Page 26 of Swords of Soul and Shadow (Gate Chronicles #3)

He nodded. “My mother’s asked me to come home for at least a week of it. As if there’s anywhere else I’d like to see.”

Aurelia Shackley wasn’t his real mother, but she insisted he call her as such. He supposed it was nice.

Ezekiel paused, waiting for him to catch up. He slung an arm around his shoulder. “What if you come round for dinner at the townhouse? Get away from that stuffy old manor for a bit?”

“I don’t need your pity.”

“Course you don’t, but Rose dearly wants to meet the man who’s kept me sane the last few years.

I might even persuade Lessie to join us.

She’d be coming to the capital soon anyway with winter upon us.

I’m determined to see to it that she finds some suitor to put up with her at last. ‘Twas old Pa’s dying wish, may his soul rest among the stars.

I could use some assistance in that endeavor.

” Ezekiel shot Harlan a quick glance before letting his arm fall back to his side.

“Besides, this is the first time we’ve earned leave at the same time. Humor me.”

According to his friend, the Lady Celeste Fairchild was rather opinionated and scholarly, two traits which had put off two betrothals in kind. Harlan was unsure how his presence was supposed to solve either of those issues.

Judging by the stories he’d heard, he had an inkling that the Lady Celeste was running off potential suitors on purpose. But that didn’t mean he wanted to be her next target.

Still, he owed his friend at least a cordial acceptance. Surely he could figure a way out of it before the time came.

What else did he have to do on his leave? Sit in Shackley Manor with his adoptive mother and avoid all conversation relating to the daily life of a military surgeon? That left them with precious little to talk about.

“Fine. But none of your silly card games after dinner. I refuse to trounce you in front of your wife. It’d be rude.”

Ezekiel just laughed. “No worries about that. She destroys me at Stars and Blasts every chance she can.”

“Merciless.”

“It’s why I married her. And bless her, but she hasn’t lost any of her skill in the years since.”

Ezekiel dug in his pocket and pulled out a small leather wallet, flashing the tiny portrait of his sleeping twin boys as if he hadn’t shown them to Harlan a dozen times before. “Still can’t believe they’re nearly five now.”

His voice took on that melancholy tone that came over him whenever the influence of drink and talk about his family mixed. Harlan coughed to fill the awkward space and put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Didn’t you get to see them last year around the holidays?”

Ezekiel put away the portrait. “No amount of leave can make up for the fact that I’m missing them grow up.”

“Well, then, it’s a good thing you only have a year of service left, isn’t it?”

His friend smiled, his good humor returning. “And then maybe I’ll get around to making your life easier out here.”

“I’d expect no less.”

The camp came into view. The rows of tents were like wayward autumn leaves.

No wonder the Cerls were gaining ground.

The military had grown lax in recent years, drunk on their victories and false peace.

Harlan focused on finding his own tent. He might be able to sleep a little if he kept his mind fixed on their upcoming leave, not on the events of the day.

Amputations always stayed with him a little longer.

Ezekiel bid him goodnight before heading to his own tent another scattered row over. As Harlan entered his nearly barren living space, he focused firmly on the future.

It would truly be nice to get away from the stench of death and blood for three weeks.

It was the longest stretch of leave he’d earned at once since he’d joined up nearly thirteen years prior.

Part of him worried Major Gibbons wouldn’t be up to the task of managing the patients without him, but Harlan forced himself not to dwell on that. That was not his problem. Yet.

Harlan loosened the buttons on his jacket, spent a quarter-hour cleaning the stains on the sleeves that had been exposed over his apron, and laid it neatly across his trunk.

The whiskey still buzzed in his veins, and his stomach swam as he settled on his cot, staring up at the blank canvas above him.

He’d take a quick break, then get to cleaning his weapons.

Three whole weeks in the capital. He’d be glad to eat fresh food that didn’t taste like tree bark.

His mother would make sure he ate a few meals consisting of chicken pot pie, a favorite of his.

It’d been too long since he’d had a good one.

Of course, he had a small apartment in the nicer part of the lower city that afforded him a little comfort, but it was rather sparse.

He was hardly ever home. No time to accumulate unnecessary knick-knacks and baubles just to decorate a dusty, rarely seen shelf.

Part of him was jealous of Ezekiel. He had a family to go home to, even if it was difficult to be away from them. It was different for Harlan.

Maybe if he’d married, he would want to go home.

In a society that prided itself in marrying young, he was an oddity.

At thirty years of age, he had yet to have any interest in that aspect of life.

Carleton hadn’t drawn up a customary betrothal contract when he’d become of age on account of his military career; he’d always said Harlan would have his pick later.

Harlan didn’t feel inclined to pick at all. He was a good soldier, a good medic. Why add any distractions when he could make a name for himself without feeling like he needed to hold back for the sake of a wife and kids? Why would he willingly sign up for the burden Ezekiel carried every day?

Harlan was free.

So why didn’t he feel better about that?

He smoothed the mustache he’d begun to grow the last week. The whiskers were rough under his fingers. His real father had always worn a long, full beard—a commonality in Ravenhelm. Life was too short for miners, so why waste the time on shaving?

His heart twinged. The Cerls had taken that all away.

Shocks, he shouldn’t have drunk any of that blasted whiskey. It made him feel things.

If only he could be out on the battlefield fighting, he could find a way to get rid of the guilt plaguing him once and for all—whether that be in death or in victory.

Through the buzz, he felt a headache coming on, a reminder of his time in the mines.

The Fogs could force him out of service early if the condition progressed too rapidly.

It might mean an early death like it had for so many of those he’d known.

But even if it struck in full force tomorrow, how could he leave Ezekiel behind?

Harlan shut his eyes and pushed out a sigh. Ezekiel was the greatest friend any man could have, yet for some reason he’d chosen Harlan to follow around the last few years, but that’s not what bothered him.

Harlan had no family, and the family he’d had way back when had been the kind where no one really loved each other at all. Michael had been the only one he’d truly cared about.

Harlan’s chest ached again. Michael. He tried his best not to think of his brother, of his last few moments here on Yalvara. He’d been ten. Ten years old. A child.

Stars, what kind of man would he have been today? Who would Harlan have been? Completely mad from the Fogs? Or…or…

He forced himself to rise and finish cleaning the uniform before moving to the weapons.

The monotony kept his hands busy. If he concentrated enough on the task at hand, he could will away the alcohol and the feelings that accompanied it.

His headache never grew worse, only waited at the edges. A small mercy.

After he finished his chores, he fell heavily onto his cot and turned off the gas lantern.

As the darkness grew, the only light coming from nearby tents or an odd cookfire painting the side of the canvas wall, he forced himself to relax and focus on anything but his past.