somewhere.

Ricard heard the bubbling sounds of brewing concoctions and a faint chemical scent tickled the insides of his nostrils.

He spotted a cup of water on a tray within reach. It made him aware of his parched state.

He lifted a hand and reached for the cup, but the effort made him sweat, made him pant, and his arm fell back to the bed after a short distance.

He noticed, with alarm, that the skin of his hand was wrinkled and dry. His flesh looked like old parchment, something that should not happen for another couple hundred years or so given his magic affinities.

A stranger's withered hand reached out and grasped the cup. The hand shook, spilling a good portion of the water on the ground as it handed it to him.

Again, Ricard lifted his hand to take the cup. This time he could manage but a few inches before his hand fell.

He groaned again, with effort and the frustration of defeat.

A smoky voice chuckled behind him, the owner of the hand, Ricard assumed.

After a moment, he found the cup pressed to his lips and he drank the cool, delicious water down in two gulps.

He whimpered when the cup was pulled from him, but it appeared again, filled to the brim.

Ricard went through four cups of water this way. He finished with the satisfying feeling of water sloshing around in his belly.

A woman's harsh voice crackled from behind him, causing Ricard to wince.

"Is he suitable?"

"I believe he is as well as can be expected," replied the smoky voice.

Ricard recognized both voices.

Apothos Sorkin Turn was one of the school's healers, as well as one of the chief alchemists. He specialized in poisons. 

Ricard prayed that the four cups of whatever he drank was indeed water, with nothing extra.

The other voice made him wish he were dead. It was Irina Maldiv's voice.

"Thank you, Apothos Turn. Leave us," Irina said.

There was a brief pause, then Turn said, "If I may, Madame, but he is not ready for--"

"That will be all, Apothos Turn. You may go," she said with more force.

"Yes, Madame," Turn said. 

Ricard heard the retreat of shuffling footsteps, and then a shutting door.

His heart pounded in his chest, and a feeling of mortal danger clenched his guts. He did not want to be alone with this woman, not on his best day.

Irina stepped into view. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun and decorated with various silver bobbles and trinkets. Her ears were adorned in similar fashion. 

She looked--sympathetic. It was a foreign expression for her. 

"Welcome back, Ricard," she said, her tone mild.

Ricard nodded at her but didn't speak. He was too afraid to.

She reached a hand towards his forehead and he winced, pressing back into his pillow.