Chapter 2
Waking up to the sun through his windows, Piitros was beginning to regret not going to a healer the night before, after he and Doctor Conochvars had finished talking, just to make sure. The bite was gone, and the swelling was non-existent. But there was something wrong. He felt almost as if he was pinned, like the one time that he had accidentally gotten trapped in a bottle while running around as a mouse.
Swallowing around a lump in his throat, Piitros tried to shapeshift – and couldn’t.
Of course he couldn’t.
“Stupid instinctive self-preservation,” Piitros grumbled, pulling his clothes on. He had probably gotten some little infection from the spider bite, and it had been enough to trigger his mutation’s self-preservation, which wouldn’t allow him to shift until he was healthy again. Great. Now he was trapped as a clumsy human being until the infection was dealt with.
And he couldn’t even go straight to a healer’s place, because he had Morning Court, and a meeting with Uncle Benham before that.
Scowling at himself in the mirror as he straightened his collar, Piitros pulled the last of his clothes into place and left the room.
By the time he had gotten to the back room where Uncle Benham waited for him, Piitros had a pounding headache and an aching back. Uncle Benham was waiting patiently, his hands hanging loosely at his sides as he stared out one of the wide glass windows. In any other person, such a stance would be incredibly impolite. In Uncle Benham, it was the remains of the constantly wary life of a Sarmatian warrior.
Piitros often wondered what it was like for Uncle Benham. Uncle Benham had spent the first nineteen years of his life as a Sarmatian warrior, and had never so much as stood inside a permanent building until the day he met Piitros' Aunt Mei. Piitros had been born and raised a Finn, and he still had troubles with propriety. The fact that Uncle Benham was simply seen as "eccentric," and not "barbaric," was a downright miracle.
Though, it’s not like you really wanted to say something unkind about a Sarmatian, never mind one married to the woman in charge of Finland in all but name.
Standing in front of the window, hands ever-ready to snatch his ever-present swords, Uncle Benham was not the type of person one might guess to see in a Finnish Court. Only the blend of green and gold in his surcoat could tell an outsider that Uncle Benham was, in fact, Finnish royalty. The stance, weapons, red teeth when he spoke, and intricate gold and iron Tree-of-Life earrings said that he was Sarmatian.
“Uncle Benham?” Piitros stepped slowly into the room. “How was your morning?”
“Slow,” Uncle Benham said shortly, turning to face him. “Ennig gave birth before the sun rose, and Tarrig was too busy fawning over Ennig’s child to go on my circuit. I had to go without my morning ride, and our border riders along the Raaga River didn’t call in, so I had to send two of my best men to Raaga to find out if the Turks are pressing the border again.”
Piitros frowned. “Ennig and Tarrig are your horses, right?”
“Until the end of my life or theirs,” Uncle Benham agreed. “How was your morning?”
Piitros looked at the floor. “I’ve been feeling a bit ill. I was wondering if I could skip Morning Court, if –”
“Piitros.”
Piitros felt his cheeks flush at that tone. “Yes?”
Uncle Benham shook his head. “You have tried this before, Piitros. But you have a gift. You were born in a position to do so much good, but you want to simply let it flow away like blood in a river.”
“I know,” Piitros groused. “When you married Aunt Mei, you thought that you’d just focus on being Vanspag of Ruirig, but she showed you that you had more responsibilities. Now you practically run the criminal system, protect the borders, and take care of the poor.”
Uncle Benham tapped the hilt of the sword on his left hip. “All men are born of the same clay, with the blood of Thagimasadag running in their veins. Thus are we each gods, should we find our strength. If we are gifted strength, to ignore it is to spurn those gods who gave them to us. It was given to us to use for the sake of others. We are not better, no matter what you may be told. We are guardians, made to fight for the sakes of those without our gifts. Because they are of the same source as we - clay and the blood of the gods.”
“The Epic of Stasig,” Piitros recognized the phrase. “You gave it to me for my last birthday.”
Uncle Benham sighed. “Just that – do you realize how difficult it was to commission for that Epic to be written down in Finnish? How do you think I did that?”
Piitros blinked, rubbing that slowly fading ache in his neck. “Um. I mean. People will write stuff. Translate stuff. I guess…I hadn’t thought.”
“No,” Uncle Benham sighed. “You may not have chosen to be royalty, Piitros, but whether you believe in gods as the creators or science or both, you were born as a prince, and you have a responsibility to your people given to you at birth. I made the mistake of thinking that watching my example would be enough, but you don’t really feel it, do you? You’re too focused on wishing to go to Alexandria.”
Piitros sighed. “I’m sorry, Uncle Benham, it’s just –”
“I’m not going to forbid you from going to Alexandria,” Uncle Benham said shortly, fingering his swords. “The problem is, we can’t let you go so far away until we can be certain that you understand what is at stake, right here.”
Piitros focused. “Wait – you mean that you’re going to allow me to go to Alexandria?”
“We intended to do so years ago,” Uncle Benham said. “But you refused to take responsibility for your position, so we couldn’t trust that you would in Alexandria. When you started making some effort last summer, I began to plan your trip. I was hoping that, by this coming summer, you would have learned enough responsibility to go.”
Piitros brightened. “You mean –”
“I mean that, if you have managed to truly learn responsibility by the beginning of the summer season, your Aunt Mei and I have agreed to send you to Alexandria for two years.”
Benham smiled suddenly, widely, the way Piitros knew meant he’d thought of joke.
“After all, are we Judeans? We have no backlog of extraneous heirs for the taking, if you follow their example and refuse to leave the city limits ever again once you get to Alexandria!”
“I wouldn’t abandon you and Aunt Mei like that,” Piitros protested. “I’d only ever stay away if- if me staying in Finland was putting you in danger! I know I’m bad at etiquette, I can’t write a proper letter, I can’t stand being focused on all the time because it makes me worried I’ll mess up and then I get nervous and then I do, solemnity makes me want to lighten the mood, I do best when I’m stuck in a room doing paperwork! You and Aunt Mei would be completely within propriety to have me struck from the succession and replaced with someone else! No one would even care, the Courts would be glad they didn’t have to suffer through my presence any longer-”
His uncle silenced him by putting a hand behind his nephew’s head and pulling him down to kiss his forehead.
“And why would we do that, hm?” he asked. “I know you can be good at this, Piitros- you would not have been put in the position to have so much power and responsibility if you could not handle it. Argimpasa does not ascribe the fates of men idly; no more than Api ever made a human who could not withstand the world.
“‘And never did Seppo Ilmarinen craft a soul that was not strong, or worthy, or wanted’,” Piitros quoted, still unconvinced.
“Just so,” Benham agreed, putting a hand on his arm to guide him towards the door, and along to the Morning Court. “And, Piitros- who would we replace you with, if you did go?”
This, he had answer for.
“Cousin Naomi,” he said immediately. He’d met the Princess of the Vikings only twice in person- once during the coronation of her mothers in Ibernís, and a second time when she passed through Finland on her way to Japan; but years of exchanging letters had left him certain that the only solution to his troubles was for Naomi to take his place in the succession, so he would be free to go to Alexandria- which, in a ‘be careful what you wish for’ way, he was now going to do; except he’d have to come back, no more suited for the job than before.
“She’s the daughter of our Princess,” Piitros continued. “Even if our Princess hasn’t set foot in Finland, and she’s good at etiquette and all the things you need for Court. She’s older, she’s experienced, she’s talented, she’s distinguished, she’s dignified- and it solves our royalty problem!”
They were almost to the door.
“It hasn’t been working, having a joint ruler for Finland and the Vikings- we knew it was never going to work, but Antona only had one child and then Valdir only had Eydís, but Eydís has Zohar and Naomi! Zohar is obviously going to be the next King of the Vikings, so if you make Naomi Princess of the Finns, then everyone goes away hap-”
Benham had just started to open the door and Piitros was suddenly slammed with a feeling of dangerdangerDANGER! that he had no explanation for, but made him jerk away to the side of the door, which meant that Heimrikh Ásbjarn’s first knife thrust didn’t connect and he came lunging, rather surprised, into the room right between Piitros and Benham.
-
The unrelenting foreign foreboding pressure, the strange strong sense of DANGER! kept Piitros backing up, away Heimrikh and his uncle, Heimrikh with the knife and his moments of stumbling to catch himself, to not fall face-first into the floor as Benham drew his swords went for the first strike.
Piitros knew about sword fighting, more by sight than practice, but it was enough to know that his uncle’s sword shouldn’t twist away from Heimrikh like it had- he knew enough physics to tell. The answer came to him immediately, remembered from discussion and paperwork, because Finns would never let a mutation get away from them.
“Moderate telekinesis!” he called to his uncle; and presumably the man had heard or perhaps he had figured it out himself, from experience practicing against the Palace Guard, whose powers were the first line of defense.
The first sword had been somewhat a distraction, meant to wound if connected, but not to be a major loss if blocked. The second sword, unseen by Heimrikh or simply too much for him to handle, sliced through his side, just under the ribs. Heimrikh was still unbalanced, and had sacrificed using his telekinesis to steady himself to deflect the sword. The blow sent him staggering to the floor.
Why had Heimrikh thought he could fight a Sarmatian, even in an ambush? Who brought a knife to a sword fight?
Heimrikh must have landed on his knife because he was trying to get his hands on something underneath him, and Benham was above him with swords ready, he would pin Heimrikh to the floor and then the Palace Guard would get him, find out why he-
It was a sidearm, a tiny pistol, small enough to be easily hidden and the barrel had vents that glowed dusky dirty smoky blue and it ate through his uncle’s chest, devouring flesh and ribs and organs. Halfway to his knees Heimrikh’s telekinesis pushed him up and away and Benham the Sarmatian, Duke of Estia and Livia, was dead on the floor and Heimrikh Asbjarn was out the door and- and-
Piitros was trying to react- he was.
But his uncle was dead and it hadn’t been, it hadn’t even been a minute since Piitros had been insisting Cousin Naomi should be Princess of the Finns and-
Heimrikh was escaping. The strange pistol hadn’t made much noise and he might get stopped and questioned about why he was running and why he was bleeding but it would be too easy for the man to lie and say someone had attacked him and send any guards running away from him but Piitros knew better and he needed to be fast-
He tried to shift, he tried lioness and horse and hyena for speed and strength but nothing, even when it was conceivable that emotional distress and pure personal need could override a biological safety lock, it was a well-documented phenomenon, so Piitros was left with human speed and human strength and his uncle’s swords, grabbed as a prelude to the pursuit.
-
Heikaal was one of those words language students hated, because context was everything. The Finns had gotten it from the Judeans, where hekal was used for Solomon’s Palace on the Temple Mount as well as the temple itself. The Finns had empathized with the twin royal and divine associations for their own rulers, the descendants of Sikkin Pirkkje and Loki of Asgard- and so there was Vanha Heikaal, the Old Palace, in Taivaskaavelija, the old capitol; and Vaheisia Heikaal, the Minor Court, in Raajokin; and Revontulet Heikaal, the Palace of the Northern Lights, the Greater Court, the newest capitol.
Heikaal was translated as ‘court’ by Finnish scholars and ‘palace’ by foreign ones- but Heimrikh, who was forced to abandon his original, inconspicuous exit plan in the wake of the mess Benham the Sarmatian had made of his assassination, was bitterly convinced that the proper translation should be ‘fortress’.
Vaheisia Heikaal had exactly one entrance and exit, a two-gate system that emptied onto the Palace Bridge over the Raa to the City Plaza, one gate directly at the end of the bridge that opened into an enclosed courtyard, a little bubble made by drawing the wall back a ways. The much smaller Inner Gate was set in the wall opposite the main gate on the bridge, and it was the best chance Heimrikh had, even if it wasn’t much of one.
The space between the Court Hall and the Inner Gate was wide open, completely paved and empty of cover. He tried not to stagger too much, tried not to look like he was trying not to be noticed, but he had to keep pressure on his wound and there were blood droplets oozing past his fingers, and he wasn’t about to let go of his gun yet, just in case. It was easy enough to hide-
Unless the guards you were trying to get past were Finnish guards, selected for powers useful for fighting and protection. As per regulations, one of the guards on the palace side of the Inner Gate was an intention-seer, and a single look told him Heimrikh was fleeing a murder. Also per regulations, the other guard on duty on the ground was a shapeshifter.
Heimrikh cursed violently to himself and started to run, trying to outdistance the bear charging at him. He veered away from the gates and into the Diplomat’s Garden, hoping that the trees and human-sized walking paths would slow the guard down some, or at least force her to take a new, slightly less dangerous shape.
This proved not to be the case and soon enough Heimrikh was close to being cornered against the wall, the bear guard holding in place while those still human-shaped came to finally subdue him, but Heimrikh could not let that happen and so forced himself to stand his ground, waiting for the bear to get just a little closer, a little closer, and finally it was enough for a shot from the pistol that couldn’t be avoided, and the guard went down with the blue burning through her skull and Heimrikh was dashing up the stairs to the wall.
Here, he had to drop his gun to get a free hand to use as an aid to his telekinesis, shoving the two guards converging on him away and down the wall walkway. There was a moment when he caught up against the edge of the wall, staring down at the blue of the Raa- but this part was easy. The walls around Byzantium were higher, and unlike the Bosporus, the section of the Raa that curved around the palace complex had no traffic.
Heimrikh shoved himself over the edge, battering divebombing Palace Guards in the shape of birds against the stone walls the whole way down.
-
When Piitros got to the Inner Gate, it was nothing but turmoil and consternation. Everyone seemed to be rushing for the Diplomat’s Garden, or were herding people into buildings-
“Open the gate!” he yelled ahead at the few guards still on duty.
“My Royal Highness-” one of the guards tried to say.
“Grand Duke Benham has been assassinated,” Piitros snapped at them, pointing back towards the Court Hall. “And his assassin is escaping. Open. The. Gate.”
They let him through, and some went off to locate the Grand Duke’s body.
Piitros charged across the Palace Bridge, shoving through the abnormally crowded space between the City Gate Wall and the City Palace to burst into the City Plaza, seeing the Etsijaanoidat Office rising above him and the Artisan’s Union towards the river and the green copper roof and dark gray stone of Loki’s Temple on the bank by the Grand Bridge and the City Guard office going up in arms but not Heimrikh Asbjarn.
He dashed through the space between the Etsijaanoidat Office and the Artisan’s Union to look into the City Market, and people were pulling away from his swords and his green and gold and there were crowds here but Finnish etiquette was holding sway and the entire place was starting to focus on him, the deference and wait, they were all paying attention to him.
One of the overseers from the Currency Official’s office was more than happy to give up his small viewing platform to his Duke.
“I’m looking for the man who killed Grand Duke Benham!” Piitros called over the crowd, and a wail went up. He may have not quite fit at court, but to the Finnish people, the Grand Duke was even more beloved than their Grand Duchess. “A rich Byzantine named Heimrikh Asbjarn, a moderate telekinetic! He’s been slashed on his left side-”
“My-” was as far as the overseer whose place Piitros had taken got before Piitros turned in the direction the man was pointing, towards the Grand Bridge, and saw a distant figure hurrying towards the Raajokin Cemetery Isle. Piitros was off after him in a moment, without a thank-you, rushing for the bridge and howling furiously inside-
Why can’t I shift!
-
Doctor Conrad Conochvars had spent the night restless and unable to really sleep, and the morning since Heimrikh had left to finish his plan pacing, facing up to some very unpleasant truths.
Heimrikh would be captured, that he was sure of, whether he succeeded in the assassination or not. Even if the Palace Guard didn’t get him immediately, it would only be a matter of time. He himself, of course, would be under intense suspicion because of the association.
The inside of a Finnish cell in Revontulent Heikaal was sufficiently remote and secure, Conochvars reasoned. He could tell all there, where he’d be safe.
The Palace Guard rang the lockdown alarms at about the time Morning Court was to assemble, the stones of every edifice ringing rrahng-rrahng-rrahng and the air thrumming whumm-whumm-whumm, the doors slamming shut and melding with the walls. Conochvars was in the hallway at the time, and through the window saw Piitros Pirkkje go through the gate, armed with his uncle’s Sarmatian swords.
The Duke was alive, and running for the city with the Grand Duke’s swords-
Oh no.
Heimrikh, how can you always make a bad situation so much worse?he lamented to himself, and jumped through the window.
He landed in a shower of broken glass. The Palace Guards nearby stared at him, shocked, as they leveled weapons and powers- but Conochvars pushed through them, dashing across the paved area to scale the Inner Gate and run across the top of the wall, dropping off onto the Palace Bridge on the other side, scenting the air as he headed for the City Plaza.
The blood was easy to smell, the stronger scent of Heimrikh’s wound, the weaker the traces of his blood on the Grand Duke’s sword, mixed with the lingering traces of the serum from the spider, now almost fully absorbed into Piitros’s systems.
People in the City Plaza were falling over each other to get out of his way, and the City Guard were more interested in evacuating people than dealing with him, though he had to jump over a band who tried to stop him by the Artisan’s Union, and clamber on some of the cables supporting the Grand Bridge to stay away from them. The scent was leading him over the river and to the Cemetery Isle, right towards Sarmatia.
-
The Cemetery Isle wasn’t really an island. It was required that Finnish burial grounds be encircled by water and set apart from any living settlements- islands were ideal, but usually, this was accomplished by picking a large spot outside of town, digging a ditch around it, and filling it with water.
In Raajokin, the cemetery was the sole piece of Finnish-owned land on the east bank of the Raa river. Heimrikh was clutching at the statue to Sleipnir, gasping, trying to catch his breath as he stared down at the trench about a foot in front of him that connected the main body of the Raa on the west side of the cemetery to the inlet on the east side. This river-filled trench was the visible boundary between Finnish and Sarmatian lands.
No one, as far as Heimrikh could tell, had followed him successfully out of the palace; and if anyone had, they would have been good Finns and stopped in at Hela’s Temple to do the proper ritual purifications before they dared set foot in the cemetery-
“Heimrikh Asbjarn!”
It was the Duke.
Of course, of course, he cursed as he pushed himself forward, off the statue, to wade as quickly as possible through the trench. Of course the only Finn who would follow him through the cemetery without stopping for ritual and decorum would be the one who was most uncomfortable with it all, the one who couldn’t do it properly even when he tried! The one he was supposed to have killed!
The Sarmatian side of the river wasn’t bare, exactly, because the Finns had yearly logging rights in the fall to keep the approach to their city clear. It was in the best interests of the Finns and the Sarmatians to prevent anyone from trying to use the forest as trees for sneaking in- plus, the Finns got half the wood for their work and the right to a spring trade caravan through Sarmatian territory to Byzantium. It was a longstanding agreement, but it meant there was little cover.
There was movement at the top of one of the hills, a lone rider- Heimrikh gritted his teeth and told himself to ignore the newcomer. He’d already killed one Sarmatian today, and he could kill another, but only after he dealt with Piitros Pirkkje.
There was a copse of trees near the foot of the hill. If he could just get in it, and levitate himself up to a branch-
He’d left his stiletto in the room where the Grand Duke had died, and his gun was lost somewhere in the Diplomat’s Garden. But there was still his dirk, strapped under his court robes.
It would easy enough to drop on Piitros Pirkkje from above and slit his throat.
-
“Heimrikh Asbjarn!”
Piitros stumbled, not for the first time – the ground felt uneven under his feet, and every breath scraped harshly through his throat. He had been feeling better before, but now he felt terrible but Heimrikh was getting away and he had killed – killed –
He could just see him, up ahead, that murderer who thought that he could get away –
His feet kept sticking strangely as Piitros tried to stay upright he was going to kill him why couldn’t he SHIFT –
He couldn’t breathe the air warped strangely he was was was was was –
A flash of green –
I take care of my own.
Piitros blinked – or did he? He wasn’t certain that he had eyelids anymore, which meant that he had finally managed to shapeshift, but what was he? He had been trying for lethal, but the world was huge and
Heimrikh was right there and huge –
Piitros lashed out and bit – (and thought so I’m something that bites?)
He was tiny and had lots of legs and was – venomous?
The animal part of himself, the side that sprang up to help him with natural animal functions, flickered with toocoldthisplaceistoocold and something vicious like die but then –
Something slammed into his face –
And everything went black.
-
The trail Heimrikh and Piitros had left was easy enough to follow, but when Piitros’s abruptly ended at a tree, the Grand Duke’s swords embedded in a branch above, well-
It was logical for Conrad Conochvars to assume that he’d been too late. And he truly thought he had, for a moment, except that once he broke through the line of the copse of trees the Finns had left to grow and into the stand of saplings and broken-up stumps, he found Piitros again, lying sprawled half over the remains of maple tree and some crushed spruce saplings.
There was relief for half a moment, but then a telepathic shove that had him dancing for footing as Heimrikh yelled at him, threatening him with his father, with his past, with his work-
The whizz-thwock of an arrow embedding itself in his side was more important.
Conochvars caught the scent of horse and human and the fast dull vibrating th-thud of charging hooves and he avoided the Sarmatian’s sword, easy to do by sinking his teeth into the horse’s neck and letting his weight and momentum pull it down, off-balance, and the horse screamed and started to die, the hot blood simply right.
When he pulled himself free of the dead animal the horse’s rider was a bloody mess, first crushed by his mount, then torn up by tree remains and the tearing Conochvars had done to whatever flesh had been in his way.
Piitros was stirring; and Sarmatians were pouring over the hill ridgeline.