ow many did we lose over night?”

“Three, Master Yi.”

He blinked and could see only brightness. The two voices were floating over him somewhere. He assumed the even baritone was Master Yi and the woman must be his assistant. Someone touched his wrist and he shuddered, awakening the pain that had invaded and conquered his body. A croak emerged from his parched throat.

“Which one is this?”

“Number nine, Master. We call him Lucky.”

“Lucky, hmm?” rumbled the man disdainfully as he removed his touch and papers rustled, “Pity the man less lucky than him. He’s awake. Get him some water and something for his pain. If you can, find out if he has a better name than Lucky.”

For a time it was all he could do to stay conscious. Someone talked to him but for whatever reason, he was not certain how to respond beyond awkward animal sounds. The idea that he had a name seemed alien. All he cared about was the pain. It was as if he were imprisoned in some diabolical cage of flesh whose only purpose was to feel even the slightest jab and magnify it to unendurable levels.

“Easy lad, just cleaning your wounds and changing the dressings.”

Screams emerged from his throat, primal cries that were echoed by others around him. Then there was nothingness and he drifted away, his body having endured all that it could stand.

~****~

“Lucky,” whispered a woman’s voice, “want some soup? It’s warm and yummy. Help me sit him up.”

To his disappointment he returned to the torment of his body. Once more it was bright but he could make out nothing beyond vague blobs of color.

“I didn’t come back to play nurse, Lem. I’m busy.”

“Aw Pen, don’t be like that. Zhou can do without you for an hour and we’re swamped. Besides, maybe you can use your mind reading tricks to find out his name. Right Lucky?”

“Stop calling him that.”

“I will as soon as you find out his name,” replied the woman flippantly.

“I’m not an Akestora. You should have asked for Isabeau.”

The name awakened something in him like the stanzas of an old familiar song. His heart quickened and he remembered something… a dream perhaps of golden hair and a gentle touch. Laughter and children, a little tow-headed girl giggling and calling him big brother. Little Isabeau crying on the day she left to study at Nolani and the dozens of letters she sent him with drawings of flowers and a hundred ‘I miss yous’ scrawled in the margins. Isabeau the young woman making the men pause to stare and making him fret over protecting her.

“Good idea!”

“No, bad idea. She’s sad enough without coming into this hell hole.”

“Stop being a grumbly bear. Honestly, Pen, you look like you ate a plate of lemons.”

“Does having to follow one around count?”

“Isabeau,” he whispered, his voice dry and weak as he tried to shape the name, as if somehow by saying it he could summon her.

“There! He said his name!” the woman exclaimed.

A strained coughing sound emanated from the man.

“What?” the woman demanded, “Stop it, this is hardly the time to start giggling like a naughty child.”

“Isabeau,” he gasped. It was the only thing he had, the only person in the world who could bring him comfort. Someone took his hand and for a moment it was as if a candle had been lit inside of his skull. Confusion replaced pain and he blinked frantically, the light before his eyes becoming a kaleidoscopic dance of color and soothing patterns.

“Pen? What are you doing?”

The golden haired girl was standing before him, his pretty little Isa, so pure and gentle. His vision of her swirled and changed, one moment that of a giggling child pelting him with juniper berries and then a careworn and sad young woman watching him self-destruct. She was holding a child, his child, his little boy. A sob of pain emerged from the depths of his being, a pain far worse than any his flesh had known. It was as if his soul had been torn in two.

After that he was lost. There were people around him and shouts and clamor. There were hands on him and volleys of angry words, but all he knew was the desolate cry emanating form the core of his being. It was a relief to embrace nothingness.

~****~

When he heard weeping and sniffling he had a vision of his sister curled up in a misery. He felt helpless before such grief knowing there was nothing he could say or do that could countenance the depths of such despair.

“It will be alright,” said a man’s voice and for a moment he thought perhaps the words had come from his own lips. It was just the kind of pathetic nonsense he might murmur even though the evidence suggested otherwise, “I’ll stay with you.”

“What happened to him?” she wept, “What did they do to him?”

“That doesn’t matter right now. He’s lost. If anyone can help him, it’s you. Give him back his name.”

“Tristan?” she whispered, “Tristan, do you hear me?”

Was that his name? It seemed so alien, as if it belonged to the ancient past. And yet it was right, it was his. Tristan.

“Isabeau,” he sighed, melting under her touch as she squeezed his hand and ran her fingers along his jaw.

“Thank the gods,” she whispered, “I burned amber as an offering and prayed morning and night for your return. I will not leave your side, my brother.”

Her touch drove away the fear and confusion, but not the pain. Though it was agony, he made no sound as she gathered him in her arms and held him, all the while weeping for joy and sadness. She held him until the pain stole away all reason and consciousness, but he did not leave her in despair. He was Tristan once more.