Remnants of Atonement (True paths Book 1)
Page 10
The quatermistress went pale, and she looked me over as if searching for a lie. There was none. The only thing my mother tolerated less than unruly patients was unsanitary behaviour. The quatermistress seemed to consider her options before opening her big gob, closing it, and storming back into the hut while muttering under her breath about undignified Bethallans and blood-eyes lovers.
No sooner had the door closed behind her did I turn on Ilya, “you shouldn’t let people treat you like that.”
“Let them?” he looked up from his belongings, “what do you suggest I do, knife her? We can’t all have a crazy mother to threaten those we dislike with,” he said that like I was the one with a feared assassin for a mum. Sighing, he gracefully stood, “the spitting is nothing but old superstition. A benign one at that.“
“You like having your feet bathed in saliva is what you’re saying?” I asked.
“Of course not. What I’m saying is that it’s benign. The spitters spit because they’re frightened of touching us. It’s the ones who aren’t afraid we must be wary of.”
Ilya shoved the tips of the two short swords into the pack and slung it over his shoulder like it weighed next to nothing. He didn’t wait for my response before walking towards the medics’ rest area. It wasn’t busy, but most of those present seemed to scatter as Ilya approached. Those who didn’t kept an uncomfortably close eye on us as he dropped the bag on an abandoned picnic table. I flipped one healer staring a little too closely off as Ilya pulled out his uniformed exoskeleton.
“Wow,” I said, reaching out to touch it. The leather was buttery soft with the joints and shoulders covered in some material I’d never encountered before, like a light and flexible chainmail, “the last time I saw that it had been cut to ribbons.”
“My mother ensured that it was repaired before she left,” Ilya said absentmindedly as he removed the hooded cape, tabard, and bandages. Deities, I couldn’t imagine being so covered every day of my life. He looked around and exhaled, “where can I change?” I hummed and pointed towards the shower block that was really nothing more than a dirty hole-filled bucket surrounded by tarps. Ilya’s brows pinched, but he said nothing as he shoved his feet into his boots and walked off, leaving me with his backpack.
Now, I’d like to claim that I fully respected Ilya’s privacy, but that suit took time to change into, and damn it, I was only human. The short swords were practically out anyway, and when I removed them a dagger belt had caught on one and, well, it didn’t take long to empty the entire bag. He had all the usual stuff:
. Canteen: empty
. Map: Ascot.
. Journal: unreadable scribble.
. Dry biscuits: tasted like sawdust.
. Looking glass made of bronze: Could fetch a good price…I slapped my cheek. Ilya was my friend. I wasn’t about to steal from him. I replaced all his personal items and focused on the blades. Most were daggers and needles, neatly placed in leather belts that looked to buck around either his leg or arm, possibly even both.
I removed a dagger and gave it a clumsy jab. It was sharp and well-balanced, but overall nondescript. Putting it down, my heartbeat increased as I reached for the swords. The first had a simple hilt of blue velvet, and as Ilya had promised, the Ilvarjo sigil and script decorated the blade. It was pretty, but it wasn’t the source of my excitement. The second sword wasn’t nearly as beautiful, but my fingers tingled when I removed it from the scabbard.
The handle was a metallic moss which shimmered in the mid-afternoon light, while the blade itself was a dark matte grey and impossibly light in my hand. It was devoid of almost all decorations or engravings, with only a small bronze Ilvarjo sigil placed at its crosspiece, the smallest of amethysts winking up from where the crescent moon typically sat in the eye’s centre. I couldn’t look away. It was so alien, so unlike anything else I’d ever seen before. It felt like the camp disappeared, the noise of the infirmary being drowned out as that tingling sensation travelled up my spine and into my ears. The sword was trying to tell me all the secrets of the universe. Secrets I could almost hear…
It was snatched from my hands with such force that I nicked my thumb. Hissing, I put it in my mouth before looking up. Ilya’s hood obscured his eye. Damn it. I removed my thumb and coughed, “Sorry. It was rude of me to go through your things like that.”
“Yes, it was,” his voice was oddly deep as he looked at the sword before gently placing it upon the table. No sooner had he set it down then my eyes were back on the blade, hands itching to reach over and take it back. I sat on them and grit my teeth instead.
“I’ve never seen a sword like that before.”
“And you never will again,” Ilya said as he tightened a dagger belt around his thigh. His tone wasn’t unkind, only factual. As if sensing my desire, he grabbed the sword and shoved it back inside his pack, “it’s unique.”
“I’ll say,” I muttered, staring at the hilt which the canvas did nothing to cover. I pushed my weight down further, “holding it sent shivers down my spine. Crazy as it sounds, it’s almost like it was whispering to me.”
Ilya’s head snapped up with a disturbed look, “did it whisper to you?“
Did it…I laughed. Really laughed, so hard that throat stung. Ilya didn’t laugh, his brows growing more and more pinched as he gripped the picnic table tight enough that it shook. That made me pause. He seemed annoyed, and more than a little bit pissed. I frowned, “of course it didn’t whisper. It’s an inanimate object,” he continued staring at me without blinking, and my frown increased, “isn’t it?”
He closed his eye and took a deep breath before reopening it to stare into mine. That fiery gaze burnt, but I held it as best I could. That alone seemed to satisfy Ilya. He sat down, pushing the hood from his head, “what do you know about my disappearance?”
Of all the questions I’d been expecting, that hadn’t even made the list. Still, he continued staring, so I cleared my throat, “nothing really. The Shield said something about the Umbra, which is clearly nonsense-”
“It isn’t nonsense,” Ilya rubbed his uncovered eye, “Lord Deniliquin’s mother, Lady Lucina, banished me there. She said that was where I belonged, and she wasn’t wrong,” he removed the sword from its scabbard. The itch in my fingers caused them to twitch, “the Ilvarjo have a connection to shadows. Everybody knows that. This sword was a gift from a friend there. Another Ilvarjo of sorts. You see, in my culture, everybody who dies must be entombed in the catacombs at Caer Spiel to move beyond the after. If they are not, their spirit is lost. That’s what Erebus is…was. He was the personification of every Ilvarjo throughout Ascot’s history who has died without being put to rest. And then he died. That’s what you can sense. When an entity that old passes it leaves behind an essence of itself. In life, this was Erebus’ sword. In death, it is his soul.”
What else is there to say to such a claim other than, “huh.”
“Just huh?”
“Well, it’s rude to say that when you nicked your eye, you might also have nicked your brain.” Ilya grabbed his stuff and stormed off before the final word passed my lips, forcing me to jog to catch up, “I’m sorry,” I said, “but even you have to admit that an Umbra residing Ilvarjo Deity residing inside your sword is a lot to digest. It’s practically a fairy tale.”
A bad one at that.
“I’m a fairy tale and I exist,” Ilya said.
“You’re more of a cautionary tale,” I chirped. He didn’t laugh, merely increased his pace. Deities, how did his legs move so fast? “look, I believe you alright.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Okay, I don’t,” I admitted, “but I believe that you believe and that’s basically the same thing.”
Ilya stopped so suddenly that I almost slammed into his back. He turned to look at me. Really look at me. It felt as if he was probing my soul, trying to detect some malicious or lie within those words. The intense visual examination dragged for so long I feared that I’d broken him, but he then nodded and resu
med walking without another word, albeit slower. I fell into step and peered at his profile. We were walking in the opposite direction to where Pogue’s tent was, “Where are we going?”
“To train. There’s something I need to see.”
Twelve
Philemaphobia
Fear of kissing
The foot troops training yard was surprisingly empty of, well, foot troops. Which, in hindsight, made sense with it being lunch and all, but in that very moment it was eery how quiet and still the usually bustling yard was. There was no clinking of metal on metal, no yelling, no sneering in dismay. The only one’s present were the few older captains sporting injuries that made them captains in name only. At least none of them spared much more than cursory glances as Ilya claimed one of the target ranges.
“Don’t Ilvarjo have their own training yard or something?” I asked, shoving my hands into my armpits in a huff. Since my arrival, the Ilvarjo camp with its locked gates and windchimes had fascinated and dazed me, and there I was with a real Ilvarjo, in the common training yard. Typical.
“We do,” Ilya said as he withdrew a dagger, “several, in fact. However, I suspect that my eye is going to cause some disturbance with my technique. The world appears…flat. If I’m to struggle, I’d prefer to do so in private, away from everybody I know.”
“But you don’t care if I watch?”
He looked at me blankly, “you know nothing about blade technique. You’re not in any position to judge mine.”
That was an odd assumption. I might not have known much about throwing blades, but my ability to judge anything and everything should never have been questioned. I hummed as Ilya squinted, lining his hand up with the target and taking a deep breath. He closed his eye, opened it, and flicked his wrist. The dagger flew too far to the right and into the hay bale behind it. I smirked at him, “looks like I’m not the only one who doesn’t understand blades.”
“Shut up, Kilco,” Ilya said and took another dagger from his belt. He stared at the target, eye burning as he took another deep breath and flicked. Again, the dagger flew too far to the right. His brow furrowed deeply, and that time I kept my mouth shut. Sensing we might be there a while, I took a seat by a large rock and waited.
Again, and again, Ilya threw his daggers, and again and again, they missed the target. At first, he accepted that with grace and ease, gathering them up and trying again with only the slightly increased dimple in his forehead indicating that he might be upset at all. Then came a throw where he’d lined the dagger up perfectly, drew his wrist back, only to be distracted at the final moment as one captain’s axe missed its mark with a loud clang. Ilya startled slightly, and the dagger flew from his hand to lodge itself into the side of the target. We should’ve been celebrating that success as far as I was concerned, but for Ilya it was as if a dam of negativity had burst within.
His entire demeanour changed, back and shoulders growing tense, and whenever a dagger wasn’t in his hands, they were clenched so tight they might’ve drawn blood if not for his gloves. More than once he’d even brought his nails up to rake at the side of his clothed neck. His distress was difficult to watch so after yet another poorly received throw I’d gotten up to pace around the throwing ranges.
It was on the fourth lap that I noticed him. A large Poota in a Corporal’s harness leaned against the trunk of a tree watching intently, shaking his head as Ilya tried and missed once more. As I paced passed, I noted the leather patch that covered his own left eye and paused mid-stride, only for the Poota to turn that one-eyed gaze upon me and raise a beefy hand. I waved back, only to instantly regret doing so as I was beckoned over. I hesitated. The last thing I wanted was to talk to him, but I also didn’t want to be expelled from the yard. He didn’t look all that scary, the width of his arms the only thing intimidating about the wave he gave as I approached.
“Afternoon, Miss.”
“Good afternoon, Sir.”
“No sir, Miss. Just Blacky,” he said and extended that mammoth hand.
“And I’m Kilco. Just Kilco,” I said and shook it, shocked as always at how gentle a wall of pure muscle could be.
Blacky gave a deep laugh, but it cut off abruptly as Ilya once again missed his target. The Poota shook his head and looked down at me with a look of contemplation, “your mate, when’d he lose that eye?”
“A few weeks ago. It was an accident.”
“Doesn’t really matter how you lose it. It’s a big change,” Blacky didn’t say anything else as he watched Ilya, who if anything Ilya seemed to be getting worse. Blacky chuckled as the dagger fell short of the target and stomped his boots before giving me a small smile, “he’s doing good for only a few weeks.”
Ilya went to flick another dagger, only for it to fall from his grasp. I turned to Blacky, “really?”
“Yeah, really. People think it’s easy when you still got one eye, but it messes with your depth perception loads,” he looked back at Ilya, “he’s Lady Lukasiak’s kid, yeah?”
That was a right slap to both the face and ego.
I bit my lip, “yep.”
Blacky hummed, “I’d heard that he’d gotten injured. Didn’t know it was, well,” he tapped his own covered eye, ‘' Now, I ain’t no blood-eyes lover, but I do got some respect for Lady Lukasiak. Even amongst men, she’s vicious. Runs a tight ship. My entire unit owes her their lives,” he pushed off the tree trunk and flexed his arm, “come. I’ll show you kids how to do it with one eye closed.”
Show us he did. Within the hour Blacky had adjusted Ilya’s stance enough that he could hit more targets than he missed, and even I managed to hit a couple with his help. As the afternoon wore on and his unit returned to the yard, I’d expected Blacky to leave us to our own accord, but he remained put, saying encouraging words when we missed and cheering in that big booming voice that only a Poota could achieve when we succeeded. Perhaps he was just happy to be teaching somebody who actually listened when he gave an instruction, or maybe losing an eye was one of those unspoken things that bonded people together. Regardless, Blacky always seemed to cheer just a teensy bit louder for Ilya than he did for me, but that didn’t matter. It was a good afternoon, exactly what we needed after being cooped up for so long. Shame it had to end with an ominous shadow on our backs.
“Well, look at what we have here,” a too-familiar voice said with such clarity that I dropped my dagger. Doctor Kira stood behind us, hands on hips and cheeks flushed in that way which always spelled trouble, “some troops at the Priest were banging on about an entitled girl and her pet Ilvarjo occupying their equipment. Now, there are only two idiots in this camp who fit that description, but they’re supposed to be in their room. Clearly my eyes deceive me,” she glared at Ilya, “you are nowhere near healthy enough to be outside.“
“My presence here says otherwise.”
“Don’t be a smartass.” Kira glared at the dagger clutched tightly in his hand until he dropped it to the grass, “for all anybody knows you could have some devastating illness that isn’t symptomatic yet and waltzing about out here will only agitate it.”
“I’ve never waltzed anywhere in my life,” Ilya said and looked at me pleadingly. I shook my head and looked skyward. After all, it was me who had to live with her, “Kilco and I were getting some fresh air is all.”
There was a moment of stillness. Kira pointedly looked Ilya in the eye, and he looked back without flinching. Then it happened. Slowly at first, like a snake uncoiling for the strike. Kira smiled. Not just any smile, oh no. The smile that activates a primal fear in all who witness it. She gave him the mum smile. “Just getting some fresh air, huh?”
“Yes,” Ilya said without stutter or quiver.
He was a braver soul than I.
“Is that so?” Kira practically cooed and turned that toothy monstrosity on me, “Kilco?”
“You’re making me doubt it,” I whispered. Ilya elbowed me in the ribs, and I cleared my throat, “yes. Fresh air. That’s right.”
“Yes, Doc.” Blacky saluted before rounding on Ilya. The Ilvarjo held up his hands to try and push him away to no avail. Within seconds Blacky had caught Ilya under the armpit and knee, effortlessly hoisting him over his leathery shoulders.
“Didn’t you just say something about not agitating a devastating illness?” Ilya demanded as he pounded at every exposed part of Blacky he could reach before grunting as the Poota hustled him higher.
“Did I?” Kira gasped dramatically, “sweet Deities, it would appear the patient is now suffering from auditory hallucinations. This is much worse than first feared,” Blacky chuckled as Kira grabbed my arm rougher than was necessary, “don’t speak, just move.”
People stopped and stared as we were marched back to the infirmary. I could feel their eyes on me, hear their snickers as we passed, and watched as more than a few spat on the ground by my feet. I wanted nothing more than to pull away from my mother’s grip to bolt into the safety of the tree line. Away from judgemental eyes and whispering lips. It wouldn’t have been difficult either, only the knowledge of however embarrassing the situation was for me, it was tenfold worse for Ilya made me resist. Because Ilya was - dare I say it -my friend. Friend. I hadn’t had a friend in years, and so let the good doc drag me to our room and push me onto my bed, only struggling to keep up appearances. Kira stood like an imposing statue with her arms crossed as Blacky practically flung Ilya onto his bed before Kira dismissed him.
The flap was still swinging as Kira stood over Ilya’s bed, but whatever insult she had planned was lost as Ilya stood to meet her gaze with burning eyes. “How dare you.”