Crest, p.22
Crest, page 22
On days I visited Jonalin, we perched on huge piles of bricks overlooking the kiln yard, brushing a perpetual rain of coal ash off our lunch. In late spring, trying to keep my night sky descriptions interesting, I tried doing them in Ferish. Hiding a smile, Jonalin corrected my grammar, explaining that the language had different types of words for tangible and intangible things.
“Take light, for example,” he said. “Luma means a lantern, torch, something you can hold. Lumos is the light that comes from them. Now take stars. Aikoto people have the story of Orebo who wanted the moon’s beauty so much that he broke off a moonbeam, but it shattered and made the stars. In Ferish religion, starlight is the aura of god. It’s untouchable, so their word for star is stelos, not stela.”
“You sure learned a lot from the prison priest.”
His smile evaporated. “Not all of it by choice.”
I sighed. Somehow I always managed to upset him. He started to get up even though he hadn’t finished eating.
“Wait,” I said, pulling him back down. “What do stars mean to you?”
Jonalin pulled a frayed cord from his pocket and started tying knots. He’d gotten good at doing it with two missing fingers. Eventually he said, “When I was twelve, I went canoeing and got lost in a storm. I wound up on open ocean and couldn’t see the stars to navigate. Then I saw an osprey circling a patch of clear sky, just enough for me to find land. A few days later I attuned to the osprey. It felt like . . . as long as I could see the stars, I’d survive anything.”
My heart ached. No wonder he missed them. I’d have broken the moon myself if I could give him its light.
“Sometimes I think about flying home to Toel. I could make it back here by curfew, but if I get caught . . .” Jonalin looked sideways at me. “I don’t wanna lose everything again.”
He brushed ash from my cheek. The rough feel of his fingertip lingered on my skin. For a second, I wondered what it’d be like to kiss him.
I stamped that thought out. I was just confused from missing Matéo, and tipping this fragile balance could send Jonalin spiralling into another overdose. I had to be the untouchable light that kept him on course. Lumos, not luma.
* * *
Jonalin’s curfew got later as the days got longer. He took me to a pub downtown, the Drunken Otter, and introduced me to his friends, Beno and Hélio, Ferish immigrants he used to work with at the docks. Their rough humour brought out a side of Jonalin I’d never seen, the conversation full of cursing and dirty jokes. Tipsy from spiced wine, I asked them for Ferish swear words to scandalize Nicoletta with. Beno taught me bastardo, Hélio taught me sacro dios, and Jonalin taught me cingari tia mera, which he warned would get me punched in the mouth anywhere else.
Still, the evening was weirdly depressing. Beno and Hélio kept cracking jokes about travellers they’d seen at the docks and mentioning exotic things they’d unloaded from cargo ships, then realizing Jonalin had been in prison at the time. When Beno called me Téresita, Jonalin went off at him with all the swear words I’d just learned and more. I didn’t understand why until the next day when Nicoletta explained it meant Little Téresa.
It was easier hanging out with Airedain and his older sister, Lituwa, whose endless bickering gave Jonalin and me excuses to share weary, eye-rolling smiles. The first hot evening of summer, around Jonalin’s twentieth birthday, the four of us went swimming at the Iyo docks. Lituwa had sewn me cropped leggings and a shirt that showed my midriff — the most skin I could show without Elkhounds arresting me for public indecency, she said.
As I pulled off my cottonspun summer dress and exposed my swimming outfit, I caught Jonalin staring. Heat spread over my body. I couldn’t tell if he was looking at the ugly scars from when I first attuned and bit my forearm. He turned away as if he’d seen nothing and stripped off his tunic. Then it was my turn to stare, but not because of his sinewy arms and taut chest. Scrapes and bruises covered his skin. He claimed it was from roughhousing with Airedain, but every time I saw him shirtless over the summer, he had new bruises.
The injuries didn’t stop him from kicking a leatherball around with Samulein behind the Iyo flats. He knew from Airedain’s time at school that boys who did well at sports got teased less. Other evenings, we roasted hazelnuts in a campfire and Jonalin told stories he’d heard from sailors, doing his best to answer Hanaiko’s questions about faraway lands. He said it was the closest he could get to seeing his niece and nephews.
In autumn, Kirbana and Narun moved into a two-room flat across the street from mine. They were expecting another baby. When it came — a girl named Sena — Jonalin brought a blanket embroidered by Lituwa. He stuck around to play with Hanaiko, Samulein, and Kel, who’d been feeling ignored. It was strange to realize I couldn’t imagine life without him anymore.
One chilly day in early winter, Jonalin left the parole house for the last time. We stayed up all night with Airedain, Lituwa, and their Iyo friends, drinking in the gathering place. It was supposed to be a celebration, but I didn’t know how to feel. I was too nervous to ask what came next.
When Jonalin went outside, I followed, worried about leaving him drunk and alone. He stopped in the frosty field behind the Iyo flats, gazing upward. I stood next to him and craned my neck. Some tel-saidu must’ve drifted through and cleared out smoke from the kilns. Thousands of stars sparkled across the sky.
“It’s beautiful,” he murmured.
I glanced sideways at him, silhouetted against the glittering lights. “Yeah. It is.”
Jonalin slipped his arm around my waist. I froze. He’s drunk, I reminded myself.
With that, my medical training kicked in. I put my thumb on his wrist and counted his heartbeats. They were normal. His chest rose and fell steadily, pressed against my side.
“I never thanked you,” he said.
“For what?”
“This.” He waved at the sky. “Giving me the stars for a year.”
My throat tightened. I had so many questions, but he deserved to enjoy tonight. Kianta kolo, I thought. A better time would come. I rested my head on his shoulder and sank into his warmth.
In the darkness, I sensed water slide down his cheeks. His body was free. Maybe now his spirit could find freedom, too.
23.
Fourth Elken War
“Morning,” I called, blown into the apothecary alongside eddies of snow. I wiped my boots on the mat, straightened my black work dress, and headed into the steamy kitchen. “It’s chaos out there. People are crowded around every newspaper stand, shouting and swearing at each other. I bought a Caladheå Herald, but the wind nearly tore it from my hands.”
“Leave it on the table,” Agata asked, stirring a pot in the hearth. “I’ll read it in a minute.”
Nicoletta thrust a bowl of salted beans at me. “Happy birthday! Seventeen beans for seventeen years. It’s Ferish tradition, remember.”
“I’m not eating those,” I said, hanging up my coat and bonnet. “I have nothing to prove to you.”
“Fine.” She rolled her eyes and held out a tin of molasses cookies instead. “I left out the ginger since you don’t like it.”
I tried one. It was a mix of foreign spices — cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves. Nicoletta wasn’t usually so thoughtful, but maybe this time of year woke her lingering guilt. These days, Matéo and I barely exchanged more than awkward smiles.
“What do you need me to do?” I asked, warming my hands over the fire.
“Make some more beeswax salve,” Agata said without looking up. “People keep asking for it. God knows every winter seems to get drier.”
I tied on my apron — Lituwa had embroidered my fireweed crest onto it with bright purple thread — and got to work. “Ai, Nica,” I said over the heavy oak table. “Did you hear about the charity social next month? It’s a fundraiser for the veterans’ league. You should invite Paolo.”
Nicoletta turned pink like she did at every mention of the shy young man who delivered milk each morning. “I keep telling you, it’s not proper for a girl to invite a boy—”
“And I keep telling you he’d do anything you ask.”
She huffed. “If it’s so easy, you invite someone.”
“Like who? Matéo’s still not allowed to see me, Jonalin and I are just friends, and—”
I was cut off by shattering porcelain. Agata stood open-mouthed, the newspaper in one hand, the other still grasping at air. Tea spread across the floor among the fragments of her cup.
“God above us all,” she said. “It happened, girls. The Fourth Elken War has begun.”
* * *
“Read the list again,” Dunehein said, running a hand through his long hair.
Kirbana, cradling Sena in one arm, pulled an oil lamp closer and read from a newspaper spread on her table. “‘The Rúonbattai captured the following towns — Caladsten, Gåmelheå, Thúnveldt, Hafenaast . . .’ The rest are fishing villages.”
“And they’re all in Nordmur?”
“Yes, all places that Eremur’s military was occupying. Caladsten’s the biggest concern. Twenty thousand people live there, or lived depending how bloody the uprising was — oh, shh, sweet child.” Kirbana handed her crying baby to Narun. “Put her in the crib, though I don’t expect she’ll sleep tonight.”
He carried Sena into their bedroom, where Hanaiko and Samulein were playing marbles and keeping Kel from swallowing them. I’d started thinking of Kirbana’s kids as my nephew and niece. Their home was always messy, loud, and smelling of vinegar, and I loved it. We’d gotten so used to being there that Rikuja, Yotolein, and I were making dinner.
“What worries me is the Rúonbattai captured all these towns in one night,” Yotolein said, distractedly cutting raw elk into slivers. “That takes a lot of manpower. They didn’t have that many soldiers when I worked for them.”
“You don’t think the Rin-jouyen . . .” Dunehein began.
“Behadul’s too cautious to enter a war, especially since a third of his warriors are staying in Nettle Ginu for good. No, I think Liet has been secretly recruiting. It wouldn’t be hard to drum up support from Sverbians who’ve been under military invasion for three years.”
“Did Tiernan and Jorumgard mention anything in their letters?” Rikuja asked me.
I shook my head. Hanaiko and I had gotten into the habit of writing letters to the men. They replied once a month or so with light-hearted campaign stories, but never mentioned their serious military work, wary of mail getting intercepted by Rúonbattai. Their last letter had been sent from Caladsten. All day, the fear they were dead gripped me so hard I couldn’t breathe.
“Kako?” Rikuja said.
I looked up from washing duck potatoes. The room swam back into focus.
“What’s going to happen at the apothecary?” she asked.
“Oh, um — Agata said during the last war, the military requisitioned most of her medicine. We’ll need to work day and night to make enough for customers, too. Inesa will drop out of school to help with chores, but I won’t have time to walk Hako and Samu there.”
“We can walk ourselves,” Hanaiko called from the bedroom amid the clink of marbles. “I’m ten and a half, remember. I might attune tomorrow. Then I’ll be an adult and can do whatever I want.”
Despite the tension that had settled in the kitchen like smoke, Yotolein chuckled. Leaning over to drop diced elk in the stew pot, he whispered to me, “Independent little brat. No one can doubt she’s related to us.”
* * *
Soon we were all busy. Dunehein got home late every night from the lumberyard, which was supplying wood to repair Shawnaast’s old docklands. The navy needed space for new ships. Rikuja and Narun got hired as carpenters for the dock construction, the saddlery where Yotolein worked got flooded with orders from Eremur’s mounted forces, and Kirbana sewed military uniforms at home.
At school, Hanaiko joined a girls’ wartime club, cutting cottonspun for bandages and collecting scrap metal for weapons and armour. Matéo and Rico joined a military club doing infantry drills and learning survival skills. Samulein, upset that seven and three-quarters was too young to join, started acting up in class. Yotolein reluctantly started giving him combat lessons alongside Hanaiko even though he was more than a year away from getting his traditional first weapon.
One unusually warm day, as melting snow dripped from the apothecary eaves, someone pounded on the back door. Nicoletta and I reached it at the same time. Paolo stood in the alley holding the reins of his sweat-lathered workhorse.
“I was just at the harbour,” he panted. “Three schooners with Eremur’s navy flag, one mooring in the Shawnaast docklands. They’re carrying wounded soldiers from Caladsten.”
“I’ve got supplies ready,” Agata called from inside. “Nica, give the inventory list to the ship medic and tell him to pay us later.”
Nicoletta and I grabbed our coats. Inesa fetched the wicker baskets full of laudanum, bandages, bogmoss, and more. As we went outside, I had a thought.
“Can you ride to the brick-making kilns and find a young man named Jonalin Tanarem?” I asked Paolo. “We could use an experienced dockhand.”
He mounted his horse and rode off. Nicoletta and I hurried through the streets, baskets swinging on our arms. In the harbour, the ship was moored at a newly rebuilt dock. Naval soldiers in red uniforms came down the gangplank, carrying men on stretchers. Nicoletta whimpered as they came up the dock toward us. One man was missing a leg just like her father. I squeezed her hand reassuringly, then we got to work.
Every so often, I glimpsed Jonalin carrying stretchers. The stream of them felt endless. Several soldiers had bled through bandages, gotten splints knocked loose, or developed infections, and the ship’s medical supplies had run out on the journey. We fixed what we could here on the slushy shore, gave them painkillers, and loaded them into horse-drawn wagons. A clerk using a crate as a makeshift table recorded where they were sent.
“Ridiculous,” came a sharp voice. “Parr Manor is my home. Surely I can send my own friend there.”
I spun. Nerio was arguing with the clerk. He’d grown up, now a young man with a trimmed black beard and elk pins on his uniform. Nearby, Tiernan supported Jorumgard, whose leg was in a splint. They all bore faded cuts and greenish bruises, but they were alive.
“Only captains can override the rules,” the clerk said, tapping his quill.
“I am a lieutenant of the 1st Royal Eremur Special Forces.” Nerio thrust out his arm, circled by a yellow band. “My father, the captain of this regiment, sent me here to carry out orders in his absence.”
“Then get a writ from your precious father,” the clerk snapped. “Now move along, Lieutenant.”
Nerio made a disgusted sound. Tiernan helped Jorumgard shuffle aside. I finished tying a man’s bandage and hurried over to them.
Jorumgard cracked into a grin. “Little pint!” he cried. “I’d hug you if I wouldn’t fall over.”
“What’s going on?” I asked. “I heard an argument.”
Nerio spat out the answer. “My father and I volunteered our manor as a military hospital, but only enlisted soldiers can stay there, not mercenaries. We have nowhere to send Jorumgard.”
“Never mind,” Jorumgard said bracingly. “I’ll stay at the Golden Oak. Maybe Nhys can put me up in a storage room so I don’t need to climb stairs with a broken leg.”
“Stay with us.” I spoke on impulse but instantly knew it was right. “Yotolein’s flat is ground level, and mine’s right above. We’ll take care of you.”
“I doubt your uncle wants a stranger living with his kids—”
“You’re not a stranger. We’ve been writing to you for a year. Besides, with all of us working so much, Yotolein will like having someone else to keep an eye on his kids.”
Paolo had stuck around to help Nicoletta, so I called him over and reeled off a list of instructions — transport Jorumgard in his milk wagon, pick up supplies from the apothecary, and send Inesa to the school to get Hanaiko, who’d show Paolo where we lived. He cast a doleful glance at Nicoletta before going to fetch his wagon. Nerio raised his eyebrow at me, looking reluctantly impressed.
* * *
I was starving by the time I reached Yotolein’s flat, so I was glad to find dinner still warm. Yotolein was talking to Tiernan and Jorumgard, whose leg was propped on a wooden chest padded with folded cottonspun. Tiernan was whittling a crutch. I kicked off my muddy boots, hung up my filthy apron, and plunked a brånnvin bottle on the table.
“One drink if you make it back alive, more if you don’t, right?” I said.
Jorumgard thumped my back in appreciation. “We’ll need the ‘more’ tonight.”
Yotolein rounded up his kids. “All right, little monsters. Go see Dune and Rija. Time for the grown-ups to talk alone.”
They scuttled outside. Yotolein handed out cups of brånnvin while I helped myself to a rye pastry filled with stew. He made blødstavgren different from the traditional Sverbian version, using elk’s blood instead of goat’s. His whole home was like that. The mattresses were on the floor, the Aikoto way, with Sverbian patchwork blankets. The shelves held books, inkpots, and quills alongside boxes made from carved rioden wood.
“So,” I said, “you must have a lot to tell.”
Tiernan downed his brånnvin before answering. “I think I triggered the war.”
“You what?”
