COMPANION, Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE

Weeks of convalescence did funny things to Mane’s mind. Of particular fascination for him over his time recuperating were the strange angles, especially in the ceiling beams directly above his bed. Buildings in Morrelton ranged from a bit off-kilter to wildly misshapen, the town as a whole keen on forming a synergy with the surrounding forest by avoiding interference with the natural flora as much as possible. The haphazard shape of the tiny hospital made it a wonder it stood at all.
          Luck stuck with him on the road to Morrelton, when he’d been found unconscious by a small caravan headed for Kelef who’d turned back on account of a section of road destroyed by a rockslide. Balance had been restored, however, when he awoke in a hospital to find his purse and, oddly, his boots missing.
          Hospital may have been too generous a term. The ward comprised seven beds, shoved along off-angle walls as best as they could be arranged. A single adept named Aida operated the entire clinic, with two assistants who acted as nurses in rotating shifts. Aida had done a fine enough job repairing Mane’s broken arm, but exhaustion and dehydration took its toll, and his new body had absorbed more injuries than he originally identified. All of which converged into a longer stay than he desired.
          Not a day went by where Mane didn’t agonize over his plight, alternating between crippling depression and numbing anger over sending the children away. Why hadn’t he simply gone with them? Had he really believed he could defend his cabin against determined intruders? Had his delay been at all beneficial to the children? Stop thinking like that. You made a decision in the moment, and now you have to live with it.
          Guilt and anxiety warred with pragmatism at every moment of his recovery. He was weaker now than he’d been in longer than he could remember. Not only due to injury, but occupying a new body meant he had all the disadvantages of combining two people and none of the benefits. Decades of adeptitude, wiped away. At best, he could hope to relearn through therapy, like learning how to walk again. Any knowledge of his host’s particular adeptitudes—and the training and skill he may have undergone to hone them—died when the ring slammed Mane’s consciousness into this form and evicted its owner. Although Mane felt strong—and oh so young—the transition rendered his lifetime of cultivated adeptitude nearly useless.
          The only advantage he had was the ability to approach his retraining with some foreknowledge. He still understood the basics, in theory and practice, and could adopt an accelerated muddle through the relearning of drawing khet and shaping life energy to his will. In his own mind, he likened his struggle to practicing an instrument again after breaking a hand. At least he wasn’t back to square one.
          Mane sat up and stretched, his healing arm still not back to full mobility. Muscles strained and screamed in both pain and disuse. His ribcage still ached beneath the after-image of a massive, newly fading bruise. Hands on knees, he rose slowly to his feet and attempted to arch his back, only to have his breath stolen by a twinge near his spine. Everything still hurt, and he began to suspect he could no longer remain sedentary.
          As if on cue, Aida stepped into the ward from a door in the far end and strolled over to Mane. “How are we feeling today?” she asked.
          Mane couldn’t help but smirk. “You ask me that question every day. In exactly the same way.”
          Aida nodded. “And you respond in exactly the same way. Must we do this dance before you’ll just tell me how you feel?”
          “Fine,” Mane said. “Better.”
          “That’s good, because I think it’s time I discharge you.”
          Mane suffered an unexpected wave of anxiety at the notion. “Uh…”
          “You can’t stay here forever, Seb.” Seb was the name he’d been given when he was brought to the clinic unconscious, and he accepted it, rightly claiming memory loss. He didn’t know the name belonging to the body he occupied, and giving his real name was clearly out of the question. So, Seb it was.
          “You’re walking without support,” Aida continued, “and your arm is healing nicely. It’s time to go recover back in the world.” She gave a light sigh. “Look, if it were my choice, I’d let you stay until you were back to full capacity. But… we have to keep these beds open.”
          Mane looked around the empty ward and cocked an eyebrow. Aida lowered her eyes. As altruistic as Aida would love to be, Mane had made it clear that he was unable to pay for his treatment. He’d arrived without a Jib to his name—or even a name, for that matter—and Aida’s hospital couldn’t treat him forever.
          “Look,” Aida said. She took up one of his hands in hers. The skin of her hands was soft against the calloused knuckles he hadn’t quite gotten used to. An odd sensation, like wearing thin gloves or touching something with nearly frozen fingers. Wearing another man’s body still didn’t sit well with Mane, but at least he lived. He felt something else there, pressed into his palm. “Take this.”
          Mane turned up his open palm to find two gold Damaks. The money alone would be enough to pay for his entire stay, and now Aida’s good heart practically doubled the expense of his treatment. He attempted to press the coins back into her hand. “I can’t accept that, Aida. You’ve already done enough.”
          Aida did not accept the coins. “Look… Seb,” she said, closing his fingers around the money. “You have no money. You have no name, really. If I send you out that door with nothing but the clothes on your back, you’ll either end up press-ganged into work you probably don’t want, or right back here in a bed again. If not worse.” Aida stepped forward, gently pushing his hand back to his chest.
          “You’ve been a model patient,” she said. “I’m glad we could help you heal, but I’m sorry we couldn’t help restore your memory. So whoever you were, whatever came before this, all of that’s gone now. Take this money, and go make something better.” She smiled and kissed his cheek, then left him to his thoughts.
          Her words struck a hammer-blow to his heart. Aida had no way of knowing Mane’s particular predicament; she was merely referencing his lost memory. There was a chance she had some inkling of his body’s former career just from his style of dress and contextual clues like scars, but nothing specific. Regardless, it brought the sundering of his old life into sharp focus, and it hurt. Two lives—both Mane’s and the brigand’s—had been snuffed out, and neither could be recovered.
          During all of his convalescence, Mane had grand dreams of investigating Samuel’s visions of the Queen Consort’s murder. But what good could he really do, now? With his identity in flux and his adeptitude undermined, he wondered what kind of direct involvement he was even capable of. If the children and Samuel were alive and well, they wouldn’t recognize him, and he had no good way to prove his identity. All his influence as Mane died with his old body, and he had no idea what new reputation he’d inherited.
          He found himself half sitting, half leaning back on his bed, staring at the coins in his hand. His entire net worth now consisted of these two coins, a pack, and a single set of clothing, all of which Aida had supplied alongside his care. A month ago, a couple of Damaks would’ve been an insignificant sum to him. Decades of careful planning and gathering of wealth had built a bubble of security, a place where he could study in peace without financial burden occupying precious thought-space. The cabin had been a virtual vault of not only actual wealth, but of numerous artifacts and constructions as well as incalculably priceless knowledge.
          The only solace Mane could take in the loss of his life’s work was that the despicable cretins who’d tracked down and invaded his home never had the chance to ransack it for the secrets it held, and that he’d taken a few of them out in the explosion. But perhaps if they had been able to loot the place, the mercenaries who’d been hired to support the silver-eyed man’s mission of death may have halted their pursuit, or at least stalled it long enough-
          No. Mane chided himself for thoughts leading nowhere but to a downward spiral he couldn’t afford. He’d spent so much of the last few decades in comparative seclusion and security that he’d grown complacent and overly comfortable. He’d known poverty and frugality once, and it was time to re-learn how to live back in the world. Two Damaks and the clothes on his back would be enough to get a good start as long as he was careful. Just because he couldn’t approach an investigation directly or academically didn’t mean he couldn’t have an impact.
          And he knew exactly where to start.