Summary: In which Ivan has a bad day that only gets worse
Today is a bad day. A very bad day. Arguably the worst in a long line of not good days Ivan had had to live through and it was all because of her. The Girl. The one who has turned his orderly world upside-down, inside out and then spun it round just for good measure.
It all started going down hill three months ago when the General started acting oddly, like he was distracted by something. As the days passed, the General's distraction increased. For a normally calm and collected man whose self-control was legendary he seemed inexplicably nervous and on edge. And it wasn't just him who noticed. The Oprichniki guards were concerned about the aberrant behaviour as well, they whispered about similar behaviour several years before when he spent most of the year at the Little Palace, they muttered about odd questions and mood swings, they talked about his strange disappearances into the lower streets of Os Alta.
As the days turned into months, more people started to notice and comment. There were whispers of stress, that the endless war was taking its toll on him, and a burgeoning worry that he might be going mad – like his infamous ancestor. The General took to going for long walks and staring out at the Unsea, sometimes with his guards but most often without them, it seemed to calm him and when he returned he was usually more focussed and looked more like his usual self.
Then one day he came storming back in a towering rage, snapping at anyone who had the misfortune to be in the vicinity. Ominous black shadows rising around him like a vengeful cloak, as he secretes himself in the Command tent with a shouted order not to be disturbed.
Then the letters started. Multiple letters. Entrusted to Ivan by a clearly sleep deprived General who instructs him to find a girl, an Otkazat'sya girl, by the name of Starkov. It takes hours to find the girl and when he does Ivan is decidedly unimpressed. She is a slight thing. Young, even by First Army standards, with a bold stare and a group of less than inspiring associates she doubtless calls her friends.
What interest the General of the Second Army could have in such a girl is a mystery to Ivan, one that plays on his mind as the number of letters from the General grow in frequency and length without so much as a response from the recipient. The girl herself is belligerent and disinclined to read the first few missives and Ivan thinks she would likely have cast them into the nearby fire if he had not refused to move until she had finished them.
The girl's attitude does nothing to endear her to Ivan, particularly as after the first letter she takes to hiding in out of the way places, thereby making his job that much harder and far more time consuming.
Finally, after three interminable days – in which Army life appears to have stopped for the General – some sort of resolution is reached. How this came about, Ivan has no idea as he was not invited to that meeting (despite it being his actual job to attend all meetings with the General) and he hopes that life will now return to some semblance of normalcy.
It is not to be. If anything, things now get worse, for Ivan at least. While the General is now calmer – and saner - than he has been in months and Army life is as it usually is, those blasted letters have not stopped and for reasons that he can't understand the General has decided that Ivan should be granted a starring role in the ensuing drama.
Instead of getting on with his important work, Ivan has somehow ended up playing messenger boy and now spends most of days running endless notes back and forwards between the pair, which has the added joy of meaning that Ivan's usual paperwork is piling up. At the last measure, the stack of not-yet-got-to-papers was over three feet tall and had annexed the neighbouring desk as an overflow storage area.
It doesn't help that Fedyor far from commiserating with Ivan instead finds the whole situation hilariously funny and seems to get some perverse satisfaction from speculating about what he claims is a burgeoning romance. Yesterday, Fedyor's contribution to the ongoing insanity that had become life in Kribirsk, was to ask Ivan if the General sealed the letters with a loving kiss before swanning off, leaving a disgusted Ivan to stare in horror at the latest missive wondering if it was safe to touch or if he should be wearing a pair of those gloves Alkemi's used when handling toxic substances.
After months of this, Ivan would be forgiven for thinking that at least he had hit rock bottom and his life was unlikely to get any worse.
He is about to be proved wrong.
Ivan's bad day started the way most really-not-good-days start – with a lack of caffeine. Someone had misappropriated – stolen – his stash.
You would think that in an army encampment the size of Kribirsk that this would be an easy thing to rectify. Afterall, an army might march on its stomach, but caffeine is what gets it out of bed and facing the right direction.
You would be wrong.
Ivan is no mere supplicant at the caffeine alter. He is a high priest, a devoted acolyte, a connoisseur of the first order. General Kirigan himself signs the requisition orders for Ivan's preferred blend. Whilst this might seem unusually kind and considerate of the notoriously hard hearted Black General, it is in fact enlightened self-interest. Ivan without caffeine is like the Kirigan without his closely guarded sweet stash, a nightmare of unimaginable proportions that could result in the accidental destruction of a large percentage of Ravka.
The last time Ivan was without his special blend bad things happened. Things that even now, six years later, are still talked about in whispers by First and Second Army officers lest Ivan the Terrible overhear and take umbrage. Since that day, no matter where he is, or what assignment he is on, Ivan always has a ready supply of his heavenly caffeinated nectar.
So it is for good reason that Kirigan allows his loyal Heartrender this one luxury. There are even rules around who can touch the cannister – for Ivan's sanity and everyone's protection - which are considered part of the mandatory survival training given to all new recruits.
And now it is missing and worse, it is missing at a crucial point of the day.
Ivan is a man of routine. Army life suits him – in fact, he prefers it to the unregimented chaos of civilian life. He likes knowing where everyone is supposed to be at any time of the day. He likes the regimented discipline and clear chain of command that take the stress out of social contact. He likes the uniforms and that there are no crazy old women with bad tempers and walking sticks lurking in dark corners waiting to give him a whack. He likes the food and living in a tent. He even likes his boss (most of the time anyway). But most of all he likes his routine.
It came as a surprise to many that Ivan is the morning person of the pair, and not the perpetually cheerful Fedyor, for whom mornings would be more agreeable if they started after noon. He likes the quiet of early morning Kribirsk, the rare tranquillity that comes from being awake when few others are and the peace with which he can watch the sunrise.
His day starts the same way every morning. At 0500 hours he awakes, kicks Fedyor back to his side of the bedroll from where he has inevitably strayed in the night and gets up for morning practice. After honing his skills, terrifying any unfortunate bystanders in the process, he washes and then goes to find Fedyor, who by this time should have stumbled out of bed and be in the middle of arranging the accoutrement for the most sacred of morning rituals – the first pot of tea.
For some reason, that continues to elude him, people are surprised to discover that Ivan is a confirmed tea drinker. As Fedyor had once explained "dark, strong and bitter" basically described Ivan, so it is a great shock to the uninitiated that "Strong, dark and bitter" hates coffee and prefers a light blend of tea with milk and enough honey to make the stirring spoon stand on end. What is agreed upon, however, is that no one should approach Ivan, or attempt a conversation with him, before his first cup of tea.
On this particular morning, Ivan's day starts like any other with no hint of the disaster it will shortly become. He wakes up at the correct time, enjoys his practice and a spectacular sunrise, and arrives back at his tent expecting to find his usual cup of tea and a bleary eyed Fedyor slurping the disgusting muck he calls coffee in an attempt to wake up.
What he expects to see as he rounds the corner to their area is the camp in its normal tidy state and his tea, if not ready and waiting for him, then only moments away from it.
What Ivan finds, however, is their section of the camp in chaos.
Total chaos.
It looks as though a small, localised tornado has passed through wreaking havoc on everything apart from the kettle, which is shrilly whistling as it hangs in its special frame above the fire. Every storage box, bag or bin has been ransacked with the contents strewn haphazardly across the area. It takes Ivan a few moments to process the astonishing sight before him and several more to realise that yes, this disaster zone is his camp site, that no, there is no tea waiting for him and that yes, that is Fedyor's voice raised to panicked squeakiness that he can hear over the kettle.
It is only deeply ingrained instinct which supersedes his shock to make Ivan's suddenly wooden legs stumble from his designated sleeping area to the supply tent several rows away following the raised voices.
It takes only a look at the Heartrender for those congregating in the main supply tent to suddenly remember they have urgent business elsewhere, anywhere else and preferably as far away from this scene as it is possible to be, leaving Ivan with Fedyor and the pale, sweaty face of the store clerk to find out what new madness has manifested in Kribirsk.
In halting words forced out of him by the glower on Fedyor face, the less than helpful clerk explains the problem to a horrified Ivan.
His tea is missing. Someone has stolen his tea. His. Tea.
His.
And now that useless Otkazat'sya clerk has the audacity to tell him in an irascible tone that despite this egregious theft the store will not authorise another allotment until his next ration is due three weeks from now.
The scream that rips itself from Ivan can be heard at quite a distance, startling those in the vicinity and even summoning the fearsome Black General, still clad in his black velvet dressing gown to check what horror has occurred.
The situation is soon resolved with the General's presence. Although the identity of the tea-thief remains unknown a new cannister is quickly provided by the hapless clerk who has sensibly dropped his belligerent Otkazat'sya pugnaciousness and instead is now tripping over himself to be helpful. It is a wise decision. While the denizens of the surrounding tents might have been enjoying the unexpected show, the Black General is not, as he quickly and efficiently makes clear.
Even in his dressing gown and slippers with his hair in disarray without its usual pomade, General Kirigan makes for an intimidating sight. A bastion of calm, dominating authority amid a sea of Otkazat'sya stupidity and Ivan has to suppress the pride that swells within him at the glaring disparity between his General and the scum in the First Army.
Best of all, Ivan once again has his tea.
Despite the appalling start, the next few hours pass by quietly and normally. The reports arrive on time, for once containing no bad news or problems which require the General's immediate attention. After a light breakfast, Ivan has his usual meeting with the General to brief him on the latest reports before settling down to the next stack of paperwork.
The soothing normalcy and tedium calms Ivan's jangled nerves better than a bottle of kvas and by 11 o'clock he is almost back to his usual serene state. With a fresh cup of tea, Ivan's day is improving, which is when it promptly goes downhill. Between one sip of life giving tea and the next the tranquillity is shattered as the General's heartrate skyrockets and pounds loudly enough to give Ivan an instant migraine.
The suddenness and unusualness of the change has Ivan hurtling from his desk, past the confused Oprichniki standing guard and through the flaps of the command tent before his conscious mind has had a chance to catchup and suggest a more measured and cautious response to what can only be an attack on the General.
It is with some confusion then when he skids into the tent expecting to see carnage and instead finds it empty except for General Kirigan who appears to be frozen staring a piece of non-descript parchment that probably came with the morning reports.
Such is the state of the General that even when he finally raises his eyes to Ivan and the Oprichniki who followed him inside, he fails to issue his customary reprimand or react in any other way to an intrusion that would normally merit a severe dressing down.
Having ascertained that there is no immediate threat to the General's existence and wellbeing, Ivan is at a loss as to explain the unusual experience. He is even more confused when in the middle of checking him over the General goes from resembling a living statue to jumping out of his chair before berating Ivan about a set of orders from the Tsar which appear to be missing. It is a baffling change and one made more so when the General insists that Ivan go find them immediately. In a state of bewildered confusion Ivan snaps off a typically smart salute and leaves the tent.
The next 40 minutes are spent haring around the camp trying to track down these lost documents only to discover that not only were they not missing, but that they had never existed in the first place. Why his General sent him on a wild goose chase is a mystery to Ivan. One which is only solved hours later when he comes across the document responsible for this latest madness and sees her name on the otherwise ordinary and unremarkable skiff passenger list.
It is The Girl. Her. The one who responsible for demoting him to a glorified errand boy. The one who has turned his normally sane and rational General into a blithering, lovelorn fool.
He should have known that she would be behind this latest madness as well.
It is with a sinking feeling in his stomach that Ivan drops the paper on the desk before spinning on his heel and racing out of the tent towards the dry docks.
The Heartrender arrives at the dock to find the skiff has already departed, on time for once. At first, he breathes a deep sigh of relief as his pounding heart settles back into its usual steady rhythm. She is gone – and good riddance he thinks. The General is probably off somewhere licking his metaphorical wounds and brooding, probably in near that little grove he likes so much to the north of the camp by the bank of the Unsea.
It is the whispers that alert to him to the terrible truth of the situation and reveals the level of madness that girl has driven his poor General too.
He is on the skiff that has just departed.
The Black General, the most feared– and currently a contender for the most insane – Grisha in Ravka has willingly entered the Fold. A place he has not entered in years because of the horrible consequences that always arise if he does, and he has done it for her. That blasted Girl.
Ivan suppresses an annoyed huff as he watches the smoky blackness of the Fold. It's too late to do anything about the mess his besotted General has created now. What will be will be, as Fedyor would say. And who knows, maybe the gods will look favourably on this voyage, and they will pass unmolested. Maybe the journey will proceed unhindered and it will give the General an unlooked for opportunity to sort that traitor Zlatan out once and for all. Maybe the gods will be kind.
Maybe, just maybe everything will be okay.
With a snort Ivan looks up at the cloudy sky above him. The probability of those wishful thoughts coming true are about as great as pigs suddenly developing the gift of flight. Even in the incredibly unlikely event that it did happen it would just be a portent that there would soon be shit dropping on everyone from above.
Ivan has just resigned himself to the inevitable mess of dead bodies and paperwork that will shortly be his job to sort out, consoling himself with the cheerful thought that at least this situation can't get worse, when it does.
Much worse.
Out from the inky blackness of the Fold bursts a beam of light so bright it turns the monstrosity charcoal grey, making Ivan's eyes water at the intensity.
It doesn't stop.
One. Two. Three. Four. The light changes direction, washing outwards like waves now rather than a pillar rising from the dark to meet the sky. One. Two. Three. Four. It pulses like a heartbeat.
One. Two. Three. Four. Ivan can feel it as something washes over him.
One. Two. Three. Four. Something monumental. Something beyond this world. Something that makes him want to cower away even as it calls to him.
It is one of the little-known facts about Grisha that Heartrender is actually a misnomer. A better and more accurate description would be life-render. It is not the heart a Heartrender senses, but the life force, the heart is merely the most expedient way of taking control.
In that moment Ivan knows two things; firstly, that it looks like the long-awaited Sun-Summoner has been found and secondly, that the Fold is alive. He can feel it now as if a dam has been released. He can feel the rhythmic beating of its life force. He can feel the roiling emotions flowing from it, even if he can't distinguish between them. He can feel it. Not the volcra hiding within its shadowy walls which have always felt odd to him, slimy and corrupted. He can feel It, the Fold itself.
One. Two. Three. Four. The Fold is vibrating, pulsing in time to the waves of light, like ripples in a pond.
Ribbons of pure light are burning through the shadowy fog of the Fold, refracting to create a myriad of multi-coloured rainbows in a dazzling, mesmeric display.
The light show captures the attention of everyone in the vicinity, and Grisha and Otkazat'sya alike cram onto the walls of the dry dock trying to see the spectacle. Beside him, his fellow watchers stare open mouthed at the sight.
One. Two. Three. Four. The waves of light continue. Some start praying, while others drop to their knees, but all around him like a distorted echo Ivan hears one word repeated over and over again.
Sankta.
Sankta.
Sankta.
Just as Ivan thinks the light cannot possibly get any brighter, just as he starts to hope that maybe, just maybe, this could be the end of the Fold, that they might be witnessing its destruction, there is a boom and the light vanishes. The silence that follows is eerie, unnatural.
It is the stillness that follows a tsunami. The nothingness that follows death and destruction. It is an absence that rings in the mind. A void where there should be life.
And Ivan knows something has gone terribly, horribly wrong.
Above them, unnoticed in the cerulean blue of a now cloudless sky, what should be the feeble autumn sun blazes fiercely, joyously, as its light dances, warming the assembled watchers with its delight.
For several painfilled heartbeats nothing happens, and the oppressive stillness remains, silencing any thought or action as the crowd remain trapped in horrified, awe filled confusion. Then at last he sees it.
There on the horizon, emerging out of the Fold is torn and battered skiff.
It is pandemonium as the skiff docks. Chaos reigns as First and Second Army officers alike try to board the skiff at the same time in a disordered, panic driven frenzy.
With the loud crack of a gun firing, the captain of the fourth division restores something approaching order as everyone freezes in place. For the first time in many years Ivan is grateful to an otkazat'sya officer as the distraction enables him to elbow his way through the assembled hoard of loiterers and idiots to the newly secured gangway.
Once aboard Ivan surveys the damage with the practiced ease of one only too familiar with the job. Overall, it is not as bad as first impressions might suggest. The skiff has sustained considerable damage, but thankfully it appears to be mostly cosmetic in nature and nothing that a team of Frabrikators wouldn't be able to restore within a few days, or week at most.
The extent of the damage to human contingent, however, is less immediately apparent. From the mere fact that Ivan can move around the deck with ease, on what should – would – have been a crowded deck, it is clear that there have been losses. A quick count of the coloured keftas relieves Ivan's frantic mind that the valuable deck space being used by the wounded has not been bought with the lives of more Grisha. By his count there is only one Inferni absent, which given the number of missing, almost certainly dead, soldiers is quite an achievement.
All in all, it is not a bad result for what could – should - have been a catastrophe. The gods have been unusually kind today, Ivan mused thoughtfully, hope stirring in his stomach that they might have been kinder still and dealt with the menace to his routine that was the girl.
It isn't that Ivan is a cruel man or even that he is an unkind one who wishes death towards annoying otkazat'syas. Despite a deep-seated dislike of specific individuals, he can, in general, appreciate the roles that the otkazat'sya have in life's great pageant and treat them if not fondly then with something approaching respect, if you squint. It's just that Ivan did not join the Second Army to be a glorified messenger boy running love letters around an army encampment, and while it would, of course, be a great tragedy if Miss Starkov was among those missing, it would also make his life a lot easier.
And with every step as he made his way across the deck life was starting to look up.
The only dark spot on an otherwise joyous horizon for the Heartrender was that in addition to not finding evidence of the girl, he also could see no evidence of his General.
Which is a problem.
A big problem.
A potentially disastrous problem.
Before the panic really settles in, however, his eagle eyes spot a black blob partially hidden in the shadow cast by the main mast. In the space of seconds, Ivan has hurled himself across the deck, vaulting over the wounded and prostrate bodies littering the area and dodging around those lucky enough to still be standing, to drop to his knees beside the bundle of dark cloth.
With shaking hands he turns the body over, senses straining trying to pick up one lifeforce among many, as he confirms what he already knows. It is the General.
There is a bloody gash still oozing blood down the side of his ghostly white face, a contrast made starker by the pitch black of his kefta. It is clear from the way Kirigan is lying that there are likely to be more injuries, more serious ones, concealed beneath the fabric. In a hoarse voice, Ivan shouts for a healer, his voice one of many.
It is pure luck that he spots the familiar uniform of a Second Army healer out of the corner of his eye as Olena boards the skiff. With a sharp whistle, Ivan attracts her attention and watches with relief as one of the best healers available in Kribirsk sets to work with her usual calm efficiency as she checks the General over.
The initial results are not good. General Kirigan has several cracked vertebrae, three broken ribs, a severe concussion and a head wound that is still sluggishly bleeding. With careful hands they prepare him for transport, eager to get him back to the relative safety of the command tent where Olena and her assistant can properly care for him and start the healing process.
It is slow going, but eventually the unconscious General is safely ensconced in his makeshift bed in the command tent surrounded by healers and his usual guards who, it must be said, are less than impressed with his unscheduled journey, especially as they hadn't been invited along.
Ivan has just settled himself at one side of the impromptu operating table, resolute in his determination to protect the General at all costs, when he finds himself unceremoniously kicked out and made to wait outside with the other gawkers and hangers on by Olena, the head healer, and her demonic assistant with the claim that his incessant fretting is distracting them from making sure that the General's ribs don't accidentally puncture anything important while they are fixing the broken bones.
With a dark scowl, Ivan reluctantly leaves the healers to their work, settling himself beside Fedyor with a huff to wait for news. There are many reasons for Ivan to take umbrage with such highhanded treatment. For one, he wasn't fretting. Senior officers within the Second Army do not fret. He is simply, and understandably, concerned with the continued wellbeing of his boss, thank you very much.
Secondly, he is second in command of the Second Army. He outranks everyone in that tent, bar the General, who Ivan is sure would have wished him to stay had he actually been conscious. Thirdly, he is now at a loose end and in danger of experiencing that most dreaded of all things – boredom. Ivan hates boredom. To his mind boredom is the mark of an ill-disciplined mind, but without orders he is at a loss as to what he should be doing.
When he mentions this dilemma, Fedyor as usual has several suggestions, none of which would be practicable or, indeed, appropriate given the seriousness of the situation. Thankfully for all concerned it is only a short twenty minutes later that Ivan is told that the General is awake and asking for him.
When Ivan enters the Second Army Command Tent he expects to see a bleary eyed General lying in his bed, perhaps propped up by pillows, as the healers continue to fuss around him. What he does not expect to be greeted by is the inexplicable sight of the General half out of his bed, his hands pushing against the concerned healers who are trying to wrestle him back between the sheets.
It is lunacy. Complete and total lunacy. Even Ivan, who's understanding of anatomy is geared decidedly towards weaponizing and killing it, knows that it takes longer than the measly time that has passed to fully heal the injuries the General has sustained.
The lunacy of the moment is only increased once Ivan hears the hoarse commands his General is issuing and understands the reason driving him out of his sickbed. It is That Girl. Again.
Not only has the blasted girl survived, against all odds and expectations, she is only the saints forsaken Sun-Summoner. The very last person Ivan would have chosen for such an august and vital role.
15 minutes of continued madness later Ivan is finally dismissed. With a sharp salute, Ivan leaves the tent, the General's instructions ringing in his ears and Olga the demonic apprentice healer trudging sullenly behind him. With anyone else, the frigid disapproval radiating from the healer would have been off putting. For Ivan, however, it is a comfort. At least one other person is of like mind and appreciates the insanity of trying to make a dash across Ravka, setting off not long before dusk, in the hope that they will be able to get the Sun-Summoner to the safety of the Little Palace before any of their enemies can kill her.
Stalking across the camp like a particularly angry thunderstorm, Ivan makes a beeline to where Fedyor is loitering, laughing and gossiping with various Second Army officers. His arrival stops the laughter dead in its tracks as he starts barking orders at his partner to assemble an escort squad while he finds out where their errant Sun-Summoner is hiding.
It is nearly dark before he finally locates the girl, unconscious in one of the First Army medical tents.
The surgeon allegedly in charge of her care is less than useful in both his diagnosis and prognosis for her recovery, so it is no surprise to Ivan when Olga elbows her way past him to assess the girl's state for herself. It is a tense few minutes before Olga sighs and nods her approval that she can be moved. Her injuries are bad, but not life threatening, and the assistant healer is confident she can fix the broken collar bone, bruised ribs and mild concussion while enroute to the Little Palace.
The original plan had been for the group to ride as it meant they could cut across country, avoiding the main roads, and making the journey as quick as possible. Unfortunately, the girl's injuries make that plan impossible and so plan B is quickly cobbled together.
It takes more time than they really have to organise a coach and, in the end, they have to take the General's personal carriage as there are no others available at such short notice.
It has been a terrible, horrible day. The worst in a long run of bad days. It has been a day of never-ending unexpected shite and it just keeps coming, culminating in this moment - Ivan and Fedyor trapped in a coach hurtling at breakneck speed across the Ravkan landscape with a surly healer and a recumbent, semi-comatose Sun Summoner.
Staring morosely out of the window into the forbidding gloom of the Ravkan night Ivan consoles himself that at least his day can't get any worse.
He's right… in a way. With less than two hours left in the day even the gods would struggle to organise and put into place yet another twist in the story.
But there is always tomorrow.