Death Whispers 7: A Slight Cause for Concern

Author’s Note: Death Whispers of the Etherwave is a serialized fiction story that is a part of Legends of the Privateers. Each chapter will appear bi-weekly.

Missed a chapter? (or ‘Episode’ if you like!) Well, never you worry, as we’re only just getting started! The full list of chapters will appear here later on!

Transformed by the cataclysm of 1712, Doctor Pedro Sangre and his four courageous privateer companions confront mysterious and evil forces that plague innocent people. Together, they grapple with uncanny forces and myths come to life, risking everything to preserve peace and set right what has gone wrong.

July 25, 1722. Royal Academy of Arcanum and Science, Kingston, 2nd floor. Getting at the ugly truth.

It was just a quick stroll from south Kingston to Lyra Valtor’s studio on West Queen Street. Her room in the Royal Academy building looked every inch a master wavebinder’s workshop.

The late morning sun did its best to give the room a cozy feel through a lone dusty window. Books were neatly stacked between carved seashells, the odd shrunken skull, and other cheerful relics on the room’s few shelves. Yellowed notes about curses were tacked to the faded brown wooden walls. The Archbinder herself was behind a wide sandalwood desk when we arrived. She cut a stern figure in her wine red dress and silver-streaked black hair in a bun.

Archbinders are masters at channeling magic from the Etherwave, and Lyra Valtor was one of the best among them. Really, you’d have to be dead not to have heard of her, and death wasn’t an excuse. After all, it hadn’t slowed her down yet.

Fortunately, she was willing to see us as a favor to Lysander.

We explained what happened in my shop with my scars, the flames, and the blood after we arrived. That led to a brief examination for what the Archbinder called ‘the usual signs of a curse’. I had no idea what that was, but apparently it could show up in my eyes.

After a pensive hum, Lyra sat down in the canvas padded chair behind her desk. For a moment, she tapped out a light rhythm against her gnarled oak cane. Frown lines creased the gray undead skin of her forehead as her eyes cut from me to the vial of black blood on her desk between us. Next to that lay the rumpled and yellowed journal page, along with my notebook.

She was stalling, and it made my scars itch.

“Doctor Sangre?” she said with a rough, melancholy sigh.

“Yes, Archbinder?” It was hard to keep the tension out of my voice.

“You’re dying,” she announced in a flat tone.

Sadly, her bedside manner needed a bit of work. Probably something that came with being a zombie.

Of all the things she could have said to me, that wasn’t even on my list. I sat back in my chair, wide-eyed, staring at nothing. There was a bitter, metallic taste in my mouth and my right hand felt unusually warm. Over by the door behind me, I heard Lysander swallow a sputter of surprise.

“How long does he have?” Lysander asked in a horrified whisper.

She shrugged lightly. “Hard to say. Maybe as long as a wraith’s curse? So a week? Maybe two.”

“How am I dying, Señora?” I sputtered out, voice rough. “What curse is killing me?”

Lyra leaned forward to tap on the side of the vial with a weathered pencil. The black blood burped back at her. It was an unusual conversation. She raised an eyebrow at me.

“One of three, Doctor. Perhaps one even being a wraith’s curse.” She narrowed her eyes at me over the top of the vial. “You both mentioned scars? Green flame? May I see it?”

Sebastian let out a soft snore where he slept by my feet as I swapped a glance with Lysander. With slow, deliberate movements, I pulled off my right glove to expose both burn scars and the emerald tattoo-like knotwork around them.

Using a thin pair of spectacles from a desk drawer, Lyra squinted at the scars. A few low hums later, she grabbed a book from a nearby shelf to consult a passage. That book ended up on the desk next to her, while she reached for my scarred hand.

I braced for pain or fire, but there wasn’t any. Her gray-white fingers were dead cold against my skin. The ink-like stains around my scars faintly pulsed before they actively tried to avoid her. Slowly, she turned my right hand over to examine both sides.

“Ah,” she said with a smile, as if everything somehow made sense.

Without a word, Lyra rose and rushed out of her office. She returned a moment later with a small porcelain cup of water, then added a pinch of salt to it as an afterthought. A few drops on my right hand brought the emerald green flames to life for a moment. She raised her eyebrows and hummed at that.

“Water,” she said. “I didn’t expect that. The salt might not have mattered.”

Placing the cup on her desk, Lyra settled back into her chair and steepled her fingers in front of her. Once again, she narrowed her eyes at my scars before she cleared her throat.

“This isn’t your everyday curse, gentlemen. This one is ancient. Most certainly from Otherworld.” She gave me a wry smile. “Seems you’ve stepped on some pretty nasty toes, Doctor.”

“It wasn’t intentional, Señora.”

“I imagine not,” she replied brightly. “Most don’t curse themselves on purpose. Though, if you need help with that, let me know.”

Picking up the discarded book from her desk, she opened it to the page she had been reading. She turned the book around toward us, then tapped a series of symbols in a passage.

“This, right here,” Lyra said briskly, “is what you’re roughly dealing with. The Bindweaver’s Curse. Quite a clever little thing. Normally, it compels a thief who steals a book with this curse, to return said book to where it came from. Then they have to guard it, at least for a short time.”

I felt my stomach twist into knots while I remembered the library and its murderous thesaurus crabs. Vaguely, I was aware of Lysander as he stepped over to look down at what Lyra indicated in the book.

“But,” she added, “Bindweaver’s Curse doesn’t kill. Yours does, Doctor. Someone has made improvements, so it eats its victim away to powder, I believe. Nasty piece of work. I’m impressed. Now, why the water to ignite the flames?” Lyra raised a finger, then shook her head. “I’ve no idea.”

“If all this is true, how was Pedro able to escape? Why wasn’t I marked, too?” Lysander asked.

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Well, did you touch the book? This Codex?”

“No, only Pedro did,” he shrugged. “I was busy helping the others deal with the thesaurus crabs, then the pirates.”

“That’s why,” she said and shook a finger at Lysander. “He touched the Codex.”

That struck a chord in me.

“Wait.”

I leaned forward to tap the passage about the Bindweaver’s Curse. “Archbinder, would this affect anyone who touched the Codex after I took it?”

Lyra gave me a thoughtful look and nodded. “Yes, why?”

I glanced at Lysander. “Señor Argall touched the Codex. He actually held it for a long time. But he didn’t have this happen.” I held up my right hand to emphasize the point.

“Right, but the ghoul attacked him for the Codex,” Lysander replied. “Also, it said it knew you.”

“Ghoul?” Lyra asked, gray zombie eyes fever bright with interest.

“Yes. That’s where the black blood in the vial comes from,” I explained. “But Captain Storm’s skull amulet had scrimshaw that matched my scars, and the same green flames. I touched that amulet as well.”

“Doctor, let me see your hand again,” Lyra asked.

She leaned in close to study the scars and their green knotwork once more.

“Oh, how did I miss this?” Lyra muttered. “Those aren’t true scars, are they? They’re tattoos, Doctor. Someone has combined the Bindweaver’s Curse with a vermin, like a flea, that made those tattoos. It wasn’t meant for you, but it did imprint on you. Did you channel any Etherwave power for a relic? Spells?”

“Pedro, your fog potion,” Lysander said quickly. “The one you often use to conceal yourself before you cloud someone’s mind during a fight.”

“I did use that one,” I confessed.

She looked over the top of her spectacles at me.

“It seems this curse wanted a new home.” She removed her spectacles, then shook them at me. “Apparently, it found one. You. Sadly, it’s eating you inside out, Doctor Sangre. Almost certainly draining your life away and sending it somewhere. But to where?” She shook her head. “I’ve no idea.”

“Storm had the same vermin curse then.” I shot a tense glance at Lysander. “If this curse was on the Codex, and Storm was infected…”

Lysander nodded thoughtfully. “Then Storm had already found the Codex. Pedro, he wasn’t trying to steal it. Captain Storm may have been trying to get you to put it back.”

“Compelled by the curse?” I asked with a curious frown.

Lyra glanced up in consideration. “Possibly. I still don’t understand what that vermin part is doing, though. Not yet.”

Another thought hit me.

“Archbinder? When we last saw Captain Storm and his crew, they were being torn to bits by thesaurus crabs. Could that be another reason this curse jumped to me?” I asked, concerned.

Lyra nodded. “Absolutely. That means it needs someone who’s alive.”

Then she took a long breath with a serious expression.

“But, because you ‘inherited’ it though the late Captain Storm instead of the Codex, this Bindweaver’s Curse hasn’t taken effect yet.” She fixed me with a hard stare. “Mind you, it eventually will.”

I ran a hand through my dark hair, making it more unruly than normal. “I was afraid you’d say that, Señora.”

Lysander stood up from studying the book to point at the vial of black blood.

“This explains what happened with Captain Storm, but not this blood.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Lyra, the blood attacked us. It reached for Pedro. In the bookshop, the ghoul, or whatever the hell it was, said it knew Pedro.”

A storm of thoughts clouded the Archbinder’s face. Her eyes glinted yellow-gold, a sure sign of channeling the power of the Etherwave Arcana. Then she reached for the vial, her hand alive with soft yellow-gold magical power.

“Blood holds its own memories, gentlemen. Let’s see what this one remembers.”

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Hoist the Colors is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. Actually, when it's not swinging off the rigging, or shivering some timbers, it's rather shy and retiring. Did I mention it enjoys baking? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So he really is all to blame here.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, shoved overboard, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author's, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.