by Stina Leicht
Nels was glad that she’d listened to him and had left off the useless titles. There was no point in calling attention to the reduced state of the kingdom. His uniform was bad enough, he felt, but Suvi had demanded he wear it. Thus, this had been their compromise.
Suvi continued, “Please join hands.”
Nels faced Ilta and took her hands in his.
“As your hands are joined, so are your lives—forever linked through good times and bad,” Suvi said. “Bolster one another in times of need. Share your joy. Dance, argue, and grieve together in the coming years. Speak what needs to be spoken and keep silent the things that need silence. Be honest. Trust one another. Make mistakes. Learn. And forgive. Above all, be happy. Be the closest of friends as well as passionate lovers.” She wrapped a blue ribbon around his left wrist and tied it loosely around Ilta’s.
Suvi stepped back, and Eelis Saksa moved forward.
Looping a buttercream ribbon around Ilta’s left wrist, he said, “Be together as one tree with two large branches. Stretch for the sky. Pursue your dreams. Serve your duty. Care for your children, should you be so blessed. But never forget the one to which you are joined, for while you’re separate, you’re also one—nurturing each other with all that you gather on your own.” He took a step back.
“Ilta Brynjar Korpela,” Nels said. “I, Nels Gunnar Ari Hännenen, do swear with the gods and the goddesses and all assembled here as my witnesses that I will be your husband from this day forward. To love and respect you, to support and hold you, to join you in laughter and wipe away your tears, to soothe your hurts and be your life’s companion, lover, and friend. In this, our journey together, you will be first before all others.” With his free hand, he reached inside his coat to retrieve the ring that had been his mother’s and then placed it on Ilta’s finger.
“I, Ilta Brynjar Korpela, do swear with the gods and the goddesses and all assembled here as my witnesses that I will be your wife from this day forward. I promise to love and respect you, Nels Gunnar Ari Hännenen. To support and hold you, to join you in laughter and wipe away your tears, to soothe your hurts and be your life’s companion, lover, and friend. In this, our journey together, you will be first before all others.” She reached out for his free hand.
He blinked. It was the wrong one, but she was determined to put the ring on his right hand instead of the left. She gave him a distressed look. Finally, he allowed it, but when she turned to face Suvi, he made quietly made the change and hoped no one noticed.
“I, Queen Suvi Natalia Annika Hännenen Ilmari, do hereby declare Ilta Brynjar Korpela and Nels Gunnar Ari Hännenen bound by oath and love. May their journey be smooth and their road made easy by the goodwill of their ancestors. May the gods and Goddesses grant them their blessings.” She waited while the audience clapped and shouted their congratulations. “I think now is the time to start the party. Don’t you?”
BLACKTHORNE
THE HOLD
GRANDMOTHER MOUNTAIN
NEW ELEDORE
TENTH OF PITKÄKUU, 1784
“I’ve served with Corporal Arvid Nyberg for two years,” Sebastian Moller whispered, and then motioned to the big blond sitting at the table opposite Moss.
A solid two hundred fifty pounds and six feet five inches tall, Arvid Nyberg rolled up his right sleeve and rested his elbow on the table with a wide grin. Nodding, Moss accepted the challenge. Blackthorne watched Katrin collect bets from the rest of the room and frowned. He was fairly certain Slate wouldn’t have approved of her behavior. However, Blackthorne decided it wasn’t his business. Slate’s daughter wasn’t in any danger, and if Slate wanted him to be Katrin’s watcher, he would’ve said so.
“He joined the Eledorean Army during the war. The Home Guard ran him off his land,” Moller said.
Blackthorne paused, confused. Oh, Nyberg. Pay attention. This is important. If he would be breaking into a military depot, he wanted to be sure of those with whom he was working. His initial recommendation included Lieutenant Reini, Corporal Nyberg, Natalia Annikki, Bernard Sloan, Master Sergeant Jarvi, Birch, and Katrin Brooke. Blackthorne was uneasy about the prospect. This would be the first time he was to lead others in Acrasia, and he was particularly uneasy about Katrin being among them. Therefore, he’d asked Moller’s advice.
Moller gave a sideways nod toward a human with dark skin and straight, dark brown hair. “That’s Jeremiah Birch. He’s been here two years. Hasn’t told anyone why yet. I heard it had something to do with a woman he was involved with.” Moller finished off his beer and continued. “Annikki is new. I don’t know much about her. She’s a grumbletonian, but she doesn’t seem to mean anything by it. As for Master Sergeant Tane Jarvi, well, I’ve known Tane for almost as long as I’ve been in the Royal Army. We served in the same artillery regiment before I was transferred. He’s a good man to have at your back.”
“Thank you,” Blackthorne said. Over the course of the winter, the Ghost’s troops had been friendlier—especially Moller. That gave Blackthorne a small amount of confidence.
Soon, he wasn’t sure when, he’d be asked to not only escort the Queen of Eledore into Acrasia but to break into a military depot, and not just any depot—a depot specifically owned and maintained by the emperor. If Dylan Kask was right and the consul was a malorum, then the consul would be motivated to keep those swords hidden. In fact, a malorum-born consul may have even had them destroyed. That was a possibility he hadn’t brought to Slate. Not yet, anyway. And it bothered him that no one else had considered it. It meant someone wasn’t thinking clearly.
But then, Hännenen has other things on his mind, doesn’t he?
Blackthorne hadn’t been alone with Ilta since the wedding. His feelings on the matter were strangely empty, after the initial shock.
Moller stopped talking to watch Nyberg arm-wrestle Moss. Almost at once, Nyberg’s face turned deep red and his arm shook. In contrast, Moss pressed his advantage with gradual relentlessness. He didn’t even appear to be putting forth much effort.
At that moment, Moller whispered, “Would you mind if I ask you something?”
Blackthorne saw Moller steal a sideways glance. For his part, Blackthorne focused on Moss and Nyberg.
Quid pro quo, Blackthorne thought. “You may.”
“Were you sparking Ilta?”
“What?” The word burst out of Blackthorne’s mouth, loud enough to cause a few of the others to turn around.
Moller paused, waiting for everyone to go back to watching the match. Then he whispered, “I thought I’d inquire as to your position in the matter.” He shrugged. “It shouldn’t be any of my business, I know, but she’s chosen Colonel Hännenen. How do I put this delicately? The potential for trouble seems … fraught.”
Blackthorne decided to play innocent. He felt his face heat and hoped it wasn’t too obvious. “I’m not sure I understand your meaning.”
There was a loud thud and a howl. Moss had smacked Nyberg’s arm onto the table’s scarred surface. Money was exchanged is a flurry of enthusiasm. With that, a boisterous commotion started over who would be next to challenge Moss. Katrin insisted it should be her, but the others only laughed. Sloan took Nyberg’s place on the stool.
The kitchen door crashed against the chair wedged against it.
“Moss? What’s wrong with this door?” Slate asked.
The troops looked to Moller. Moller gave several hand signals.
Oh, shit, Blackthorne thought.
Chairs were rearranged. Ale was poured into the fire or hidden in the sideboard. Katrin stuffed wadded Acrasian paper notes into her pocket. Moss got up and gently removed the chair that had been wedged against the doorknob. With that, a confused Slate entered carrying an empty tea canister. Blackthorne stood up.
“Is something going on that I should know about?” Slate asked.
Blackthorne opened his mouth to speak.
“No, sir,” Moller said. “Absolutely not.”
Blackthorne decided it was wise
to go along with Moller. He closed his mouth.
Slate made to scan the room’s occupants. He raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Blackthorne, I wouldn’t have expected to see you here.”
“I invited him,” Moller said.
In truth, the subject of a pre–Novus Salernum gathering had come up in a conversation with Moss. In turn, Blackthorne had asked if a small quantity of ale might be provided. He’d wanted to observe the others while their guards were down. It was a common-enough practice among Wardens in leadership positions. After that, it’d been a simple matter of asking Moller if he might attend.
Moller is covering for me? Blackthorne thought.
“You did?” Slate asked. “Isn’t that interesting. Mr. Blackthorne, do you have anything to say for yourself?”
All at once, Blackthorne felt all the eyes in the room focus on him. He forced himself to concentrate on a nail struck in the mortar of the open fireplace just over and to the left of Slate’s shoulder. “No, sir.”
Slate moved to where Moss stored the herbal tea and opened the cupboard. He paused upon spying the tankard hidden there. Instead of asking about it, he grabbed the community tea tin and filled his empty canister.
Katrin gave out a loud hiccup and covered her mouth.
Slate changed targets. “Shouldn’t you be in your room, studying your Eledorean language lessons, Katrin?”
“I—I—”
“She merely dropped by to say good night,” Blackthorne offered.
“Is that so?” Slate moved closer to his adopted daughter, leaned closer, and sniffed.
The color drained from Katrin’s face.
Slate retreated to the exit. “Katrin, I expect you home in a quarter of an hour.”
“Yes, sir,” Katrin said.
“Good evening, everyone,” Slate said.
With the shutting of the door, the entire room let out the collective breath they were holding.
“Is that the last we’ll see of the ale?” Birch asked Moller.
Nyberg looked hopeful and said, “You’re in hot for us being foxed, anyway.” Birch elbowed him. “I mean, we. We’re in hot for being foxed. Pouring it out won’t make it any less so.”
“And navigating the main passage drunk will?” Jarvi asked. His low voice was almost a growl.
“The ale wasn’t my idea,” Moller said. “Don’t look to me.”
Moss said, “It was Blackthorne’s.”
Once again, everyone in the room turned to Blackthorne. He watched Katrin’s jaw fall open.
He shrugged. “In for a pence, in for a sterling note,” Blackthorne muttered, and swallowed the last of the liquid in his glass.
The others cheered.
Moller took Katrin’s mug from her. “No more for you. Off to your room.”
“Awwww!”
“No excuses,” Moller said. “We’re in enough trouble with your father. Go.”
“Good night, everyone,” Katrin said, and slipped out the door.
With Katrin gone, the others settled down to business in earnest. Blackthorne stayed until late in the evening, watching the others and talking to Moller. For the first time, he permitted himself to imagine himself a part of the community around him, and for a few hours, the bone-deep ache of loneliness was forgotten. When he finally staggered off to his apartment, his pocket watch read a quarter past one in the morning. He didn’t feel the need to watch every single corner as he went. He was vigilant—to be otherwise would be stupid. However, Blackthorne felt more relaxed, safer.
He entered his empty room. Setting his watch on the fireplace mantel, he considered retiring for the evening but was uneasy about the prospect. His dreams had been getting worse, more detailed. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something or someone was searching for him.
The dreams are merely tension concerning the upcoming journey. That’s all. He was confident in his abilities, but Novus Salernum always put him on edge. In Novus Salernum, the memories were bad. The consequences for getting caught, worse. And this time, he would have Queen Suvi and Colonel Hännenen with him. That alone was bad enough.
The weather had been getting warmer and drier. It was a clear night, if a bit chilly. A walk might do him some good. Instead, he found himself staring at the pink quartz stone the size of his palm resting next to his watch. Ilta had given it to him a couple of weeks before the wedding. He didn’t understand why he had chosen to keep it.
Are you sparking Ilta? Moller’s question hung in the back of his mind like an unwanted guest. Like many Acrasians, he didn’t want to believe in the power of Eledorean witches. It was illogical to belittle the existence of magic and live in terror of it at the same time, but then, he never claimed to understand everything Acrasians believed. Very little of what he’d been taught to expect of kainen matched what he had witnessed, and this was true of Ilta in particular.
Remember your place.
With that, he abandoned the idea of a walk. Not tonight. Certainly not while I’m drunk. Instead, he threw himself onto the bed, shut his eyes and whispered familiar lines. Resist the temptation to cling to life. The essence of the Retainer is death. Therefore, do not dread death. Fear is the enemy. Fear incapacitates action at the crucial—
The knock on the door gave him a start.
It’s late. Who can it be? He collected himself and went to the door, hoping it wouldn’t be trouble.
Instead, it was Slate.
“I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour, but we have a problem,” Slate said. His face was pale. He glanced behind him. “May I come in?”
Blackthorne stepped back, allowing Slate inside, and closed the door as quietly as he could.
Slate said, “There are two individuals that I need for you to get out of Acrasia when you go. This means you’ll have fewer people for the military depot, but it’s important that you get them out.”
“Who are they?”
“The first is May Freely. The second is Mallory McDermott.”
Nodding, Blackthorne offered Slate the only chair.
“Then I will get them for you.”
“There may be a third individual, but I don’t know her name, not yet. Mal hasn’t told me.”
“And he’s sure of this person?” Blackthorne asked.
“He says he is.”
“And if this other person should prove otherwise? Is he prepared for what may happen?”
“Mal knows what is at stake,” Slate said. “Bring him back with or without this other individual. Whatever it takes. He’s a good man. Like you, he’s saved many lives. I won’t leave him to hang.”
Not to mention torture. If he spies for Slate, the Brotherhood will be very interested in what Mal knows. Blackthorne nodded. “Are you certain he can wait?”
“He says he can,” Slate said. “And I trust his judgement.”
“If he’s already in the Brotherhood’s hands by the time we get there—”
“If that’s the case, you’ll have to leave the city at once.” Slate looked away. “I won’t be sure of our contacts at that point. Any of them.”
DRAKE
ONE
NOVUS SALERNUM
THE REGNUM OF ACRASIA
18 FEBRUARY
THE TWENTY-SECOND YEAR IN THE SACRED REIGN OF EMPEROR HERMINIUS
The scent of baking bread drifted across the room. Drake kicked off the warm blankets and sat up. She snatched her trousers from the cold floor, threw them on, and then jumped back under the covers to finish buttoning. “Oh, Mithras! It’s freezing in here.”
“Good evening to you, too,” Mallory said. His rich voice drifted over from the fireplace. He was dressed in breeches and the white long-tailed linen shirt he’d slept in.
For the most part, she mentally added with a smile.
His skin appeared a shadowy gold in the firelight, and his dark brown hair was bound in about a hundred little braids—a popular style among the Waterborne Nations. In the year that she’d known him, she’d never asked if he were Waterborne. As
Watch captain, she made a point of not asking him personal questions. In any case, she suspected he wasn’t. His family could’ve originated in Eledore, Tahmer, Kaledan, or the now-defunct Marren. It didn’t matter to her either way. She was of mixed race herself. She simply didn’t look it. That wasn’t anything like a rarity in Acrasia, no matter how much the officials wanted to pretend otherwise—particularly among the common folk.
“It’s evening already?” she asked, and stretched under the blankets. She’d taken two whole days off from the Watch. To have spent most of the first sleeping felt decadent. She told herself that Benbow had things under control. He’d been in charge before, and he’d been a Watchman for far longer than she had. It was winter, after all, the slowest time of the year for the Watch. She’d sent her last report to the Brotherhood, and they’d finally stopped their visits. There’d been no more bodies to clean up, either—not for some time. She wasn’t sure if she was unhappy about that. In any case, the Watch House had become as quiet and dull as Benbow had predicted. Grown weary of listening to Jaspar’s farts and eating Gilmartyn’s sorry excuse for cooking, she’d decided to take leave of the Watch House. It’d been two months since her last visit with Mal. She was, after all, overdue some personal time.
Of course, she’d have to pay a rather expensive, secretive visit to the apothecary afterward. She wanted a baby even less than she wanted a husband.
Mal raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. His face was handsome and he had deep green eyes. At the moment, his hair was pulled back into a thick ponytail with a strip of bright red silk. He didn’t wear his hair like that very often, although that was popular among the elite. With his ears exposed, she could see the tips were pointed.
“Care for something to eat?” Mal asked.
“What’s on offer?”
“At the moment?” He straightened to his full height, toasting tongs in hand, and deposited a slice of warm bread on a fine white porcelain plate. “Chocolate and toast.”
“My favorite.”