Chapter Seven
Cobetsnya Military Garrison 19
Cobetsnya, Kolakolvia
Illarion Glazkov
“I am shamed by the lot of you,” Yannic bellowed. “You say you are Kolakolvians, and yet, you act like fragile peasants from the countries we’ve conquered that don’t even have names anymore. I have one arm and can still lift more than most of you!”
The last week had been a barely intelligible mess of being screamed at, measured and remeasured, and having their strength and speed evaluated. One test had required them to be locked in a cramped metal box for several hours. It had been completely dark and unbearably hot inside, and the two recruits who had become overly emotional about the experience had been dismissed.
The platoon—down to forty-five in number after the disappearance of a boy named Tomas that night—had spent the entire morning hauling rocks of varying sizes from one side of a training yard to the other. The yard had trenches dug in it, along with obstacles to climb over and under, usually while carrying the rocks.
All the while, men with clipboards took notes on their progress.
Illarion’s arms ached from all the morning’s lifting. One of the evaluators had singled him out, asking him to stand as still as possible while holding a massive rock under each arm. He timed Illarion’s progress on a small pocket watch until the stones slipped from his numb limbs. Then Illarion had been dismissed with a wave of a hand to continue with the drill without any hint as to the purpose of the diversion.
Other recruits complained. They begged and pleaded for water and rest. Every time one voiced displeasure, the evaluators would make a note, but no respite was ever given.
Illarion wanted the same things they all wanted. His throat was parched. His muscles burned. His uniform was soaked with sweat and crusted with salt. Like the rest of the recruits, his hands and forearms were raw, cracked, and bleeding. But he never voiced any complaints. He didn’t know why the evaluators noted all the whiners, but he wasn’t about to have anything negative written about him if he could help it. He needed to be stronger. Solid like granite. It was the only way to put himself in a position to do as the Witch had said. Hana was counting on him. He didn’t want to let her down more than he already had with his disbelief.
The labor was easier for him than for the others. In the north, winter was merciless. So you had to work as hard as you could to get ready for it. While the weather allowed, you chopped wood and stored food, all while dealing with wolves, bears, and worst of all, moose. If you stopped or got lazy, come winter you’d freeze and starve. The old men of Ilyushka had always joked about how weak their southern countrymen were, but Illarion had never really believed them until now. So he always made sure he carried the most weight the furthest.
They’d worked until even the toughest among them was at the verge of collapse. Then thankfully a runner arrived to give Yannic a message, and he ordered them to return to Evaluation Room 17. Rocks dropped, the recruits had stumbled along, not given so much as a cup of water or a moment to rest.
There was an officer waiting for them there in the field outside the evaluation room. He was a small man, whom Illarion had never seen before. He was wearing a red armband, like the one he’d seen on his first day in Cobetsnya, on the men who had carried off the criminal they’d thrown out the window. Illarion was still learning what all the ranks and insignia symbolized, but he’d not dealt with any of this type of officer yet.
He did notice, however, that many of his fellow recruits suddenly looked afraid. It was odd, since everyone in the group was tall and physically powerful, while the new officer was short, with the unfortunate combination of thin limbs and a big belly that marked a truly weak man. His squishy face and pale complexion made Illarion think of a garden slug. Most of his comrades weren’t stupid though, so there had to be a reason they were so frightened by this one.
Once they were lined up, Yannic announced, “The rest of the evaluation platoon is present and accounted for, Commissar.”
“Thank you, Kapral Yannic.” The little man addressed the platoon. His voice carried with it a high-pitched whine with every word. Illarion disliked him instantly. “I am Commissar Bosko. It is my duty to observe the troops of the Wall, to make sure none of you are led astray by enemy propaganda, so you may remain always loyal to the Tsar. You may have noticed one of your number missing from training today. Do not fear. Tomas Ralikov is completely healthy, and no harm has come to him. Well, besides the beating we gave him after he got caught trying to desert while the rest of you were all snoring in your bunks. Luckily, this inexcusable behavior gives us what I call a teachable moment.”
Yannic waved his one hand, and two soldiers dragged the beaten and bloody form of Tomas into the empty field before Room 17. They dropped Tomas into the dirt, and one planted a boot between the recruit’s shoulder blades to keep him down.
“Deserters are a sickness.” Commissar Bosko walked over and spat on Tomas’ head. “A plague. Every deserter spawns two more, who spawn two more, and so on. Deserters crush the spirit of any army. But I refuse to let the Tsar’s army succumb to this sickness. Bring out the dogs!”
Illarion had never seen dogs so large before. They seemed nearly as big as the monster he’d fought in Ilyushka. Each of the two dogs were guided by four men, each holding a heavy chain fastened to a spiked collar around the beast’s neck. Dark and furry, they were beautiful animals in the way bears were. Illarion wasn’t altogether sure they didn’t have bear blood mixing in them.
“These dogs are each more valuable than the sorry lot of you.” Bosko pointed down at Tomas. “And certainly more valuable than him. But deserters do have purpose, plague though they are. You see, the Tsar’s war dogs do love the taste of meat. Have no fear, they won’t chase you down unless instructed to. Usually. We use them to hunt down fleeing enemy soldiers, and to clear trenches. They also are wonderful guards. But as you can see from their size, they require a lot of food. What say we feed them?”
The soldiers holding Tomas down moved quickly back, not quite able to hide anxious glances they gave the war dogs. Illarion noted they looked . . . pale.
For as large as they were, the beasts seemed remarkably tame. Almost bored. One of the two slumped down, eyes closed. The other sat on its haunches, absently looking around at the assembled audience as if it were confused why there were so many people around.
The lead handler—the V with inset star marked him as a Kapitan, like the man who had been at the recruiting table a week ago—calmly walked to each dog, scratched them under the chin, and unhooked the chains from their collars.
The instant the chains fell from the sitting dog, a low rumble began in its chest. Its ears slowly lifted, and its gaze fixed on Tomas. Illarion felt the hair on his arms stand on end.
“Notice how the handler doesn’t even have to speak.” Bosko himself had a soft voice. “You can’t count on sound in war. Gas and smoke can rob your voice. Gunfire and explosions can take your hearing. These animals can be directed with a simple touch.”
On cue, the handler tapped a quick pattern on the top of the sitting dog’s head.
It surged forward.
Tomas tried to run, at least Illarion assumed that was the recruit’s intention. Except he never even got to his feet before the massive dog clamped jaws around his thigh with a crunch. Tomas screamed in pain, and was flung bodily into the air, landing in front of the other dog, who still looked like it was trying to get in a quick nap.
Tomas tried to crawl, whimpering, oddly doglike himself.
The handler moved to the prone beast and tapped on its head.
It looked up at its master in what Illarion swore was a look of annoyance. The whole spectacle a bother. It huffed once, stood, and clamped its massive jaws over Tomas’ shoulder.
Then it shook.
In Ilyushka, many of the farmers had dogs. If they caught rats or any other small animal, they shook it until it was still. It was one thing to see a small animal shaken to death. It was another to see a grown man flung around like a child’s toy.
The dog swung its head back and forth in vicious, controlled movements while Tomas screamed. Illarion’s distant mind wondered if this was how he himself had looked when the monster in his mill had bitten and thrown him across the building. Illarion reached up to rub his shoulder where the mass of scars were hid by the uniform. As the shaking continued, the other dog was sitting again, watching intently, the handler back by its side absently scratching it behind the ear.
With a pop, and a wet tearing sound, Tomas was thrown free. He landed in a heap in front of the assembled recruits, somehow still alive. It took Illarion a few seconds to process the scene. Something seemed different.
A snapping sound pulled Illarion’s eyes back to the dog. It had Tomas’ arm in its jaws, crunching at it.
The recruit next to Illarion—a bearded young man named Boris—doubled over and vomited. Several other recruits looked like they were on the verge as well. To Illarion, it all seemed a bizarre dream, not unlike his experience with the Witch. Vivid, yet detached from reality.
The other dog padded over, took Tomas’ neck in its mouth, and bit down until there was an audible snap. Tomas went limp, which was probably for the best since the dog took its turn shaking the corpse. A streak of blood hit Illarion across the side of his face. He reached up to wipe it away, but noticed Yannic shaking his head slowly, eyes intense. Illarion clasped his hands behind his back.
The principal handler stood off to the side with his subordinates, patiently waiting for the two dogs to finish eating. No one said a word, and so the only sound was the ripping of flesh, and the crunching of bone. One of the dogs began rolling Tomas’ head around like a child’s ball, pausing occasionally to chew on it.
Commissar Bosko seemed to be enjoying the display.
After a few savage minutes, the dogs either were full or had grown bored, and both flopped to the ground. The handler waited a bit longer, then motioned his subordinates forward. One of the war dogs looked up at the handler, tongue lolling, a regular dog’s grin splitting its maw. The handler scratched behind the beast’s ears and patted the top of its massive head. When the chains were reconnected, they led the animals away, leaving the yard empty but for the mess of Tomas’ remains. What little of them were left.
“This was your fault,” Bosko told the platoon. “Had you been aware of your fellow soldier’s state of mind, you could have prevented all this. I am supremely disappointed in you all. You have all failed. Normally, I’d have the authority to send you all to the trenches for such a gross act of negligence. But you are in luck. We lost more soldiers than expected along the front this month, and we are in immediate need of replacements. You all fit the needed physical measurements. So, congratulations. You have all been granted the privilege of being assigned to the Wall.”
“There are still evaluations to conduct—” Yannic started, and then caught himself when the commissar scowled at him. “But the Tsar’s will shall be done. Tomorrow we will find which objects they are compatible with and begin training them on the suits.”
Illarion had no idea what Yannic was going on about. He still didn’t know what the Wall actually did, and no one would tell him. The other recruits, when asked, thought he was joking, and he was too exhausted in their limited free time to push the subject.
“Excellent,” Bosko said as he checked his pocket watch. “Your platoon is to report to the mess for your assigned meal in thirty minutes. Should you miss your time, you will do without. However, you cannot attend your meal until you have cleaned this yard of the deserter’s remains. I do not wish to see so much as a drop of this traitor’s blood staining the blessed soil of the Tsar’s city. I suggest you get moving if you do not wish to go hungry.”
Long after the other recruits were asleep, Illarion stared up at the ceiling, wide awake in spite of his exhaustion. Snoring from the neighboring bunk finally grew to a point where it was beyond an annoyance, and he pushed himself up and let himself out of their assigned quarters. He sat on the barrack’s steps. To go further would risk drawing the attention of one of the posted sentries.
The night was clear, with just enough bite to remind him of home. It was good to be alone for once. To have his thoughts to himself. To have time to grieve, a minute here and a minute there. Tears no longer choked him. He was beyond those now. Illarion simply felt hollow. Empty. Like a piece of his soul had been stolen. No, not stolen. Murdered. Massacred. Blood sprayed and bones scattered. With that emptiness again came the ever-present guilt.
I need to do better, he thought. I need to be . . . more.
The military district was on a hill; so much of Cobetsnya was visible from here. Though much of the place was in shadows, there were areas which were startlingly well lit by the Tsar’s marvelous new glass lamps. Though Illarion had not seen one of the lights up close himself yet—the part of the military district he was assigned to ran on good old reliable whale oil—he had been told that the Tsar’s lights and machines were powered by a new force called electricity, which traveled across the city through the humming wires he’d seen strung from tall poles.
He shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold. He looked first to his left, then his right, and finally spotted it. The raven was perched on a nearby roof. The Witch’s spy. She was always watching.
Illarion stared at the bird. What would happen if she thought he wasn’t serving well enough? Would she strike him down? That seemed too direct. Would she allow the other Sister to murder him with her unnatural creatures, like she had his village? He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. He was going to take his vengeance. Whatever was asked of him here in Cobetsnya, he would do it.
A whiff of tobacco smoke announced the approaching man before he was visible. Yannic appeared from around the corner of the barracks, cigarette dangling from his lips. He stopped when he saw Illarion, looked him up and down, then held out the cigarette to Illarion, who shook his head.
“For a moment there, I wondered if you were going to run,” Yannic said after a puff on the cigarette. He looked down at the glowing end of it, considering. “You’re not going to make me feed you to the dogs, are you?”
“No, Kapral. I’m no deserter.”
“Good. It would be a waste. You might be my least stupid recruit. Why are you out here?”
“Can’t sleep.”
“Am I not working you hard enough? Believe me, I can make it tougher.”
“No, Kapral. My body is exhausted. It’s my thoughts that are keeping me up.”
“I get it. I suggest you get back in there and get some rest, though. It’s just going to get worse from here on. I don’t just mean the training—though that’ll get harder too.”
“What’s harder than this?”
“The war itself, Glazkov.” Surprisingly enough, the Kapral sat down next to him on the steps. For a moment, Yannic wasn’t the angry instructor, but just a tired cripple, tasked with being endlessly cruel to recruits he wasn’t much older than. “The Wall used to do monthlong evaluations, weeding out all but the most suitable, followed by half a year of training before sending them to the front. Now? We can’t afford to do that. We can’t afford to lose even an inch out there. I’ll let you in on a secret. Your first battle will make you wish you were back here lifting rocks. You think the dogs killing Ralikov was bad? That was nothing. That was humane in comparison to the front. And we need to get you all into it as soon as possible.”
“Is that why you don’t sleep now?”
“Getting my arm torn off wasn’t even close to the worst thing I experienced at the front. For me it was the corpse eaters.” Yannic shuddered.
Illarion had heard stories about ghouls. “Those are real?”
“Very real. Violent death attracts them and other things. That’s the real reason we cleaned up all traces of Tomas’ corpse so fast. There are monsters that prowl the battlefield that defy all rational description. The violence out there gets so bad sometimes that it causes a blood storm. It’s not what you think. Blood doesn’t fly around like rain. Whatever you’re imagining, it’s worse.”
Illarion wouldn’t bet on that, but he wouldn’t disagree with his instructor either.
“Civilization banished the old races, but I think they’re still on the fringes, watching. They get lured in by the fury, by the carnage, so sometimes they join in our battles. When their creatures show up, that’s about the only thing that gets us and the Almacians to stop fighting for a bit . . . Well, that and sufficiently bad weather.” Yannic exhaled a long plume of smoke. “But when the monsters come, it’s better to be serving in the Wall, than some poor fool huddled in a trench, helpless. We get more freedom than the regular troops, more food, more privileges. The Wall is the Tsar’s best unit. Our armor is the Chancellor’s greatest invention and Kolakolvia’s mightiest weapon. We soldiers can be replaced. Our suits? Not so much.”
“Suits?”
Yannic started to laugh, then shut his mouth with a click. “You really don’t know, do you?”
Illarion shook his head. His time here had been a daze of toil and grief. The others talked, but he barely listened. He was training, but he didn’t really understand what for.
“How can you not? They tell stories about the Wall. They sing songs. They put us on posters!”
“Sorry, Kapral. My village was very far away from everything.”
Yannic stood up. “Then you are in for a treat tomorrow. The Wall is . . . impressive. The first time I saw the suits, I was blown away. And the first time I was inside one? There isn’t anything else like it. You need to see for yourself.” He held his hand down to help Illarion up, then gave him a shove in the direction of the barracks. “Get some sleep. Ignore the snores. Tomorrow will be a day you won’t ever forget.”
“When they call your name, you will go through that gate, one at a time,” Kapral Yannic told the assembled platoon. “Do not speak unless spoken to. Do exactly what you are asked, and nothing more. This is the last instruction I will give you. I have more idiots to evaluate, and I’m sick of you all.”
Illarion exchanged a quick look with the only girl among the recruits. Her name was Svetlana Nulina. His earliest impression of her had been remarkably accurate. She was indeed a blacksmith by trade. When her sickly younger brother had turned eighteen, the commissars had said her family still owed the Tsar a conscript regardless of health, so she’d volunteered in his place. Svetlana usually wore a brave mask, and she worked as hard as any of the others, but even she couldn’t hide her nerves. Worry. Excitement. Terror. Anticipation. Illarion recognized them all as they flashed across her face because they mirrored his own emotions.
They had never been to this part of the military district before. Illarion didn’t know what was on the other side of the fence. The gate opened and a man walked out. Illarion recognized him as the tough old soldier he had met during his enlistment.
Kapral Yannic saluted him. “Good morning, Kapitan Spartok.”
“Good to see you again, Yannic. What’ve you got for me this time?”
“Just this sorry bunch. Only half of them would’ve met the standards when you trained me, but in the army’s infinite wisdom, these meet all current criteria.”
“Thank you, Kapral.” The officer turned to address the recruits. “I am Kapitan Maxim Vladimirovich Spartok, commanding officer of 1st Company of Special Regiment One, commonly called the Wall. I do not belong in this city. I do not like it here. The war is that direction.” He nodded toward the west. “1st Company is only here temporarily because many of our Objects required refit and repair by the Chancellor’s specialists, who are too important to be put anywhere near where the bullets are flying. When their work is done, 1st Company will be returning to the front. Should you be found worthy, you will be assigned to one of the platoons under my command and go with us. Until then, I will oversee the rest of your training. See you on the other side.”
And with that, the Kapitan walked away.
“I have a last piece of advice,” Yannic’s voice lowered. “Listen to your officers very carefully and do exactly as directed. They have a far lower tolerance for foolishness than I do. If you keep that in mind, you might actually live to see the war. Otherwise, they’ll be burying you in the same pit we threw Ralikov’s pieces into. You are no longer my problem. Farewell.”
Then Yannic left them standing there, waiting.
A name was called. A recruit went through the gate. A few minutes passed, and then they called another. But the first didn’t return. A half an hour later they called another. Again, that one didn’t return. The rest of them couldn’t see or hear what was happening on the other side of the log fence.
Eventually boredom took hold of Illarion, washing away any of the prior feelings of anxiety. It was just another line to another room for another examination. All he’d heard since arriving in Cobetsnya was how strong the Tsar’s army was. How it was a giant machine that would conquer all of Novimir. To Illarion, the Tsar’s army was little more than people being rushed into lines where they waited for eternities to be told to go stand in a different line.
As the hours passed the group got smaller.
The next time the gate opened, a soldier stuck his head out. “Recruit Glazkov, enter.”
Three words, and all the apprehension flooded back.
There was a big training ground on the other side of the fence. When he walked through the gate, the setting sun was directly in his eyes, so he held up a hand to offer the smallest bit of shade to his already poor eyesight.
And then he saw them.
The indistinct blobs of color resolved into humanoid forms as he walked closer. Suddenly he knew what these had to be.
Golems.
Even though they’d probably never see one in person, every child in Kolakolvia knew what a golem was. They were the summoned beasts of the Prajan magicians. Giants made of earth, stone, and wood, they were spoken of as monsters and protectors, both. Fifteen feet tall. Twenty feet tall. Thirty. It all depended on who told the story, and the story’s purpose. But one thing every tale agreed on: golems were capable of destruction unlike anything else in the world. These were tiny in comparison to the stories, only ten feet tall, but that was still terrifying.
Illarion walked closer, inexplicably drawn toward the awe-inspiring things. The reality of the situation crashed into him. A line of golems. Ten total. Except . . .
Except these weren’t actually golems.
The closer he got the more details resolved. Shaped steel and leather. Articulated joints. Giant numbers were stenciled onto the breast of the figure, and onto the broad shoulders. When he looked to the right, he could see the back of the next one in line was splayed open on hinges. Inside was a space big enough for a man to crawl in.
Suits, he realized. This is what Yannic meant.
Illarion felt the smile split his face. The first true, unhesitating, undiminished smile since his family and village had been massacred.
Suits meant you wore them.
He looked up into the face of the armor and saw embedded in the forehead a single letter. It looked a bit like some of the runes on the stones north of his village. What the symbol meant he had no idea. But the symbol seemed to shine with a strange blue light. The memory of the Witch scrawling something on his forehead flashed quickly in his mind, before a familiar voice said his name.
“Illarion Glazkov. Age . . . eighteen. Village of Ilyushka. I’ll handle this evaluation myself.”
Illarion’s attention was pulled from the golem thing, and he realized Kapitan Spartok had walked up to stand next to him. He’d been so fascinated by the suits that he’d not even noticed the many observers here. Illarion started to talk, but just as quickly remembered Yannic’s words about keeping his mouth shut.
“Glad to see you didn’t die or desert,” the Kapitan said. “This is Special Object 53 of the Wall. Now, I require you to place your hand on the chest plate of the armor. It may move a little. That’s fine. It’s expected. It’s what we need. These particular objects have been temporarily sent back from the front for refit and repair. So we’re checking for your resonance with each of them for potential assignment to its crew. You may have some resonance with several of the objects, or just one. Or maybe none at all. No resonance won’t get you sent to the trenches, it just limits how well you can work a suit. You follow all that?”
“Yes, sir.” Which was a lie, but it wasn’t the first he’d told to the Kapitan. What in the Sister’s hell is “resonance”?
“Good. Put your hand on it.”
The machine towered over him, dangerous and powerful. Palm outstretched, Illarion reached forward slowly, but then hesitated, as he had a fleeting vision of the artificial man reaching down, grabbing him, and throwing him against the wall to make a crimson smear.
“It isn’t going to do anything. Put your hand on it. I don’t have all day.”
Illarion took a breath and pressed his hand against the cold steel.
Nothing happened.
He started to move his hand away when Spartok said, “Not yet. Give it a moment.”
A cool tingling started up in the center of his hand, and on his fingertips. It spread up his arm, to his neck, and down into his chest. In the back of his mind, Illarion could almost swear he heard a voice whispering. A grinding sound made him look up into the face of the suit again, only now it was looking back down at him.
“Well, that’s a strong reaction on Object 53.” Spartok looked toward another soldier to make sure he was recording the results in a notebook. “Let’s continue down the line.”
They moved on to the next suit, and like before, Illarion pressed his hand to the breastplate. After approximately the same time as before, the suit’s head tilted down at him.
“Huh. Strong reaction on Object 141 as well. I’ve got to say the chances of you resonating strongly with one of the suits is rare. Two? Rarer still. We need to test you on all the rest still, but if you are getting this reaction from the first two, I’m betting we’ll see similar results with the rest. Which is great for me. Gives me some flexibility. Go on. Keep at it.”
One by one they went down the row of suits, and one by one the suits all had the same strong reaction to Illarion’s touch. Then they reached the final suit.
“I have to say, Glazkov, I’m almost impressed. Almost. Providing you don’t screw up anything in the rest of your training, you’re pretty much a lock for a crew slot. Let’s see how Object 12 treats you.”
The suits all looked the same, but the suit with the 12 painted on it somehow seemed more imposing than the others. It loomed over him, almost feeling like it cast a longer shadow.
Illarion placed his hand on the giant armored chest. Immediately, the head turned to look at him, and the whispering he’d been hearing elevated in volume. The suddenness of it startled him, and he raised his left hand in front of himself in pure reflex.
Metal joints creaked as Object 12’s hand mimicked the motion.
When Illarion lowered his arm, so did the suit.
Spartok whistled, obviously impressed. “Now that’s something I haven’t seen in years. Object 12 it is.”
Something in the Kapitan’s voice made Illarion nervous. Maybe it was the way he said it. His tone, perhaps. But it was enough to make Illarion forget Yannic’s advice to keep his mouth shut. “Is that bad, sir?”
“Don’t worry, it’s nothing. Object 12 has a bit of a history is all. More than a few soldiers have died in it. More than the other suits, on average . . . by a large margin. They say it’s haunted. I’m sure it’s all superstition. I certainly don’t believe in that sort of thing. Likely the soldiers assigned to this suit were just piss-poor examples of the Tsar’s army.”
A lot of words from the Kapitan, and not a single one of them made Illarion feel any better.
He was ushered from the field into a small building on the opposite side. Where he was greeted by an old woman wearing an apron. She looked him up and down, then pointed to a chair. Her expression didn’t have any room for questions much less an argument, so Illarion sat, and wondered what was going on.
When she produced a pair of wool shears, he understood.
“But—”
She silenced him. “No hair. Regulations for those serving in the Wall. Don’t want you to catch fire.”
Catch fire?
The door from the courtyard opened again, and Svetlana Nulina was pushed through the door. Her long, golden hair formed a halo around her face. She looked from the shears in the old woman’s hand to Illarion, then one of her hands strayed up to touch her own locks.
“Ladies first,” the old woman said, then slapped Illarion across the back of the head so he would move.
Tears leaked from Svetlana’s eyes as the first strands of her hair fell around her. By the time the old woman was done, Svetlana’s halo lay broken around her. Her tears were gone, replaced by cold anger. Blood beaded and dripped where the shears had pulled or cut the scalp.
Illarion wanted to say something. Anything. But no words came. When his fellow recruit walked by him, her feet shuffling like she was still in some sort of dream—or nightmare—he reached out and caught ahold of her wrist and gently squeezed.
Svetlana stopped, and leaned against him, forehead resting on his shoulder. She didn’t weep, but she shuddered, as if holding in all the sorrow. Forging it into anger. One deep breath later, she straightened and walked out of the room.
Illarion knew they would never speak of that moment again.
He was alright with that.