Remnants of Atonement (True paths Book 1)

by G. P McKenna

  But I was better than okay. I was strong, without fear, and with unstoppable determination to reclaim my name. Even if I needed to die to do it. There was not enough opportunity in Bethany, but Ascot was bursting with choice. The universe always delivered, that’s what I believed, but try telling Doctor Kira that and she would’ve sent for the bed restraints. So instead I took a deep breath and counted to ten. I could always throw a fit later.

  “That was five years ago,” I said, opening my eyes to meet hers in what I hoped was mature calmness, “it wouldn’t happen now. It couldn’t. I’m sixteen. I no longer have time to run around, getting into mischief. I need to be dedicated to my studies,” Kira stared blankly at me and I swallowed. Yeah, maybe that wasn’t the best approach. I shifted my weight to my left foot, “besides, don’t you always say that you can only truly learn on the field? I’m going to have to get experience eventually if you expect me to qualify. Where better than in an infirmary you are personally in charge of?”

  She exhaled, pushing her spectacles further up her nose. Gotcha. “I do say that a lot, don’t I?” she asked, huffing when I nodded, “war isn’t a game, Kilco. If you mess around like you do here, people die. Or worse.”

  “I know.”

  “Oh yeah? Prove it,” she dropped the penknife into the drawer and slammed it, “the answer is no, but I’ll make you a deal. If you can go two weeks without getting in trouble, I’ll reconsider.”

  “Deal,” I said. A little too quickly if the narrowing of her eyes were any indication.

  “That means no fighting, no stealing and no skipping classes to disappear for hours. If you’re late to clinic by a tenth of a second, you lose. If a single hair on your head touches another person, you lose. If-”

  “Okay, I understand,” I held up my hands, “I won’t so much as think ugly thoughts for two weeks, starting now. There will be no trouble. You’ll see. I can do this.”

  “I’d love to believe that, but I know you. You can’t help yourself,” she ran her hands over her face and picked up the letter, “whatever. Who knows, you might exceed all expectations. I hope you do. Now, get out. I have paperwork. Go clean exam room three,” I physically felt the colour drain from my face. Kira glanced up, a malicious glint in her eyes, “unless you want to back out already.”

  My mother was an evil woman, but I wouldn’t give up so easily. Silently, I turned and opened the door. I was going to Ascot, even if I had to curl up and live in Mrs Hogan’s smalls drawer to get there. It was only two weeks. How bad could it be?

  Three

  Xenophobia

  Fear of strangers

  “Do you suppose the Shield has taken a bride yet?” One of the older wives asked around the needle in her mouth. It took every ounce of willpower not to snatch it and stab it into my ear. Traditionally trains had been the primary mode of transportation between Ascot and Bethel. Dirty, noisy machines that polluted the air with black smoke that made the city dogs howl. Deities, what I wouldn’t have given to be riding in a train carriage at that moment. But the war had stolen any chance of that, forcing the long journey to Ascot to be made via long-abandoned trade paths in the back of a merchant caravan.

  Had that been that it would’ve been tolerable. A week on the road with a group of wealthy merchants and their wives and daughters who had little to entertain them other than quiet quilting. Hardly a grand adventure, but tolerable.

  However, due to some dreadful weather— or because the Ascotian Royal guard couldn’t be roused from bed to assist—we were having more than a spot of trouble with the local wildlife. Struggling through the final leg of the journey, we found ourselves sufficiently stranded in the thickest part of the infamously dense Chicora Woods. To me, it seemed like something of considerable concern as far as emergencies go, and yet, for a while at least, it appeared that nobody paid any heed to our absence at market.

  By the third day, with their quilts done and polished, the wives had waddled about in pairs, gossiping and complaining, though never admitting to either. By the fourth day, I volunteered to hike out for help. That offer fell on deaf ears, and when pushed I was shut down with ‘ooh’ and ‘um’ and ‘we don’t know where the blazers we are’, which was ridiculous. The branches of Ascot’s Armoury were clear on the horizon like a tall leafy beacon. Though I may not have agreed with its purpose on principle, I would’ve recognized its colossal girth anywhere and could have found it in my sleep.

  Ascot was the only significant Kingdom left who followed the Armoury system of old and believed themselves superior for it. The system had been developed in the immediate chaos left behind by the fall of the great technological empires, to reaffirm each race’s sovereignty over their own people, and a kiloyear past was where it should’ve remained. Most everybody else who’d developed past barbarism had moved back to a single monarchy, or better yet, democracy. Yet Ascot clung to that artifact like political lifeblood, even though everybody, everywhere, knew that regardless of how many armourers they sat inside that giant tree, the Ascotian Royal family held all the cards. Everybody, except the Ascotians. Except perhaps deep down, under all the arrogance and righteousness, they did know— for the armourers had all been slaughtered by one of their own.

  Regardless, they wouldn’t allow me to walk. The good doc mused that if I was so desperate to stretch my legs, I could always hike back the way from which we’d come.

  I had shut my mouth after that.

  After a week, and within hours of me ranking my companions on meatiness, salvation arrived. After the refugee camp kitchens reported a lack of essentials and the nobles complained of a lack of certain luxuries— mountain mink scarves were particularly fashionable that season— the Ascotian Princess had dispatched assistance. The Royal Guard couldn’t be bothered, of course, preoccupied doing necessary things to secure their efforts at war. At the same time, most of the Knights in her court bore the title in name only as the slighted second and third born sons of noble houses who could contribute very little in the way of knightly deeds. Thus, they could not be expected to be dispensed at the leisure of their Princess to solve frivolous issues of the common folk, least they break a freshly manicured nail which wouldn’t serve well their reputation amongst the aristocracy. Or the nobs, as we frivolous common folk called them. And so, the Princess had been forced to enlist the help of the foot troops.

  Any relief that came with being saved dissipated with their arrival. Poor bastards were on the front line for everything. They didn’t need to be coming for our asses too. Doctor Kira had jumped down one of the trio’s throats so hard that the fin atop their head twitched, and I remained on the cart with the wives and the game they’d made out of gossip.

  “No, Marjorie, I doubt the Shield has taken a bride,” replied one of the middle-aged women without looking up from her stitching, “handsome as he may be, he’s still Ordenian. They haven’t any social sensitivities, I’m afraid.”

  “Such a shame,” sighed another, “he has such a lovely quality to him.”

  At that point the youngest and only unwedded of the lot looked up from her patch of the quilt with wistful eyes, “yes,” she agreed, “he certainly does.”

  The older women gave her a very concerned type of stare, and the young lady blushed, turning back to her cross-stitch. That was enough for me. I might’ve abided judgmental looks and gossiping biddies, but I couldn’t stomach praise for the Shield of Ascot. Royalty was one thing but entombing an infant on something as arbitrary as a birthmark and using that as proof that they were chosen by the Deities was beyond my scope of belief. And I believed in the Deities. Usually. If he was destined to save Ascot, where was the Shield the night the armourers were killed? Not there to shield them, obviously. And the Sword of Ascot? That one I was convinced wasn’t real. Nobody could explain what he did, nor had anybody ever seen him in the flesh. At least, not in the books I’d read.

  As we passed through some roughly constructed gate, Ascot’s Armoury stretched so high above that its
shade obstructed the rays of the sun, making the surrounding trees shed leaves of a darker green and the birds chirp as if every hour was sundown. A hedge maze hugged its base, raised up on a hillock to meet what appeared to be a courtyard of columns. It was a miraculous sight, a wonder of nature that poets had lamented fondly throughout history, and I enjoyed none of it. Underwhelmed, I leapt from the moving cart and walked alongside my mother through the sea of white tents, ignoring her bickering with our guide.

  Impressed or not, it was impossible to look away from the swaying colossal of a tree. There was an undeniable air of…something that demanded attention. It was too big, too beautiful, and it filled me with a sense of foreboding. Something that unnaturally large and ancient had to hide a secret or a dozen, and likely a ghost. There were places throughout time that nobody seemed to know the full history of, like they would crumble and sink, only to re-emerge, the same but new. Death had painted the Armoury’s walls like ash, spirits embedded into the bark and weaved into the strangled weeds that climbed the trunk like vines. The air felt colder in places, each footstep like walking across a grave. I’m certain scientists could name the phenomenon, but what did I know? Nobody else seemed affected by the haunting presence of a cathedral tree.

  Footsteps crackled the gravel as the path dipped down, pulled up, narrowed into one lane. Occasionally a merchant would duck under the chain links that separated tent from tent to answer the cheerful cries of those overjoyed at their timely arrival and recover the gold krona for goods they’d brought. Yet nobody else seemed perturbed by the upturned tricycle in the grass with its wheel still spinning, the barren pines decorated with the disembodied heads of dolls or the unseasonable scent of pear that drifted high in the air: all overseen by that eye of mother nature, frowning down upon us. Then, suddenly, they were.

  It was as if a flip had been switched. One moment everybody was laughing and jeering, the next everything went still. The wives drew their children close, shielding their eyes with their hands while averting their own to the floor. One merchant ruffled about in his wares to withdraw a bottle of long soured milk, dabbing it against the wheels of each cart to drip like blossoms in the grass. An old superstition. I looked around with eager curiosity.

  To the left and slightly ahead, the road broke its gravel and turned to dirt at the base of a large metal gate. A series of complex locks clenched it shut, but that wasn’t the feature that caused a loss of rationale. A sigil had been drawn upon the gate in red paint, a collection of lines, circles, and triangles that intertwined to form a mockery of an eye. Such a sigil could symbolize only one thing.

  Ilvarjo.

  I’d grown up hearing stories of the mysterious, red-eyed race indebted to protect the Ascotian Royal family. Everybody had. They were the monsters under the bed that exhausted parents exploited to make unruly children sleep. You better behave before the blood-eyes steal you from the shadows, so desperate was their desire for young blood that they have to keep their own children masked and bandaged as if mortally wounded just to control the urge.

  Doctor Kira never indulged me in such stories. Unintelligible dribble she’d called them. To her a person was a person, regardless of eye colour, gills, or skin texture; they all bleed, pissed and shit the same. She’d once mused that the adults who spread such fear only did so because on some level they themselves believed it. Judging by the way a woman was crab walking alongside the cart in an effort to avoid looking at what was already so well hidden, I had to agree.

  One merchant spat a little too close to my mother’s foot, drawing her attention away from the unfortunate guard she’d been bickering with for the past two hours. She shot the man an icy glare, “you kiss your mother with that mouth, do you?” The man had the courtesy to look sheepish as he dashed away, leaving Kira to look around for the source of their disgust and scoffed as her eyes fell on the gate. The troop snorted and Kira turned, “you’ve got something intelligent to add, do you? Let’s hear it.”

  The troop looked taken aback, but cleared their throat and replied in a dull, automatic drone, “the Ilvarjo are loyal guardians of the Royal family.”

  “Yeah,” Kira said dryly and turned from the gate, “funny how nobody remembers that they are almost all dead as a result.”

  Near the base of the tree fading sunlight did its best to penetrate the thick foliage that was the result of thousands of years of uninhibited growth and failed miserably at it. We were down to only three carts by the time we arrived at the mouth of the hedge maze, and I was beyond ready to leave behind the week of green, gossiping limbo.

  “Halt. Friend or foe?”

  It was a need that wouldn’t come quick.

  A solidarity green caped guard stood before the iron gate in the mouth of those towering hedges, his spear and shield up as if preparing for a fight. If he wasn’t careful, I would’ve given him one, foul was my mood.

  “Friend,” our guide replied.

  “Prove it.”

  “Not very clever, is he?” Kira drawled as she looked pointedly at her new friend’s green uniform. The troop stepped forward, causing the guard to raise their spear, as the gate behind him swung open to a heavily armoured guard. He was a ruggedly handsome chap, even if he must’ve been approaching forty. Blonde and chiselled jawed, a prominent scar cut through his left lower lip, leaving him with a permanent smile. I assumed it had been caused by sneaking up on some poor unsuspecting soul if the way he grasped the guard’s shoulder was any indication. The shifty guard spun around so quickly it was a miracle the man wasn’t impaled, only to stumble backwards with a stammer.

  “Forgive me, Commander Ramsey, I didn’t-”

  The supposed Commander Ramsey held up his hand and smiled so the scar tissue stretched, “It’s no issue, General. Though in future I suggest you lift your visor before your weapon,” he stepped past the guard and placed one hand on his hip, “is there a Doctor Kira Escamilla of the Republic of Bethel present?”

  “Here,” my mother yelled, raising her hand high in the air before bringing it down on the foot troops back “nice job out there, Daniel.”

  “It’s Danielle.”

  Kira tipped her head and eyed them over before shrugging, “whatever.”

  With that said, Kira marched off without an utterance of apology, which must’ve stung since Danielle was very clearly a woman. Sparing the gawking troop a small smile, I sped after my mother as she stood before Commander Ramsey. He extended his hand, “Doctor Escamilla, it is my honour to welcome you to the Armoury refugee camp on behalf of Her Grace-” Kira held her hand inches from his face, causing Ramsey to start backwards. “Doctor?”

  “First, it’s Doctor Kira. Doctor Escamilla was my grandfather, and I am already twice the physician he ever was,” twice as humble too, “second, if the Princess wishes to welcome me she is more than capable of doing so herself.”

  “Her Grace intends to, this is just-”

  “Third, I want my belongings delivered to my infirmary before I arrive, so adjustments can be made immediately. Fourth…no, scratch that. Three’s all I got.”

  Commander Ramsey’s mouth hung open, and he worked it back and forth before swallowing, “I-” he coughed before continuing, “I’m afraid I haven’t been informed on which infirmary is yours as of yet.”

  “Well, seeing as I’ve been contracted as the head Physician, I’d dare say the big one,” Kira spoke slowly as if speaking to a child.

  Ramsey turned to the guard and cleared his throat, “did you get all that?”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  “Good. Please follow me, Doctor Kira.”

  Immediately after passing through the gate, we were met with a grandiose tent that had been erected there, hidden from view by the high hedges. Several other grand tents dotted each side, but the almost liquid silkiness of the largest reflected so readily that it seemed to generate its own light to combat the lack of natural sunlight.

  Inside it was easy to forget we were in the forest at all. Floor
boards and rugs covered the grass, while vibrant tapestries and artworks decorated the walls. The halls were wide enough to be filled with expensive-looking hardwood furniture. It was indeed a tent for Royalty, a portable palace. It had even been split into sections, and each time we passed through another solid door, more voices rang like crystal.

  “What is it with Royalty and big doors?” Kira whispered in my ear as we approached the most massive door since entering. Naturally, this is where Commander Ramsey stopped and bowed deeply at the waist before slipping inside with a mumbled excuse. Less than a minute later, the door reopened.

  It wasn’t Ramsey who stepped out, but a man in ivory tails. Portly and fast approaching the uppermost limits of middle age, he looked us over with disinterested beady eyes which were almost swallowed by the drapes of flesh hanging from his forehead. There was something off about his salt and pepper hair and the way it slipped about. He stepped forward, indicating for the guards at either side of the door to do so too, “You are Doctor Kira Escamilla, I presume?” he asked in that posh accent which was found only in major cities and country estates.

  “Commander Hottie didn’t tell you?”

  “Indeed,” the man pushed tiny golden spectacles up his button nose, “we are most delighted to host you and your…daughter, and you haven’t arrived a moment too soon. I am Sir Heston Burgerdella, head Butler of the Ascotian Royal Court. Momentarily, I will escort you into the war room, where you have been granted an audience with Her Royal Highness, The Crown Princess Amicia, Heir apparent to the Ivory throne of the Kingdom of Ascot, and acting leader of the Ascotian rebellion. This is a tremendously rare privilege, and as such, there is protocol you are expected to follow at all times. Upon admittance you will immediately bow and straighten only when instructed, you will speak only when spoken to, and under no circumstances will you look Her Highness in the eye. Respect will be paramount in everything you do. If you— yes, Doctor, what is it?”