LIFE IS sacred. Life is sacred.
Knox heard the words over and over in his head as he cradled the master to his chest and stumbled through the mist toward the house. The words were not part of what he thought of as his must dos. He knew what those felt like: cold and frozen, like a knife in his mind. This, this was a deeper imperative, born of some moment of personal conviction that he no longer remembered.
Life is sacred.
The other two were dead—the mistress and the one called Signis, who ran the factory. But this one, the master, was still warm and soft. His heartbeat was thready but determined, like a mouse Knox might hold in the palm of his hand, frightened but suffused with life.
He pictured that small creature, willing its heart to beat on as his heavy boots ate up the rocky ground. The master was so very young—too young for that heart to stop beating. The wind gusted and screamed and tried to drag Knox off his feet. It would be easy to get lost in this mist, but he had an image in his mind of where the house was and he headed for it doggedly. Finally, just when he was sure he was off course, the lights of the windows appeared, playing hide-and-seek with the vaporish mist.
At the door, he shifted the master’s weight, cradling it in his left arm. It was awkward. The master was not heavy, but he was tall. Knox turned the door handle. The wind screamed in the entryway and then he was through, pushing the door shut behind him. A small woman, round as a fat sausage, bustled into the room.
“Oh lords! Oh heavenly stars!” She stopped in horror, staring at Knox and the bundle in his arms. Knox was aware of the picture he must make, saw it in the terror in her one good eye—the other was shot through with mist of its own. Knox knew her, but only from a distance: she was Moll, the cook who made the pans of food Signis delivered to the recon barracks.
He forced speech. He disliked speaking and had little need for it. His tongue felt thick in his mouth and his voice sounded foreign to his ears. “Accident. The coach. Need help.”
This was sufficient to set the little woman in motion. She moved as if to take the master from his arms and then realized the futility of this. She changed direction and led Knox, with hand motions and soft words, as though he were a dangerous animal, up the stairs to a bedroom. Knox laid the master on the bed. His right pant leg was soaked through with blood. Too much blood. His face, always pale next to his brown hair, was now white.
Moll hovered over the master as if unsure what to do. “I must call the doctor.”
“Won’t come. Storm,” Knox said roughly.
Moll looked frightened. She covered her mouth with her hand as if to stifle a sound. “Where is Signis? He’ll know what to do.”
“Dead. Mistress too. Coach overturned.”
“Oh lords, no.” Moll’s one good eye glistened with moisture. “Oh, poor Edward.”
Knox could have turned around and left. He’d delivered the master to the house. Nothing compelled him to do more, nor even to have done that much. But that voice inside him spoke again. Life is sacred.
An image appeared in his mind of the master, sitting tall on his mount against the stark beauty of the purple rocks and the orange Kalan sky. That first week after Knox had arrived, the master had watched him harvest the lichen, had gotten down off his pony to show him how to marry the blade to the rock, how to carefully pry up the preternaturally green clumps so they slipped up the suction hose as intact as possible, preserving the spores. The master never raised his voice, never beat them. His face was noble, handsome, and kind. And if his eyes shied away from making contact, from really seeing Knox, it was no more than Knox deserved.
If the master died, what would become of them?
Knox stripped off his heavy coat. “Hot water, medicine, bandages. Get these things.”
Moll hesitated. She wanted to throw him out, Knox could tell. Her face held a look of disgust. But perhaps she decided he was better than nothing, for she finally nodded and left the room.
Knox stripped the master quickly, rending his clothes as if they were paper. Pale skin emerged, perfect skin, cold from the want of blood. Knox did not allow himself to dwell on it or on the uncomfortable sense of wrongness of being in the big house, of touching the master this way, as if Knox were someone, as if he were not just a slab of meat meant for labor. He ripped the bloodied pant leg carefully, pulling the fabric away and discarding it. He averted his eyes, did not look at what lay between the legs before he gently rolled the master onto his stomach so he might see the wound.
A long gash split the skin and meat at the back of the thigh. It still oozed blood, but slowly now, the bright flow thick as syrup.
Do not die.
Knox searched his mind in frustration. Sometimes skills would come to him when he needed them, like nuts that had been squirreled away just below the surface of his consciousness. He did not remember how he knew these things. He looked at the gash now, willing himself the skill to attend to it.
He did know. He had not the skill of a doctor. He couldn’t repair the torn muscles in the leg nor transfuse blood into the body. He knew these things were possible, but beyond him. However, he knew enough—emergency first aid, his mind labeled it—to make a modest effort. The wound had to be cleaned and disinfected, strongly disinfected. He should search the wound for debris and then stitch up the skin (sterile needle and thread too, if you can get it). It might not be enough to save the man, but it was better than nothing. His fingers prodded the wound. The blood seemed to be coming from the ravaged tissue, not from an artery. That was good. He did not have the skill to repair an artery.
Moll returned. Her face was red from tears but she had a first aid kit, a kettle of boiling water, clean rags, and a bottle of disinfectant. She handed him the kit and poured the steaming water into a basin, then splashed disinfectant into it. “’Tis spore killer. The wound has to be soaked with it, and any other small cuts besides, or he’ll die.”
She faced him with sort of zealous protectiveness as he opened the kit on the bed and dug out what he needed.
“Please don’t hurt him,” she said stiffly.
“I will not.” Knox’s voice was so strange and rough. He felt a pinch of longing for another voice, one refined and capable of inspiring confidence, but he could not say whose it was.
As he worked, Moll watched him, every swab, every stitch. Neither of them said a word.