by Stina Leicht
“I taught you better than to do a fool thing like that,” Gran said. “What were you thinking?”
I was thinking I could save you, Ilta thought. “I don’t understand what happened.” Oh, Mother, what if Gran’s death is one of those fates that one shouldn’t fight? Her vision blurred. The pain in her throat joined the pain in her heart. She blinked back more tears, but they overwhelmed her resistance. “I shouldn’t have been contagious. Not according to the Acrasian medical logs Nels was able to get for me. It’d only been a week since the inoculation. I wasn’t even supposed to get ill.” She sniffed. “Not yet.”
Gran produced a handkerchief and handed it to her. “Tell me what happened. Tell me why you did this to yourself. Now.”
“I wanted to prove beyond a doubt that pox-proofing is effective.” Ilta gently daubed her cheeks and then carefully blew her nose. Then she told Gran everything about that day in the hospital herb garden.
“Anja should’ve stopped you.”
“I don’t understand,” Ilta said. “Nels was right. It works.”
“You gambled with other people’s lives—not just your own!”
“I didn’t!” Ilta shook her head. “Nels says the Acrasians—”
“You aren’t human. None of us are.”
“There’s not that much difference between kainen and humans. You’ve said so yourself!”
“That may be. But there is one key difference. Humans don’t have magic. We do. Magic, even healing magic, takes a funny turn sometimes. You know that,” Gran said. “The more power you have, the more unpredictable it can be.”
“I didn’t use magic on myself or the—the inoculation. It should’ve been fine.”
“Have some sense,” Gran said. “You’ve not been seriously ill before now. There was a reason for that. And now—” She looked away, and then Ilta understood her grandmother was terrified. “You’ve forced a disease past your magical defenses. You broke the healer’s oath. You did yourself harm. There’s no telling what that has done.”
“Oh.” The more power, Ilta thought. She was missing something—something to do with Nels, but it was too hard to think, particularly when it came to Nels.
“Arrogant child! You could’ve died!” Gran stood up and walked across the room.
“I didn’t.”
“You’re right. You didn’t. But others have. This isn’t over. Not yet.”
“Isn’t it?”
Her grandmother stared at the wall and didn’t say anything.
“Gran?”
Ilta watched Gran’s shoulders relax and her head drop a little. “I hope I’m wrong, but the way the sickness took you. The way the rash didn’t show until very late. The way you’re healing so fast—”
“That’s what pox-proofing does. By giving myself a lighter strain of the disease, I build up an immunity. Then we can use material from my healing pustules and treat others. My powers will make it even more effective. That’s how it works.” Again, there was that long silence. Ilta felt suddenly hollow. Her stomach lurched as if inside an abrupt vacuum. “Isn’t it?”
Gran muttered something and then whirled. Ilta couldn’t make out the words but once again glimpsed an expression of pure terror on Gran’s face before it vanished. “Nothing is certain. We’ll wait and see. We’ll … wait and see.”
“If I’m under arrest, fine. I can’t leave. But shouldn’t you be at the hospital?”
“I told you I can’t go into the city. Not now.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We’re under quarantine, you and I, and the guards sent to watch over us. They were already exposed at the palace.”
It was Ilta’s turn to frown. “I don’t understand.”
“Since you became ill, more than half the people we came in contact with are dead.”
“They contracted variola?”
“They contracted something, all right. But I don’t believe it was the same variola,” Gran said. “Not like we’ve seen it before, in any case. The rash didn’t show. If it shows, it waits until the end.”
Ilta’s mouth dropped open. “Just like—like me?”
“Like you,” Gran said. “This variety of it spread so fast that we’re not sure that everyone who’d been exposed has been contained. We can’t spread word or send a warning. People are frightened enough as it is. We have to sit this out.”
The more power you have, the more unpredictable the result. Oh, Mother. Swallowing the last of her tea, Ilta hid her face. I wish I hadn’t gone to Keeper Mountain. I wish I’d told Gran I was sick.
“We need to list everyone you came into contact with from the moment you infected yourself with variola,” Gran said. She went to the writing desk, selected a quill from those stored in a cup, and began preparing it with the penknife Ilta kept there.
“There’s Anja, of course. And you,” Ilta said, and then tensed up. “Is Anja all right?”
“She is. And still working in spite of everything. Although I don’t know for how long.”
“Oh. That’s good, I suppose.” Ilta bit her lip. “There was everyone at the Commons Hospital, of course.”
Gran began writing, stopped, and turned around. She looked thoughtful. “What patients did you have direct contact with?”
“Those in the critical ward, for the most part,” Ilta said. “The others are often too frightened to enter the room.”
“The critical ward patients died.”
Cheeks heating, Ilta began to feel a queasiness that had nothing to do with illness. “No one really expected them to recover. I hoped but …” She shrugged.
“That is true,” Gran said, and returned her attention to the list. “Of course. There is one fatality that puzzles me.”
“Yes?”
“A Lieutenant Kaisa Harkola,” Gran said. “Did you know her?”
Ilta struggled to remember. “The name is familiar, but I cannot think why.”
“She served in Captain Hännenen’s company.”
Ilta’s heart stumbled and a chill entered her chest. She pulled the quilt closer. “Nels’s company?”
“I’m afraid so. The curious thing is, she had already undergone the Acrasian inoculation process.”
“How is that possible? I didn’t do it.”
“Captain Hännenen did,” Gran said. “I understand he had himself and his whole company inoculated. Rather successfully, from what I understand. Not a single fatality. That’s what puzzles me.”
Why didn’t he tell me? “Then she should’ve been immune. What happened?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I asked you if you knew her.”
Lieutenant Kaisa Harkola, Ilta thought, and then it occurred to her where she’d heard the name before. “I met her the night of the riot. The bakery and the tailor shop near the hospital burned to the ground. Remember?”
Gran nodded.
“In order to stop the rioters from entering the hospital building, Nels used command magic,” Ilta said.
“But he doesn’t have that talent.”
“I know. And I wouldn’t have believed it, except I was there. I saw—” Ilta swallowed. “He was holding my hand when it happened. It didn’t feel like any normal use of magic. I was so tired after. It was as though he’d taken energy from me and then combined it with the lieutenant’s command magic. When he spoke, the force of it dominated an entire group of panicked rioters. I meant to ask you about that. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”
“I haven’t.” Gran frowned. “Was he touching the lieutenant as well?”
“I don’t know. Wait. Yes. I think so. I remember feeling her presence. Just not as strongly as Nels’s. Why?”
“And the lieutenant died the morning after the riot. Along with every patient in that critical ward. You were resting.” Gran abruptly got up and went to the door. She muttered something that Ilta could’ve sworn sounded like Twins are an ill omen.
“Gran? What is it?”
“Stay in bed. Try to sleep. I�
��ll be back as soon as I know something.”
TWO
With her brain still healing from the extended bout of fever, it was difficult for Ilta to concentrate on complicated tasks. So, she left the distilling of the latest harvest of medicinal flowers to Gran. Neither of them had uttered their real concerns, because it edged too closely on fears for which there were no easy solutions. In any case, Ilta’s energy flagged too easily, and her skin remained sensitive. At least the sores had healed, and the scabs were gone. She was relieved to see that the disease didn’t seem to have left many scars, not so far, and none on her face other than the one on her forehead. Although it was near the hairline and easily hidden, it was particularly bad. So, she continued applying the salve Gran gave her and hoped for the best.
In an attempt to distract herself from thinking about all the things making her miserable, she made tea, went for short walks in the garden, and read. Sergeant Hirvi, the brooding guardsman with the black hair and the permanent scowl, followed her wherever she went. Ilta understood why, but it didn’t make her comfortable.
That’s the point, isn’t it? she thought. Being uncomfortable? Gran had explained how fortunate she was that the king hadn’t had her executed. Apparently, Gran had used all her influence to prevent it. That had been a sobering thought.
Ilta poured boiling water over the latest scoop of tea leaves and replaced the kettle on its hook. Staring at the steeping tea, she allowed herself a little self-pity. What’s the point in knowing the future if you can’t stop things like this from happening? Walking toward the stairs with the fresh teapot, she stopped when Sergeant Hirvi stood in her path.
“The Silmaillia instructed me to give these to you,” he said, handing her a bundle of letters tied together with a string. He was looking a little flushed, and he was sweating.
He’s feverish. Ilta blinked when she recognized the handwriting on the outsides of the letters and then spotted the broken seals. “Why have these been opened?”
“I thought you understood that you were under arrest,” Sergeant Hirvi said.
“But these are deeply personal—”
“When you reply, you will first give your letters to me. Unsealed. I’ll read them before they’re forwarded,” he said, and then turned away.
Ilta thought about protesting but decided against it. “Sergeant?” She hated having to ask. Her face burned. “Has—has Gran read them too?”
She wasn’t sure, but she thought his set expression might have softened ever so slightly. “That isn’t an aspect of your confinement.”
Another wave of guilt nearly choked her. Instead, she nodded and then took Nels’s letters up to her room along with her tea. Once there, she perched the hot teapot on the table. She wanted to cry, but she’d already shed so many tears that she wasn’t sure she had any left. She tried to think of reasons not to read the letters. To do so would only make the whole situation more awful, she knew. She certainly couldn’t answer him. Could she? What could she say?
Dear Nels,
I’m sorry. I’ve been sick with variola. If I see you while I’m contagious, you’ll die. It won’t matter if you’ve been inoculated or not. I don’t know when it’ll be safe to see you—if it ever will. I know you don’t want to hear this, but I’m meant to stay here. Without you. We can’t be together. Your power and my magic—it created something horrible, something that will kill everyone it contacts. At least, that’s what Gran and I suspect. We don’t know for certain, but I won’t take the risk.
I made a terrible mistake. And this is the price. Please, go on with your life without me. I’m not the one for you.
I’m not the one for anyone.
But she knew what he’d say. He’d do anything to convince her of the reasons why they should fight against their fates, and she’d had enough of fighting fate. She didn’t know if she’d ever have the courage to take such a chance again.
She rested a hand on top of the bundle. She didn’t have to count the letters. There was one for every day since she’d left him sleeping in front of the hearth that night. The handwriting on the outside of the last letter was tight and angry.
Her vision blurred and her chest ached. She flipped over the bundle so she didn’t have to see his frustration and longing—his self-blame.
Poor Nels. We both made mistakes that night. She now understood aspects of the situation that he didn’t. It made her sad that she probably wouldn’t ever get the chance to explain. She hadn’t told him that night, because she’d already been too frightened. Oh, she had been lost in him, that much was the truth, and he had pushed her a little, and that had terrified her too. However, the situation was … complicated. She had wanted him so very much. Only she hadn’t known what to do and had been too embarrassed to ask. So, she did something she shouldn’t have. She peeked inside his thoughts while his guard was down. If she were honest with herself, she’d admit that she’d done far more than peek. She’d violated the privacy of his mind. She’d pushed past his defenses. And if Gran knew what I’ve done, she’d be livid.
What is the matter with me? How did everything become such a mess so fast?
Nels thought he was the only one in love and that she’d only recently come to return his feelings, but he was wrong. She’d loved him from the moment she’d first seen him—in a vision a full week before she’d met him in the woods. She’d been fourteen, and for the first time in her life, she hadn’t told Gran. Ilta had been afraid that Gran would keep him from her. Gran had kept her from everyone else, after all. Ilta understood the need. Sometimes it was hard enough to keep herself whole, even with Gran. However, Ilta had to meet him. That boy. Nels. She’d understood what she’d seen in his eyes, the fear and loss. He thought he wasn’t like anyone, but he was like her, a little broken and different. Only, he’d had no one to explain what was happening to him or make him understand why. She knew what that was like. At least for a time, I did, she thought. It made him vulnerable, and that made her love him all the more.
Again, she smoothed the letters as if soothing him. The paper crinkled. Rough twine scratched her fingertips. She had a sudden urge to hear his voice, to hold something of him tight. Her fingers did the rest. The twine knot came undone and then she’d freed the first letter. With the seal already broken, it fell open, and his words were laid bare. Words written with those hands.
She could almost feel his touch—strong and gentle at the same time. His sense of wonder as he explored her skin. It’d been so intense. So wonderful. So terrifying, too. She wished he hadn’t stopped her. She really had wanted to rip at his clothes. She’d wanted to see him. For an instant, what he wanted hadn’t mattered. The selfishness of the thought shamed her.
She remembered the little scars on his knuckles and wrists and the bigger scars on his chest and arms. Each documented events in his life that she couldn’t know anything about. She’d sensed he kept them locked away, buried. Not that it would do him any good if she chose to force herself upon him, but it would do more than hurt him. She simply couldn’t do that.
Well, not ever again, anyway.
She couldn’t have told him without making him laugh, but he was beautiful with his moon-pale hair falling down past his elbows. She was shocked to see that it was almost as long as her own. It was ridiculous, but she wanted nothing more than to brush it for him and listen to him purr. At least, that was how she’d imagined he’d react. She remembered the touch of his skin, the way he’d smelled—dried river water, leather, blood, and sweat. On anyone else, they’d have been ordinary scents, but on him—
She shivered as a flash of her fingertips digging deep inside the front of his trousers burned in her memory. She closed her eyes and recalled the feel of him in her hand and bit her lip.
He stopped himself from hurting me.
Suddenly, she understood how much she could’ve trusted him. Far more than he could’ve trusted me, she thought, and swallowed yet another bitter lump of guilt. That admission made the loss so much wors
e.
Why does everything have to be so—so … complicated?
She wiped her face dry and started to read.
My Dearest Ilta,
It’s morning, and you’ve gone. I know you had to go, but I wish you hadn’t. Although it’s been only a few hours, it already seems like days. For the first time in years, I’m happy. With you, I could jump from the roof and fly, if I had to. That sounds stupid, doesn’t it? Love is too inadequate a word for what I feel.
I’m afraid Mrs. Nimonen will send for Mother. She’s convinced I’ve gone mad. I admit to having some fun at her expense—
The lines blurred. Ilta dropped the letter, threw herself onto her pillow, and sobbed.
SUVI
ONE
The HREM Otter waited at anchor under the shadow of her larger sister ship, the HREM Indomitable. With her sails stowed, the Otter’s masts seemed to playfully prod the heavy clouds. Suvi smiled up at the corvette from the longboat, listening as her crew finished the last of the work involved in anchoring the ship. Her chest warmed with pride at how The Otter had gracefully skipped and danced through storms while the Indomitable had plodded through it all head on, following her sprightlier sister with the will of a bulldog. Suvi had to admit that power was an asset in a frigate. It was what they were made for, after all. But Suvi loved best the feel of a fast ship under her feet—the wind in her hair and ropes in her hands.
And now the smell of the sea. She could understand why Dylan preferred the ocean. It was so much better than the lakes. Wilder. More free in a way. Suvi imagined the Otter loved it too. She could see it in how the corvette seemed to rest happy on the water, eager for another run.
A warm, idle wind curled waves on the cliff-sheltered bay. The command given, sailors manning oars heaved the Otter’s longboat from under the Indomitable’s shadow one powerful, synchronized stroke at a time. Sitting in the bow, Suvi shaded her eyes from the afternoon sun with her right hand, swallowed vague fears, and squinted at the vacant beach. Black sand met clear blue water. A thick forest of tall pines and tangled undergrowth shielded the parts of the island that weren’t solid rock, mountain, or empty beach. Imposing cliffs arched against the sky as if barricading the bay. A mountain ridge just beyond the forest blocked the remainder of the island from view. Together, mountains and cliffs created a horseshoe-shaped shield of stone against sea and prying eyes.
