Remnants of Atonement (True paths Book 1) Page 8

  I blinked. Did I look like a simpleton who required each word enunciated?

  “I wanted to wake you,” I replied, sitting back on my cot, “you’ve been sedated for the last five days. The good doc thought it was time you re-joined reality.“

  “The good doc?” he asked.

  “Doctor Kira Escamilla,” I explained while watching with keen interest as he pinched the bridge of his nose through the mask before sniffing. I tried to imagine what his features must look like beneath that thing but found it impossible. He just looked grotesque in my mind, “we’re in the infirmary at the Armoury refugee camp. The Shield brought you-“

  “Pogue?” the Ilvarjo looked around with pinched eyes, “where is he?“

  Waiting outside, in all likelihood. Doctor Kira had banned him after that first night, claiming his nervous energy inhibited the healing process. I think she really just wanted to keep us apart. That didn’t stop him from turning up every day. Like clockwork, his voice would ring like a booming bell through the infirmary, only to be answered by Kira roaring at him to stop contaminating her sterile environment before she did something he’d regret. He was lucky she hadn’t chased him out with the poker yet.

  “No idea,” I said, “Haven’t seen him since he left you here, babbling some nonsense about the Umbra-“

  “The Umbra?’’ the Ilvarjo interrupted. He didn’t sound confused, more surprised, “you’re certain he said the Umbra?“

  “No, I just made the bit up to confuse you.“

  The Ilvarjo just stared at me for a long moment before bringing his hand back to the bandaged eye, “I’m sorry. I’m quite disoriented at the moment, I cannot recall who you are.“

  “That’s because we’ve never met,” I said, “my name’s Kilco. I’m a physician.“

  “You’re a physician?” The Ilvarjo had the nerve to look me over pointedly while asking.

  I crossed my arms over my chest, “almost. Closest you have to one available right now, so I suggest you stop being so condescending.“

  His gaze immediately dropped to his lap, “I apologize. I meant no offence, it’s only…you look young for a physician.“

  “Well, you look young for an assassin,” I sneered. As if to prove a point, I reached out to adjust the bandage, only for the Ilvarjo to shy from my touch. A growl escaped my throat, “stay still, or I’ll poke you in the eye.” The Ilvarjo did as told but remained noticeably tense the entire time it took to unwrap the bandage from his face. Which took a damn long time, considering the onion level layering Doctor Kira had given it. I cleared my throat, “it was festering when you arrived. We’ve been bathing it daily in healing tonic, but it’s too early to tell the extent of the damage yet.“

  “That’s alright,” he said quietly, “I’m not expecting it to function as it did before. The one who cut it used dark magic.”

  “That sucks,” I continued unwrapping, “though I must say, you’re handling it well.“

  “I’m Ilvarjo,” he stated with detached calmness, “that’s what I’m trained for. My body doesn’t belong to me. I am indebted to give my final breath for the Royal family of Ascot.” That made me pause. How quaint to hear another so young speak nonchalantly about their own mortality. I pulled the final strip of cotton away, never able to hold back the wince at what lay beneath. His brow creased, “do you have a mirror?“

  Of course, I had a mirror, I just wasn’t convinced handing it over was the best move. The eye was purple and swollen, the whites almost as bloodshot as his iris while the incisions had scabbed over, contrasting the metal stitches against pale skin and brows. Allowing him to see his face like that wouldn’t be kind, but then again, that wasn’t my problem. That was his face now.

  For better or worse.

  Maintaining eye contact, I removed the hand mirror from the side-table drawer and placed it down atop it. I wouldn’t make that decision: if he chose to look, it was his prerogative. It wasn’t my problem. The Ilvarjo didn’t break eye contact for a moment. Unnerved, I pointed to my right, “there’s the mirror.“

  He sat staring at it for a moment before closing his left eye, opening it, closing his right. His brow furrowed as he picked the mirror up. I watched, waited for any emotion that might flash in his eye. None came. After a minute he lowered the mirror, “oh.“

  That there was the most intriguing reaction of all. In my experience, life-changing injuries elicited extreme emotion responses, deep depression, renewed devotion to the Divine, complete denial. One above the knee amputee had laughed so manically at the news that it still haunted my dreams. Never had a patient simply said oh before. “That’s it?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said awkwardly before raising the mirror again, “I expected it to be worse.”

  Of course, he did, and of course, it wasn’t. That boy had all the luck. I wagged my finger in front of his face with more aggression than perhaps was necessary, “can you see out of it at all?“

  He squinted and followed my finger as it zoomed past his face. The eye moved perfectly, but was noticeably slower than his left, like forgotten choreography. The Ilvarjo shook his head, “nothing.“

  “Ah, well.” I twisted my finger by the corner of his eye. Just to check he wasn’t lying. Nada. Not so much as a twitch.

  “May I ask you a question?” he asked.

  My hand dropped, unsure of what to do with itself, “I guess.“

  “Does my face look horrible?”

  How to answer such a question.

  “I don’t know. I can’t see your face,” I said with a sharp laugh. He didn’t return it, just stared. My hands clenched and unclenched. I never did know what to do with them in such situations, “um, the swelling will go down. So will the bruising.”

  “Thank you, I’m aware of that,” he interrupted, “what I’m asking is at this very moment do I look disfigured to you?”

  Giving him that mirror was a stupid idea. I bit my lip, “yes,” I admitted, “but it will get better. Ask again in a few days-“

  “Thank you,” he calmly lifted the mirror once more. No matter what I tried, he refused to engage with more than one-word responses for the rest of the night. It did nothing to cool the persistent burn throbbing inside my chest.

  To say that the Ilvarjo was underwhelming would be an understatement. He did the same things every other boy did. There was nothing special about him just because his eyes were the colour of blood. The first few days he’d spent sleeping. That was to be expected, the sedative he’d spent a week under was brutal, but even awake he offered no relief from my boredom.

  Lady Ilana continued to visit. Each morning she’d bring with her parchment in cryptic script I couldn’t read while they conversed in a tongue I couldn’t understand. It made me feel more invisible to her than ever. Once she left, he’d focus on his work whenever awake. He was quiet in everything he did and polite to a fault.

  The only thing worse than unnecessary politeness is fake unnecessary politeness. It was as if the Ilvarjo was incapable of speaking without punctuating his words with please and thank you, and most agitating of all, apologies for things that didn’t require them. It was such an unnatural way of speaking, and I was convinced he was doing so simply because he disliked me. Which was ridiculous, for he hadn’t even bothered to get to know me. Not really.

  It was after Ilana had left on the fourth morning that I decided to make my displeasure known. Melly delivered our breakfast trays as she did every morning, and like every morning the Ilvarjo waited for me to move my chair at our little card table around. Not that morning. Staring directly at him, I raised a spoonful of the brown slop that was supposed to be porridge to my mouth.

  “Kilco.”

  “Mmm?”

  He looked down at the glass of milk in his hands, “can you please turn around?”

  “No.“

  He seemed taken aback by that, the grip on the milk tightening as his brows pinched together, “why not?”

  Because he was rude. Because he
was boring. Because I’d given him no reason to dislike me, yet he did anyway. All that went unspoken, of course. I merely shrugged.

  The pinching of his forehead increased, “I cannot eat with you watching me.“

  “Exactly,” I stirred the spoon with deliberate ease, “I want to know what you’re hiding beneath the mask.“

  “Just my face.“

  “So nobody is allowed to look at your face?“

  He shook his head, “only my family and Her Highness, if she pleases.”

  “Forever?“

  “No, not forever. Only until-“

  “How come?“

  His one eye winked at me then. I don’t think that was his intention, but it was enough to make me bark a laugh. His grip on the glass tightened. “Are you finished?” he asked once my laugher had died down. For good measure, I forced a giggle. He exhaled, “Are you planning to stop watching me any time soon? I’m thirsty.“

  “I’m going to watch you all day today, simply because I can,” I replied with a smirk.

  He glanced at the divider in the corner and pulled his knees to his chest, pulling the blanket tight, “even when I need to use the toilet?”

  That wasn’t something I’d considered. Nobody had bothered to supply him with any clothes since Doctor Kira had cut off his uniform, and as a result, he was as naked as a freshly baked bub under that blanket. I’d been turning my back to give him the privacy to wrap himself up like a desert explorer whenever nature called, but it was my turn to relieve myself of the stress of caring for an ingrate.

  “You’re a professional. Try the shadows,” I said and might’ve cackled too had he not shot me a glare so ferocious that I choked on my own breath. The good doc would’ve given her left hand for a glare so severe. Had he two eyes to glare with, I wouldn’t have been able to hold it. As it was, I focused on the bandage until there was a soft crack. He looked down.

  “You’re a monster.“

  I watched the white fluid dribble onto the blanket and smiled, “spilled milk.“

  “You’re sure he’s been drinking his healing tonics? All of them, to the last drop?” the good doc asked while roughly poking the skin by the Ilvarjo’s eyes. Some kind soul had finally fetched him some underwear so that he could sit at the card table to be examined, and he looked thrilled, staring at the canvas wall, barely drawing breath as Doctor Kira prodded. It was hard not to laugh.

  It was the fear.

  Doctor Kira had once theorized that if putting the fear of a deity into a person made them subservient only to that deity, she could capitalize on that same fear to ensure her patients and subordinates followed her orders to the letter. The fear of the physician she’d called it, and the Ilvarjo had an incurable case.

  “Kilco?“

  I blinked, “uh, yes, Doctor Kira. To the last drop. I’ve ensured it.“

  Kira grunted as she turned back to the Ilvarjo with a mocking smile, “and how are we feeling today?“

  “Fine, thank you, Doctor Kira,” he replied politely, cautiously.

  “Any stomach aches or toilet troubles?“

  “No,” he said and closed his eyes, realizing only too late his fatal mistake.

  Doctor Kira straightened up to loom above his seated position, all dregs of mirth gone as she looked down, “no what?”

  “N-no Doctor Kira.“

  “Consider that your final warning. Next time…” Kira trailed off, allowing the unspoken fester in his mind to explode. That’s how the fear spread. Dark shadows from her spectacles illuminated her face as pointed to our trays by the flap, “care to explain if your digestive system is so healthy why you haven’t finished your evening meal like I instructed you to?“

  That wasn’t a difficult question to answer. Kira had deemed the Ilvarjo too skinny and promptly prescribed enormous nightly servings of the stew that the cooks claimed was beef, but the troops swore was mutton. The only issue was, I doubted the Ilvarjo had ever eaten such large portions of anything in his life. Having little in the way of body fat, he seemed made almost entirely of lean muscle, his ribs and vertebrae prominent through skin so pale it was practically translucent. A tiny creature, he stood little more than a head taller than I did. He’d most inconveniently ignored the one-time curiosity dared me to ask his age, but I couldn’t imagine he was older than I was. Possibly much younger. To force him to consume so much, well, if he hadn’t a stomach ache before he’d be positively bloated after.

  I watched as he swallowed when his eyes darted to the trays before slowly looking back to Kira. I recognized the emotion in his eyes, the fear and uncertainty of being in Kira’s bad books, and without permission, my mouth moved, “that’s my tray.“

  Twin faces of disbelief looked at me, “your tray?” Kira said, “you’ve never left so much as a single pea on your plate.”

  That was true, but it was too late to back out without punishment for lying or at the very least a whack across the ears, so I nodded, “that’s because I’ve always known what I’ve been eating before but here…well, does anybody know where they’ve been burying the dead?“

  “At the opposite side of the Armoury. You know that. You’ve been there.” Kira said sharply.

  “Yeah but…” I shrugged.

  Kira stared blankly at me for a moment before readjusting her spectacles with a scoff. She pulled a tonic vial from her pocket and shoved it against my chest, “Take this. Make sure Ilya drinks it before going back to sleep,” without another word she marched to the flap and pushed it open, only to look back over her shoulder at the last second with an unnerving smile, “sweet dreams.”

  As the flap swished behind her the Ilvarjo let out a breath and continued watching the flap with caution as I uncorked the vial. “She won’t jump back in with a final book. That isn’t her style. At least, not anymore. Here,” I passed the tonic over, “she frightens you, doesn’t she?“

  “She does,” he glared at the tonic before giving me a pleading look. I turned my back. Most could stomach the bitter tonic on occasion but drinking several daily was the sort of torture you wished on your worst enemy. The ruffling of fabric told me he was done, and I turned to take the vial back, but he made no move to hand it over, instead tapped the glass, “why did you do that?“

  I couldn’t tell him the truth. He wouldn’t understand the truth, so I shrugged, “I don’t know. I guess I just know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of her unreasonable rules.“

  He looked at me without blinking, as if reading my soul. He must not have enjoyed what he saw, for he dropped the vial into my hand as if unwilling to touch my skin, “it doesn’t matter, I suppose. Thank you.” Those were empty words of gratitude, laced with something profound. Real. Something that forced me to feel what he felt when all I wanted was to feel nothing at all.

  Ten

  Genuphobia

  Fear of knees

  “Okay, I’ve got one.”

  Ilya looked up from his book and arched a brow just so. I flopped down on my mattress and rested my chin on my palm, “say that I offered to give you fifty-thousand gold krona, but if you took it an immortal homicidal snail would stalk you until your dying day. If it were ever to touch you, you’d die on the spot. Would you take the krona?”

  “What kind of hypothetical is that?”

  “I claimed to have one,” I said with a hum, “I never promised it was a good one. So?”

  He put the book down and twisted the ends of his hair. No matter how ridiculous my questions were, he contemplated them thoroughly. I liked that. After several seconds he shrugged, “I’m not sure.”

  “I’d take the Krona,” I said, “I mean, how fast can a snail move anyway?”

  “I have precisely no idea.”

  “Huh. And here I thought you knew everything about anything.”

  “Not about snails,” he said dryly, that brow arching once more. Damn, I envied his ability to emote so thoroughly with only a quarter of a face, “why would I ever need to know that?”
<
br />   “So that you can win a pot of Krona, obviously,” my laugh died a premature death when the flap to our little room was torn open with such force that the material squelched from the pressure as another Ilvarjo stormed inside. Though she was uniformed, her entire demeanour could be summarized by her irritated blonde braids, which appeared only moments from exploding free from their twists as she marched towards Ilya.

  “Hey,” I yelled, “this is an isolated room. You can’t here.”

  The Ilvarjo shot me a bloodcurdling glare before shoving a sealed envelope into Ilya’s face while barking something my brain couldn’t understand. Ilya stared at the envelope in her hands for only a moment, but it was a moment too long for the girl slapped him across the face with it and raised her voice louder. Ilya blinked and took the envelope, saying something in return, but no longer had the envelope left her fingers than the girl turned on her heels and stormed straight back out again.

  “Wow,” I said, watching the flap swing violently, “she’s…intense. What died up her ass?”

  Ilya didn’t respond as he stared at the envelope’s seal for a long moment before breaking it to withdraw three pages of parchment. His eyes narrowed as he took them in. I cleared my throat and he quickly glanced up, “Mercy is my cousin. She doesn’t usually behave in such a manner. At least she didn’t. I’ve only ever spent time with her around my brother.”

  That didn’t soothe my curiosity, but it did pique a new one, “you never said that you have a brother.”

  “That’s because I don’t anymore.”

  Shit. Foot, reintroduce yourself to mouth. I sat up straighter and clenched my hands in the sheets, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-”