Cold Iron Page 2

  “I asked you a question, young prince,” Karpanen said over his shoulder. He used formal court speech, and while the words indicated the utmost respect they still managed to sound like a command.

  How does he do that? Nels thought. And why can’t I? I’ll never be the leader he is, will I?

  The royal family of Ilmari prided itself on the power of absolute command. All the Ilmaris possessed it in one form or another. The talent had been present in the royal line from the first Ilmari. That unbroken line of power was used to support the divine right of kings. All kainen had talents of one form or another. It was said that the strength of that ability determined one’s place in life, and the ability to bend others to your will was what set the upper classes apart from the lower. Even lesser nobility had command of animals. Yet the royal catacombs told a different story. Like much of Eledore’s hidden histories, changelings and other defectives supposedly didn’t exist in the royal family. However, less than a month before, his father had taken Nels on a private tour beneath the castle. There, he’d seen for himself the quarters where royal changelings lived out the last of their days—buried alive, used for sport. The unspoken message was clear: develop the power of command or vanish in those tombs beneath the palace.

  “And now I ask it a second time,” Karpanen continued. “Are you certain this is the correct road?”

  Heart thudding in his ears, Nels decided to ignore Karpanen. The king did so often enough when underlings asked questions he didn’t like. In truth, Nels didn’t know how to deal with the complications that a truthful explanation would foster. Summer was almost over. The wind was already perfumed with the scent of dying leaves. With the arrival of fall would come his and his twin sister’s sixteenth birthday, and with that would come the official confirmation of their father’s successor. Such a thing was unusual, but so was the birth of twins in the Royal House of Hännenen.

  More important, there was his father’s unspoken warning.

  I’m not a changeling. I can’t be.

  He had no control over when his powers would manifest any more than he could rush the growing of a beard, but he did have the ability to prove himself in other ways. He could best his uncle at one of his games, and he would start with the Province of Hirvi. Uncle Sakari currently served as the protector of Hirvi, but that would end when Nels came of age on his sixteenth birthday. Normally, the crown prince would be eased into the role and kept informed. However, his uncle had repeatedly declined to do so. It was suspicious. Still, Uncle Sakari continued to insist that all was peaceful and profitable in the province, and that there was no need for oversight before the change. The border dispute with Acrasian Regnum was over. In any case, Eledore had nothing to fear from humans—creatures that had more in common with animals than with kainen. That much everyone knew to be true. However, Nels’s mother, the queen, had conflicting information. She’d told Nels that reports from Hirvi were being falsified. His mother had been his primary tutor when it came to politics, and she’d taught him that when it came to hidden plots, it was wise to follow the money. There was a reason Sakari didn’t want anyone to look too closely at Hirvi. That was obvious, and Nels intended to find out what that reason was. Everything pointed to the city of Merta and her silver mines.

  But now, everything is falling apart.

  Proving himself was vital. Karpanen’s objections weren’t.

  One more month of being treated like a child. One. Of course, thanks to his father, Nels didn’t have a month. He wasn’t sure he had one week.

  “Well?” Karpanen asked.

  What am I to do? He won’t give up until I answer. Nels supposed he was lucky the ruse had lasted as long as it had. He hadn’t wanted to alert Uncle Sakari. So, he’d chosen an indirect route to Merta. Should I tell Karpanen our real destination? Can I risk it? Nels wasn’t certain of the other guardsmen. One of them most certainly would be spying for Sakari, and Karpanen would likely insist on returning to Jalokivi. Nonetheless, Nels would not turn back. He couldn’t. As long as he was outside the palace, he could buy himself time. He might yet avoid the catacombs. Can I tell Karpanen? There was too much at stake, and they still had several days of travel before they reached Merta.

  Nels settled on a half-truth. “This journey was organized at Father’s request.”

  The king had suggested a journey but only to rid himself of an annoyance. Angry, Nels had left an inaccurate itinerary with an overwhelmed seneschal. Of course, it wasn’t as if the king would notice. And if I were Suvi, he wouldn’t care whether I left Jalokivi or not, Nels thought. Sometimes, he was envious of his twin sister. Her every move wasn’t judged and weighed. She was free to do whatever she wanted. She already had her powers. It wasn’t fair. If Father names Suvi heir designate, what will become of me?

  “Kai? I would see the map. Bring it here.” Karpanen muttered another magic-laced word of command to his gelding.

  The horse stopped at once, causing Nels to bring Loimuta up short with the reins. Embarrassment heated his cheeks. He hadn’t used a verbal command. The others already think me a defective.

  Kai said, “I don’t have the map, sir. I—”

  “I have the map,” Nels said. “And I’m quite capable of reading it.” The plan was to travel south, loop around the end of the Selkäranka Mountains, and then head north to the city of Merta. He squeezed Loimuta’s sides with his knees, signaling he wished to continue, and then spoke a useless command word. The horse slowly eased around Karpanen’s gelding. “We’re exactly where we should be.”

  Karpanen spat out a word, magically compelling Loimuta to halt. Insulted, Nels turned to face the captain. A cool breeze toyed with the black feather in Karpanen’s broad-brimmed black hat. The captain frowned, and his eyes narrowed. Nels’s heart slammed even harder inside the cage of his chest. He was only able to hold Karpanen’s unyielding black gaze for three heartbeats before looking away.

  Remembering the latest reprimand he’d gotten from his father regarding Karpanen, Nels sat taller in the saddle. I’m in charge. Not him. He slowed his breathing and once more attempted to face down the captain.

  “I know you,” Karpanen said, keeping his voice low so that the others wouldn’t hear. His gaze was sharp, steady, and yet, there was a hint of compassion. “You’re up to something. You have to let me in on it.” His horse shifted, restless.

  Swallowing a burning lump in his throat, Nels set his jaw. The memory of Sir Joonas Pohjonen’s fate was close as Nels struggled with his inadequacy. Be strong. Firm. The others are watching. “Do your duties include interpreting my father’s wishes in addition to following me about like a nursemaid?”

  Captain Karpanen’s face registered surprise before it transformed into a mask of professionalism.

  Shit, Nels thought. Now I’ve done it. I’ve gone too far.

  Karpanen cleared his throat, then said, “We are at war, young prince.”

  “The Acrasian quarrel is over. Anyway, that would hardly count as a war,” Nels said. “Father says—”

  “Listen to me. This area is dangerous,” Karpanen said, keeping his voice low. “Acrasian squatters have—”

  “Not here. Not this far north. The Acrasian ambassador has assured us that the Regnum has not pressed its interests beyond Greenleaf,” Nels said. It’s Uncle Sakari who is up to something, not the Acrasians.

  Captain Karpanen whispered again, “The Acrasian ambassador only tells the king what he wishes to hear.”

  “That’s impossible. Humans aren’t mentally capable of such duplicity.” Nels felt the blood pound in his temples. Bright spots appeared in his vision until he blinked them away. His stomach did another lurch. He swallowed his nausea as he caught a smirk lodged on the formerly reprimanded guardsman’s lips.

  “The Acrasian ambassador is entirely under your uncle’s thrall,” Karpanen whispered. “Listen to me, boy—”

  The other guardsman’s expression stung Nels. “Release my horse at once,” he said as loud as he could.
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  “I humbly apologize, Your Grace.” Captain Karpanen withdrew his influence from Loimuta. Then he shook his head and gave the other guardsmen a short series of hand signals. Resuming the lead, Karpanen’s horse broke into a trot.

  Nels swallowed the apology wedging itself in his throat. It was unfair to take out his discomfort and frustration on Karpanen, and Nels hated himself for doing it. He admired Karpanen. He was one of Nels’s few friends, but the relationship was considered inappro­priate and, some said, treasonous. Karpanen was a soldier and a foreigner, no matter he was the queen’s cousin. Nels didn’t care about taboos or what anyone said. That is, until now. Now you’re worried about what damage he’ll do to your position at court. Isn’t that right? Nels wanted to take back the insult more than anything. He wanted to ask Karpanen’s advice but couldn’t think of how to do so without appearing weak. There was another reason, of course. Nels was afraid of what his father might do to Karpanen if the captain were made a part of the plot.

  Father never apologizes, Nels thought. Apparently, that was something kings didn’t do, certainly not to servants, and Karpanen was a servant—less than that, really. So were the others. Nels knew he shouldn’t care, but he did. He gave Loimuta another hidden signal, shifting his weight forward in the saddle. Disgusted with himself, he didn’t bother to cover it with a verbal command. There was no one to notice outside of his personal guards, and they already knew the truth.

  Defective. Changeling.

  Late maturity isn’t unusual in Mother’s family line. Mother said so.

  What if Mother is wrong? What if the Silmaillia lied?

  Nels wanted to be sick. Breakfast wasn’t sitting well, and even Loimuta’s smooth gait was proving a problem. I won’t get sick. I won’t show myself for a weakling. Not in front of Karpanen. I won’t. He swallowed the slick lump in the back of his throat, forcing it down. There was something wrong with his eyes, too. All morning, he’d been seeing spots of light come and go—light he was sure wasn’t actually there. At least, no one else had reacted as if they’d seen it. He briefly wondered what it meant, and then went back to worrying about his future.

  The woods thinned, and half-mown fields appeared on both sides of the path. If the map was accurate, they were nearing a hamlet called Onni. Nels urged Loimuta into a trot, attempting to pass Karpanen. To Nels’s annoyance, the captain kept pace, easing to the left. Karpanen issued another series of hand signals. A second Royal Guardsman flanked Nels’s right.

  Karpanen scowled at the fields and then placed a hand on the hilt of his sword. “Something is wrong.”

  They’d traveled the few remaining yards to the hamlet’s peri­meter wall before Nels sensed it, too. He glanced back to the fields. It was late in the season for unharvested crops. Why would they risk the corn rotting? An uncertain chill crawled up Nels’s spine. At that moment, a hatless woman in patched mercenary black stepped into the middle of the road with a drawn saber. Her long red hair was bound into a ponytail. She held up a hand, barring the way. Nels signaled for Loimuta to stop, barely remembering to speak the command first. The hissing chime of drawn steel gave Nels a start. Sensing the tension, Loimuta stamped in place, and the ­muscles in the gelding’s white neck quivered. Nels kept a wary eye on the mercenary. A male freeholder dressed in green stepped from behind one of the cottages.

  “Who are you?” the red-haired mercenary asked.

  “Who wishes to know?” Captain Karpanen asked in return.

  An archer, also wearing loose-fitting black, settled against the corner of a cottage. Nels counted Onni’s buildings, and his unease worsened.

  A hamlet of perhaps three families supports two mercenaries?

  Captain Karpanen turned to the archer. “Is this the way you greet noble visitors?”

  “We are at war, my lord,” the red-haired mercenary said. She bowed her head but kept her eyes on Karpanen.

  Nels grew impatient with Karpanen’s posturing and dismounted. “The war has advanced this far inland?” According to his uncle’s agents, the area was peaceful. His mother’s contacts indicated otherwise. This was the sort of information Nels needed.

  Captain Karpanen cursed, sheathed his blade, and then dismounted. The soles of his black boots slapped hardpacked ground.

  Nels dismissed the frowning Karpanen with a gesture. It was time to dispense with pretense. “I’m here to learn the truth.” He turned to the red-haired mercenary. “What is your name?”

  She stepped closer, examining the falcon emblem stitched on Nels’s green velvet traveling coat. The point of her blade lowered, and a surprised look replaced suspicion. “My name is Tarja. Tarja Lassila, Your Highness.”

  “Tell me. What is going on?” Nels asked.

  At that moment, one of the Royal Guardsmen let out a warning cry. Nels felt rather than saw Captain Karpanen throw himself into a protective stance, using his body as a shield. “Get down, Nels!”

  A large insect buzzed past Nels’s cheek. A crossbow bolt appeared in Tarja’s throat. Confused, Nels gaped. Tarja let out a wet choke before collapsing. Then a crushing force drove Nels to the ground. Gasping for air, he registered the hiss of more bolts, thunderclaps, screams, and horse squeals of pain. Loimuta? White smoke blotted out the sun. He felt a hard slap. His eyes watered with the sting of the blow. The shivering lights appeared again—this time, the spots grew until they blinded him. He squeezed his eyes shut in spite of all that was happening and bit back frozen panic. Have I gone blind? He felt a hand against his left cheek and brushed it away. The sounds of battle stopped almost as soon as they’d started. Peeking out from under his eyelids, he was relieved to discover he could see again, and blinked until his vision shifted into focus. Someone was lying on top of him. He recognized the black braid on the dark blue uniform sleeve.

  “Captain, leave off. I’m all right.” When no response came, Nels struggled to roll over, but with Karpanen’s weight pressing, it was difficult. Muddy stickiness clung to his right cheek. He tasted salty grit. He spit to clear his mouth. Why doesn’t he move? “Captain Karpanen?”

  A pair of scuffed brown boots stopped inches from Nels’s nose. He heard deep voices and laughter. It took several moments to register they weren’t speaking Eledorean. He strained to look upward. The man standing over him wore peculiar clothes. His features were blunt, and his hair was cropped very short, revealing the rounded tips of his ears. Nels’s heart staggered.

  They’re human. They must be Acrasians.

  “You missed one, Lucian,” the owner of the brown boots said.

  “Is it wearing any black?”

  “No,” Brown Boots said. “Green.”

  “Don’t pay it any mind. Docile as lambs, they are. It’s the ones that wear black you have to worry about.” Nels heard footsteps rustle in the dead leaves. “Huh. It looks rich. Maybe it knows where the silver is buried. Georgie said there won’t be any markers.”

  Nels felt the mass trapping him shift. He heard Captain Karpanen groan. Brown Boots stooped and roughly tugged at Karpanen. With the captain’s weight gone, Nels was able to sit up. He saw Brown Boots had Captain Karpanen by the hair. Crimson stained the front of Karpanen’s uniform coat. There was a round wound in his chest, and Nels could hear wet choking sounds as the captain struggled to breathe. His eyes fluttered open. Blood leaked from his lips. He mouthed one word before Brown Boots’s blade caught him under the chin.

  Run.

  Instead, Nels winced and shut his eyes. A hot splash hit him full in the face. He tasted blood and wiped his face clean. When he saw his crimson-stained hands, everything stopped. At the edges of his vision, the colors of the trees and the ground took on a strange darkness, except for the blood. The blood remained a bright red. He wanted to run as Captain Karpanen had urged, but Nels couldn’t get his legs to work. He looked around and found the other three guardsmen were dead. His stomach did another lazy roll. Captain Karpanen is gone. Do something. Now.

  He can’t be. He’s my protector.
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  Brown boots grabbed Nels by his coat collar. Nels’s long hair got caught in the Acrasian’s grip. Sharp pain slapped back some of the numbness.

  “What do I do with this one?” Brown boots asked.

  A short Acrasian with graying hair stepped over Captain Karpanen’s body. Wiping blood from his knife, he squinted at Nels with pale, unchanging Acrasian eyes. “Leave it for now. Help Paine, Marrek, and Harris round up the others.”

  Nels was dumped to the ground, getting another mouthful of bloody dirt. Again, his stomach threatened revolt. Brown Boots strode into the hamlet and whistled a jaunty tune. The strange melody echoed off the buildings with a cheerful menace. Nels felt as though he were in a trance. The crash of broken doors and screams held no meaning. No urgency. Such things belonged to a separate existence, one that Nels wasn’t yet a part of. He got to his feet and then gazed down at Captain Karpanen’s body. He died for me. He was at my side every day of my life. And I didn’t know his full name.

  It wasn’t seemly.

  What does “seemly” matter now? Nels couldn’t look away from the blood, the stillness of the captain’s body, the sheen of a polished silver scabbard in the sunlight. Why didn’t Captain Karpanen protect me? The flash of anger was replaced with shame. This is my fault. I brought all of them here. I did this. I didn’t listen. He was right. This is my fault. Nels felt a tug on his sleeve.

  “Come,” Lucian said in badly accented Eledorean.

  Nels didn’t budge. Lucian muttered something in Acrasian that sounded like a curse and reared back for a slap. Unconcerned, Nels turned to stare at the ruby set in the pommel of Karpanen’s saber. Scabbard and blade were half-trapped beneath the captain’s leg.

  Pick up the sword.

  Lucian struck. After an instant’s numbness, pain exploded in Nels’s jaw. He blinked watering eyes until it faded. His only real connection to the disjointed world was his swelling lip. He explored the bleeding wound with a distracted tongue. The saber.