The Lost

Chapter Three: Quicksilver

The third time Quicksilver woke he felt stronger. The data reader lay on the bed beside him, just as he had put it by before he slept. It had been hard to read. He’d had to make an effort, like a child who has not learned properly, and sleep had overtaken him before long. Now he felt better, as though clarity was returning.

Yet he remembered nothing of what had happened to him. A prisoner of the Lanteans, Dust had said. When he closed his eyes he could find a vague impression of towers that stretched against the sky, of a control room with windows of colored glass. Before that nothing. Why could he could not remember Dust, nor this, his home?

He was Quicksilver, one of the foremost of the Queen’s Clevermen. These were his rooms aboard the shipworld Bright Venture, large and private rooms as befitted a cleverman of his stature. He had a laboratory as well and eager assistants. Trouble had come to him, but surely he had risen above much in his life. This illness and the mistreatment that had preceded it were only one more thing. In time it would all be behind him.

Quicksilver sat up slowly. Though his limbs were weak they did not tremble. His arms on the side of the bed seemed his own, though marred with the tiny pinpricks of needles. He must have been very ill indeed to have been given medicine straight into the blood, and for the pricks not to have healed almost instantaneously. But then, he had been. Dust had said so.

Carefully he got up and crossed the few steps to the press where his clothes hung. Clean clothes were worth much. Soft black pants to replace the ones he had slept in, those would do. A shirt of dark blue silk, midnight to match the lacquer on his nails, deep bands of embroidery at neck and sleeves, black on blue in an intersecting pattern that looked oddly familiar. It took a moment, but Quicksilver’s mind found it. The pattern was that of a circuit board. This was his dress shirt, its embroidery proclaiming his position as a master of sciences physical. With effort, Quicksilver lifted it over his head, letting the soft folds cascade around him.

The door irised open to admit Dust, who started. “Quicksilver? You are standing!”

“I feel better,” he replied. “Much better.”

Dust nodded gravely. “I am glad. The master of sciences organical has been to see you, and he said that you would wake much restored. I shall be glad to tell him he was correct.” Dust came beside him, looking at Quicksilver half dressed, his shirt ballooning around him. “Let me cinch that for you.” A few quick ties of threads Quicksilver hadn’t even seen, and the shirt fit tightly, only the sleeves billowing while the rest clung to his form.

“I wondered if I could go to my laboratory,” Quicksilver said.

“The Queen has asked you to attend on her when you’re fit. If you are feeling well enough to be up and about, you must see her first,” Dust replied. “She has been concerned. She will not tire you,” he said, seeing Quicksilver hesitate. “It is a courtesy only. You need not attend her more than a few minutes.”

He could think of no reason to refuse, though the idea filled him with a sort of anxiousness. Perhaps he feared she had been displeased with his work? Or that she would blame him for his capture? It had surely been a great expense and bother.

While he considered, Dust brought his coat and set it to his shoulders, a knee length coat of black silk, not leather as a blade would wear, quilted and trimmed with embroidered facings, black on black.

“There. You are ready,” Dust said. He touched Quicksilver’s hand encouragingly. “It will be short, I promise you.”

They made their way through the corridors of the shipworld, cool mist blowing caressingly against their faces from the vents, doors opening before them. At the Queen’s doors two blades waited, their faces stilled to perfection.

“It is Dust of the Queen’s Own Clevermen to see Her Grace,” he said. “With my brother Quicksilver, who has been Chief among the Queen’s Own.”

There was a pause, and the elder of the blades, a tall man with hair worn in long braids, stepped back. “Queen Death will see you.”

A frisson ran through Quicksilver, but Dust propelled him forwards, his hand at his back comfortingly.

The lights were lower, amber instead of blue, and Quicksilver caught his breath.

“Come closer, my paladins,” she said. On a throne carved of a single piece of glowing coral was a beautiful young woman. Her hair was a river of black silk down her back, bound at her brow with a fillet of silver set with fine stones. Her features were even and proud, and her skin had the glow of youth, high cheekbones arching beneath amber eyes that laughed and danced with pleasure.

When she saw him she rose with one graceful movement, her skirts sweeping around her, and came forward. “Quicksilver!” she said, and her voice was melody and delight. “I am very relieved that you are much better. When you were missing we were all terribly worried, and when you returned so injured…” She broke off, smiling at him. “My dear, we feared the worst! And now you are nearly well again.”

“My Queen,” Quicksilver murmured, stricken to the core. He could barely speak, and it came to him that he should bow. He bent his head.

“I commend you for your good care,” she said to Dust.

“Thank you, My Queen.”

“And you, Quicksilver.” He raised his eyes and saw that she spoke with mock severity, as though they were very old friends indeed. “I know that you will want to exhaust yourself returning to your laboratory as soon as you may. But I do insist that you rest yourself and do not exert yourself too much. It is not necessary, as we are in no peril, and it is of great importance to me that you be restored.”

“You are too gracious,” Quicksilver muttered. It was an effort to speak at all, so overwhelming was her beauty and her presence. That she should speak to him thus, dulcetly, and full of appreciation for his work was…

“We were much relieved when we found you,” she said. “Do you have any idea how you came to be alone on Fyvera?”

“None, My Queen,” Quicksilver said truthfully. “I do not even know where Fyvera is.”

She shook her head sadly. “Perhaps you will remember in time how you came to escape. I do not know. But trust that I will avenge you upon the Lanteans, that did this to you!”

“That is kind, My Queen,” he said.

“Do you remember aught of your captivity, of Atlantis?”

“No,” Quicksilver began, but it seemed to him that he did, a brief impression of a chamber with soaring walls, an Eye set in the middle of a floor of unbearably bright stone. And then it was gone. “Not really,” he said.

Her eyes sharpened, and he knew her power as well as her grace, a fluid shift of feature beneath tranquility that reminded him of some other he knew, though her face escaped him. “Do you recall something?”

“Nothing of consequence, My Queen,” Quicksilver said. “A brief impression of a room. Nothing of note.”

She nodded once. “You should write down that which you remember, or tell Dust if writing tires you. Anything you can remember may be of use to us in the future, either to recover another if they are also unfortunate, or to defeat Atlantis in the end.” She looked away, her gaze ranging over the blades assembled in their beauty and honor. “My far-mother tried and failed to take the City of the Lanteans, and she died when her ship crashed in the sea. But her blood is stronger for the centuries that separate us, and I am her true heir! I will not fail! We stand in the age of silver, and our best days are before us!”

Quicksilver felt rather than heard the ripple run around the room, the assent and desire that flowed to her. Who could not desire to serve such, beauty and glory and strength in one?

“I shall give you all you can hope for, My Queen,” Quicksilver said, and bent his knees to her in homage.