The girl returned. “You may go in now.”
Ilvara rose, taking Jared’s arm. He began to cry.
“All will be well,” she whispered to him. “The physician is going to make you feel better.”
Mother separated them. “Ilvara, stay here while I go in with him. Poor boy just wants his mother.”
Jared cried more when Ilvara remained in the room.
“That’s enough crying now,” Mother whispered severely in the hallway.
Ilvara took her seat again on the wooden chair, praying the gods would be merciful to him. The physician would surely know how to treat him.
“That is your brother?” the girl asked as she sat next to Ilvara.
“Yes. Jared. And he is thirteen. I don’t know why Mother said he was eight.”
“My aunt had a daughter like that. She only lived until she was nineteen.”
Ilvara twisted her hands in her lap. She hated the thought of losing him. Even though he wasn’t like other children, he was the kindest soul she’d ever known. He had never hurt anyone. He had never lied, was never violent. He didn’t deserve to suffer.
“I’m Sylvia,” the girl said.
“Ilvara.”
“Where are you from?”
“Picoeta Village, west of here.”
“Is this your first time in the city?”
Ilvara nodded. “I like it here. It’s prettier than my village.”
“It isn’t pretty all the time,” Sylvia said. Her voice dropped. “Actually, I’ve always wanted to leave.”
“Why?”
“I live here with my uncle, the physician. He is very mean to me. Sometimes, he is mean to his patients, too. He cares more about discovering new things about human bodies than actually helping people.”
Ilvara’s entire body went cold. “Oh. Well, why don’t you leave?”
“I can’t go alone.” Sylvia’s dark eyes seemed to really see Ilvara for the first time. “But perhaps…if I had a partner…”
“Oh, no. I can’t leave my brother. Without me, who knows what Mother would do to him?”
The veil returned over Sylvia’s eyes. “I understand. But if you ever change your mind, you know where to find me.”
That night when they were home again, Jared was worse than ever. He twisted in the blankets, sobbing. His vomit was streaked with blood. Ilvara woke her mother and father in a panic, but Mother said the physician had told her this was all normal.
When morning finally came, Jared fell asleep. Ilvara went about her morning chores. Mother had gone to the market to buy meal. Father and Gideon were, as always, working. Ilvara knew they were. When Father returned at night, he was exhausted and filthy. When Gideon returned at the end of each week for a visit, he brought gold.
Ilvara came inside to fix a midday meal for herself and Jared. Because of his sore stomach, she laid out only a little bread and water for both of them. He loved cheese, but it might only hurt his stomach. She would forgo it today, too, since watching her eat it would make him sad.
When she entered the tiny room they shared, the plates fell from her hands. Water spilled everywhere.
Jared lay the same way she left him this morning. His chest did not move. Ilvara tried to wake him. She shook his arms. Cried his name. Her tears spilled out over his deformed little body. But he did not wake. He would never wake.
Mother had one of her dramatic episodes when she returned home to find Jared dead. She beat Ilvara with her bare hands, something she never did. She usually preferred the stick they used to shake the dirt from their blankets. But she was more unwound than Ilvara had ever seen her. Her face was so red Ilvara thought it would pop like a blister.
They buried him outside the village, where others from Picoeta were often buried. Father and Gideon made up a wooden cross for the grave. The only time Ilvara saw Mother there was when they were lowering that box into the ground. The box containing the only person she had ever truly loved.
Ilvara stayed at his grave through the night. In those dark, quiet hours, her grief turned to fury. She decided then that she would no longer take Mother’s beatings. She was a woman. She would fight back.
In the weeks that followed, Ilvara shook off Mother’s hand and fled whenever Mother threatened a beating. With her threats now ineffective, Mother feigned weakness to evoke sympathy. But this, too, proved futile. Ilvara had finally discovered her own spirit, no longer tethered by fear.
On the morning of Jared’s fourteenth birthday, Ilvara rose early to visit the grave. She plucked every daisy from the garden and took a small wedge of cheese that she wrapped carefully in a piece of cloth she had torn from her dress. As she was leaving the house with the items, her mother stopped her.
“Where are you going so early?”
“To visit Jared. Today is his—”
“We have far too much work here today. Go on the morrow.”
“No,” Ilvara snapped. “I’m going now.”
Her mother’s eyes burned with anger at her disobedience. “Child, I have told you to stay. And you will stay.”
“I am not a child, Mother. I am nearly eighteen years old. And I am going to visit my little brother’s grave.” Ilvara sniffed. Her emotions had been high since his death, but she liked it. She liked finally telling her mother what she thought of her. “It’s his fourteenth birthday,” she said. “Not his ninth.”
“Not that again. I told you—I didn’t want the girl to think we were forcing him to suffer for so long.”
Ilvara shook her head. “You didn’t want him to suffer, did you? Is that why you had the physician treat him the way he did? Even though you knew it would kill him?”
Mother’s eyes widened. Ilvara thought she would hit her, but instead, she reached for a nearby chair, clutching her chest. “You’re scaring me, Ilvara. Oh, my heart!”
“Save your charade for someone who will actually believe it. I’m leaving,” Ilvara said, and stormed out. She didn’t realize it at the time, but she would never see her mother again. Years later, she wished she could have mended things somehow. But her mother would have never admitted her wrongs. The only recompense would be for Ilvara to let it go regardless.
That day, she took her books from their stash in the chicken coop and threw them into the satchel with her brother’s offering. At his grave, she laid out the flowers and set the wedge of cheese on top.
“It is covered with a piece of my dress,” she said quietly, “because you said once that it looked pretty. I don’t see how this dress is any nicer than the other one I own. But you liked it. And I’ve never been called pretty before.”
Tears flooded her eyes. She knelt in the dirt that was slowly growing grass.
“I’m running away, Jared. I’m taking my books and going. You were the only reason I stayed. But you’re gone. I have to accept that.”
She kissed the tips of her fingers and pressed them against the little wooden cross, over his name.
“I love you, little brother,” she whispered, then stood, turned, and didn’t look back.
Sylvia was not at the desk when Ilvara walked in. The room that had been full of patients the first day she came was empty today. No furniture had moved, but everything lay in eerie silence, like it had been abandoned for decades.
The girl appeared when Ilvara walked hesitantly toward the hall Mother and Jared had disappeared into all those weeks ago. Sylvia’s eyes were wide, her face pale. She slapped a hand over Ilvara’s mouth when Ilvara wanted to ask what was wrong.
“Didn’t you see the sign was knocked down?” Sylvia asked, her tone feverish. “We’re closed.”
Ilvara shook her head, moving the girl’s hand from her mouth. “My brother is dead because of your physician. I am ready to run.”
Sylvia blinked a few times. “I—I am sorry for your loss.” Then she smiled a shaky smile. “You are sent from the gods, Ilvara. I poisoned my uncle. He died yesterday morning.”
It only took a few minutes for Sylvia to pac
k all her things into a back satchel. With her books, Ilvara had everything she really needed, but still, she stuffed as many tools from the shop as she could fit into an additional saddle bag, along with the rest of the food in the shop kitchen. Together, the two set off on horses stolen from the stables at the edge of the city. Together, they began their life.
For seven months they travelled, but Sylvia’s crime followed her. She was the only real suspect of her uncle’s murder, and word spread into all of Nequa that she was a runaway criminal. Not only that, but rumours started that she had killed her parents as well, though Sylvia convinced Ilvara that her parents had died of scarlet fever during the epidemic.
Ilvara lay awake one night, blinking at the dark sky above. She hadn’t eaten a full meal for a week. They were surviving on shrubs and tree bark since the animals were scarce this time of year. She struggled to distract herself from her aching hunger.
The cottage they started building would be done before bad weather hit, hopefully. Here, by the mountains, Nequa had severe, unpredictable weather. Icestorms, with hail the size of a man’s fist sometimes. Sand tornadoes. Lightning and thunder that shook the mountains. They needed a roof over their heads soon. But supplies were short. The axe Sylvia stole from a nearby village worker would help. Swords were not so good at cutting logs.
Could Ilvara live like this forever? If she linked arms with a fugitive, she would someday be just like her—unable to live in any city, hunted and constantly moving, forced to steal. Ilvara considered it for hours as she lay there. Finally, she made up her mind. When the cottage was complete, she would be free.
When that day came, Sylvia stepped back to admire their work. “It’s excellent, isn’t it?”
“Mm,” Ilvara agreed, glancing away.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’ve been distracted all morning.”
“I’ve…been thinking about Jared. He would have loved to visit me here.”
Sylvia came over to pat Ilvara’s back. “I still feel his loss as well. I’m sure he would have loved this place.”
How sympathetic could you be, Ilvara wondered, when you knowingly murdered your own uncle?
“Vara, you have been so strong during these months,” Sylvia went on. “You’ve left home and not looked back. I must say, I’ve always looked up to you.”
Ilvara dropped her head. Bitter guilt soured her stomach. “Don’t say that,” she said.
“Why not? It’s true. Ever since the day we left, I’ve admired your courage. Without you, we wouldn’t have stayed alive.”
I don’t have to do this. I could go on. Everything has been all right so far. Now that we have a cottage, it will go on like this, no?
Ilvara pictured living as an old maid, still running from the authorities despite doing nothing wrong. Being weak at this moment could impact her entire life. And she could not afford to be caged anymore. The village. Her house. The other side of the law. After Jared, she no longer wanted to be responsible to another human being. She just wanted freedom.
“Let’s take a trip to Triangle Rock today,” she suggested. “Enjoy a little wine and celebrate our cottage.”
“Sounds lovely.” Sylvia headed inside to fetch the precious bottle they had snagged from a village tavern last week.
The guards were already there when they arrived, taking away any notion that Ilvara had not set this up. They grabbed Sylvia immediately. She first screamed at Ilvara to run. Then she realized.
Her voice echoed off the plateaus and would ring in Ilvara’s head for years afterward: “I trusted you! I would have died for you, selfish wench. How could you do this? How could you betray me?”
Ilvara woke up sick with guilt for weeks afterward. But the arms of the wilderness did not disappoint her. Solitude was her companion. In Nequa, however, those who knew her face knew she had partnered with a murderer. The larger shops would not even serve her. None of it had mattered.
She was alone for only a few more years before she willingly took on her newest partner. The battered bandit slave. The girl with golden hair. Evelyn.
And now, that same woman with a freckled face and dark, veiled eyes hauls her off with two of her bandit companions. Who knows what kind of horrors she faced during those years?
Perhaps now, Ilvara will finally see for herself.
Chapter 18
Francine
Caius bursts from the castle courtyard to survey the city. His heart drops. By a breathtaking majority, Lockmire has been taken. Even the black dragon lies draped across the front gates, body slowly being consumed with fire from inside. Two of the enemy dragons sit against the burnt skeleton of a cottage, licking their wounds like injured dogs. Bandits and Esterden soldiers wander about, no longer in the rush of battle. Caius flexes his hand against his sword hilt. It is time. Time to die for the city she loved.
An arrow hits him in the shoulder. He staggers back, gritting his teeth against the explosion of pain. He snaps the arrow close to the wound to keep it from impeding his fight before he rushes forward. He pummels the man with the bow to the ground, and drives his sword into his skull. Two other soldiers close in on him from the sides. He rises, body tight and ready to engage.
“Wait!” a voice shouts.
Caius looks up. The two soldiers halt. A man divides the crowd, hand raised.
“Silas?” Caius says.
“Caius?”
The man stops at the bottom of the courtyard stairs. His Esterden armour is smeared with blood—the blood of Caius’ comrades.
“This is Lockmire’s trainer,” Silas says to the men. “We were ordered to capture every leader.”
The two men seize Caius roughly by the arms. Because of Silas’ presence, Caius doesn’t struggle.
“What are we doing with him?” one man asks Silas. “The castle and dungeons have been destroyed.”
“The training centre should have some rooms,” Silas responds. “We’ll keep him there until Commander Nathan and Gilbert arrive. They’ll have more ideas of what is to be done.”
“Why aren’t we killing him?” one man asks, fiddling with his sword impatiently.
“He was the trainer for Lockmire’s army. Krassis wants him alive.”
“What about this thing?” A guard holding him flicks the stub of the arrow in Caius’ shoulder.
“Treat it. Nathan may want to recruit him for our army. Now, to the training centre.”
Caius walks along without a fight, although every muscle in his body wants to. Inside the storage room, the Esterden soldiers push Caius onto his knees. One grabs the stub of the arrow. Before he can tear it out, Silas raises a hand.
“Stop; I’ll do it,” he says. “You’ll tear all his muscles out that way. Go guard the main entrances.” Silas steps forward and takes out a healing potion. He hands it to Caius. “Drink this the moment I have it out.”
“Gods, Silas,” a female bandit whines, “why don’t you wrap him up in a blanket and sing to him?”
Silas turns. “Why don’t you get out and do your job? I gave you an order.”
With a disgruntled sigh, she leaves them.
Caius’ ears ring from the heavy silence. Silas eases the arrow from Caius’ shoulder, carefully enough to avoid too much extra damage. Caius downs the healing potion in a moment. The dizzying pain fades to a dull ache.
“So, you were sent off to Esterden?” Caius finally says.
Silas takes a roll of cloth from the ground to wrap Caius’ shoulder. “Yes.”
“You don’t have to treat me. I can do this myself.”
“I know.” Silas continues to wrap it, tying it off tightly. “There. Be careful with that arm for now.”
“Thanks.” Caius rolls it, but the muscles around the wound cramp. He tries to relax. “Did you know before I left for Lockmire?”
Silas lets out his breath and pulls up a nearby stool. “I met with Meeves a few days after you. I just didn’t know how to tell you.”
“Tarreth is neutral, Silas. Belonging to the Guild meant following orders.”
“But I knew how you felt about Esterden’s standing in the war. I knew you sided with Lockmire.”
Caius laughs once. “And I’m glad I held to my suspicions. The rumour that they let bandits in turned out to be true.”
“Yes.” Silas looks wearily at the door.
Sensing a sore topic, Caius softens his tone. “You became weapons’ trainer, too?”
Silas nods. “They call me a ‘tactics advisor,’ but yes; essentially, I train recruits. I’ve hated every moment of it. Esterden soldiers are possessed with their cause—the terrible injustice of Lockmire owning the Pond. And I agreed initially because I’d heard of the repercussions toward the people, but if Lord Krassis didn’t spend every copper into fine gardens and mead, the people wouldn’t suffer. They have extensive resources in the mines. They don’t even need the Pond. And the bandits are impossible; they have no sense of structure.”
“I know.”
Silas chuckles under his breath. “I should have listened to you.”
“Can’t you leave?”
“Where would I go? Lockmire is ours.”
Caius smirks. “You have a shocking lack of enthusiasm in the face of your victory.”
“It’s the wrong side.”
Caius shakes his head at the blood on Silas’ armour. “If you don’t agree with it, why do you kill Lockmire’s innocent?”
“What can I do? Lay down my sword and be executed for treason? Die in shame as a coward?”
“I wouldn’t call someone a coward for refusing to fight for a cause he does not believe in. I would call that the finest act of bravery.”
Silas rubs a hand through his auburn hair. “I am trapped, Caius. There is no way out now.”
“There is always a way out.”
Silas is silent a moment before he asks, “How was Lockmire for training?”
Caius only thinks of her. Teaching her dagger maneuvers in the yard, running with her in the mornings, eating meals across from her, talking with her. She fills every corner of his mind. His memory is the only warm place. Reality is so cold and dark.
Of Embers Page 14