by Stina Leicht
“No need to worry, mister,” the boy said with a sly smile that lacked a front tooth. “I’m a friend, I am.” The boy smelled horrible. The stench of unwashed skin, rotting teeth, and bad tobacco grew worse as he moved closer. He stopped a few paces from Caius with a loud sniff. Caius watched him wipe his nose on the frayed cuff of his filthy coat, then reach into a voluminous pocket for a snuffbox.
Street harvester. “Do you have a permit to be on the street at this hour?” Caius asked. The boy made him uneasy. His accent as well as the state of his clothes indicated he didn’t belong anywhere near this part of the city.
“I do. Name is Jack, Jack McCauley. Watch captain’s special courier, I am.” Pride shone over the layers of grime. “Here to deliver you a message, all private-like.” The boy produced a thick, wax-sealed envelope.
Caius accepted it and then tucked it into his coat pocket.
“You got a reply, mister?” Jack asked.
“No.”
“Right, then.” He remained where he was, clearly waiting for something.
“Oh,” Caius reached into his pocket and gave the boy a copper penny.
The coin vanished into the folds of the boy’s voluminous coat. “Nice evening to you.” Jack tugged at his greasy forelock, and with that, he bolted down the street at a run.
Opening the envelope, Caius found the names of every interviewee that Emily had seen. Unlike before, she’d included their addresses. Arion’s was there along with a description of his Retainer, the floor plan of Arion’s home, a list of known servants, and a disturbingly thorough inventory dated a year before that showed signs of having been conducted by a Syndicate thief. Emily’s handwriting was measured and exact. Her note stated that more information would be forthcoming. The only indication of her earlier display of passion was her signature—a simple letter E and a flourish. Tired, Caius went through the gate and up the stairs to his rooms. He was halfway to bed with the candle before he realized he hadn’t given Emily his address.
Syndicate connections. She’s dangerous.
The memory of her warm lips burned hot, and it took quite a long time to get to sleep.
ILTA
THE HOLD
GRANDMOTHER MOUNTAIN
NEW ELEDORE
FOURTH OF PITKÄKUU, 1784
Ilta paced the kitchen floor while Moss finished the evening’s cleaning tasks. The scent of savory rabbit-and-venison stew, bread, and coffee lingered in the air. Not everyone could attend the communal meals, and this was why, in spite of winter rationing, Moss kept water heating for herbal tea, and warm soup or stew available at all hours of the night.
Malorum attacks were becoming more frequent. Still, the community struggled with the idea of breaking Eledorean Blood custom. As one of those unwilling to fight, Moss had told her that he felt it was his responsibility to feed those who could bring themselves to do so. He wasn’t alone. Everyone contributed to the defence of the Hold—whether that was in casting silver into ammunition, making bandages, mixing healing remedies, or caring for the families of the injured or dead. Disagreements still occurred, and Ilta had had to step in upon occasion. Everyone was in an agitated state, after all, but largely, aggression had been directed outside the community. Everyone seemed to understand what was at stake, even the troublemakers.
For the most part, she thought. The situation between Nels and Blackthorne hadn’t changed much since the fight. While there’d been no more physical altercations, the tension between them was getting worse.
“Why don’t you sit down for a while, Miss Ilta?” Moss asked, taking up a broom. The sturdy handle looked fragile in his big hands. “If nothing else, it would make the task of sweeping less complicated.”
“I’m in your way,” she said. “I’m so sorry. It’s just—”
“You are waiting for Colonel Hännenen,” Moss said.
“Am I that obvious?”
“I am uncertain I would employ that specific expression,” Moss said. “However, I must say that I do pride myself in possessing certain skills of observation.”
She tilted her head. It was difficult to tell whether or not Moss was making a joke at her expense. In many ways, he was as hard to read as Blackthorne. Only, in Moss’s case, the glimpses she’d caught from the interior of his skull bordered on the alien. Still, she sensed no ill will in him. “May I help?”
“While such would serve to channel your nervous energy into something constructive,” Moss said, “I must regretfully decline. Please do not regard it as a personal slight. My trepidation is due to previous unfortunate experiences in conflict with my desire for the current state of organization within my kitchen.”
She blinked and smiled. “You’re afraid I’ll rearrange your pots and that you’ll be unable to find them again?”
“This is so,” Moss said, and shrugged.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll sit.” She perched on a bench at one of the four trestle tables. She checked the kitchen clock for the fifth time. It was after eleven o’ clock.
“Are you certain Colonel Hännenen has not already retired for the evening?” Moss asked.
She felt her face grow warm—more out of guilt than embarrassment. “He hasn’t been home for hours. I—I checked there first.”
“Would you like a cup of tea?” Moss asked, pausing in his sweeping. “There is ample chamomile this evening, should you wish it.”
“I think I would,” Ilta said, and got to her feet. “I’ll get it. Would you like a cup too?”
“Yes, please,” Moss said.
Once the water had boiled and the tea steeped, she began to pour. That was when she heard movement in the passage outside. She set down the pot and went to see who it was. As she did, Birch nearly struck her with the door. She stumbled back, and Nels entered. Relieved to see the person for whom she’d been waiting, she ignored Birch’s apology and fixed her attention on Nels instead.
“Are you all right? I was afraid of what might happen,” she said. “The—the vision was so vivid.” She wrapped Nels in a hug. His body stiffened the instant her arms went around him. Releasing him as abruptly as she’d grabbed him, she stepped back. “Are you hurt?” He’s been pushing himself too hard.
“It’s only a scratch,” he muttered. He looked exhausted.
“You were right, Miss Ilta,” Birch said. “The malorum would’ve had our sheep and goats if you hadn’t told us to watch for them.”
“I—I’m glad I was able to help,” she managed to say.
The others filed into the kitchen and headed directly for the stew. Moss stopped cleaning long enough to give them welcome and to serve those who needed it. Ilta attempted to stay out from underfoot. She watched Nels wait until the others had full bowls before approaching the pot. Afterward, Moss moved around, portioning out the remainder of the bread that had been baked before breakfast. Ilta selected a slice while the others fought over the butter. Then she settled on a nearby stool and attempted patience while pretending to eat. Her stomach had been in knots all day. She’d made a decision, but wasn’t sure when or if there would be a good time to act upon it.
She watched Nels interact with the others in an attempt to gauge his mood. He took off his all-weather coat, and she saw the uniform jacket underneath had been ripped. She could see a makeshift bandage above his right wrist.
Maybe tonight isn’t such a good idea. “It’s as cold as a wraith’s ass out there,” Birch said. “My feet are frozen solid.”
Between mouthfuls, Dar said, “You think it’s cold now? Let me tell you the story of a winter so bad that the sun froze solid.”
Sitting next to Dar, Dylan grinned. “Here we go.”
Freyr Ahlgren, a big redhead with freckled skin let out a disgusted noise. “That never happened.”
Dar said, “My great-grandfather said it did. It happened when he was a boy. The sun froze and fell from the sky. It broke into thousands of shards. The impact left a huge crater far to the north near the Ghost Horse Glacier. I
sn’t that right, Moss?”
“I have heard it is true that such a geological formation exists,” Moss said. “I cannot, however, substantiate any claim as to the cause.”
“Do your people have any stories about it?” Dar asked.
“I cannot say,” Moss said. “I left them when I was very young. I do not have any memories of those with whom I previously resided.”
Ilta stopped an urge to ask Where did you come from? Like many of the refugees living within Grandmother Mountain Hold, Moss didn’t discuss his past. She was never sure whether or not he actually had one—or at least, one he remembered. Others let slip the odd detail, no matter how much they wanted to keep such things private, and she’d catch the odd thought. With Moss, she never did.
Dar resumed his story. “The clan gathered the pieces together, and their best blacksmith thawed the shards in a great forge fire built within the crater. The bellows was so huge, it had to be worked by fifty of the clan’s strongest warriors.”
“I know this story,” Ahlgren said. “This is an Uplander tale. How would your great grandpa come to know it? Aren’t you Waterborne?”
“I am,” Dar said. “But my great-grandpa was an Uplander. His people came from a wandering clan near Ghost Horse Glacier. He had pale skin and hair redder than yours.”
Ahlgren frowned. “Why would an Uplander go to sea?”
“Same as a lot of men. He fell in love. In his case, with a Waterborne girl,” Dar said.
“Waterborne get far enough north to trade with Uplanders?” Sloan asked.
“The Waterborne sail all the seas, even the frozen ones,” Dar said. “Can I get on with my story now?”
Ahlgren said, “Sure.”
“All right,” Dar said. “When the repairs were as complete as they could be, the shaman asked their best and strongest archer, Rania, to shoot the sun back into the sky. The sun is light, in spite of its size, you see. How else can it float above us? So, she created a giant magic bow specifically for the task. Using it, she was able to get the sun back where it belonged. The reindeer, seals, and forests were saved. Unfortunately, not all the missing pieces were found. The sun turns very slowly as it travels above us. Sometimes the missing side appears. And that is why they say that there are some years when the sky grows dark, and the sun goes black.”
“That’s a ridiculous story,” Birch said.
Dar reached into a pocket. “I assure you it’s true.” Then he pulled out a flat orange stone and handed it to Sloan. “Great-Grandfather gave me a piece before he died. See how light it is? See how it glows when you hold it up to the fire?”
Ilta moved in for a closer look. The others, with the exception of Ahlgren, did the same.
“That’s nothing but a piece of amber,” Ahlgren said.
Dar asked, “And just where do you think amber comes from?”
Everyone laughed.
Eventually, they finished eating their meal, and weariness took its toll on the conversation. Birch and his partner, Sloan, made their excuses and left for bed. With a huge yawn, Ahlgren followed not long after. Moss returned to his cleaning and breakfast preparations. The comforting sounds of chiming kitchenware filled the silence. At last, Dylan dropped his bowl and wooden spoon into the washtub to soak and with Dar wished everyone a good night. Moss sat down with some sand and began scouring. Ilta continued to wait until Nels seemed prepared to leave.
When it was clear she couldn’t put it off any longer, she braved a second approach. “Nels? May I walk with you to your rooms? I’d like to talk.” In truth, she wanted to do more than talk.
He paused, and his eyebrows pinched together, forming a worry line between them. “Is it another vision?”
“It’s not that. It’s—it’s … something else.” She smoothed the green skirt she wore when she wanted to feel pretty. She had even gone to the trouble of braiding her hair with a matching ribbon.
“All right,” Nels said. Getting to his feet, he went to the exit and held open the door for her. “Good night, Moss. Thank you again for dinner. It was excellent as always.”
“You’re very welcome,” Moss said. “May you have a most pleasant evening, Colonel Hännenen.”
Nervous, Ilta picked up her healer’s bag. Then she waved a farewell and followed Nels into the hall.
They walked several paces before the silence motivated her to make another attempt at conversation. “Were you able to save all of the sheep?”
“Most of them. We only lost three. We were lucky.”
“What about Favia’s goats? Their wool makes the softest yarn. And—”
“They’re safe too.”
“Oh. Good.”
Halfway to his apartments, she found herself reaching for his hand. All at once, her hand began to tingle as if it’d fallen asleep. Time slowed and became disjointed. Stunned, she released him. Down the hallway, a shadowy form appeared, and she heard a ghostly voice. It faded in and out in a way she’d never experienced before.
“—wrong.” “—unning—” “—a choice, but not the—”
“Gran?” Ilta asked.
At the edge of her vision, she felt more than saw Nels stop. She heard him ask a question, but he was too distant to make out the words. There was a buzzing in her ears, and her vision dimmed. The ground grew increasingly unstable.
“Gran?” Sudden weakness drove Ilta to her knees, and she landed on her left hip with a bone-jarring thump. “Is that you?” The shadow vanished as abruptly as it arrived and was replaced with an image of a wailing newborn. Its birth-matted hair was thick and black. The child’s mother lay dead in a pool of blood. The vision ended in a stomach-wrenching flash of bright white light.
“Ilta? Speak to me,” Nels said. He was crouched next to her. Concern overpowered the exhaustion in his voice. “Ilta?”
She blinked. “That was unpleasant.”
“Let’s get you to the infirmary.”
“No!”
He started.
She said, “I mean, I’d rather we continued to your place. I’ll be fine. I only need a cup of tea.”
“I don’t have any black tea.”
“How about chamomile?”
“I do have some of that.” He helped her to her feet. “Are you feeling steady enough to walk?”
She nodded, dusted off her skirts, and then searched for her pocket watch.
“You were only gone for a moment,” he said.
“Oh. Thank you,” she said, and slipped the watch back into her apron pocket without opening it. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” he asked. “Having a vision? That’s part of who you are.” He shrugged. Then his weary face grew sly. “Was it anything good?”
She returned his smile, weakly. “Not like that.”
“Honestly, why don’t you see anything useful? Like Viktor in a compromising position? Or deeply embarrassing things about Westola involving kitchen utensils?” Nels asked. “I have it on good authority that Cousin Edvard’s Silmaillia facilitates all manner of court gossip. It’s not fair.”
“My powers revel in being uncooperative, apparently.” The exchange was so effortless and comforting, so much like they’d been before that she was reminded how much she missed being with him.
When they got to his apartment, she saw the fire had recently been tended and fresh snow collected in a iron caldron was resting on the hearth. She spooned some snow into the kettle, set it on the hook, and pushed it over the flames. With that done, she settled on the rug in front of the fire, wrapped her arms around her knees, and began to consider what the vision had meant. For his part, Nels went to the next room to change.
Gran was warning me, Ilta thought. That much was obvious. But the baby? What did that have to do with anything? And ‘unning’? What does that mean?
Nels returned. His shirt was untucked, and he’d removed his boots. The bandage around his forearm was soaked through with blood. He’d brought a tray with fresh linen scraps and the ointment she’d given to him.
“I should take care of that for you,” Ilta said.
“You don’t have to,” Nels said. “I can do it.”
Running. Gran was telling me to stop running. Ilta blinked. And then she remembered one of the things her Gran always said when she was being stubborn about something. “That’s a valid choice, Ilta girl. But all choices have consequences. Best keep that in mind. We can make things difficult for ourselves and others in the long term by only thinking of the short term. Sometimes what looks like the easy, pain-free way is a lot more destructive. Stop. Think. What is it you fear? Be brave. You can’t afford not to, girl. You’re too powerful. You’re making a choice, but is it the best choice?”
Her heart began to gallop inside her chest. “I want to do it for you. May I? Please?”
“All right.”
She sat at his feet and took his wrist in her hands. Beginning the process of removing the bandage, she recalled the first time her Gran had given her that particular speech. She’d balked at rebreaking a patient’s badly set leg bone. “Oh, goddess.”
“Is something wrong?” Nels asked.
“Yes,” Ilta said. “I mean no. Not with your wrist. The wound needs cleaning.” She winced at the sight of the four-inch-long cut. “And maybe some stitches and plasters. Good thing that was on the top of your arm and not the other side.”
Nels shrugged.
Keeping her eyes to her work, she said, “Remember when I told you that Gran was concerned about us being together?”
He nodded.
Ilta said. “She was wrong. At least, I think she may have just told me so.”
“What?” Nels asked. “That was your vision?”
Ilta nodded.
“Isn’t it the Silmaillia’s job to never be wrong?”
“Do you honestly believe that, knowing me as you do?” she asked. “Just because a Silmaillia sees a future doesn’t mean we’re required to work to avoid it. We have to determine what is necessary to act upon and what isn’t. Sometimes, an unpleasant event can’t or shouldn’t be avoided. Sometimes, it’s difficult to know what a vision means or …” She shrugged. “Of course, I don’t think Gran had any visions about us. Or, to be more specific, you. At least, her diaries don’t mention it.”
