struggle.
Erhard whispered a Pater Noster to himself.
“Please? I cannot hold her here forever.”
Erhard had always been a decisive man, not disposed to debate things with himself. His service had never been one he doubted. But seeing this girl held by Brother Semyon was causing some of that certainty to crumble.
“
Landkomtur Erhard!
Should I remind you who sent you here, or whom you serve?”
Erhard’s vows were more important than any momentary doubts. He drew his dagger from the sheath on his belt. This was not the time or place to question his vocation.
Erhard placed the hilt in Brother Semyon’s right hand. The blade shone dully, reflecting the small amount of sunlight that filtered in from the vent holes. The girl—Rose—became very still, only moving her eyes to follow the motion of the blade.
The chamber was so silent that Erhard was aware of the sound of his own breathing.
Brother Semyon deliberately slid the blade across the meat of Rose’s palm. Even though he was almost expecting the casual brutality of the act, Erhard’s breath caught as if it had been his own flesh that had been violated.
Rose shut her eyes and gasped, but she didn’t cry out as the blade crossed her palm. Blood welled up and began to drip from between her fingers. When Brother Semyon was done, he lowered the dagger and turned her wounded palm toward Erhard.
Christ help me
, Erhard thought. He couldn’t help but think of the nail wounds on the hands of his Lord. “What exactly are you demonstrating?”
“Watch her, not me.”
Erhard looked back at Rose’s hand, the obscene wound spilling blood on the floor. But the blood was thick now, almost black.
No, the cut is too deep. Without pressure, it cannot begin clotting so soon
.
From his experience on the battlefield, even minor wounds like this might bleed forever if not quickly bound. But the blood still turned dark and slowed its flow.
And then the impossible happened. The edges of the wound knit themselves together. Almost, it seemed, the flesh melted and flowed together, like two streams joining. Erhard watched as the wound shortened, the edges traveling down the girl’s palm until it disappeared, leaving the girl’s hand bloodstained, but intact.
When Brother Semyon let go of Rose’s wrist, she half stumbled, half ran to the center of the cell and curled into a ball, facing away from them. Her head trembled and, for a moment, Erhard thought she might be weeping.
But she was licking the blood off her hand.
Semyon walked up next to her, saying in Prûsan, “Very good, Rose. Your master is pleased.” He reached down and replaced the silver manacle on her leg. He spoke to Erhard in German. “They may feel pain like men, but for them most injury is transitory. Fingers, limbs, organs, all regenerate without even a scar in most cases.”
Erhard stared at the creature in the cell. Part of him, the worldly part, still thought of Rose as a child. The spiritual part, the part of him that served God and the Order, saw her as something else, something alien and threatening.
“Are they immortal?” he asked as the guard lowered his spear and let Semyon out of Rose’s cage.
“By no means. They may be the spawn of some pagan demon, but they’re as mortal as you or I. They age, of course, and they can be killed.”
“How, if they heal like that?”
“Destroy or remove the brain or heart and they will not survive. Bound by silver they will not heal better than a man. Likewise, if they’re wounded by an edge made of silver”—he gestured toward the spear that the guard was replacing on the rack—“they recover only slightly faster than a human being.”
Erhard felt his stomach tighten when he realized that Brother Semyon spoke from his own experience. How many of these “children” did he start with to gain this knowledge? How many brainsand hearts did he remove to demonstrate their mortality? Erhard tried to steady his voice as he asked, “What
are
they?
Erhard whispered a Pater Noster to himself.
“Please? I cannot hold her here forever.”
Erhard had always been a decisive man, not disposed to debate things with himself. His service had never been one he doubted. But seeing this girl held by Brother Semyon was causing some of that certainty to crumble.
“
Landkomtur Erhard!
Should I remind you who sent you here, or whom you serve?”
Erhard’s vows were more important than any momentary doubts. He drew his dagger from the sheath on his belt. This was not the time or place to question his vocation.
Erhard placed the hilt in Brother Semyon’s right hand. The blade shone dully, reflecting the small amount of sunlight that filtered in from the vent holes. The girl—Rose—became very still, only moving her eyes to follow the motion of the blade.
The chamber was so silent that Erhard was aware of the sound of his own breathing.
Brother Semyon deliberately slid the blade across the meat of Rose’s palm. Even though he was almost expecting the casual brutality of the act, Erhard’s breath caught as if it had been his own flesh that had been violated.
Rose shut her eyes and gasped, but she didn’t cry out as the blade crossed her palm. Blood welled up and began to drip from between her fingers. When Brother Semyon was done, he lowered the dagger and turned her wounded palm toward Erhard.
Christ help me
, Erhard thought. He couldn’t help but think of the nail wounds on the hands of his Lord. “What exactly are you demonstrating?”
“Watch her, not me.”
Erhard looked back at Rose’s hand, the obscene wound spilling blood on the floor. But the blood was thick now, almost black.
No, the cut is too deep. Without pressure, it cannot begin clotting so soon
.
From his experience on the battlefield, even minor wounds like this might bleed forever if not quickly bound. But the blood still turned dark and slowed its flow.
And then the impossible happened. The edges of the wound knit themselves together. Almost, it seemed, the flesh melted and flowed together, like two streams joining. Erhard watched as the wound shortened, the edges traveling down the girl’s palm until it disappeared, leaving the girl’s hand bloodstained, but intact.
When Brother Semyon let go of Rose’s wrist, she half stumbled, half ran to the center of the cell and curled into a ball, facing away from them. Her head trembled and, for a moment, Erhard thought she might be weeping.
But she was licking the blood off her hand.
Semyon walked up next to her, saying in Prûsan, “Very good, Rose. Your master is pleased.” He reached down and replaced the silver manacle on her leg. He spoke to Erhard in German. “They may feel pain like men, but for them most injury is transitory. Fingers, limbs, organs, all regenerate without even a scar in most cases.”
Erhard stared at the creature in the cell. Part of him, the worldly part, still thought of Rose as a child. The spiritual part, the part of him that served God and the Order, saw her as something else, something alien and threatening.
“Are they immortal?” he asked as the guard lowered his spear and let Semyon out of Rose’s cage.
“By no means. They may be the spawn of some pagan demon, but they’re as mortal as you or I. They age, of course, and they can be killed.”
“How, if they heal like that?”
“Destroy or remove the brain or heart and they will not survive. Bound by silver they will not heal better than a man. Likewise, if they’re wounded by an edge made of silver”—he gestured toward the spear that the guard was replacing on the rack—“they recover only slightly faster than a human being.”
Erhard felt his stomach tighten when he realized that Brother Semyon spoke from his own experience. How many of these “children” did he start with to gain this knowledge? How many brainsand hearts did he remove to demonstrate their mortality? Erhard tried to steady his voice as he asked, “What
are
they?
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