Cold Iron

by Stina Leicht

“They destroyed Marren and enslaved thousands of kainen.”

  “That was fifty years ago. A half century.”

  “They made slaves of the people. They still do.”

  “The fate of Acrasians among our kind hasn’t been much better. Worse, if you ask me. At least slaves still have their minds.”

  “They’ll do the same to us. Those they don’t kill.”

  “I’ll be fine, Mother.”

  “The border barons haven’t had an easy time of it, you know. I understand that if your father hadn’t committed to this war when he did, they would’ve lost the fight.”

  We will lose anyway. The Acrasians haven’t had to be terribly clever in defeating us. A large part of our forces were lost in frivo­lous skirmishes, he thought. As if that weren’t enough, variola had killed more reinforcements than an entire host of incompetent officers. That had been the latest reason Nels had incurred Pesola’s wrath. Nels hadn’t delayed. He’d had his company pox-proofed. With that, his thoughts briefly jumped to Ilta and then shied away.

  He knew he should tell his mother that she was right to worry, but he couldn’t look her in the face and say the words. That wasn’t how these things were done. “It’ll be over before you know it.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  The dying reassured the living. Those were the rules, no matter how hard it was—no matter how terrified the dying might be. Dying is something one did alone, and the only comfort was in reassuring the living. “Who would want to kill me, Mother? I’m far too charming.”

  “Promise me.”

  Nels sighed, impatient with himself and his doubts. “I’ll be careful. I swear.”

  Her mouth formed a straight line when she pressed her lips together. The worry line etched between her pale brows didn’t ease. “Good.”

  An uncomfortable web of anxiety stretched between them in the silence. He wasn’t hungry anymore. Not knowing what else to do, he picked up the fork and took a bite of cake anyway. The taste of cinnamon, cloves, and ginger brought back his appetite with a vengeance.

  “Is it good?” she asked.

  “I’d forgotten how good.” He took another bite and focused on the spongy sweetness on his tongue.

  “I remember when you both turned three. You refused to eat anything but cake. It took your nurse two days to dissuade you.”

  Relieved in the change of subject, Nels took another sip of tea before demolishing the slice of cake.

  “What a temper you had. Your sister never gave us that kind of trouble. Always did as she was told.”

  He made a sound in the back of this throat.

  “What?” she asked.

  “She isn’t perfect, you know. She was only better at getting away with things than I was. Still is.”

  His mother gave him a distant smile that said he hadn’t said anything she didn’t already know. He finished the last of the cake and set the plate next to the empty teacup.

  “Suvi was free to be what she wanted from the beginning. She didn’t have to fight for every inch of self-determination,” she said. “I wish you’d had that chance earlier. At least, you have it now. For as long as it lasts.”

  He prepared himself for her usual speech. She would tell him he was wasting himself. She would say he should do something constructive with his time. She would admonish him for spending his remaining days on gambling and drink. Of course, he hadn’t been drunk in months—provided one didn’t count his current state. He’d stopped gambling to excess since his promotion, largely due to Major Lindström’s influence. His mother damned well knew these things already if Suvi’s spies were effective. Remembering the look of Suvi’s korva, Nels was certain “effective” was a more-than-fitting term. He prepared himself for yet another tongue-lashing, but his mother didn’t launch into her familiar speech. She sat mute and stared at her hands instead. The silence grew ever more uncomfortable.

  She finally spoke. “There’s something I must show you. Some­thing I want to give you before you leave.”

  Taking his hand, she led him to a panel on the right side of the fireplace. She pressed the edge of the mantel and the panel slid open. It revealed a tiny room he hadn’t seen before. A latticework screen blocked most of the space from view, and votive candles filled the area with warm light. It smelled of musky incense. When she moved the screen, it became clear the place was a private prayer chapel. However, the paintings above the altar shelf didn’t portray patron deities. The first was clearly a portrait of himself and Suvi when they were children. Suvi sat clutching a black kitten while he stood in front of one of their father’s wolfhounds. It was strange seeing himself in the six-year-old with the pug nose and a juvenile chin set at an arrogant angle. He vaguely remembered sitting for the painting—the tediousness of being still. It was hard to reconcile the boy he was then with the man he was now.

  The second painting was of a man wearing an Ytlainen cavalry uniform of green, red, and gold. He held an officer’s hat under his arm, and his dark brown hair curled around his shoulders in a style that was no longer fashionable. The face was young and beardless.

  “Captain Karpanen,” Nels said with a touch of surprise. It wasn’t until he compared the faces in the first with the second that he suspected his mother’s intent. His knees felt weak.

  She traced a tender finger down the golden edge of the frame. “I let no one in here but my maid, and when I die, all this will be burned. Well, this portrait and all that goes with it, in any case.” She turned, reaching for the top drawer of the cherrywood tall chest set against the wall under the altar shelf.

  In spite of the shock of her discussing her own death, he ­vomited up a question. “Was Captain Karpanen our father?” There, he thought. It’s out. I’ve asked. He couldn’t move. Karpanen’s eyes pinned him in place.

  She paused but didn’t look up from her search. “As much as I’d like to give you an answer,” she said, “I’ve never answered that question and never will.”

  “Why?”

  She turned. One hand rested on the edge of the drawer. “When I bound with your father, we agreed to follow Ytlainen tradition. His house would carry my name and our binding would be permanent and closed to other relationships. I kept that agreement from the day of the ceremony until he broke it himself five years ago.” She returned to sorting through the things in the drawer, didn’t find what she wanted, and moved to the drawer below it.

  His heart stumbled. “Then he wasn’t our father.”

  “Ari and I met when I bought my first horse. I was fifteen. He was sixteen and already intent on a military career. Things are different in Ytlain. Soldiers aren’t deemed shameful or lowly. He was so handsome and a nobleman’s son. We used to ride together, you know. I enjoyed racing and fencing. He’d follow as best he could. I was reckless then. As wild as the wind and more beautiful than the moon, he’d say. Mother didn’t like him. And when my mother discovered us and forbade me to see him, we met in secret.” She looked up at the painting and gave it a sad smile. “I loved him more than I’ve ever loved anyone. But I had to do what was best for Ytlain. I chose Eledore. And Ari escorted me to Jalokivi and gave me to another man. It broke his heart.”

  “I don’t want to know this.”

  “But you asked, didn’t you?” She straightened. “Didn’t it ever occur to you why you were chosen as heir before Suvi, when my name, my line, can only survive through her? Didn’t you wonder why we didn’t plan on officially presenting you as heir until after your sixteenth birthday?” Her voice was calm, quiet.

  “Of course I did. I knew what it meant,” he said, feeling his jaw tighten. “The entire court knew.”

  “Rumor isn’t fact,” she said. “And as long as I don’t declare otherwise—no matter who asks—that is how it will remain. To do otherwise would leave Eledore to Sakari. I’ve made too many mistakes. He’s won his fight with me. Still, I won’t grant him that.”

  Nels staggered backward until he felt the edge of a chair ag
ainst the back of his knees. He sat with a thump. The room spun; he couldn’t breathe. The spice cake and coffee weren’t resting quietly.

  Her gaze traveled to the painting again. “At least now there’s no chance Suvi will marry him. Sakari will have to find another means of securing the throne.” She went back to her search. “Ah, there it is,” she said, bringing out a delicate silver chain. “As I said before, Ytlain does not share in Eledore’s contempt of the military. I have done what I can to urge reform for your sake, but the old families are slow to change. They fear the army will grow and the nobility will dwindle. They fear the army’s power and the potential of a commoner rising in the ranks. All sound reasons, I suppose. However, overreaction only causes more harm. It’s balance that’s needed—a balance in power.”

  He’d heard those words many times, growing up. His father insisted that Ytlain’s monarchy was hampered by a constitution. His mother insisted it was for the betterment of all. Power without limit was easily abused and a danger—no matter the individual or group who wielded it. Her opinions hadn’t made much sense until now.

  He swallowed the lump rising in this throat.

  “Ari wanted to present this to you when you turned twelve, according to Ytlainen custom, but I wouldn’t let him,” she said. “I was too afraid of what might be read into the act. It’s too late. And it isn’t my place. But it’s what he wanted. I’ve held it from you too long.”

  She went to him, leaving the drawer open. He could see its contents, clusters of letters bound with silk ribbons, old clothes, and books. He recognized the dagger lying across the folded clothes. Captain Karpanen had once used it to cut a saddle strap that Nels’s spur had tangled on when Nels was ten.

  “Does Suvi know?” His throat hurt and voice was hoarse.

  His mother didn’t look him in the face. “I showed her the portrait this morning.”

  Stooping, she fiddled with the clasp. A flat silver disk hung off of the chain, and it swung three times before she dropped the chain over his head. She lifted his queue, and cool silver slid around his neck. He touched the disk with a finger, feeling the raised image of a running horse on its surface.

  “Wear it close to your skin. And try not to let anyone see it,” she said. “She’s Hasta, the Ytlainen Horse Goddess. The cavalry honor her above all others. She’s yours now. May she watch over you, guide you, and keep you safe.”

  ILTA

  ONE

  Every inch of Ilta’s skin felt woven with threads of shrieking agony. Days were lost in a fog of pain and fever. Vivid nightmares of what was to come—or what might not—laced her sleep with terror. Gran was at her side whenever Ilta surfaced. The knowledge that she was being watched over in her own room and not the Commons Hospital was a comfort. However, she didn’t understand why. The journey to the house on Angel’s Thumb from the palace was long, too long to take with a sick patient. That knowledge and the worry creasing Gran’s brow made Ilta anxious when her mind was clear enough for such things. However, the raw pain in her mouth and throat prevented questions. So, Ilta waited and tried not to think—not that thinking came easy, or sleep. Everything was difficult due to the constant agony. She felt trapped in a half state, never quite asleep and not quite awake. Phantoms haunted her room. Lost, she was unable to discern whether they were real people, dreams, or visions. She hated feeling so disoriented. It reminded her too much of her early childhood, the part she remembered. Her pocket watch was gone. There was no clock on the fireplace mantel. There was nothing with which to anchor herself. So it was that she drifted from one image to the next without context and without a center. She became a creature without self-awareness, language, or restraint. When someone or something hurt her, she struck out even if it only brought more pain. Once, an angry Royal Guardsman shouted a series of questions at her. He grew more and more upset when she couldn’t make sense of his words. When she tried to shove him, he roared until Gran ordered him away.

  Slowly the pain began to ebb until she came back to herself, and at last the day arrived when she could bear the thought of sitting up. She was alone. Therefore, the process seemed to take forever. Sitting also proved tiring. Unwilling to return to her dreams, she fought the urge to go back to sleep. Was it morning or afternoon? The soft, mournful cries of doves brought her attention to the open window. Sunlight painted the white curtains in warm yellows. A gentle breeze drifted into the room, bringing with it a mixture of pleasant scents from the garden—rosemary, lavender, cherry blossoms, laurel, and roses. Normally, her room was a comfort. She’d counted each and every pineapple on the pink wall­paper and imagined all the possible shapes in the old water stains on the ceiling. None of those things brought solace like they used to. Outside, everything was changing. Inside, she wasn’t that little girl who required the safety of solitude. And now she’d lost time she couldn’t afford. If only everything would slow down long enough for her to catch up.

  Why does everything have to be so confusing?

  She thought of Nels. He’s gone now. It’s too late. He’s off to war, and I didn’t get to say good-bye. Tears gathered force behind her eyes. Please let him stay safe. Her throat closed and pain choked her. Wiping away the tears, she dried her fingers on her patched coverlet. That was when she noticed the state of her arms. Three healing variola vesicles were scattered across her left arm and five on the other. Carefully, she pulled back the bedclothes to check her legs and found a few there as well. Each looked like it was healing. That was a good sign. Only one of the sores on her left leg looked particularly bad. At that point, she paused. Her heart jumped, and she bit her lip. She wasn’t vain, but she also knew variola tended to leave terrible scars. Taking a deep breath, she gently touched the scabs on her face.

  A loud knock gave her a start.

  “Ilta? May I come in?”

  It took a moment to force the words past her tortured throat. Her voice was hoarse and unfamiliar, and her tongue felt strange in her mouth. “Yes, Gran. Of course. Please.” Why is she still here? Shouldn’t she be with her patients? Was I worse off than I thought I’d be? How much healing magic did Gran have to use to keep me stable?

  The key clattered in the lock and then the door swung open. Gran stepped into the bedroom, balancing a tray. “Sitting up, I see. Are you feeling better?”

  Why was the door locked? Was I sleepwalking again? She hadn’t done that in years. “Much.” Once again, Ilta couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong.

  “Are you hungry?” Gran’s question was carefully neutral.

  The smell of fresh biscuits and tea made Ilta’s mouth water. “Starving.”

  Gran set the tray down in Ilta’s lap with a definitive clink of china and then settled into a chair next to the bed. Ilta tore off a small piece of warm biscuit, soaked it in tea, and then popped it into her mouth rather than biting into it. Her mouth and throat were still tender. Still, she managed a few bites. The tea tasted mildly of cinnamon and cardamom. Both were childhood favorites but stung a bit. Abruptly, the urge to weep hit her like a slap. Visions she’d had outside the World’s Pillar surfaced—images of Gran dying, of a terrible war, of the Old Ones walking free in the night and consuming everything and everyone they came across, of the city of Jalokivi burning. Lastly, there was the vision of Nels in trouble and her being unable to do anything to help. That made her chest ache worst of all. Don’t think about that right now. Her happiness and confidence in the future had fallen apart so fast. For the first time in her life, she honestly wished she didn’t know what was ahead. It was so hard not to tell anyone, so hard not to struggle against the inevitable.

  There are some fates that one shouldn’t fight. Ilta looked to Gran, sitting next to the bed with her mouth set in a hard line. Which fates are set? How does one know the difference? Ilta shook off the bad feeling again and summoned up a cheerfulness she didn’t feel. “Now that I’m recovering, you can go back to the Commons Hospital. I’ll be fine by myself. And I can join you in a couple
of days.”

  Gran didn’t move or speak.

  “You’re awfully quiet,” Ilta said. “What’s wrong?”

  “We need to talk.”

  Ilta nodded. “I wanted to ask you about a couple of patients—”

  “Finish your tea first.”

  There came another knock. The voice on the other side of the door was hard and male. Before Ilta could ask who was visiting, Gran got up and answered it.

  “What is it, Sergeant Hirvi?”

  “A message from the palace, Madam Silmaillia,” the sergeant said. “The king shows no symptoms. Neither does the crown princess at this time. However, three others have fallen ill within the palace. Lieutenant Norgen died last night. That’s thirty-one total. They’re unsure of the answer to your other questions. Communication is … difficult.”

  “I see,” Gran said. “I’ll be out in a moment. I have a number of recommendations to make. It may help, if His Highness’s new healer wouldn’t mind.”

  The king has a new healer? Once again, Ilta checked the room for her pocket watch.

  “Yes, Madam Silmaillia. I’ll prepare a bird.”

  When Gran turned around, Ilta glimpsed fear on her features before she composed herself.

  “Where is my pocket watch?” Ilta asked.

  Gran got up and retrieved it from one of the drawers in the writing desk. “I had to take it from you or you would’ve smashed it.”

  “Oh,” Ilta said. “Well, anyway, you should go back to the palace. I insist. The king needs you more than I do.”

  “I can’t and neither can you. In fact, you’re not to leave this house or its grounds.”

  “What? Why?”

  “You’re under arrest.”

  “Me? Why?”

  A sour frown stole across Gran’s mouth. She poured fresh tea into a second cup and sipped. “You risked the king’s life. Not only his but the crown princess’s as well.”

  Ilta swallowed. “Oh.” I suppose I did. The weight of what she’d done settled in between her shoulder blades.