Cold Iron Page 4

  “Ouch! Stop it, you big brute,” she said.

  At fifteen hands, Loimuta wasn’t big. He only thinks he is, Nels thought. Loimuta lifted a hoof, and the girl dodged his halfhearted kick.

  She stared Loimuta in the eyes. “I mean it.” Snatching his halter, she then held his head at an uncomfortable angle. “Don’t try it again. I don’t care who owns you. I’ll sell you to a human for his stew.”

  Nels’s lips formed a weak smile. His father had told him that it was childish to form such attachments, because beasts were to be compelled and used, not loved, but Nels had rebelled. Other than his twin sister and Captain Karpanen, Loimuta was the only friend Nels dared to have. Everyone else wanted something. Loimuta should have an apple tonight.

  Unclean. Nels winced.

  I can’t touch him. Not until I’m— He felt a gentle tap on his arm and flinched. Captain Karpanen’s saber flashed a muddy red in the afternoon light. The sword faded into an apparition of sunlight in Laina’s face. Nels shut his eyes and swallowed, but it only blurred Ghost Laina. His head ached with the grief-saturated murmur of the captain’s memories.

  “Highness, I don’t suppose you know the names of your guards’ patron deities?” Armas’s gentle voice pierced the vision.

  I don’t even know the guards’ names. Nels said, “I’m afraid not.”

  Armas nodded.

  Eledoreans practiced many different religions. The Kingdom of Eledore had been formed over centuries as kainen migrated from all over the continent during the Dark Time. Each group brought their gods and goddesses with them. Historically, practitioners of differing beliefs hadn’t always agreed with one another. This led to laws stating that individuals were free to practice their religion as they wished, provided those beliefs did not interfere with the ­practices of another group. No one was exempt from this law, not even the king. Thus, religion was considered a private matter—either kept secret within families and passed from one generation to the next, or individually chosen at a significant life event. Over time, the Commons Church was formed to provide a neutral spiritual meeting space for public events, for those without a specific patron deity, and to support common charity work.

  “Perhaps we should start by cleaning that blade,” Armas said. “I learned something of the rituals from Tarja. I can show you how. I didn’t wish to tell Raisa, but I had thought to take this path before.”

  Armas’s words faded away, and the world took a dizzy tilt to the left. The spots in Nels’s vision returned, and his stomach twisted into a hard knot. I will never see Laina again. She waited so long. I should’ve bound with her. It isn’t as if Mia would’ve ever have been free. Nels shook his head and took a slow, deep breath. The back of his mouth felt slick again. He knew what was coming and wasn’t sure if he could control his stomach any longer. I’m not Veli Karpanen. I’m Nels.

  Mia? That’s Mother’s name.

  There are many Mias. It’s a common name in Ytlain.

  I won’t lose control. I won’t.

  “Are you all right, Highness?” Armas asked.

  Nels opened his eyes. Armas’s pallid expression was full of concern. For an instant, Nels didn’t recognize him. Armas ­vanished behind another ghostly image, this time of Nels’s mother, the queen. She sat in her garden with a face far younger than Nels had ever known. Her hair was the same moon-pale blond as his own, although hers hung around her face in careful ringlets while his fell straight. She placed a protective hand on her swollen belly with a sad smile.

  So beautiful. So unhappy. If only she hadn’t bound with that flap-dragon. If only her mother hadn’t interfered. She loves me yet. I can see it in her eyes. Ideas shifted dizzyingly fast in Nels’s mind. Captain Karpanen’s last thought solidified and linked with court rumors. Nels slammed his mind closed—his left hand clenched into a fist with the effort, but nothing stopped the echoing whisper laced with a fierce need to protect. If it is so, there are worse things than dying for your son. Hasta, please. My life’s blood for him. Let him live.

  Run, boy!

  A devastating mass of terror, love, and longing punched Nels in the gut. Breathing became impossible. The ground no longer seemed to support his feet as certainties were snuffed out like ­candles. He finally lost control. Luckily, he was quick enough to make it to the privacy of the other side of the tree before retching.

  “Highness? Are you all right?”

  Nels spat. It took several tries to clear his mouth, but he felt better at once. Stumbling from the pool of vomit, he was afraid of being sick again. He felt something drag, looked down, and understood he was still gripping the saber. Nels Gunnar Ari Hännenen. Mother gave me one of his names. Goddess, I didn’t know.

  I don’t want to know.

  “What did you say, Highness?” Armas asked.

  “The sword,” Nels said through his teeth. You must let go of Karpanen’s saber, he thought. He concentrated on releasing the grip, and the blade finally slipped from his fingers, hitting the ground with a ringing thud. All at once, the haunted echoes died. He was finally able to draw a shuddering breath.

  Armas frowned. “Stay here, Highness. I’ll get help.”

  Nels heard Armas run, shouting for Marjatta. Was Captain Karpanen our father? Surely Mother would have told us. Is that why I’ve no magic? Can’t be. Suvi has magic. So does … did Captain Karpanen for that matter.

  Armas returned with a bucket of water and rags. The old woman, Marjatta, followed close behind.

  “Were you injured, Your Grace?” Marjatta asked.

  Nels shook his head. “The sword.” He took another tattered breath. “The sword speaks.”

  Marjatta frowned.

  “We should put it away,” Armas said, reaching for the blade lying in the dirt. “It’s disrespectful to leave it in the—”

  “Do not touch it,” Marjatta said.

  Armas stopped at once. “Yes, Mother.”

  “The voice you hear, is it the man who carried this blade?” Marjatta asked.

  Nels nodded.

  Armas gazed at the saber and a confused line appeared between his brows.

  “Armas, fetch me a stool from the barn,” Marjatta said.

  In the distance, the freeholders dug at the ground, their efforts hammering a dull off-beat rhythm. Nels listened, trying hard to make sense of things that made no sense.

  “You’re divining the sword’s past and strongly so. How long have you been able to scry?” she asked. When he didn’t answer, she continued. “It’s not my place, I understand, but has no one discussed this with you?”

  “It must be the sword. I can’t—” Nels shook his head, deeply shamed. “I—I don’t have magic.”

  She squinted at him, judging. “That’s not possible. All kainen have magic.”

  “I don’t,” Nels whispered and looked away.

  “Are you human?”

  “No!”

  Again, she stared. Then she sighed and said, “That is not a normal sword. It’s special, valuable, and very old. Do you see the pattern in the blade?”

  Looking closer, Nels noticed the waterlike rippling lines in the steel.

  She didn’t wait for his answer. “It is believed a soldier’s sword absorbs a part of their soul with long use. More so with weapons like that. It is made of water steel.” Her stern face softened, but the frown lines around her mouth remained. “No one else must touch it until it is clean of the one who owned it.”

  Nels nodded again. How does one clean a saber of a ghost?

  “You understand now why it is forbidden to handle a dead soldier’s blade, don’t you?” she asked.

  He opened his mouth and somehow managed not to choke. “Yes.” But there wasn’t any other choice.

  “Good. Now, wipe off the blood and put it away. Do not use it again until it is clean.”

  Armas arrived freshly washed, carrying a three-legged milking stool. Marjatta perched on it like a noble woman ready to bear witness at court. Her concerned frown never wave
red. Nels gritted his teeth and retrieved Captain Karpanen’s saber from the mud. To his relief, there was no sound, not a whisper—only the strange warmth from the grip. He wiped the blade with an oiled rag as Marjatta looked on. Several paces away, Armas arranged the dead in a neat row but paused upon reaching the mercenaries. He cut a button from each jacket, his lips moving in prayer.

  Armas spied him watching and said, “It is a reminder of those who passed in service, Your Grace. I will sew them to my new coat so that they will not be forgotten. That is the custom.”

  Nels shuddered. I don’t want to wear a dead man’s buttons. Guilt heated his face.

  “Do you wish for me to show you how to properly clean the sword, Highness?” Armas asked.

  “Can you free it of the ghost?” Nels asked instead. He didn’t want a stranger to demonstrate what he already knew. He didn’t want to blur his memory of the rite as Karpanen had taught him.

  “We would need a swordmaster to remove a ghost,” Armas said. “Tarja only taught me the basic rituals.”

  He will wonder why I know the ritual. “Then demonstrate what you do know,” Nels said.

  Armas told him to remove all traces of blood from his face and hands with soap and water first. Doing otherwise would only recontaminate the blade. When that was done, they dumped the dirty water at the base of a birch tree.

  “Always use a birch, if you can,” Armas said. “Birch trees are guardians of the underworld. A birch will clear the death taint from the water.”

  Nels blinked, understanding. Only soldiers used birchwood, and now he knew why.

  Then Armas demonstrated the first ritual—the Ritual of Contrition, using a fresh bucket of water. Nels rinsed his clean hands three times and recited the prayer with Armas: With this water, I remember sin. With this water, I declare my sorrow and beg forgiveness. With this water, I cleanse death’s stain. Afterward, he felt refreshed, more himself, that is, until he glanced at the bodies and considered what was ahead.

  “What if there is no water?” Nels asked. “What if I’m alone?”

  “Then use snow,” Armas said. “If you can’t conduct a full Ritual of Contrition, close your eyes and imagine doing so. The water isn’t what’s important, or even the prayer. It’s the presence of another soldier. Tarja said confessing the act of killing is at the heart of it. Bearing the weight of death is too much to do alone. So, if you can’t perform a full ritual, do so in your mind and confess the sin to your patron god or goddess.”

  “What if I don’t have one?”

  “You’ll have one soon enough,” Armas said. “We all do. For now, you can offer your prayer to the Great Mother.” Then he taught Nels a quick blessing using the clove oil from Tarja’s pack.

  With that done, Nels resumed cleaning Captain Karpanen’s blade. He concentrated on transferring the stains from metal to clove oil–soaked cloth. Karpanen’s ghost rested quiet. At last, Nels whispered, “With this water, please bless your humble servant, Lady Hasta.” Hasta was Ytlainen, and she had been Karpanen’s patron, but it felt right as if she were a part of Karpanen he could keep. He sprinkled a little of the water on himself as Karpanen had done back at the palace. The ache of grief pierced Nels’s numbness. He swallowed it and then sheathed the saber with a relieved sigh. Did I do the right thing? He turned to the freeholders pre­paring the pyre. Inari handed off dried brush, a fresh bandage on her head. Nels saw how each freeholder interacted with the other. The unspoken emotions communicated in gesture and expression—a tangible connection of love and respect. It occurred to him that he didn’t remember seeing such a thing among his family, not openly, and certainly not between his parents. It is your duty to protect them.

  Nels shrugged off Karpanen’s words and went to help with the first shroud.

  When the sky faded into darkness, the freeholders brought torches. Still, Marjatta didn’t budge from her milking stool. When­ever Nels paused in his work, he spotted her studying him with eyes that reminded him too much of Captain Karpanen. Nels got the impression she worried at some awful judgment. He tried not to think about what it might be. Instead, he focused on how each body should be cleansed, anointed with clove oil, and sewn into a shroud before it was carried to a grave. His apprehension increased with each step of the process explained. He wasn’t about to admit it, but he had never used a needle in his life. When Armas finished his demonstration, Nels accepted a second threaded needle with clumsy fingers, instantly dropping it. Armas retrieved it from the mud.

  “Please be careful, Your Highness. Needles aren’t easy to come by. And they can’t be employed for any other purpose once used on a shroud.”

  Nels nodded. His awkward stitches appeared to amuse Armas, who was too well mannered to comment. By the time they had started on the second shroud, Nels’s fingers were bleeding and sore, but he refused to leave the job entirely to Armas. If he did that, neither of them would sleep until well into the next day. The hours dragged. Nels grew accustomed to the stench of fresh death. With each body, he acquired a new respect for Acrasian muskets and was glad the darkness blunted the horror of the violence done. He stepped to the first of the guardsmen and, following Armas’s example, cut a button from the jacket. The face was familiar, but that was all. Again, he was reminded of people who had sacrificed everything for his comfort and safety—people he had considered too small to see. Concerned that he would have to report the name of the dead guard, he checked the uniform for identifying marks. His temples were pounding, but he did his best to ignore it.

  Is Captain Karpanen our real father? Did Mother lie? Does it count as a lie if you don’t declare the truth? He coughed, choking back another lump of pain. Aware that Marjatta was watching, he pressed wet eyes against his filthy sleeve before resuming his search. He tugged open the guardsman’s collar and discovered a small silver chain. On the chain was a disc with a name and rank struck into the surface. Nels pulled it free.

  “A grave token,” Armas said. “It’s to cover the price of a coffin. I’ve never seen one before.”

  “Shouldn’t we provide him a coffin, then?”

  “The Commons Church in Gardemeister could supply whatever is needed. They serve, but that would take some time. And I don’t know the rituals a wait would involve. I—we can’t risk ­contaminating the living.”

  Biting his lip, Nels gave it some thought. And I must leave here before Uncle Sakari finds me. With that decision made, he took the grave tokens from each body. I can send someone back to give them the burial they deserve. And if I have the tokens, their families can be informed. He then studied his inexpert stitching in the torchlight. Standing, he dusted off his aching knees with little success. A painful knot had formed between his shoulder blades, joining the constant headache. His sewing skills had done nothing good for the patched, mismatched fabric. They deserve better than this.

  “I’m sorry we’ve but poor quilt tops and horse blankets to offer.”

  “Your efforts aren’t the problem,” Nels said, opening and closing his stiff hands in an attempt to stretch out the pain. “Mine are.”

  A concerned line appeared between Armas’s brows. “You’re tired, Highness. I can finish this.”

  Nels shook his head and blinked burning eyes. “This is what I am now. I’d best get used to it.” Was Veli Karpanen my father? “And please, call me Nels. The bowing and scraping is ludicrous, given the fact I’m covered in the Mother knows what. It’s giving me a headache.”

  Stunned, Armas nodded.

  Pinching the bridge of his nose, Nels took up the needle again. When he was done, he helped Armas carry the sixth body to its grave. The freeholders had long since finished digging and retired to their beds. Nels stretched with a yawn, wishing he was home asleep in his own bed. He was cold, his hands were stiff with pain, and the powerful ache continued to throb behind his left eye. He turned to the pyre and saw it was ready to light, its bulk reminding him of a nest of thorns in the torchlight. He returned with Armas to where the last body lay.


  Captain Karpanen. Suddenly, Nels was more exhausted than he’d been in his life.

  Armas stooped to move Captain Karpanen onto the shroud. Nels held up a wounded hand and noticed his fingers were swollen.

  “Please,” Nels said. “Let me.”

  Armas straightened. A question formed on his lips, but he didn’t give it substance. He nodded instead. “I’ll see to the humans, then.” And with that, he went to place the Acrasian dead on the pyre.

  Captain Karpanen was not a small man, and positioning him on the shroud alone wasn’t an easy task, but Nels felt he owed the captain that much at least. He bent to place the ghost saber in the dead man’s hands.

  “Don’t,” Marjatta said.

  Nels started, having forgotten about her. His sore hand trembled as he swept filthy hair from his face. “Why not?”

  “Keep the blade, Your Grace. I believe it now holds a part of you. I fear what would happen if it is buried.”

  Staring at the saber in his hand, coldness washed over Nels at the thought of carrying it the entire journey home. Captain Karpanen would do so without complaint. He felt himself nod, lashing the saber to his belt as best he could. Next, he grasped a button on the front of the captain’s jacket, paused, and then reached into a coat pocket instead. Nels felt the cool edge of polished wood, knowing exactly what it was—a toy whistle carved long ago for a son who wasn’t even aware of the maker’s full name. He considered all the times he had cursed Captain Karpanen for interfering, for shielding him from his own reckless selfishness, and saw everything in a different light. As Nels pocketed the whistle, a stray thought entered his mind and stuck. What will Father say when he sees what I’ve done? Will he grieve or will he turn away and name me a fool?

  What if he isn’t my father?