Martha leaves again and the doctor sets my ankle with a cloth binding, then prepares the ritual. For all the money our country has poured into the restoration school of magic, they still have not developed a less-cheesy way to heal injuries. Surely, one could develop a spell that does not require five minutes of nonsense chanting and goofy hand signs. If not for the glowing sparks of arcane energy that spiral along the surface of my skin, I would think the doctor is an absolute lunatic and not actually doing anything. Still, even with the light show, the ritual is just long enough to generate second-hand embarrassment. With little else to do, I pass a glance to Thorunn. He is trying valiantly not to burst into laughter. Fortunately, the doctor is too deep into his chanting to notice the exchange.
Once he is done, the doctor wraps my ankle in another layer of stiffer gauze and gives me instructions on how to care for the injury. I can walk slowly on it, but not far or for long, and should shift weight off of it with a cane whenever possible. For now, rest is the best medicine. When I attempt to stand, the pain is almost gone, but the bandages make my foot heavy and difficult to maneuver. My whole leg feels as if it is fragile, made of glass, ready to shatter at any moment. Thorunn offers to carry me back to my chambers. I insist on walking, though lean on him quite heavily for support anyway.
I especially need his help getting down the stairs. Otherwise, I am fully aware of the scandalous connotations of an unmarried woman inviting a man into her bedchambers. The junior clerks’ very quarters reflect this: they are separated by sex, with Laurie’s and Nigel’s rooms housed on the first floor, and mine and the girls’ rooms housed on the basement floor, with garden level windows for light and fresh air. My room here hardly compares to my second-story room on Lavendel Road, though I have done my best to make it comfortable. Even though the winter is quickly rolling in, I intend to leave my window open until it starts to snow. It is open now as Thorunn helps me limp to my bed. After getting me settled, he turns to the garden-level window.
“Should I close this, my lady?” he asks.
“No, thank you,” I respond. “The furnace is nearby. It gets too warm.”
He raises an eyebrow. “The people of this country normally like the warmth. Not you?”
How funny is fate, daring to remind me of my seafaring days with my accursed cart ride before posing such a question. The truth is that I used to hate the cold as much as any native of Saol Eile, but cold is such a constant on the high seas that its presence is more like that of an old friend.
“I don’t mind the cold,” I tell him. “Cold invites comfort. It compels one to dress in one’s softest furs, to sit beside a fire, to hold a mug of warm tea in both hands. Unlike heat, which offers no respite, besides to pray for different weather.”
Thorunn is of a seafaring people, who spend many months of the year in primitive wooden boats and call a savage tundra of eternal frost their beloved home. He smiles in understanding. “Indeed. Fortunately, I am due to return home during your next summer. I fear I would melt.”
“Have you been here for very long?” I ask.
“Only since…” A sheepish grin, and he rubs the back of his neck. “Well, since the day I trampled you underfoot!”
Inadvertently, I laugh. “Oh, of course. How could I ever forget?”
“Please, my lady, don’t ever forget, or forgive,” he replies. “Gods, for such a crime, I am shocked that you would not have me hanged—trampling an innocent woman on my first day in your city! I will be in your debt until my dying day, I swear it.” He steps forward, as if to reach for my hand, but quickly stops himself. Then he averts his gaze. “I am sorry. I should leave you to rest.”
That would be the wise call, given the circumstances. We are alone down here, and I do not know when the girls will return from their shifts, or if Martha may decide to suddenly check up on me. Catching me alone with a man would be all the more reason to upset her. And, of course, there is the everpresent tension of the ribbon around my neck. It does much more than hide my scar; it only serves to continuously remind me of its cause. When I swallow, it tightens in a warning. Remember what he did. You are courting death, Eloise.
But what if…?
“Would you like to get dinner?” I blurt. “Or…something. I know you’ve said that you are in my debt, but you have been so very kind to me, so…if it would be quite alright, I would like to get to know you.”
It is not my most eloquent moment. But I am nervous. I have never asked anyone out before. A Saelic man would certainly decline, as it is improper for the woman to make the first move, but if I recall correctly, the northern tribes are less formal in that regard. To my relief, he nods, a delighted grin on his face. His smile is, oddly, more befitting a flustered teenager than the jarl of a powerful warrior tribe.
“Yes,” he exhales. “I—I’d like that very much.”
Once he leaves, I go to my desk and sit at my trusty typewriter. I compare notes. I have not forgotten what he did. But reviewing my memory, nothing in Thorunn’s behavior suggests he performed his task with no animus against me or my mother. It was a job for him, a particularly bloody job, but a job. He did not know me then. It wasn’t personal. So in this life, there may yet be a chance to immunize myself against this particular fate. Of course, I do not suppose that shielding myself against death will be any simple task. But I may yet seduce the reaper, and when my time comes, perhaps he may refuse to play his part.
MEMORANDUM
TO: Eloise Odric
FROM: Eloise Odric
RE: Regression Returns Strategy, revision 2
DATE: November 11, 489 AR
I have not decided to what extent Thorunn will play into my original plan of exploiting my position of knowledge to sabotaging Prince Edgar’s wealth, growing rich, and fleeing the country. But, despite holding little actual faith in fate or the gods, I am tempted to think that they have placed him here in my second life for a reason.
The vagabonds of the North are mercenaries. Their desolate homeland is scarce for any natural resources besides lumber, coal, and iron, so they build mighty ships to pirate and pillage the surrounding countries. In more modern, civilized times, their loyalty can be bought at a price. If, in my past life, Prince Edgar had one of their Jarls — equivalent in status to a count or duke — working in his court as his personal lapdog, this clues me in to the vast quantity of wealth at his disposal.
What it also tells me is which side of the civil war actually WON. True, the war ended with a prince on the throne. But historically, the Crown has been vehemently against the hiring of mercenaries to win their wars. Something about the principle of the thing; Saelic soldiers being more honorable, or some bullshit. Currently, Thorunn’s presence in the palace is for allegedly diplomatic relations, possibly in setting up trade and supply routes, which I vaguely recall as a goal of the Northern tribes in my past life. His presence had to have been turned hostile by another force outside of the palace, seizing the opportunity to gain his alliance.
Unlike the Crown, the dissident nobles have no qualms about hired blades. They have massive stores of wealth, which they obtained in similar methods to the one I employ in this strategy — buying low, selling high, reinvesting, doing it all over again until they have literally more obols than they will ever spend. Flush with cash and without the backing of the Saelic armies, the only way they could win a war is with politics, peasants’ riots, and paid soldiers.
Would the Crown pay good money to a respected diplomat just to have a scarier executioner? I think not. Thorunn was bought and paid for by the dissidents. Based on the timeline of events, I doubt this contract has been signed yet, nor will it be for several years. But it will happen someday. And based on Thorunn’s willing presence in Edgar’s court, I realize that Edgar must have been bought and paid for too. The dissident nobles won the war and placed Edgar on the throne as a proxy. A message, perhaps, to any Saelic citizen still unconvinced of the victors’ political platform, a facade of maintaining the status quo. “See? Your tax money is safe with us. We are endorsed by your beloved crown!”
I do not intend to take sides in the civil war. If I do not escape Saol Eile before the war blossoms into full force, I will take a side only if it serves me. For now, before the war has even begun, it serves me to gain the favor of Thorunn. At best, I gain an ally and a pair of eyes inside King Edwin III’s court. At worst . . .
I suppose sawing my head off is the worst possible outcome. So, at the very least, I will know what to expect.