by Stina Leicht
“That was your best?” Westola asked.
“Just do the job you were hired to do already, will you?” Viktor settled down on the ground next to the camp cot. His voice belied the concern etched in his face, but then he ruined the effect and winked. “Besides, I’ve got to hear how you managed to get free.”
Nels closed his eyes while Westola washed away crusted blood with warm water. “Magic.”
Viktor asked, “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to tell me?”
“Yes,” Nels said.
“Swiving bastard,” Viktor said.
Comfortable for the first time in hours, Nels smiled. “What was that, Overlieutenant?”
“I said you’re a swiving bastard, sir,” Viktor said.
“And don’t you forget it,” Nels mumbled. He was exhausted. He wanted nothing more than to pass out. The tug and pinch of Westola’s needle was the only thing keeping him awake. He lay inert, drifting and listening to the hollow clank and splash of water being poured into a tin bath. He smelled soft perfume and burning lamp oil, and did his utmost to avoid thinking of Ilta.
I wonder what she’s doing right now.
Stop it.
By the time Westola had finished stitching the wounds in need of it, he was more than half asleep. Mustonen finished filling the bath, prepared a change of clothes, and left. Nels woke with a start when Westola gently shook him.
“I suggest you get cleaned up and then get some rest,” Westola said. She looked tired. “You’ll not feel any pain for seven or eight hours, if you’re careful and don’t do anything foolish.”
Viktor snorted. “That isn’t exactly the plan.”
“I know. I know. Just because it doesn’t hurt—” Nels sat up.
Westola frowned at him. “I mean it. Do as I say and your back will heal in a day or two,” she said, taking the whiskey from Viktor.
“Hey! That’s mine,” Viktor said.
“You’ll scar.” Westola ignored Viktor and drank from the neck of the bottle. “There’s nothing I can do about that. But you’ll be fine otherwise. Push yourself too far, and you’ll undo everything. You’ll be sleeping on your stomach for a month.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Nels said, narrowing his eyes at Viktor.
“You’re spoiling the fun,” Viktor said.
Westola sighed. “And I won’t come back to fix the mess you make of yourself, either. You hear me? You’re on your own.”
“I hear you,” Nels said, holding out a hand to her. “You didn’t have to do this. Not for me. Thanks.”
Westola took it and gave it a gentle shake as if he’d break. Nels attempted not to show amusement.
“You know,” she said. “I don’t like Pesola any more than the rest of you do.”
“Then why do you work for him?” Viktor asked.
Shrugging, Westola started cleaning her surgeon’s tools with Viktor’s good whiskey. “Why do any of us?”
Because there’s no other choice, Nels thought. Westola was very good at her job—better than most healers regulated to the Royal Army. He wondered what transgression she had committed that had forced her into such an assignment. He watched as Viktor offered to pay her, but she held up a hand in refusal.
“Never tell Pesola I had anything to do with this,” she said, “and we’re even.”
Viktor paused and then nodded.
She asked, “What do you plan to do tomorrow, Captain?”
Nels said, “Show up for formation as usual.”
“And what will you say?” she asked.
“Nothing,” Nels said. “Absolutely nothing. This evening never happened.”
She nodded. “You might just live long enough to fight the damned war.” She finished packing the last of her medical supplies and tools, and then went off to bed.
Nels watched her go. “She’s a much better person than she lets on.”
“She fits in with the rest of us, then,” Viktor said.
ILTA
ONE
If it hadn’t been for the visions, Ilta would have dismissed the sporadic flashes on the horizon as lightning. Perched high on Angel’s Thumb, Gran’s house was remote enough that the thunder of cannon couldn’t shatter comfortable illusions, but what was happening upstairs brooked no such self-trickery. Saara Korpela, Eledore’s Silmaillia, was dying, and like the war, Ilta was helpless to do anything about it. She had never been more miserable in her whole life. The only good news had arrived with the royal messenger bird that morning along with another bundle of Nels’s letters that had been dropped at the gate by the mail coach. The messenger bird brought a pronouncement from the king. Her imprisonment was at an end. The reason why hadn’t been because she was forgiven. She was still exiled from the capital and court. The change in her status was because her previous jailer had died, and King Henrik wouldn’t be sending another.
A muffled cry drove Ilta inside and up the stairs.
“Gran?” She ran as fast as she could and threw open the bedroom door. “What is it you need?”
The fever had appeared four days ago, and there was still no outward sign of rash. Gran lay huddled in layers of blankets, the fever that was burning away her life painting her face a deep red. Damp curls stuck to her face and neck as she gestured toward the pitcher.
“Water.” The once-firm voice was a hoarse whisper.
Ilta carefully perched on the edge of the bedstead and helped Gran hold the glass. The hand resting underneath Ilta’s own was too hot, and Ilta considered lowering her grandmother’s temperature yet again. She got as far as mentally anchoring herself in preparation when Gran pulled away.
“Don’t waste healing energy on the dying,” Gran said. “Have you done as I told you?”
Ilta had trouble speaking past the lump in her throat, “I-I’ve gathered your clothes.”
“When I’m gone, burn them. The bedclothes and the featherbed, too. Same as we did with yours and the sergeant’s.” Gran fell back on the pillows with a grimace. “Then scrub the floors. Boil everything I touched. Every dish. Every utensil.”
“You can’t die. Not yet. Please! I can’t—” Ilta’s words were cut off by Gran’s hard frown.
“I daresay you can and you will. Maybe you didn’t get in a full apprenticeship, and maybe you’ve made a few mistakes—”
“I don’t want this power. I don’t want to be Silmaillia,” Ilta said. “Not any more.”
“Do you think you’re the only one to have regrets? I should’ve done better by you. I shouldn’t have protected you so much. I should’ve let you be among others more often. It would’ve better prepared you. I should never have done the things that hurt you in the first place.” Her eyelids closed, snuffing out the intensity of her stare. “How was anyone to know?”
“We should’ve. What’s the point in seeing into the future, otherwise?”
“Ironic, isn’t it?” Gran swallowed. “Always remember, one can’t see in every direction. Sometimes, the gods, the goddesses … death … life … they will all have their way. It is important to remember there is always a bigger power than you.”
Ilta nodded and sniffed.
Gran’s frown became a small proud smile. “You’ve got strength in you. More than your parents knew. You’ll do.”
Ilta said, “Don’t talk like that. You’re going to recover.”
“Don’t lie to yourself. You must face the hard things in life,” Gran said. “I know Eledorean custom dictates otherwise, but it wasn’t always that way. Death may be unpleasant, but it’s essential. Every Silmaillia—every healer before you knows this. Dying makes room for new life. Remember the sacred circle. It’s a comfort to know I’ll sleep beside Jyri again.”
Hot tears burned her eyes as Ilta hugged Gran. The old woman’s ribs felt brittle as a bird’s through the blankets. Ilta told herself that Gran couldn’t be this frail creature wasting away on the bed. Gran was strong, a commanding force that even kings reckoned with. “I’ll be alone.”
�
�Stop whining, child. Everyone has their time. My time’s now. Hanging on longer will only make it worse.”
Ilta flinched at the too-familiar words.
“You won’t be alone for long. Nels will come.” Gran took a deep breath. “How many wounded?”
Ilta blinked away tears and spoke to the wall; the knot of heartbreak in her throat receded as she recalled the vision that had invaded her sleep. “Twelve. Fewer if the snow is early. There’ll be others. Many others. But they won’t make the trip up the mountain. He won’t risk it.”
“How soon?” Gran asked.
Ilta sat up, and her grief was overshadowed by thoughts of what was ahead. “Four weeks? Maybe five. It’s hard to tell. There are too many influencing factors. The only thing certain is that I’ll have to leave this place.” She suddenly realized her voice was steady. Gran’s distracting me so I can focus on what I need to do. Oh, Gran, I’ll never be as wise and strong as you.
Gran’s expression twisted—the color in her face was leached by pain, and a jolt of terror jerked Ilta to the present. Long moments passed before Gran was able to speak again, but when she did, her voice was steady. “The contagion will have run its course by then, I think. They’ll be safe. And it’ll give you time to prepare and pack. One last thing.” Gran weakly pushed away the blankets. “Bring me the box.”
“No. Please,” Ilta said. The aching lump returned with a vengeance, threatening to choke her.
Gran’s black eyes snapped open. “Do as I say, girl. This is no time for mulishness.”
Ilta nodded and ran downstairs to her grandmother’s sanctuary. Grabbing the wooden box kept under the altar, she paused. Its shifting contents made small clinking sounds—metal against glass or stone. The box felt strangely light for the weight of responsibility it contained. She returned to the sickroom with a heavy heart and set the small chest on the table next to the bedstead.
“Open it,” Gran said.
Ilta swallowed once before pulling the cherrywood lid open by its iron hasp. A lump swathed in a hank of white Ytlainen silk rested on top of cork-stoppered bottles, surgeon’s tools, small stones, and charms. She knew what should come next. Everything was happening too fast.
“Give me the knife,” Gran said.
Ilta unwrapped the cloth-covered bundle and revealed a bone-handled knife. The ripple-patterned blade thrummed with power. Although the handle was old, it was much newer than the blade. The blade was ancient and far older than Gran, having belonged to Gran’s grandmother’s grandmother. Made of fabled water steel, it had been forged by one of the ancient master weaponsmiths. Ilta didn’t dare touch the knife directly, keeping the silk between herself and the hilt. Gran sat up straighter with a grunt, putting out a hand for the yellowed handle. She traced a holy sign over the knife, closed her eyes, and silently whispered a blessing. Then she opened her eyes again. Light glinted off the blade’s edge as Gran weakly turned the knife widdershins in her hands three times. She paused and uncharacteristic regret softened her expression. “I apologize for the poor ceremony. There should be a priest present. To give his blessing. To represent balance.”
Eledore welcomed many different sects from all of the kingdoms, but Ilta and her grandmother were members of the oldest, and the concept of balance was central to their beliefs.
“Then we shouldn’t do this now.” Ilta’s heart hammered at her breastbone. I don’t want to be a Silmaillia. Not now. She’d been thinking ever since Gran had gotten sick. Maybe the disease was a sign that she, Ilta, wasn’t worthy. Maybe she should—
“Don’t interrupt.” With a deep breath, Gran’s face emitted proud warmth. “Do you, Ilta Korpela, swear in the secret names of all the gods and goddesses, making them your witnesses, that you will fulfill this oath according to your ability and judgment?”
Ilta paused. “I do so swear. But I—”
“Do you swear to share your knowledge without thought for selfish gain or profit?”
“We need to talk. I mean it,” Ilta said. “I can’t do this. Not now.”
Gran let the hand holding the knife drop into her lap. “All right. What’s wrong?”
“You can’t possibly be serious about making me a full-fledged healer, let alone the Silmaillia. Not now. Not after what I’ve done.”
“And why not?”
“I can’t be Silmaillia. I’m banished from court.”
“It’s not King Henrik you’ll serve. He won’t last out the year. It’s Queen Suvi.”
Oh. Ilta blinked. “Do you honestly think I can be trusted with the knowledge now?”
“Let me ask you something.”
Ilta nodded.
“Will you ever do anything like that again?”
“No! I—”
“Then you’ve learned,” Gran said. “Education in the healing arts doesn’t come cheap. Never has. Never will. Anyone who says otherwise is lying.”
“But—”
“To hide away what you’ve learned means that the cost—all those lives lost—was for nothing. If you’d gone into the situation knowing that so many would die and done it anyway, I would agree with you. But you didn’t. You made an honest mistake. Now it is up to you to honor those who’ve paid the price for you learning your lesson. Use your knowledge. Be a better healer and save other lives. None of us are perfect. If only there were time enough to tell you of the mistakes I’ve made.” Gran looked away. “One of them resulted in you being born as you are.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that you were born without the ability to shield yourself, with too much power. And it was my fault.”
“That isn’t true.”
“It is,” Gran said. “You might as well know it now.”
“How?”
Gran reached for the water glass again, and Ilta helped her with it before it spilled. “In the library.” Gran swallowed five times, and Ilta took back the glass. “There’s a locked cabinet. Key is in that box. Inside, you’ll find my journals. Everything is there. Read them.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will,” Gran said. “There was a reason your parents waited to give you to me until it was clear there was no other choice. It wasn’t because they didn’t know what was wrong. They had good reasons.”
“If you say so.”
“We work with energy far more powerful than any kainen has a right to work with. We reach inside other people—inside places that no one was meant to venture. We turn them away from death when death might have its way. There’s a price for that power. Balance is more than a word. It’s in everything a healer does.”
Ilta swallowed.
“You’re going to make mistakes,” Gran said. “But you’ll make good choices, too. You’ll save lives. You understand the responsibility now. You understand it better than most who’ve been practicing half their lives. Don’t throw that away. Not now. Not when you’ll be needed most.”
“So, I have no choice.”
“There’s always a choice. You can turn away from healing. I’d rather you didn’t, but if you’d prefer to not have this responsibility, I’ll understand. Nonetheless, refusing won’t take away the responsibility you already have—the responsibility for the lives you’ve already affected. By turning away, you’ll affect even more lives. There’s no way out of that. You are what you are. At least if you remain a healer, you’ll have a chance at equalizing the ledger.”
Biting her lip, Ilta asked, “Does it get any easier?”
“In some respects, it only gets harder. Particularly when it comes to those you love. At least you know what’s at stake now. Blame disease. Blame war. Blame accidents. Blame the nature of kainen and humans. Blame the gods, if you must. What’s done is done. You aren’t the first healer to have made such a mistake. You won’t be the last. Wisdom doesn’t come cheap, either. Nothing does that’s of worth.”
Ilta took a deep breath. “All right, Gran. I accept the responsibility.”
Gently pickin
g up the knife, Gran repeated the ritual from the beginning. This time, Ilta listened to the words and felt more present in the moment.
Finally, Gran asked, “Do you swear to share your knowledge?”
“I do so swear.” And the weight of the oath settled onto Ilta’s shoulders.
“Do you swear to protect and provide sanctuary to the sick no matter who they might be? No matter who might wish them harm?”
This is really happening. Ilta’s stomach quivered, and her mouth was dry. The gloom became a haze smelling of burning oil, poultice herbs, and sickness. The lamp on the table spilled golden light over the bed and the rug on the floor. The bright circle bisected a painting of a younger, happier Gran nestled in the arms of Grandfather Jyri.
Ilta wiped the sweat from her hands onto her skirt, focusing again on the oath before speaking. “I do so swear.” The Threefold Oath. It’s done. I’m no longer Gran’s apprentice. I’m a healer now.
A healer who has killed hundreds, maybe even thousands with her arrogance.
Gran closed her eyes and put out her left hand, palm up. Ilta could see the faded spiral scar in the center. “Give me your left hand.”
Ilta knew what would come next and couldn’t help dreading it. Nonetheless, she laid her hand in Gran’s fevered one. Magic weighed in the air as Gran focused. Using the blade, she cut the symbol for life and death into Ilta’s palm. Ilta drew in a quick breath against the sharp pain and did her best not to flinch. She understood why her grandmother wasn’t using magic to deaden feeling. The pain was a reminder. Healing cuts two ways. It was part of the oath and a symbol of the cost.
When she was done, Gran then cut into her own palm, closing off the spiral in two strokes and making it into another symbol entirely—a symbol for completeness and endings. With that, she pressed her left palm against Ilta’s left. “We do hereby seal this oath. Blood for blood. Life for life. For the betterment of all. For the best possible outcome. All things in balance.” Then she offered Ilta the knife hilt first.
Ilta accepted it, wrapping her injured palm around the bone handle and sensing the heat of her grandmother’s fever in it. The knife’s grip was slippery in her hand for an instant until her palm tingled. Looking at the knife, the bone grip was no longer a yellowy white. It now was white with a hint of pink.
