by Stina Leicht
You want to know what will make me happy? The resentment he’d kept in check since discovering Tobias’s little library overflowed its bounds. Horse shit. Is that why you sent me to collect Tobias and his books without warning me first? Because you want me to be happy? I am a tool to be used and cast off. No more. No less.
“Talk to me,” Slate said.
Unsettled by thoughts he knew he shouldn’t have, Blackthorne once again directed his gaze to the floor, cleared his throat, and muttered, “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
He clipped his reply. “No.” It was hard to breathe beneath the weight of his anger and confusion.
“All right. I knew I shouldn’t have asked such a personal question.” Slate shook his head and sighed. They sat in silence for a few moments before he spoke again. “For the record, I sent Jacob Nickols away to Greenleaf. It was the plan before your little altercation. Doing so a week or two early isn’t going to make a difference around here. If the weather goes bad, we’ll not see him again until spring. No one will be the worse for it. Forget about it.”
“Jacob Nickols won’t.”
“Then I’ll deal with Jacob Nickols when he returns. He knows the rules.”
“And his brother?”
“Jack knows the rules too.”
Blackthorne swallowed and nodded.
“You have something else to say. Out with it.”
“House Lucrosa is offering a substantial reward for Tobias Freeson.”
“I suspected they might be more motivated to look for him than usual. He was a trained apprentice. I took the gamble anyway because of his relationship with the Lucrosa’s daughter. He would’ve been removed eventually anyway. It is how the Lucrosa will see it.” Slate shrugged and took another sip from the flask.
“He’s a weaponsmith, sir. Not a blacksmith.”
“I’m aware.”
“Sir, he also has magic.”
It was Slate’s turn to register surprise. “He’s from peasant stock. I checked. You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” Blackthorne said, hoping that Slate wouldn’t ask him how he knew. If Blackthorne were honest, he couldn’t have said. It was one of the things he purposely didn’t dwell upon.
“Interesting. What sort? Do you know?”
Blackthorne stared at the floor and shook his head. Please don’t ask me for more.
“I’ll set Ilta to finding out, then.”
“The Lucrosa will not stop. Not this time, sir. Freeson stole rare books from his weapons library. Books containing the latest research on gun manufacture—”
“Where are they now?” Slate sat up straighter. “Are they here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Son of a bitch.” Slate stood up and began to pace. “I had no idea that he would do something so stupid.” He walked to the pallet bed and turned. “How did he manage it?”
The open shock on Slate’s face loosened the tension in Blackthorne’s jaw. “He didn’t. Not on his own. The Lucrosa’s daughter, Aurelia, took them from the library herself. Freeson insisted they were a gift.”
“Then she’s the one who committed the crime, isn’t she?”
“We both know that isn’t what Gens Lucrosa will have reported.”
He watched Slate continue to pace the width of the small room with increasing unease.
“Tobias claims the Lucrosa had intended to destroy the books,” Blackthorne said. “I’m fairly certain this makes the situation worse rather than better.”
“I agree,” Slate said. “It means they contain information the Lucrosa didn’t want any other gens to have.”
“Alone, each of these factors isn’t of much importance. Together, they make Freeson dangerous. Gens Lucrosa is already looking to the north. Word had reached as far as Greenleaf by the time we got there. They don’t know anything for certain. I’m willing to bet that they’re casting their net wide out of desperation. I’ve been as careful as I can, but it won’t take long for them to find a trail that will lead them here.”
“I’ll look into it.”
“There isn’t much time. If they aren’t satisfied soon, they’ll hire a Brotherhood Unit, sir,” Blackthorne said. “If they haven’t already. If that happens, they will find the Hold. And they will uncover everyone who supports this place and helps get refugees here.”
“No one smuggles kainen out of Acrasia without knowing the risks.”
Blackthorne thought of Mrs. H and decided it might be best to never see her again. The idea weighed on him. She should be warned at least. “I—I’ve done my best, sir.”
“Your best is enough.”
“No, it isn’t,” Blackthorne said. “I’ve seen Warden Units in action. I’ve trained with them. And that isn’t the worst of what might happen. If they send Missionaries up the mountain—”
“The situation requires consideration.” Slate stared into the hearth. A long silence stretched out. “We must know how much Gens Lucrosa knows in order to convincingly misdirect them.” He seemed to be thinking aloud. “You’ve already risked much in getting Freeson and those books here. We should take advantage of that as soon as possible.” He didn’t shift his gaze from the flames. “We’ll strip the covers. Create decoys. Burn them in such a way as to leave no doubt what they are. Dump the remains in the south. Plant enough evidence to make it look like the boy was killed and robbed. It’s what they’ll expect. Even better, if we can pin the blame on another gens …” He took a deep breath. “The books are what they want, even if they only retrieve proof of their destruction. This is Gens Lucrosa. Gens Fortis is their most active enemy in the senate. We’ll focus on that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Maybe we’ll need only to sacrifice a few pages to make the decoys,” Slate said. He paused and his frown deepened. “We have another problem. Aurelia Lucrosa knows what you look like. We’ll have to assume she’s told them everything she knew.”
“That isn’t much. She can lead them to the coaching inn where I stayed. They won’t find anything there,” Blackthorne said.
“Good.”
“I am more concerned about the initial contact,” Blackthorne said. The one you support, sir. He didn’t know the details of how Aurelia knew to reach him. It was best for him not to know, should he be captured. “It is a weakness.”
“Point taken.” Slate didn’t continue right away. “I suppose we needn’t worry about your cover until next spring. Nonetheless, to be safe, no more journeys outside the compound vicinity until further notice. You hear?”
Blackthorne shrugged. “Blackthorne is a persona. I can switch to another. Shave. Cut my hair. Alter my voice.” He’d done so often enough over the course of the past year. “In any case, I suspect they’ll be looking for a kainen passing for human.”
Slate raised an eyebrow in question.
“The Brotherhood have certain … ideas as to what that means, sir,” Blackthorne said.
“I see,” Slate said. “I’ll arrange an interview with Tobias the moment he wakes. We need to know what Aurelia will tell them. I’ll send for you. It should make him feel more relaxed. He doesn’t know me.”
Did Slate forget I drugged Freeson against his will? Blackthorne thought.
Slate said, “As for the rest, I’ll send out a few birds to warn our contacts.” He went to the door. “In the meantime, get some rest.”
ILTA
ONE
THE HOLD
GRANDMOTHER MOUNTAIN
NEW ELEDORE
SIXTH OF VERIKUU, 1783
Ilta exited the Hold via the riverside gate. A large cave enclosed the main dock, and Suvi’s Sea Otter was moored to the pier next to the Waterborne sloop of war, Clár Oibre Rúnda. They were of a similar size. To Ilta’s right, sunlight poured in and a brisk fall wind blew dead leaves into the water. She waved to the crew working on Otter and made her way out into the woods. Almost at once, the weight bearing down on her began to lift. The air was crisp and fresh, and she
took a deep breath in relief.
“Afternoon, Miss Korpela!” a voice called from above. The greeting echoed off water and solid rock.
Ilta whirled. Gazing up at the spy perch set into the canyon wall near the cave opening, she waved at the older man dressed in soft brown deerskin. His dark brown hair was grey at the temples, and he wore a patch over the left eye that gave him a rascally demeanor.
“Jeremiah Birch?” she asked. “Aren’t you supposed to be bruising tree trunks with wooden swords?”
In case of an Acrasian attack, Nels had recommended that every resident of the Hold learn something of weapons, and James Slate had taken that suggestion to heart. It was a dramatic break from Eledorean blood custom, and for that reason, most Holders were reluctant to comply. With the exception of Nels’s troops, native Eledoreans saw the order as an affront to their culture. They weren’t the only ones. Some of the individuals most vocal about Eledorean traditions were the ones newest to them.
“Training was canceled today. The Ghost is away, and Erkki went to Gardemeister with a squad of soldiers last night. He should be back soon, though,” Jeremiah said, talking around the stem of a pipe. One hand rested on his rifle.
“You know Nels doesn’t like being called ‘The Ghost.’ ”
Jeremiah said, “And that would be why we only do it behind his back.”
She let sarcasm seep into her reply. “That makes it better.”
“Nobody means any harm by it, miss,” Jeremiah said. “It’s a compliment.”
I’m fairly certain it isn’t, Ilta thought. But then, ghosts have different associations in Eledore than they do in Acrasia, don’t they? And Jeremiah had been Acrasian. “I’m sure Nels will keep that in mind when he finds out.”
“You planning on telling him?”
“He won’t hear it from me. But I’d watch yourself around Viktor. He’d jump at any chance to mock Nels.”
“Actually, I heard it from Major Reini.”
“And why am I not surprised?” she muttered.
“Don’t suppose I could convince you to bring back some sassafras root while you’re out?”
“Are you feeling ill?”
Jeremiah shook his head. “My grandmother used to make sassafras tea, and I got a taste for it. Anyway, I’ve run out. Since I’m doing two turns at guard today, I can’t harvest more, not today.”
She put a hand against her forehead to shade her eyes. “You’re taking an extra turn at watch? How very community-spirited of you.”
Jeremiah snorted. “Kat has been teaching Erkki to play tetra, blast them both. Was either this or lose my last bottle of rum. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear the cards were marked.”
“Rum? You’ve been smuggling rum into the Hold?”
“We’re forbidden the whiskey. So, Nichols brings in a drop of rum here and there,” Jeremiah said. “Would take it kindly if you didn’t let on to Mr. Slate, miss.”
“That’s two secrets you’ve asked me to keep. You’re not very good at duplicity, are you?”
“Not unless it involves cards.”
“I see,” Ilta said. “I’ll look for the sassafras. If not, I’m sure I have some in the herb stores.”
“Thank you, miss.” He balanced his fowling piece on his knees and reached into a pocket. “So, where you headed?”
“I need some fresh air. And I thought I might as well gather a few herbs while I’m walking,” she said. “We’re running low on willow.”
“All right. You be careful, now,” Jeremiah said. His tone switched to quiet amusement. “Keep your eyes open. I may have seen something down the river path.”
“Something dangerous?”
“May be it’s a nice sort of danger,” Jeremiah said. “You’re young.”
Ilta frowned. Now, what does he mean by that?
“You call out if you need anything. You hear?” He blew out a mouthful of smoke with what Ilta was sure was a wink. When he didn’t offer further explanation, she decided it wasn’t important and continued on her way.
The forest crowded both sides of the river. It’d rained earlier in the day—a light mist that still managed to soak the ground. The path was sticky with mud, not enough to make it too messy but enough to make it slippery. Listening to the quiet crunch of damp grit under the thick soles of her boots, she felt the persistent tension between her temples gradually fading away.
As much as she loved her community, for her, the Hold represented a constant, overwhelming morass of dissonant thoughts and images. Sometimes she found it difficult to protect herself. Stone walls provided insulation when she was alone, but they also intensified a crowded room—like echoes off a cliff face. The winter months were particularly trying. Still, she couldn’t help thinking her Gran would’ve been proud. This would be Ilta’s second winter spent in close quarters with a large group of people. Not long before, that would’ve have been impossible, not without going mad.
And now Suvi is living here. Ilta looked forward to spending time with Nels’s sister, not merely in her capacity as advisor. It would be good to have an actual friend.
A breeze ruffled Ilta’s hair. Tree limbs clattered against one another. She paused, smiled, and turned her face up to the sun before returning her gaze to the path. It was then that she spied the boot tracks on the muddy ground. It seemed she wasn’t the only one with a need to escape. Or maybe that’s from earlier? In all honesty, she wouldn’t have known. She wasn’t a tracker.
The path took a sharp, rocky incline. She hooked her basket handle in the crook of one arm and lifted her skirts one-handed to pick her way to the bottom. It wasn’t long before she arrived at her destination: the willow grove. It wasn’t the best time of year for harvesting willow bark. That would be the spring. However, she could make do with newer branches. Setting her basket on the ground next to a candidate willow, she whispered a prayer of gratitude before beginning her work. Content and focused, she hummed an old tune her Gran used to sing and then began paring bark from a small branch. She didn’t sense she wasn’t alone until it was too late. She turned, leaned to see better through the willow vines, and her heart stumbled.
Blackthorne sat with his eyes closed on a flat rock several paces from the shore.
Think I saw something dangerous down that way. The nice kind. You’re young.
Very funny, Birch.
Blackthorne didn’t stir or indicate that he’d been disturbed by her presence. She began to suspect he might be asleep. She didn’t know how that was possible—he was sitting on cold rock. Then she spied the folded horse blanket beneath him. From what little she could catch, his thoughts were still and empty—which explained why she hadn’t noticed him before. She folded white cloth over her cuttings. Knowing he couldn’t possibly be unaware of her with all the noise she had made, she pushed through the curtaining willow. When he still didn’t move, she debated whether or not she should say something or simply leave him to his privacy.
Largely, she stayed away from him for the same reasons the others did. For the most part. There were those who didn’t shun him, like Birch for example, but even Birch didn’t seek out the ex-Warden’s company. There was a lot that Holders could forgive—everyone had dark pasts or shameful secrets of one kind or another. It was understood that war tended to force one into hard choices, but the line was drawn when it came to the former Warden. The rumors about why James Slate had taken in Blackthorne were as inventive as they were broad. Some bordered on the ridiculous. Having been consulted at the time of James’s decision, Ilta damned well knew why, and yet she still wasn’t comfortable.
It occurred to her that James had wanted her to interview Blackthorne when he first arrived a few months earlier. For one reason or another, he’d been scarce, and she’d been too busy. What would be the point now? She assumed there wasn’t anything Blackthorne hadn’t already revealed in his written report. Unless James had wanted her to look into Blackthorne’s mind.
Surely James knows I can’t do th
at, not on purpose. It would be unethical.
The trouble was, most people didn’t shield their minds. Sometimes, she had difficulty remembering what she had been told versus what she had seen or heard in a vision. Over time, she’d learned it was best not to know things that people weren’t ready to reveal, or at very least not to let on you knew.
Looking at Blackthorne now, she noticed sunlight brought out blue highlights in the black waves of his hair. His skin was a light tan. His lips were plump beneath the beard, and his eyebrows traced graceful arches above his closed lids. His right eyebrow was intersected by a L-shaped scar.
You’re attracted to him.
I can’t be. I’m with Nels. And anyway, Blackthorne is Acrasian. Before she could turn away, he opened his eyes. They were the pale blue-grey of a storming sea.
Have some dignity. Quit mooning at him like a girl in pigtails. Not that she’d ever been prone to mooning at men when she’d been a girl in pigtails. She spoke as calmly as she could with ears deafened by her heart’s drumming. “I—I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”
He said nothing in return, and his expression was impassive.
She stumbled on. “This is a lovely place. I can see why you would choose to pray here.”
She’d heard it said that Wardens were part shadow, but in her experience, that wasn’t the case—except perhaps in their nature. Blackthorne was different. Or maybe I merely want him to be.
“I wasn’t praying.” He shifted his gaze to the river.
Without warning, the ravine blurred. Her vision was consumed with an image of masks within masks, and a bone-deep yearning for the freedom of water. Not water. More. Bigger …
Oh. The ocean. Her shoulders were heavy with a great weariness. Confinement. Hopelessness. Loneliness. She shook off the vision and with a deep breath focused on the solid feel of the ground under her feet. Stay present. Don’t get lost.
She knew what it was to be alone. Her Gran had kept her from others when she was little for the sake of her sanity. It was one thing to be apart when no one was near. It was quite another to be separate from those who connected and entwined with each other around you. His loneliness ran so deep, it’d become physical pain.
