The Sorcerers

[Seydon of Arda]

He sat across her, composed in a partial drowse, stilling thought and inclination down to the simple drumbeat in his ribs. Seydon did not think. If he worried, Rosa’s concentration would reverberate with the feeling and spoil her concentration. His senses were trained on her: hearing against the soft crackle-pop of her lung alveoli, dry epidermal aromatics slowly beginning to salt with sweat, intermingling with her perfume, eyes hooded low and still regarding her gelid but placid mien of utter focus, one hand tucked inside and behind her knee to measure her distal heart rate. The rhythm pulsed erratically. Steady but growingly frenetic. Her body was siphoning heat and blood flow to warm the pit of her torso trunk, complexion wan, her big toes looking blue under the nail. Air pressure swirled round her brow like a dark halo.

Then, a sudden wrenching pop in his ear-drums, and he saw light return inside her eyes. Seydon’s hands shot forward, caught her shoulders and mindfully cradled her off the floor matt. Her bones felt like water, musculature vised tight, heat blushing back into her cheeks and nape. He pressed a thumb to her carotid and counted… One-hundred bpm but steadily declining, before levelling off at a jogging seventy thrums per minute. Breathing was full, steady. He couldn’t linger watching her cleavage swell, lightly tugging up her eyelid. …Reddened sclera, bloodshot from strain, but the pupil lens was not blow. He sat his wife across his shoulder, her weight like nothing in his hold, gently plying her brow with a ready cold-compress.

“Are you alright…?” He murmured. “Was… Was there anything to detect? Did anyone ‘catch’ you…?”

[member="Rosa Gunn"]

 

[Rosa Gunn]

Rosa's only answer was a soft incoherent murmur, her tongue felt thick in her mouth, her body alien. A shudder ran through her and fingers clawed at the front of his tunic, holding tight. Eyes rolled and lids closed shut, though her hands held fast to him. Just a moment, she thought as the cold compress pressed gently against her brow, give me just a moment. Each beat of her heart seemed to reverberate in her fingers and she could feel his worry climbing at her silence.

"Am okay." she managed, his concern creeping up her own chest, suffocating. "We're okay." She let herself sink into him focusing on his breathing and his heartbeat, building a thin wall against the world beyond. Brick by brick, rising it with each steady beat. The sun was dipping low before she found the strength to stir, a murmured request for caff and he lifted her gently from the floor, settling her upright on the couch.

Organising her thoughts carefully she waited till he settled beside her, fingers coiling about the warm mug. She told him of the lingering darkness on at the North of the City, of its similar vibe to the Abbey and of the man. A human, that had seen their boy and the labs he was in. "...but there's another child with him. Not just one. Two of them, in that vile place. His memories were skewed though, like someone had been meddling, trying to wipe them or erase bits of it? Maybe they're planted. I don't know, but its the best I've got."

[member="Seydon Gunn"]

 

[Seydon of Arda]

“Prazutis Gardens, a red door, number twenty-three,” Seydon repeated.

The details begged wondering as he prepared a small restorative plate of meats, light cheeses, pickle slices, and salt-crackers, pouring Rosa a sparing glass of a modest red wine. Mnemonic traps weren’t impossible; savvy mentalists could implant artificial stimuli to trick a given brain into receiving, modelling, and then storing false memories, deceiving the neuro-chemical processes into believing the falsehood implicitly. The lie couldn’t be detected if the subject couldn’t sort the truth from the illusion themselves. Mostly. A trained empath could certainly note sequence discrepancies, details that didn’t follow correctly or were unaligned entirely, or even the simple ‘trail’ left behind by outside agents trying to lure or trap their attentions.

“So, does the slave market have their own empaths then?” He wondered aloud. “…Then why should this man’s memory be degrading or fatigued? If he’s been memory-scrubbed, then he’s not an Epicanthix. Not unless it’s an electro-chemical procedure, which case, we’re facing off with some powerful intellects not afraid to alter memory just to cover a paper trail.”

He decided against skirmishing that night. Rosa’s wellbeing was improving but still showed precariousness. They would sleep, recover their wit and wake freshened. Come morning, they would decide their course and then prosecute it, not now after a full day’s session wading through Canthar’s grandiose veneers into its welling, septic underbelly. Seydon looked out through the window blinds. The city’s horizon glowed bronze and dominant with basilica curves back-lit by blazing sunset light. Noise was a steady thrum beating through the plaster walls; airspeeders and local construction. He let the energy briefly touch him, feeling invigorated, just managing to leash back the urge to go charging out into the dark and assault the evil keeping their son…

“…Seydon?”

“Nothing,” he shook his head. “Nothing. D’you want dinner? More drink? That whole sessions nearly slugged the hell out of you.”

[member="Rosa Gunn"]

 

[Rosa Gunn]

Rosa felt it within him, felt the beast that lured withing them noth, that would take them out against good judgement and into the fray at this moment. But they needed to know the full extent of what they were up against, and they needed to be rested...she needed to be rested. She pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes until stars blotted the blackness behind her eyelids, shaking her head as she lifted it in response to his question.

"I just need sleep." she replied, feeling the exhaustion weighing over her. Rising smoothly from the table, she began to collect the dishes only to have him remove them from her hands. She'd done enough, she needed rest, he'd manage the dishes. She sank back into her chair, too tired to argue and watched him hand beneath her chin, elbows on the table. They'd go to Prazutis Garden's tomorrow, pay a visit to the man who'd had his memories scrubbed and find another piece of the puzzle before them.

The question of how his memories had been scrubbed had many answers, a mentalist in the employ of the Zambrano's or even the First Order could have done it. The deeper they delved into this the less she was feeling like they were going toe to toe with slavery and more like they were about to butt heads with something far more sinister...

Her head slipped off her hand jerking her awake, the jolt made her hand snap forward and she knocked the wine glass from the table, and the dregs of her last drink with it. She winced in anticipation of the smash, knowing full well there was no way she was quick enough to stop it.

[member="Seydon Gunn"]