by Stina Leicht
Blackthorne’s screams devolved into a coughing fit. Westola, well used to the signals, leaned back. Nels didn’t. Blackthorne was violently ill before Nels had time to register what was wrong. He was only able to turn his head before warm vomit splashed his bare shoulder and soaked his clothing.
So much for this shirt, Nels thought.
Ilta stepped back, shock registering on her face. “Oh.”
“What is it?” Westola asked over Blackthorne’s fevered protests.
Recovering her professional demeanor, Ilta finally said, “He—He’s lost a lot of blood, but not too much. There’s a great deal of venom in his veins, and his heart rate is high.” She looked confused.
Nels asked, “What’s wrong?”
Ilta said, “I don’t know why he isn’t dead.”
Westola said, “Well, he’ll resolve that himself if we don’t get that gash closed. We can’t leave that tourniquet on his leg forever.”
Ilta nodded. “And I can’t work on him like this.”
“Should I try?” Westola asked.
“I don’t know if the reaction is to my power or—or something else,” Ilta said.
“All right. Do you want to knock him out, or should I?” Westola asked.
Ilta said, “You should do it. Use indirect magic, though. Just in case. Another strong response like that will kill him.”
“What do you have prepared?” Westola asked.
Ilta bit her lip in thought. Then she indicated a set of shelves with a sideways nod. “On the shelf marked ‘Desensitize.’ The jar labeled ‘Mixture Three: Strong.’ ”
“I’m letting go now.” Westola released her hold on Blackthorne’s arm.
Nels tried to capture it before getting hit and failed.
“I don’t think the reaction is a physical one,” Ilta said in a thoughtful tone.
“Feels physical to me,” Viktor said with a grunt as Blackthorne’s remaining boot twisted in his gut.
Closing her eyes, Ilta said, “I suspect it’s emotional. But I’m not sure.”
“You’d better be damned sure,” Westola said, returning with the jar.
“He’ll die anyway. We have to try.”
Westola nodded. She spooned a portion of the mixture into a glass and then focused on the contents. Next, she laid a hand on Blackthorne’s jaw. “Bite me, you brute, and you’ll be sorry. You hear?” She pried his mouth open and poured the magicked mixture down his throat. Then she clamped his jaw shut with the same motions Nels had seen used on reluctant animals.
Blackthorne let out one last robust protest and slumped.
“Is he alive?” Ilta asked, and pushed stray hair from her eyes with the back of a hand.
“For the moment,” Westola said. “Work fast. I don’t know how long that will keep him down. I’ve never seen anyone fight a healing like this.”
Ilta selected a surgeon’s knife from the tray and began her work.
TWO
Blinking to clear his eyes of sleep, Nels slapped the seat of the chair next to his bed, where he’d tossed his clothes. The room was dark but for the light filtering in from the half-open door. His belt buckle clanged against the chair’s wooden back, where he’d draped it the night before. His painful and blind attempts to locate his pocket watch knocked the belt onto the floor with a clank. At last, he found the watch and released the catch to open it. Tilting its face to the light, he read the time. He groaned and placed it on top of the rumpled clothes. “Is someone dying?” he asked in Eledorean.
“No,” Viktor said.
“Then go away, you sodding bastard,” Nels said, covering his ears with a pillow. “It’s a quarter to seven! What in the swiving hells are you doing here?”
“I love you, too, my darling.”
“Piss off before I gut you!”
Viktor worried at both pillow and blankets like a terrier. “Wakey, wakey, Colonel Sleepyhead.”
“I didn’t get to bed down until half past five. Why didn’t Mustonen lock that damned door like I asked?”
“He’s the one who let me in.”
“Remind me to demote him.” Nels rolled over.
Viktor prized the blankets out of his grip. “Mustonen made breakfast.”
Chilled, Nels swatted at the missing blankets and got enough purchase to free them from Viktor. “It’s only stale crispbread and cheese.” Determined, he retreated once more to the warmth beneath layers of quilts and pillows.
“Blankets or coffee,” Viktor said. “Which is it to be?”
Nels sniffed the air with his eyes half-closed. The nutty scent of hot coffee made his stomach grumble. He sat up and reached for the cup.
Viktor moved it out of reach. “Feet on the floor,” he said. “I’m too familiar with your tricks.”
“I’ll have Suvi roast you on a spit!”
“You’ll have to get out of bed to do it. Her Majesty will take my side, I’m thinking.” Viktor moved the steaming cup under his own nose and breathed deep. “Mmmmm. Smells great. Maybe one little sip.”
“That’s mine! Don’t you dare!” Nels leapt out of bed and snatched the cup with painful, stiff hands. Hot coffee scalded both his tongue and the roof of his mouth. Still, he cherished the bitter taste. “No honey?”
“First of Winter is over. We’re back on rations.”
Nels’s knuckles issued painful protests in spite of the warmth. His head joined the chorus. How much apple snap did I drink? Suddenly, a bone-deep ache penetrated the soles of his bare feet. He leapt back onto the rug, spilling coffee in the process. “Oh, gods! Whose brilliant idea was it to live in a burial mound with stone floors?” A pair of stockings hit him in the stomach and landed in the cooling coffee puddle.
Viktor said, “Her Majesty has called a council this morning. We’re to meet in Councilor Slate’s apartments in a quarter of an hour.”
Nels retrieved his stockings. Holding them by the tops, he checked how much liquid had soaked into the red wool. He decided to wear them anyway. “Why?”
“The queen wishes to discuss last night’s attack.”
Nels thought with a twinge of those they’d had to leave behind. “I won’t have anything worth a full report until we can recover the bodies. And no one is going out there until the sun is up. She knows that won’t happen until late afternoon, and only for a few hours.”
“I don’t think that’s entirely what she has in mind to discuss.” Viktor gave him a knowing expression.
Memories of the night before slid back into Nels’s consciousness. “Oh. Shit,” he said, flexing his angry and abused knuckles. “You had Nurvi confined to his apartments like I asked?”
“I had Sebastian take care of it.”
“Good. Have him remain there until further notice.” Nels threw on his cleanest clothes and stationed himself in front of the hearth to pull on his boots. The crispbread was laid out on a tray next to the coffee service. He forced down his breakfast between swallows of coffee.
“Now that you’re awake, I’ve some good news,” Viktor said. “Private Oramo stumbled in an hour ago.”
“Thank the goddess. How did she manage to survive?”
“No one knows yet. She’s reticent, but that’s to be expected. I sent Sebastian to chat with her. If anyone can gently wedge details out of her, he can.”
Nels nodded.
When he was ready, he walked with Viktor to Slate’s apartments.
From the time James Slate had assumed the First of Council role, his drawing room had functioned as an audience chamber. Normally, it had a comfortable atmosphere. It was furnished with a writing desk and other mismatched furniture scavenged from the ruins of nearby Gardemeister. Rows of bookshelves crowded the walls, adding a studious aura. Some of the books Slate had brought with him from Acrasia. The others had been rescued by Nels himself from various ruins all over Eledore. A seascape of a Waterborne ship weathering a storm rested on the mantel. High above and on the wall to the right of the fireplace, many-paned windows traced a
line under the vaulted ceiling. Their narrow black rectangles were half-covered with snow. A peat fire heated the room to a cozy temperature.
Two worn but serviceable sofas had been positioned near the fireplace. Blackthorne lay stretched out on one with Ilta at his side. What is he doing here? Nels caught Suvi’s cool expression. As for Blackthorne, Nels thought a mountain lion dragged several miles behind a horse would’ve looked better. Wrapped in blankets and with the bandaged leg propped up on a stack of pillows, the ex-Warden seemed both weak and sick. The malorum venom was more to blame than the fight. But it didn’t help. In truth, Nels hadn’t expected Blackthorne to live to see the morning. Blackthorne’s normally light tan face was grey, making the bruised eye stand out even more. Nels noted with a small amount of relief that while it’d been swollen shut the night before, now it was only slightly so.
Slate cleared his throat, and everyone turned to face him. He wasn’t wearing his spectacles. “Welcome, everyone. Now that we’re all here, we should get started. I understand we’ve a great deal to discuss.”
Scanning the room for a place to sit, Nels chose a place next to Suvi and Dylan.
“Kat made some coffee, if you’d like it,” Slate said. “I understand a number of you were up rather late last night.”
“About that. We need to address last night’s … altercation between Underlieutenant Nurvi and Mr. Blackthorne. We cannot tolerate such behavior in an officer of the Eledorean army. We cannot afford to let anyone believe that we condone ill-treatment of Acrasian refugees by our military,” Suvi said.
Nels said, “I agree. Underlieutenant Nurvi is currently confined to his quarters until further notice.”
“Is there a plan for further disciplinary action?” Suvi asked.
“He’s being demoted to sergeant,” Nels said. “A dishonorable discharge wouldn’t resolve the problem. In fact, it might make the matter worse. And then there’s the other reason.”
“Yes?” Suvi asked.
“Our numbers are low enough as it is,” Nels said. “And based upon last night, this winter we’re going to need every soldier we have.”
Suvi nodded. “Very well. I will consider the situation resolved.” She turned to Slate. “Unless you have something to add, Councilor?”
“An apology would, I feel, be appropriate,” Slate said.
“Very well.” Nels attempted to think of Blackthorne as anything but a Warden as he turned to face the man. “My officer should not have acted as he did. I should have stepped in sooner. My deepest apologies.”
“An apology is unnecessary.” Blackthorne’s voice was quiet and hoarse.
“I strongly disagree,” Nels said, fighting another angry outburst. Must everything the man does upset me? “What happened was inexcusable.”
Blackthorne swallowed. He was obviously uncomfortable. Nels watched him glance at Slate—subordinate to superior.
That’s curious.
Slate nodded. And with that, Blackthorne ceased all resistance. “Your apology is accepted.”
Nels nodded and hoped against hope that this would, in fact, be the end of it. He studied the former Warden for any sign of lingering antagonism.
Blackthorne lay with several blankets pulled tight over his torso. His legs were stretched out, feet propped up by the arm of the sofa. His lanky frame gave off a relaxed confidence, as if he were not overly concerned by any possible threat. He was tall for an Acrasian—only an inch or two shorter than Nels himself. His shoulders were broad, and the ridiculously too-tight rag of a coat he habitually wore made him appear even thinner. Shaggy black hair hung in his face, and his upper lip and chin were covered with a close-scissored beard. He hadn’t shaved, and his cheeks were dappled with coarse stubble. Combined with the sober demeanor, it gave him a mature aspect. The color of his skin, the high cheekbones, the shape of his eyes, and his narrow face, all might have caused Nels to mistake him for a young kainen from Ytlain or Marren. With his hair hanging about his shoulders and hiding his ears, the never-changing pale grey eyes were the only giveaway that Blackthorne wasn’t. The ridiculous coat excepted, his clothes were made of fine cloth that had been expertly tailored. All were shabby from too much wear. His feet were large and encased in finely made boots that had, like the rest of him, seen better days. Looking closer, Nels noticed that the decoration had been removed from the folded tops. A button, he supposed. That reminded him of something, but he couldn’t remember what it was at the moment.
“Now that the matter is resolved,” Suvi said, “we will move on to the next order of business.”
Nels nodded, knowing perfectly well this wouldn’t be the last he’d hear of it.
“Your Grace, not everyone has been formally introduced,” Slate said. “Perhaps we should begin there?”
“Very well then,” Suvi said.
“Your Royal Highness, Queen Suvi Ilmari of Eledore.” Slate indicated each individual with a hand motion. “Colonel Nels Hännenen, Commander of the Royal Eledorean Army, and Dylan Kask, Ambassador from the Waterborne Nations. This is Mr. Andrew Blackthorne from Acrasia.”
Nels asked, “And what is his real name?”
“Asylum seekers from Acrasia often take assumed names,” Slate said. His face was expressionless, but his clenching jaw made it clear his patience was already wearing thin. “The Council thought it best to permit this under the circumstances. For everyone’s protection. A fresh start is what we’re all here for, after all.”
Nels said, “Eledore is not ruled by a Council.”
“You are correct. I rule Eledore,” Suvi said. “However, the Council operates with my approval and oversight.” Her words were cool and her eyes changed from a calm black to a hard copper. “And I have reviewed the Council’s ruling in the matter, and it stands.”
“But—”
Suvi asked, “Are you planning on fighting me, Nels?”
“Of course not.”
“Eledore can’t be what it was, and even if it could be, I wouldn’t want it to. What it was is partly responsible for its collapse,” Suvi said.
Opening his mouth to protest, he shut it again the instant his sister motioned for silence.
“Yes, the Acrasian Regnum invaded, but Old Eledore was crumbling to ruin long before that,” Suvi said. “In the end, even Father admitted his inattentiveness didn’t help. He should’ve listened to you, for one thing.”
Nels looked away and nodded.
Suvi continued. “That said, I’ve no intention of repeating Father’s mistakes. We must adapt. We will adapt. New Eledore will be forged from what survives, and this Council is a part of that process.”
“You’re right,” Nels said. He straightened and faced James Slate. “My mistake. I apologize.”
“Apology accepted,” Slate said. “You’re only protecting Her Majesty’s interests per your duty. I can see that.”
“But not all the changes being implemented here are being openly discussed,” Nels said, turning his attention to Suvi. “Some aspects of Eledorean culture are being discarded without thought. Shouldn’t we give that more consideration?”
“Conservation of Eledorean culture is one of the reasons why we celebrated the First of Winter this year,” Suvi said. “I’ve met with Councilor Slate, and we’ve begun a list of other projects. Do you have an item that needs to be added?”
Nels decided to bring up something that had been bothering him for some time. “Acrasian is becoming the de facto language spoken in New Eledore, and that can’t happen.”
Slate frowned. “I understood Acrasian was one of your interests before the war.”
“It was,” Nels said. “But that is very different from what is happening here now.”
“I don’t understand,” Slate said.
“Language has a part in what makes a nation a nation,” Nels said.
Suvi paused. “Nels is right. We should discuss the matter in detail. Of course, I’m not sure now is the time.”
“Fine,” Nels said. “When?
”
Slate said, “It’s a complicated subject.”
“I disagree. The Acrasian Regnum destroyed Old Eledore. And the process of governing in New Eledore is being conducted in Acrasian. Do you not see the problem?”
“What language the people speak in the Hold isn’t a conscious choice.”
“Shouldn’t it be?” Nels asked, interrupting.
“Acrasian is spoken because the Acrasian speakers outnumber Eledorean speakers when you and your troops aren’t residing here. It’s merely a natural result of a cultural difference in the population of refugees versus New Eledore’s army—”
“I didn’t say it was planned,” Nels said. “What I am saying is that we must make active decisions about what aspects of Old Eledore will thrive in New Eledore. Before the decision is taken from us.”
Slate said, “We’re not taking—”
“You’re not listening to me.”
“You’re making bad assumptions,” Slate said.
“I disagree.”
“If I hated Eledore and wanted to destroy it,” Slate said, “I certainly wouldn’t have left a comfortable life in Novus Salernum to do it. I’m attempting to help—”
“Why?” Nels asked.
“Nels, stop,” Ilta said. Then she spoke to Slate. “James, I know you’re a compassionate, thoughtful person. However, Nels is attempting to tell you something important. Do you remember our discussion about context?”
“This isn’t the same thing,” Slate said.
“I suspect otherwise,” Ilta said.
“Then I’ll illustrate. The Waterborne Nations have managed to maintain their cultural identity in spite of an influx of a large number of asylum seekers throughout their history,” James Slate said. “Would you agree?”
Nels shrugged.
Slate asked, “Ambassador Kask, how many languages do you speak?”
“Ten,” Dylan said. “Not including three dialects of Ocealandic.”
“Do you see?” James Slate folded his arms across his chest.
