Chapter 45 ： Blood Transfusion
Evan's observation about death magic and healing wasn't incorrect — the tradition's core knowledge was anatomical rather than martial, and a death mage who chose to apply it had the potential to be a better physician than most. The problem was that almost none of them ever made that choice. The Church's absorption of Hadir as an archangel had created just enough protective cover that death mages weren't automatically classified as heretics, but it hadn't improved their reputation, and their reputation had in turn shaped what they chose to become.
Leonardo had apparently been thinking along similar lines for some time.
"I've been working on blood transfusion," he said. "The results are inconsistent — some patients survive, others die with no apparent reason for the difference."
"Blood types," Evan said, and immediately knew he'd said too much. "People have different types of blood. Roughly four categories. Transfusion between incompatible types causes death."
Leonardo stared at him. "Blood has categories?"
There was no pulling it back. Evan explained what he knew: take a small sample from each person, mix them on a glass surface, observe whether they clump. Compatible blood mixes freely. Incompatible blood doesn't.
Leonardo pulled him into the laboratory without preamble and sent the steward to the city to bring back several condemned prisoners.
Evan watched this and kept his expression neutral. It was the standard practice for experimental medicine in this world. The prisoners had no legal standing. He reminded himself that he was a guest and that Leonardo's intentions, while experimental in the immediate sense, were aimed at saving soldiers in the field, which on balance seemed useful.
The experiment was successful. Leonardo was beside himself. "We can name lives on the battlefield — soldiers who would bleed out, we can save them. This will be in every history of medicine. Wang, we should name this discovery together."
"Transfusion has other applications," Evan said, before catching himself. "For difficult childbirth, significant blood loss during labor." He steered away from what he'd almost said, which was surgical procedures, which would have raised the question of what surgery he had in mind, and neither large-scale operations nor the concept of anesthesia that made them possible existed yet in this world. He had already said more than was wise.
Leonardo didn't notice the redirect. He was already out the door.
The recognition came quickly. The military tested it, confirmed it, and elevated Leonardo to viscount in appreciation. Evan received a thousand gold coins and an honorary citizenship of Waltersdorf. Life at the estate settled into a comfortable rhythm.
A month passed. The snow came and made the world white.
Tina produced her first sword-aura. Preliminary, faint, barely sustained — but genuine. The rate of her progress had already exceeded Evan's predictions, and Katherine had formally accepted her as a personal disciple. Evan had produced sword-aura of his own in the same period, which surprised him more than the magic had — and what surprised him further was that his skin had sensation now, real sensation rather than the soul's-eye awareness he'd been substituting for it. Not fully normal, not what a living person had, but something. His body was changing in ways that nothing in Nicholas Andrew's knowledge of liches accounted for.
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He tested it: removed the bracers, attempted elemental spells. Nothing. Death magic only. He was still a lich. The changes were happening to the lich.
He noticed unfamiliar people near the estate. Not aggressive, not announcing themselves — simply present, watching. He knew what it meant: his location had been found. By whom and working for whom he could guess at, but the answer didn't matter much. Staying here was becoming a problem for Leonardo and the family, and Evan had already been here longer than he'd intended.
He told Tina privately. She didn't want him to go.
"Those people are nothing," she said. "I'll tell Father and he'll deal with them."
"There's no fixed table in this world, Tina. I'm not meant to stay in one place." He said it gently. "Watch yourself. The New Church is more reasonable, but the old Church hasn't forgotten what they decided you were. Don't let your guard down."
At dinner he announced his departure. Leonardo objected on principle, then relented. "You have a restless nature, I can see that. But before you go — I was invited to teach at Hollingburton Academy in Nabos last year. I didn't have time to go, but I promised to recommend someone in my place. Would you be willing? I'll write them a letter."
Hollingburton. Evan had been moving without particular direction for months. This was as good a direction as any, and the sea crossing was something he'd been curious about.
"I'd be grateful," he said.
After dinner, Leonardo wrote the letter, sealed it with his personal mark and his family's sigil, and gave it to Evan. The next morning Evan said his goodbyes and rode west alone.
The people who had been watching the estate fell in behind him when he left, making no particular effort to be subtle about it. He let them. His pace stayed even, heading west through the snow-covered landscape, the mountains white in the distance, the winter sun doing its minimal work above.
On a ridge some distance ahead, a figure stood looking down at him. No dragon beside him this time, but Evan recognized the presence before he could see the face. Raphael. The weight of his attention at this distance was like a blade drawn lightly across the skin. Half a year since the tower, and apparently the Church had used that time productively.
Evan ran his calculations without adjusting his pace. Against Raphael at full strength and without injury, he didn't like his odds in a direct exchange. But Raphael was also in New Church territory, which complicated his options. And Raphael, for all his abilities, didn't seem to be the sort of man who benefited from patience as a virtue.
From a valley to the right, four figures broke cover.
They were not Raphael's people. They wore head wraps and carried curved blades, and they had the look of men who had been waiting in the cold for some time and were not pleased about it.
"Gonno Society," one of them said. "We've been expecting you. Hand over the holy skull and the list."
Evan had never personally met anyone from the Gonno Society. He knew the name — an organization with connections to eastern maritime networks, secretive, involved in things that didn't fully make sense to him yet. The connection to Teresa's possessions was obvious enough.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," he said.
"We'll take you somewhere more comfortable to discuss it."
Three of them came forward with their curved blades. The fourth stayed back.
Evan didn't draw the rapier. He shook the sword-cane loose in his grip, letting it become a staff again, and brought it around in the weight-dropping arc of a long-handle war hammer strike — the technique from The Knight's Light, applied to the wrong weapon, which didn't matter because the force-generation principle was what he was after.
The first man met it before he'd finished his step.