Isobel remembered being carried to the Magpie, but very little else. She'd drifted in and out of consciousness for days, Beatrice speaking in hushed tones around her, words like empath and dagger and Ash swirling round in a haze.
Then there were the long hours when her body felt too weak to move and she'd lay on the single bed in the small cabin alone, studying the intricately carved ceiling overhead while waiting for unconsciousness to claim her again.
The floorboards creaked to the pitch of the train as Isobel studied the ceiling once again. She didn't know how long she'd been on the train, but as she struggled to a sitting position, then tentatively stood, bracing herself on a nearby table, she decided that she'd spent enough time bedridden.
Reaching for the decanter of water on the small side table by the bed, she took a few swigs and grabbed the chunk of stale bread next to it. Tearing off a piece with her teeth, she assessed her situation as she ate, eyeing the stack of clothing on a small chair by the small dressing table against the far wall. With another swig of water to wash down the dry bread, she ambled to the chair and painstakingly dressed, the scent of lavender and honey from the clean clothes filling her senses. She smiled with the soft fragrance and immediately regretted it as her dry, chaffed lips cracked, bleeding. Hand to her mouth, she carefully opened the cabin door into the rosewood paneled car, and paused to listen, the steady pitch of the train the only sound cutting the eerie silence.
She stepped into the car, the dim light softening the recesses of the large compartment, and immediately came upon a wide open doorway, framed in cocobolo wood, beyond which stood a small chamber with an oversized copper bath against the far wall. The room smelled of spicy sarsaparilla and was aglow with glass lanterns which hung from brass wall hooks.
Isobel entered the room warily, stepping over puddles of water pooled on the richly oiled wood floor, there as if someone had just recently used the bath, and, finding the chamber empty, quickly undressed, throwing her clothes off to the side. Holding onto the rim she stepped into the bath and the water slipped over her like a cashmere glove. Surrendering to the hot steam with a trembling sigh, the sound of gurgling water playing her like a lullaby, she leaned back, closing her eyes. She traced the healed wound at her clavicle, thinking of Montgomery, and, as the fragrant vapor claimed her, her limp hand slid over her chest and continued down to the puckered scar above belly, where it lingered.
The bath water swelled, pulling her out of her reverie, and she opened her eyes just as a man settled into the tub opposite her. With a deep, contented sigh he ran a hand through his hair, the long black curls tangled around his fingers as he regarded her with hooded eyes. He stroked at the stubble softening his jaw, lowering himself deeper into the water.
"I hope you don't mind. Everyone's asleep. I wasn't expecting anyone this time of night," he said with an accent similar to Beatrice's. "You must be the kid Captain Audreyn brought on board a few days ago."
"A few days," she repeated.
"She wasn't sure you'd make it through the first night. Gave her quite a scare," he said, casually laying his arms over the side of the bath. "You've got an imprinting. They do that sort of thing where you're from," he said, touching his forehead.
"It's safe to say that they do that sort of thing," she said guardedly, not sure what to make of the situation.
"I didn't know imprintings were fatal. You were in pretty bad shape when Captain Audreyn carried you in," he said.
"It wasn't the imprinting that almost killed me," Isobel replied.
"What was it then?"
"This," she said and stood in the hip high water, arm over her breasts, turning to show him the wound.
He examined the wound above her belly and whistled. "That's a nasty scar. Almost looks like it came from a Leumane dagger. See how the doubled edged blade finished at the hilt in an 'L' shape. They were designed like that to ensure a fatal wound," he said, tracing the scar with his wet finger. "No one has seen one in centuries." Standing suddenly, the man reached for a towel off a side table, tossing it to her. Grabbing another one he slung it over his broad shoulders and stepped out of the tub.
"Let's get something to eat. I'm hungry," he said.
Isobel jumped at the mention of food, and almost tripped in haste as she crawled out of the tub. She dressed and stared at his back, intrigued by the circle branded into his flesh, just below the shoulder blades, like a jagged ring.
He caught her looking at him. "My name in Eadric. What are you called?" he asked as he finished dressing.
"I'm Isobel," she replied, following him out of the room and into the hall. "By the way, have you seen a large dog around anywhere?"
"He's been with you most of the time. I saw him earlier with Captain Audreyn. He's probably with her in the fifth car down."
"How many cars are there?"
"The Magpie has six cars, including the engine. Captain Audreyn set you up in this car so you'd be central to everything. This is the communal car, and here's the kitchen," he said, walking into a small room. "We'll be on the train for another three days."
Eadric grabbed a dinged up teapot, filled it with water from a low copper sink, and set it on the stove. Drawing a match, he lit a fire, and reached for two ceramic mugs from a shelf over the sink, setting them on the table. Opening a small fridge he pulled out cold meat and cheese and crusty bread from the cupboard, and sat down, resting his feet on another chair. He tore off a chunk of bread and cheese, and leaning into the chair, slowly ate as he watched her devour her food. The tea pot whistled, and plopping the last bite of bread into his smiling mouth, he prepared them each a mug of tea, handing one to her.
"Thank you, Eadric. This smells wonderful," she said and inhaled the scent of bergamot and night blooming jasmine before taking a sip, feeling better than she had in a while.
"An old witch in Moredea makes it," he said, and pulled his thick, unruly hair back. He secured the wild hair in a bun at the back of his head, his broad hands catching the stray curls, tucking them behind his ears.
"Are there many old witches in Moredea?" she asked, and drank more of the fragrant tea, now with a different understanding, trying to detect the witchery in it.
"Yes. They call themselves mystics," he said, reaching for the last sliver of meat.
She set the mug down and pulled her hair forward over one shoulder, braiding it to the side. "Do you call yourself a mystic?" she asked.
"No. I'll live my life out in mortal years," he said and shrugged.
"Mortal years. Mystic years. I hear that we bleed just the same," she said, downing the rest of her tea.
"There is much truth to that," he replied and smiled.
"How did you end up here on the train?" Isobel asked, pouring herself more tea from the pot.
"The Magpie's my girl. Captain Audreyn took me on some years ago to run her and I'm still here," he said, when Beatrice walked into the room. "We were just talking about you, Captain," Eadric said, standing up briefly.
"You were at that," she replied, dimple in place. "I'm pleased to find you looking very much improved, Isobel. And I see that you have met my main man, Eadric Edmund Drustan," Beatrice said with obvious fondness for the young man, and took a seat at the table, looking quite refreshed herself.
Isobel was relieved to see Ash follow and she held her hand out to him, giving him a bit of cheese as he sat at her feet. "Yes, thank you, Beatrice. Eadric has served me the most delicious food and tea. I am feeling much better."
Eadric rose from the table, finishing the last of his tea. "Ladies, if you'll excuse me, I believe sleep is calling. If you'd like, I can give you a tour of the Magpie tomorrow, Isobel," he said. Turning to Beatrice, he bowed, "Captain, at your service."
"Thank you, Eadric. I'll see you on the morrow then."
"L
adies," he replied with a curt nod, and left the room, his shoulders skimming the narrow doorway on his way out.
"Eadric is one of our best and brightest. Not only has he fought many a battle by my side but also engineers the Magpie with the wisdom and patience of one much older than his tender twenty-two years," Beatrice said. "This is a treacherous stretch of rail and his presence is reassuring."
"Eadric is a member of the Septa then?" Isobel asked.
"No. He isn't a mystic warrior. His ancestors, the Cruthen, hail from the fierce northland tribes past Moredea. We offered them sanctuary after the storms in exchange for their protection at the Dacyan Strait." Rising from the table, she grabbed another mug and poured herself some tea.
"Where's the Dacyan Strait?"
"Far north of Moredea. The Dacyan Strait once connected the seafaring routes of old. The Cruthen of ancient built a citadel over it, maintaining control of the passage for centuries. The monolithic structure stretches for miles like a mighty wall and has seen more than its share of carnage. The strait is frozen but the Cruthen are still there standing sentry."
"Are all the Cruthen mortal then?"
"Yes. Mystic or mortal, Isobel, we are all subject to the same laws of death. The dagger wound at your side nearly killed you, as it would have any mortal man, be it Cruthen or otherwise." Beatrice removed the dagger from her breast pocket and placed it on the table in front of Isobel. "I've kept this for you since the tunnel. You will have the Rat Queen's demons after this."
Isobel studied the dagger warily from a distance, uncertainty stopping her from picking it up. "Eadric mentioned something about that dagger. Where did it come from?"
"It is one of the three ancient daggers of the Dracona Leumane. She was one of the most powerful dragons to reign as guardian of the ancient Pythean territories. She had three daughters who, upon her death, shared stewardship of this land, and each were given a dagger containing Leumane's blood and bones in the handle, a talisman to guide them through the battles that would follow." Beatrice pushed the dagger toward Isobel, indicating she take it.
Isobel carefully picked up the dagger and the crystal radiated faintly. "It feels warm," she said tracing the dull scrollwork holding the crystal.
"It warms for you, the new keeper," Beatrice said softly.
"The blood and bones of the Dracona Leumane. What a terrifying idea," Isobel said. The crystal glowed brighter still, illuminating the cuts and scars on her dry, calloused hands.
"Only an empathic can make a Leumane dagger radiate, Isobel," Beatrice said softly. They swayed to the rhythmic pitch of the train, the warm smells of the kitchen holding the moment comfortably.
Isobel ran her finger over the blade and a glowing trail of light followed. "Are you saying I'm an empath, Beatrice?" she asked evenly, though she knew the answer to that question.
"Yes. But you are more than an empath, Isobel. You are an empathic warrior, endowed with both, and rare it is, believe me. Never disown the one for the other," she said, her voice traveling lightly in the quiet room.
"But what does it mean to be an empathic warrior?"
"I have no idea. I could tell you what one or the other would mean for you. But I cannot tell you what the alchemy of that particular mix might be."
Isobel's heart fluttered with the idea. On one hand she was capable of healing, on the other she was capable of destroying. She reached for her mug wondering how she was going to manage such a dichotomy of being, when the Magpie lurched, coming to a slow stop.
Chapter Twelve