Washed and dressed, Florence followed her new friend once more into the Harvesters’ Guild hall. Powell was indeed known, as she waited once or twice for him to have short conversations with Journeymen and Initiates. There was an easy comfort about him as he spoke and answered questions. That was what had made him easy to speak to on the train and what, effectively, had forged their unconventional relationship.
Florence had always set Ari on a pedestal in terms of what it meant to be a Master. Her breadth of wisdom. Her intense respect of knowledge. Her reverence for the halls of education that elevated guilds and classrooms from mere institutions to temples of learning.
Powell embodied these things, but there was a different sort of openness to his mannerisms. He worked to include Florence in all the conversations, despite her lack of experience in these areas. He treated knowledge as a delight, rather than a sacred right.
“Sorry for the delays.” He leaned toward her so the people they had just bid farewell wouldn’t hear.
“It’s no problem. It’s nice to be included in such a positive atmosphere.”
“You were not before?” He posed the question delicately.
A tired smile curled her lips. “The Alchemists’ Guild is… a very different place. It suits them. But there isn’t much room for a Revolver there.”
He made no comment on her reference to herself as something other than her marked guild. And Florence didn’t feel the slightest bit of concern at the fact that she’d openly declared it. Powell was smart enough to figure it out—had already figured it out—and she didn’t see the point in insulting their mutual intelligence by masquerading otherwise.
“I am forced to take your word for it. I’ve never been to the Alchemists, and I cannot imagine a place where there would not be room enough for someone as eager to learn as you.” His smile was infectious. “Here we are.”
Florence wished she could bottle his words and save them for the next time she was struggling in the Alchemists’ Guild. Or with the Revolvers… Or in general.
“We worked closely with the Alchemists to develop our harvesting processes for Dragon organs.” They walked through a series of narrow halls, washing their hands along the way and passing through antechambers. “We may not know how to heal a wound, or convert a Fenthri to Chimera… But when it comes to removing the organs themselves, we’re just as skilled as any Alchemist you’ll find.”
Florence gave him an encouraging smile at the pride he so clearly felt in his guild. It was heartwarming to see. Powell led them through a door and onto a narrow, raised walk.
Florence’s smile melted off her lips.
“This is one of the viewing areas we use to see how they’re progressing. There’s only so fast you can harvest organs. They re-grow, but you have to make sure they’re healthy and strong before you remove them, or they won’t work to make Chimera and they’ll be weak reagents.”
She walked over to one of the glass windows that tilted away from the catwalk, separating her from the honeycomb of rooms below. Florence stared, barely making sense of what she was seeing, let alone Powell’s words. A chill swept through her.
Somehow she had let herself believe the organ harvesting pits would have mimicked her experience with Cvareh when she became a Chimera. She remembered the Dragon, willingly at her side, dutiful and pleased to give her his blood.
This was nothing like that.
Dragons, mostly shades of blue and green, some red, were strapped to tables, bound with steel and leather and held prone. Some screamed and thrashed. Others stared listlessly, as though their very souls had been harvested.
Gold blood seeped from open wounds, left to face the air without so much as a bandage. A man’s stomach had been carved apart, the skin still peeled back and pinned carefully to keep his innards exposed as the organ slowly grew back. They don’t even want to have to cut back into him again, Florence realized. The Harvesters couldn’t be bothered to repeat their incisions, so they let him heal while vivisected, only to have the process repeated again, and again, and again.
Her palm fell on her own abdomen.
“How did they get here?” She realized she interrupted something that Powell was saying. But she hadn’t even heard him over the ringing in her ears. The hall was silent, yet somehow the screams of the countless Dragons before her were so, so very loud.
“The Dragon King supplies them.”
Florence took note of a mark on each of the Dragon’s cheeks, all the ones that weren’t red. A crown supported by a triangle like design. Was it the mark of an animal led to slaughter? What did that make them? What were the Fenthri to this Dragon King, who was willing to condemn his own to such a fate? Just so much livestock awaiting slaughter?
“How are they chosen?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“How do you not know?” Florence tore her eyes away and in the process swayed slightly. Her head spun. “How do you not know what these men and women have done to deserve this… this level of cruelty?”
“Florence, do not think of them as creatures with emotions or will.” He placed his hands on her shoulders, trying to both stabilize and soothe her to no avail. “They are magic farms. Think of them as organs and parts. Their bodies just help keep them fresh.”
“No.” She stepped away, shaking her head. Her mind went to Cvareh, the sometimes comically clueless Dragon whom she had given her life as a Fenthri for to see across the world. The good man who had answered the call willingly to make the blood in her veins black and give her life anew. “They are not. They are just as you or me!”
Powell arched his eyebrows. “I would not expect Dragon sympathy from someone such as you.”
“What?”
“A self-proclaimed Revolver, dedicated to tools of death and destruction. One who clearly fights against Dragon systems. Coming from the Alchemists’ Guild… it’s not a stretch to imagine why you and your friends are here. We’ve heard the rumors.”
Florence glared at him. She hated the truth that was bleeding beneath her and she hated the truth that flew from his mouth. There was nothing but contrasts now in her heart and they were all being brought to a head.
“I don’t have all the answers,” she admitted, as much to herself as to him. “But this—” Florence motioned to the rooms below her, and the carvers who continued their work upon the helpless Dragons. “This is not right. This is no better than the mining practices you told me about yesterday.”
“No, the mines when depleted will not replenish. So long as the Dragons are forced nutrition and not over-harvested, they can remain for decades—a century, even.”
That only served to spark further outrage. “Four generations’ worth of carnage forced on a single person to endure.” Florence shook her head violently, as if she could rattle the images and truths out of her ears. “No, no. This isn’t right.” She pushed past Powell for the halls behind him.
“Florence—”