by Stina Leicht
Army? We barely number enough to form a company. And who knows if that will be true after this winter? Nels thought. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize!” She turned to face him. Her eyes burned a fierce, hard bronze. “Either I have your support or I don’t. And if I don’t, you should’ve gone with Edvard. Because it’s going to be a hard trek to Ytlain in the snow on your own tomorrow. I won’t let Viktor go. I can’t—”
“I’m with you,” Nels said. “I’ll—I’ll do it.”
Her eyes softened, and for a moment, she looked her age. It occurred to him that they’d had a great deal put on them when their parents died. Suvi had been pressured into leadership before she was ready every bit as much as he had.
She asked, “You really are with me?”
“I’m not just saying it.” It was unsettling, seeing raw insecurity in her face. From the time they were both small, Suvi had been the one with the confidence and the power. He’d been the one who’d struggled. She was smart and politically adept. He wasn’t and never had been, not like her. He didn’t have the patience. As he looked at her now, it was the first time in his life that he understood she truly needed him, and not because he had command of the army. She needed him because he was her brother and she loved him. “I’ll go to Acrasia if I have to, but I hope we can find another way. Any other way. If, as you say, it isn’t the gate that is important … maybe we can go to a safer location?”
She folded her hands in her lap. “Your leaving made me realize something. You were right about Norman Island. I was being too cautious.” She spoke to her hands. “Oh, goddess. What happens if I make another mistake?”
“Then we’ll work with whatever is left. Better that than no decision at all.”
Suvi nodded.
Nels said, “Being responsible for the lives of everyone around you … that’s a terrifying thing.”
“How do you do this? When they die? How do you go on?”
Her question, and the fact that it matched the one that had kept him awake too many nights, startled him. Oddly, it’d taken Suvi’s asking for him to come up with the answer. “We do the best we can. No one can expect more than that—even you. Understand that those you’re responsible for know this. In a way, they’ve given their lives that you might live. Don’t waste that gift. Don’t let the guilt consume you or stop you. To do so dishonors them and the price they paid. You have to go on. And you have to learn. You have to keep fighting and live as best you can. Be happy, too. They would want you to be happy. I would want that for you. If—if it were me.” Because one day it will be.
And when that happens, how will Suvi and Ilta hold back the Old Ones?
Concentrate on the problem before you. The rest will work itself out. “I need you, too, you know.”
She went to him and hugged him.
“I’ll follow you to the end. No matter what,” Nels said. “But that won’t prevent me from telling you what I feel you need to hear—any more than it stops you from telling me what I need to hear.” He felt her nod against his shoulder. “Nor will it stop me from doing what I feel have to do.”
“We need the truth from one another—more so than from anyone else.”
He gave her a gentle squeeze and released her. Turning away, he felt his thoughts going to the platoon wintering in the wilds. At least a majority of them are in Merta, safe. “We can’t do anything about the breach until spring. By then it’ll be too late to stop them from infesting Eledore. That’s the truth, isn’t it?”
“I—I’m afraid it’s already too late.”
“All the people left on their own … the ones living in the wild who haven’t found their way to us … the troops I’ve hidden away in Holds elsewhere …” He let his words die. Natalia Annikki’s guarded stare began to take on a new meaning. I should ask her what she’s seen. Maybe she’ll know something that can help. She survived on her own for a year. “That’s why you’re here. You’re afraid we’ll be overrun. And if that’s the case, you’ve come to die with us.”
Suvi didn’t lift her head. Her hair hid her expression. “If you’re not going to eat, at least have some spice cake. Ilta made it.”
TWO
It was hours after the cleansing rituals when Ilta finally showed. He’d given up on her and gone to bed, but he hadn’t been able to sleep. Her kisses burned too deep. Initially, he’d lit a candle and attempted to read. It did no good because he couldn’t focus. So he’d lain on his back with his worries snarling into wince-inducing knots. He distracted himself by counting the blue and white star-patterned ceramic tiles on the ceiling. Then he mentally traced the constellation patterns. When the knock for which he’d been waiting came, he bolted through the velvet bed curtains and snatched his dressing jacket from the rug. He promptly stubbed his toe on a trunk.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!”
He went back for the candle. The stone floor was even colder than before—if that was possible. He got to the door and discovered Ilta waiting in the passage outside. One look at her, and he forgot all about his feet.
She was dressed but rumpled, as if she’d dozed off in her clothes. Her hair was unbrushed, her eyes were puffy and red, and her face was wet with tears. She huddled inside a soft blue knitted shawl. “I—I’m sorry. Were you asleep?”
Shit. She knows. She had the vision before I was able to talk to her about it. “Not really. What’s wrong?” he asked. Unsure of what else he could do, he opted to step aside so that she might enter.
She came inside and waited long enough for him to shut the door. “I—I saw you,” she said, and wiped her cheek dry with the back of a hand. The capital letter was implied. “I didn’t mean to.”
His heart caught somewhere in his throat and hammered against the roof of his mouth for freedom. This is it. “I wanted to talk to you as soon as possible. I waited for you to come by.”
She shoved past and whirled. Her skirts whipped around her slim legs and then contracted in a graceful, angry movement. “I saw you with her on the dock!” Her fists were clenched at her sides. “And that—that ship’s captain!”
“Wait just one—”
“Did you sleep with her? Oh, goddess. You did, didn’t you?” She strode over to the fireplace. “I can’t believe it. I just can’t!”
He was glad she couldn’t see his expression. With the exception of his candle, the room was dark, and the fire had been banked for the night. He had goose bumps along his legs and arms. He felt his lips press together in a tight line. With that, he bit down on his tongue and began the count to one hundred. Then he went to the basket where the spare peat was kept and placed a couple of blocks on the embers. He attempted to concentrate on building the fire and not on his feelings. He didn’t want to say or do anything without thinking it through first. I’ve learned that much, at least.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” she asked again. “Don’t lie! You can’t hide it from me!” She paced the rug with heavy steps.
“Sit. Calm yourself,” Nels said. He felt that if he could have a moment to think, if he could get her to—
She rushed at him in three swift strides, pointing an accusatory finger. “Don’t you try to manage me! I know exactly what you’re—”
“Thinking?” He spat the question out. “You promised me that you wouldn’t do that to me ever again!”
“I can’t help it if you’re thinking too loud! You know that!”
“Am I?”
She put her hands on her hips, but she didn’t look him in the eye. “You’re … angry.”
“Of course I am! We don’t have a binding agreement, do we? And whose fault is that?”
His questions seemed to hit her like a slap.
“It’s been a couple of months since I left,” Nels said. “But I think your exact words were ‘Nels, I don’t know that I can ever have sex with you. Maybe you should find someone else to sleep with.’ Or am I wrong?”
“You said you wouldn’t—”
“I know what
I said! But I changed my mind!”
She snapped her mouth shut and threw herself on the sofa. Then she folded her arms across her chest. He returned his attention to the fire. It took him longer than usual to get the flames going.
“Did you sleep with her?” Ilta asked in a quiet voice.
“I did. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Oh.” Ilta slumped and began to sob.
Nels sighed. He got up off his knees and jammed the iron poker onto its resting hook. It let out a sharp clang. As much as it tugged at his heart, he let her cry for a little while before he relented and sat next to her. Still sobbing, she grabbed him and pulled him tight. Her tears soaked the front of his dressing jacket.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m just—just so confused.”
Again, he resisted the urge to soothe her, but not for long. “You aren’t the only one.” He sighed.
Ilta sniffed and sat up. “Now I know how Kat felt when she saw Toby with Deirdre.”
Getting up, Nels went to his chest of drawers, retrieved a handkerchief, and handed it to her. “Here. Use this.”
“Thanks.” She blew her nose and then wiped the tears from her face. “Do you still love me?”
“I do. Very much.”
“I don’t know why. I’m broken and horrible.”
“You’re not broken and horrible,” he said. “No more than I am, anyway.” He paused. “Do you still love me?”
“Of course I do,” she said. There came a long pause before she continued. “What is wrong with me? Why can’t we just have sex?”
“You’re scared.”
“Why? You weren’t.”
He laughed.
Again, she sat up. Her expression was indignant. “What’s so funny?”
“I was terrified,” he said. “And I didn’t have the prospect of losing my mind or my magic in the equation. Speaking as someone who lived with the idea of not having any power among people who murdered or used those without … Well, let’s say I have some small understanding of how frightening that is.”
She blushed. “What did you have to fear?”
He shrugged. He felt his ears grow warm. “Thinking on it now, it’s stupid. But … I was afraid she’d laugh at me.”
“Oh.”
“Feel any better?”
“Maybe.”
“Neither do I.” He sighed and resumed his spot next to her. “What are we going to do about it?” He readied himself to hear that she didn’t want to see him anymore.
“I wish I knew.” She relaxed into him again and wrapped her arms around him.
Something about her tone of voice told him that she wasn’t exactly telling the truth. “What is it?”
She stopped breathing, and she didn’t move. She spoke into his chest. “I—I have an idea.”
“Go on.”
“I want us to be together forever.”
He paused. That wasn’t what he’d expected to hear. “You do?”
She nodded.
“I fail to see an aspect of this proposal to which I might object,” he said. “Wait. Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
Again she nodded. “But there’s—there’s something I want to do before we bind permanently.” And with that she finally blurted out, “I want to—I want to have sex.”
He raised an eyebrow and cleared his throat. “Technically, that’s what we’ve been doing.”
“You know what I mean.” She let him go and stepped back. Her face was a brilliant red. “I want—I want you to … I want to … swive you.”
He brushed a few stray hairs from her damp face and kissed her. There was something so endearing about hearing her attempt to be crude. “You’re sure of this?”
“I am. I—It’s … There’s one problem,” she said. “I’m not sure if I’m ready tonight.”
“That’s fine,” he said, and for the first time he knew he truly meant it. “You can trust me. I’ll do anything to make you feel safe.”
“I love you.”
“And I love you.” Nels grinned. “That feels really nice to say.”
“All right, then,” she said, and took his hand. “Let’s go to bed.”
Again, he blinked. “To sleep?”
“What do you think?”
BLACKTHORNE
ONE
THE HOLD
GRANDMOTHER MOUNTAIN
NEW ELEDORE
THIRTY-FIRST OF VERIKUU, 1783
Moss had spent some time the evening before explaining the First of Winter Festival in detail. As Blackthorne understood it, it was a last, joyful fling before the long fast of winter. It was also considered a holy offering. Eledoreans believed that joy multiplied in the sharing and that this joy would symbolically keep all in the community warm, fed, and safe until spring. Blackthorne told himself that attending the party was merely about following Slate’s orders.
But it was a lie.
The meeting hall was decorated in bright red, orange, and yellow. The revelers crowding one another were dressed in the same colors. Enough were present that he could imagine what a First of Winter had been like before the war. Movement and color combined as they danced, reminding him of flames. The scent of roasting meat, hearth fire, and lamp oil was thick in the air. Children snatched treats from tables loaded with food. Candles and festive lanterns carved from turnips and squash provided more light. The faces cut into the squash lanterns represented guardian spirits, ancestors, angels, and saints called upon for protection. A fire nestled in the stately fireplace at the opposite end of the room. Every so often, a lone seeker would move aside the fire screen in order to toss a folded note, a shred of cloth, or other prayer token into the flames. He’d heard that each represented a personal sacrifice offered to the gods.
Of course, the evening’s revels weren’t strictly Eledorean any more than the Hold’s residents were. The music may have originated from Eledore or Ytlain, but most of the instruments on which it was being performed were Acrasian—violins, tin flutes, and drums. It was a homey setting, designed with comfort and celebration in mind. He drank in their warmth and laughter, understanding it was dangerous to do so.
The main problem was the alcohol. It relaxed boundaries and marred judgement. He observed Colonel Hännenen’s soldiers with increasing anxiety. It was apparent that the troops had done the bulk of their drinking before the party. Many were openly drunk.
The knot in Blackthorne’s gut tightened. I shouldn’t be here.
His plan was to wait until Slate left and then withdraw. Slate tended to retire early. Blackthorne was tempted to stay longer, but he knew he had to leave the moment Slate did. Before trouble could start. Unfortunately, Slate didn’t appear to be quitting the party anytime soon.
He was dancing with his daughter, Katrin. The tune the musicians played was one Blackthorne didn’t know. Amusing verses accompanied brisk, jaunty music. People laughed and sang along. The dancers whirled. The mirth was loud enough to obfuscate most of the lyrics. Normally restrained, Slate freely cavorted. He was tender and open toward his daughter. It was a side of the man that Blackthorne wasn’t used to seeing, and he wasn’t sure he was entirely at ease with it. From time to time, Slate caught Blackthorne’s eye and indicated in small ways—a sideways nod or an arched eyebrow—that he should join in the revelry. It was as if Slate were demonstrating an important lesson.
Blackthorne ignored the invitation and instead kept to the shadows like a wolf at the edges of a campfire. He began to feel the strain as multiple forces pulled him in opposing directions. He did what he habitually did in those situations. He laid a hand on the small leather-bound book secreted in the breast pocket of his waistcoat and mentally recited passages from it.
The worthiest Retainers have no need for love or friendship. Such mundane things distract one from one’s true calling. A Retainer’s life is not his or her own. One’s life belongs only to one’s Master.
—Duty. I’ve a duty to comply with Slate’s w
ishes.
It isn’t safe. I should leave now.
Safety for the self isn’t a Retainer’s concern—
This is the essence of the Retainer: neither fear nor love bar the path to death. Those sentiments are for others. This is the Retainer’s sacrifice. Contemplate one’s own death. Visualize it in every detail. Embrace it. Welcome it like a lover, for the lover does not bring terror. In this way, fear cannot splinter one’s heart from duty. Grow numb. Feel nothing. Discard all that ties one to life. Thus, no cowardice can interfere in the crucial moment, and there will be no hesitation in the instant between life and death.
The ideal Retainer lives as if already dead. They are the master’s sword and nothing more.
Blackthorne placed his back to the wall and kept the exit in sight. His pistols were in his room. Wearing them would’ve been an affront to Slate and to the community, but he felt exposed, defenseless. He’d taken the precaution of dining in his room before the party—an old habit from his years in the duke’s court. Poisons were far too prevalent, and he’d been officially declared the duke’s heir. There were—had been—ambitious plotters who had wanted him out of the way. He had known better than to hope that the duke would bestow his wealth upon the son of a slave, no matter how well groomed. He was—impure—not human, but they didn’t know—couldn’t know. Nonetheless, it hadn’t stopped the plots.
He briefly wondered which of the duke’s sycophants were most grateful for his disappearance and thus saved the cost of having him killed.
None of these things mattered. Not now. Still, he didn’t take refreshments. If pressed, Blackthorne would’ve said that he needed to remain alert—someone had to, and it was a Retainer’s duty—
A Retainer remains ever vigilant.
Slate would’ve admonished him for being paranoid. Still, Blackthorne leaned against cold stone, not drinking, eating, or in fact, reveling.
Without thought, his gaze drifted to Ilta Korpela. She approached the hearth fire with a token hidden in one fist. Her waist-length blond curls had been knotted into a thick silken braid and tied with a red ribbon. Her dress was made of a mix of fabrics, all of them muted red and gold. She turned, speaking to a young kainen woman beside her. He saw Ilta wore no shawl, and the neckline did a credible job of displaying the tops of her small breasts. Months ago, when he’d first noticed her, he’d decided that she wasn’t a great beauty even for a kainen. Still, there was something attractive about her. Was it the graceful way she moved or her obvious intelligence? He sensed she was like him, separate from the others. Different. Marked somehow. He indulged in a fantasy that they were alike in that way.
