Cold Iron

by Stina Leicht

  “I, Saara Roosa Korpela, lay upon you the duty and responsibility of healer and the Silmaillia of the People.”

  The room blurred as Ilta accepted the charge, rotating the surgeon’s ritual knife in the opposite direction—clockwise, the direction of the sun. The lump in Ilta’s throat walled off anything she might say. The ache in her chest swelled until it overwhelmed her. Tears spilled down her cheeks. The warmth in knife’s hilt didn’t dissipate. It remained strangely warm. The blood from her injured palm was gone, and she got the sense that there was more to the blade than Gran had told her.

  Great Mother Stjarrna, what am I going to do without Gran?

  “One more thing,” Gran said. “The World’s Pillar.”

  “Yes, Gran?”

  “You must go back before the year ends. Bring them both. The royal twins. You will need both or it will not work. Understand?” Gran’s voice was weak. “Don’t grieve too much. I had a full life and long. Only wish I were leaving you to easier times.” She lay back on the pillows with a grunt; her reserves seemed used up. She turned away, and Ilta heard her mutter something.

  “What is it, Gran?”

  The words were a whisper. “I love you, granddaughter. May the Great Mother of the Dark and the Great Father of the Light together bless and keep you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  And in the time it took for Ilta to draw her next breath, Gran, Saara Roosa Korpela, Silmaillia of the People and advisor to King Henrik of Eledore, was gone.

  NELS

  ONE

  The artillery company Nels and his troops had been assigned to support made camp before dark for a change. Partly, this was due to the fact that they’d finally left the unyielding Selkäranka Mountains behind. The other reason was that there’d been clear skies four days running. Taking advantage of the opportunity to catch up, Field Marshal Kauranen pushed the Sixth Army as fast as it could go. Although tired, Nels’s troops were happier than they’d been since leaving the capital and the Sininen River bridge.

  The day’s journey done, Nels had seen that his soldiers had everything they needed and was now grooming Loimuta. Looking southeast from the camp’s horse pickets, he spied the jagged, ­shadowy, snow-topped ridges of the Dragerhrygg, or the Demon’s Spine, and felt a confusing mix of anticipation and dread. When the Drager­hryggs smoothed out into the long stretch of hills leading the city of Virens, the Sixth would at last join the rest of the Eledorean forces. The troops were impatient for a fight. Everyone wanted to reach the front before the war was won, and everyone seemed certain this would be the case—everyone but Nels, it seemed. He couldn’t shake the feeling of impending doom. So much so that Viktor had taken to mocking him for it.

  Not that that is anything new, Nels thought.

  “Captain Hännenen, sir?”

  Combing the sweat stains from Loimuta’s girth, Nels paused and straightened with only a small amount of pain. His back had healed but was still tender. “Yes?”

  He turned and saw it was a corporal he didn’t know. Her skin was dark, and her eyes were even darker. Her expression was unreadable. For a moment, Nels panicked—thinking that perhaps that Colonel Pesola hadn’t forgotten him after all. Nels’s right hand tightened around the currycomb. He could take it with him. It might make a decent weapon. And then you’d be hanged. With a long slow breath, he forced himself to switch the currycomb to his left and return her salute.

  “Major Lindström would like to speak with you in private as soon as you’re available,” she said.

  Relief relaxed the tension in his fist. “Thank you, corporal. You may inform him I’ll be there within the hour.”

  When the corporal saluted and left, Nels returned to grooming Loimuta. Corporal Mustonen often told him that he should have one of the privates see to the troublesome gelding, but listening to the horse make quiet happy noises was one of small joys Nels had remaining to him. Usually, Nels lingered at the task—taking his time with every detail, but with Lindström waiting, Nels finished as quickly as he could. Then he fed Loimuta the carrot he’d hidden in his coat pocket.

  “Sorry, boy. I have to go.”

  Loimuta thumped him on the shoulder with his forehead.

  “I know. I know. I’m sorry. I’ll see you tomorrow. Be a good boy.”

  Loimuta let out a low rumble deep in his throat that sounded like a growl.

  “Slip your tether tonight,” Nels said, “and there’ll be no carrot in the morning.”

  The horse snorted.

  “Don’t look at me. I wasn’t the one who wandered into the wrong tent. You scared Lieutenant Larsson half to death last night. You’re lucky she didn’t shoot you.” He gave Loimuta’s neck one last pat and rushed to his tent. There, he washed face, neck, and hands, and changed into a fresh shirt. He spotted a letter placed on his cot where he’d find it. Recognizing his father’s handwriting with a frown, he decided to wait to read it until after he’d seen Major Lindström. He left it where it was, untouched, and headed to the major’s tent. It wasn’t far—one row back from his own and two tents over. In the time that he’d taken to clean up, the sky had gone completely dark and the temperature had cooled, taking the warm edge off the day. Breathing deep, he felt his tired muscles relax. He was going to sleep well. Provided Father doesn’t have anything awful to say.

  When has he ever not? It then occurred to Nels that the king hadn’t written a word to him in years, and a bad feeling tightened a knot in his gut. It doesn’t matter. Not now. Lindström first.

  The major’s tent flaps were down, but they weren’t tied shut. The glow of the camp lantern painted the white canvas a buttery yellow. Nels stood outside, checking his uniform one last time before knocking on the tentpole centered in the doorway.

  “Is that you, Hännenen?” Lindström’s voice was calm, maybe even a touch sad.

  He isn’t angry. That’s good. Right? “It is, sir.”

  “Come in.”

  Stooping, Nels pushed the tent flap aside and entered. His nose was met with the scent of fresh-cooked food. He spotted trays loaded with Ytlainen pancakes, lingonberry jam, and a covered dish filled with a savory-smelling soup on the folding table. His stomach reminded him with a loud growl that he hadn’t eaten yet. It was then that he noticed that the table had been laid out for two.

  Is he expecting someone else?

  The major had been relaxing on his camp cot, reading. He closed the book, sat up, and returned Nels’s salute. In his late fifties, Lindström had a lean and athletic build. His thick, graying hair was swept back into a queue tied with a black silk ribbon. If there was one matter in which Nels knew himself fortunate, it was in the officer to which he directly reported. Where Pesola was known for his brutality, Lindström had a reputation for fairness and concern for his troops. In addition, something about Lindström reminded Nels of Captain Veli Ari Karpanen. He couldn’t have said what it was, but whatever the reason, Nels knew he would do anything for the man. In fact, he had done already—quitting gambling and drinking, for a start.

  Well, the gambling, anyway, Nels thought. With the table of food so close, he hoped that whatever it was Lindström wanted to discuss would be quick.

  Lindström motioned to the camp chair positioned nearby at the table. “I was about to have some dinner. Care to join me?” Lindström asked. “I have some … news, but I thought we should eat first.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  The major served the pancakes, potatoes with grilled onions, and portions of what turned out to be reindeer meatballs in brown sauce. It was the best meal Nels had had since leaving Jalokivi. Conversation during the meal was polite, if a bit stilted. That was unusual for Lindström. When they were finished eating, the major’s corporal cleared the dishes and served the coffee. It wasn’t until the corporal also produced a beautiful fruit pie that Nels understood the major probably wanted something from him—something he probably wouldn’t be happy about.

  Lindström waited until the co
rporal left. “I’ve received some news from Jalokivi. Rather bad news for you, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s about the queen. She’s been seriously ill. Variola.”

  Nels blinked.

  “She died. Yesterday,” Lindström said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Oh.” That’s why Father wrote. I should’ve known, Nels thought.

  “Here. Let me get you some Islander wine.” Lindström got up and went to one of his trunks. “No one else knows. There hasn’t been any sort of announcement. I felt you should hear it from me first. Because … well, for obvious reasons, and then there’s … We’ll discuss that once you’ve caught your breath, as it were.” He located the bottle he wanted and kicked the trunk lid closed.

  Nels sat in silence while Lindström collected glasses and poured the wine. Why don’t I feel anything? He decided it was shock. He emptied his glass without really tasting the contents. Lindström seemed to be waiting for him to say something, but Nels felt empty. Blank.

  Lindström filled the wineglass a second time. “Is there anything I can do?”

  Shaking his head, Nels swallowed. It was as though someone had yanked the earth from beneath his feet.

  “I’d leave you to your grief, but there is an urgent matter we need to discuss,” Lindström said.

  Nels cleared his throat. “Yes, sir?”

  “I understand you speak Acrasian. Is this true?”

  “It is.” It was a relief to think of anything else for a moment.

  “How fluent are you?”

  “Quite. But I haven’t used Acrasian regularly in a while.”

  “How long do you think it would take for you to become fluent?”

  Nels shrugged. “Not long. I read Acrasian very well. I’ve been studying Acrasian tactics. Specifically, any paper Lucrosia Marcellus Domitia has written on the subject.”

  Lindström’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?”

  “Yes, sir,” Nels said. “I thought a knowledge of Acrasian tactics might prove useful.”

  “Interesting,” Lindström said. “If only we had more time …”

  “More time, sir?”

  “I have a new assignment for you. Unfortunately, it involves your temporarily leaving your command.”

  Oh. The backs of Nels’s eyes began to burn, and he felt his fingernails dig into his palms beneath the table.

  Lindström continued. “Before you protest, let me explain my decision.” He refilled the coffee cups.

  Nels left his where it was. Steam drifted off the coffee, execu­ting graceful curls in the tense atmosphere.

  “Colonel Sasja Vinter is in charge of the Acrasian prisoners. She’s in need of an interpreter to conduct negotiations with the Acrasians for their care. Although I’d prefer not to lose you, ethically, I’m obligated to recommend you for the role. You’re the only qualified candidate we have,” Major Lindström said. “Now, I’m aware of your history with the Acrasians, but I consider this an opportunity.”

  “An opportunity?” Nels heard the edge of anger in his question. First the crown. Now this.

  “Yes,” Major Lindström said, lowering his voice. “To get you out from under Pesola’s shadow. I’d have you transferred to another company, one not under his authority, but I can’t. Everyone with whom I hold any influence is at the front.”

  “But I—”

  “You’ve done nothing to warrant a transfer. Nothing. I want you to be aware of that fact. I consider you to be one of my best officers.”

  Nels swallowed his rage. How can I be this upset over losing my company and yet feel nothing for Mother? Shame deepened his anger.

  “I understand how this must feel after … well, after what happened before,” Major Lindström said. “But this has nothing to do with your ability to command.”

  Or lack of it, Nels thought.

  “I’m not doing this because I want to. I’m doing it because I have no other choice.”

  “Is this Pesola’s—”

  “No. The fact is, I can’t protect you from him. Not any longer. Not now that the queen is …” Lindström let his sentence drift off unfinished. “Look. Either I get you out of here tonight or something terrible is going to happen. Do you understand?”

  “Pesola hasn’t forgotten me.”

  “I’m afraid grudges are Pesola’s specialty,” Lindström said. “However, he doesn’t know about the queen. Not yet. And by the time he finds out, I have every intention of your being safely away.”

  “I see.”

  “You will have your company back. I’ll see to it. But I can’t stand by and let him murder you over something he should’ve thought to do himself.”

  “Pesola isn’t fit to command. You know that, don’t you?”

  Looking away, Lindström didn’t argue the point. “You know I can’t answer that question.”

  “I’ll go. Because it’s you asking.” Nels forced the words past the lump in his throat. “I’m taking Reini with me.”

  “Of course.”

  “Where am I to go?”

  “You’re to report directly to Colonel Vinter of Brigadier General Moilanen’s Tenth Regiment, Fifth Infantry.” Lindström placed a folded and sealed letter on the table. “Those are your orders. Vinter is in Gardemeister. It’s a town located near Angel’s Thumb. Do you know where that is?”

  Paper crinkled under Nels’s numb fingertips. Didn’t Viktor say that Ilta went home to her Gran’s place on Angel’s Thumb? The thought brought him a small amount of comfort. Maybe she’ll see me? Maybe she’s been too busy to answer my letters. “I do.”

  “Good. Do you have a recommendation for temporary command?”

  Nels gave it some thought. “Underlieutenant Kadri Larsson.”

  Lindström’s eyebrows shot up the second time that evening. “Really? Isn’t she the one you put on report for gambling?”

  “She learned her lesson, sir. Forgive me, but Overlieutenant Rebane is an arrogant hothead. He’ll push every boundary at every opportunity. You won’t have time for that. He’ll do something stupid and self-aggrandizing, then think about the consequences for everyone else. Larsson can handle it. She’ll follow your lead. She’s also clever enough to know when not to do so, and creative enough to do it in such a way that you won’t have to notice.”

  “Interesting,” Lindström said. “Well, you would know.”

  “You asked, sir.”

  “All right. Send Larsson to see me as soon as possible. I’ll handle the details,” Lindström said. “Then get packed. You’re leaving tonight.”

  “Yes, sir.” Nels got to his feet.

  “Oh, and do be quiet about it,” Lindström said. “I don’t want Pesola to know you’re gone until it’s too late to do anything about it.”

  Nels nodded.

  “Good luck.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Nels left to pack.

  My Dearest Ilta,

  I received a bundle of your letters today. These four are the first that have caught up with me. As many times as I’ve cursed being forced to give up my company, I’m also happy. The journey here brought me closer to you. It also brought your letters. Mind you, I haven’t read them, not yet. There hasn’t been time, but all four spent the day inside my uniform jacket. Whenever I was certain no one was looking I ran my fingers across them, knowing that the paper and ink had been as near to you as they are to me. I smell them now and imagine I can catch the scent of your hair.

  I pray you are all right. I received word you were ill. All this time, I’ve wondered what happened. Why did you vanish without a word? I would’ve ridden up the mountain tonight except I’ve no leave. Not yet. For now, I’m relieved to know you’re alive. That’s enough. Feel free to send a list of anything you need. Gardemeister isn’t that far. I can send supplies or other help. Most of all, please let me know you’re safe.

  There’s an ache inside my chest, and knowing you’re only a few miles away only makes it worse. At least I can look up the slope
s of Angel’s Thumb and imagine you’re looking down. The wind that blows through my window is the same that caressed your face not long before. I feel so alone right now. I wish you were here. I want to hear you whisper my name, or laugh. I want to see you smile. Anything. I’d even settle for a frown. Most of all I want to hold you in my arms like I used to. Am I to be permitted to say such things after the mistakes I’ve made? I must confess that is the biggest reason I haven’t opened your letters. All the things I’ve seen and done, and I’m terrified of a few simple words from you. But there are so many pages folded inside my coat that I have to believe you still love me. You wouldn’t have spilled so much ink telling me that you don’t. So, now I hold on to hope like I never have before.

  A letter from Father arrived last week. Mother has died of variola. It doesn’t seem real. I’m not to return home for the funeral as there isn’t to be one. Father is too afraid of contracting the plague himself, the coward. I’m so angry. I’m stunned he bothered to write and tell me. Worse, Suvi is missing. She went to negotiate a treaty with the Waterborne Nations, but there have been no message birds in two weeks. Uncle blames the Waterborne. He’s been pressing Father to declare war with the Waterborne Nations and make an official statement regarding the succession. I don’t know what to do. I’m almost afraid to ask. Have you Seen anything? I’ve written Suvi but I don’t expect an answer.

  At least I’ve my duties to keep my mind off of things. Today was my first day as the 10th Royal Regiment’s translator. Colonel Vinter had me running in circles from the moment I arrived early this morning. The state of the Acrasian prisoners is pathetic. Many have died because none of them speak Eledorean, and no one has spoken for them. They can’t negotiate for themselves except in the crudest of terms, and the money and supplies for their care have yet to arrive. I can’t believe that the Acrasian chain of command would forget their own like this. It’s appalling. So, the first thing I did was write to their commanders and beg for food and supplies. It seems strange to be engaged in the business of their welfare. But it’s the right thing to do. I know it is. It is what Captain Karpanen would’ve done.