Chapter 4
Soren avoided it as long as he could—he took to the winds, letting them carry him along, commiserating with the eagles and the geese and the migrating swallows returned from the south—but after two days, his wings were tired, his stomach was empty, and his turuk was a mere thread from feral.
Winging down beneath the tree canopy, Soren landed inelegantly in the meadow before Balar and Imogen’s cottage. Shaking out his mane and the cobwebs from his mind, he slunk through the grassy meadow, unsurprised to find Diar and Akila already there, sunbathing.
Neither bothered to get up from their lounging to greet him, though they did both crack an eye to track his slump across the meadow.
“Well, well, look what the wind’s blown in,” chuckled Akila.
“Seems our brother mistook himself for an albatross, thinking he could stay up there forever,” Diar said.
Acknowledging them with only a grunt of disgust, Soren pulled open the door and ducked inside the cottage.
A fragrant wash of scents greeted him. That’s right, it was cooking day.
Imogen, ever practical, liked to get most of her cooking done in a single day, leaving the loaves and stews and jams to last over several more before she had to cook again—and wash the dishes, her least favorite thing to do, she claimed.
Although she now had five mantii to help around her modest farm, it also meant five voracious mouths to feed. Balar was more than happy to cook—or wrangle one of them to do it—but Imogen claimed they were all useless at cleaning dishes. “But excellent at dirtying them,” she’d add with a smirk.
Soren found not just Imogen and Balar but Kiri, too, within the cottage. With the windows open to let in the breeze and let out the steam, as well as a dozen glass jars and a big bowl of red mash, he realized he’d just walked into jamming.
“There you are,” called Balar. “Thought you could get out of it, did you?”
He knew his brother likely meant the jamming and other farm chores, but Soren’s ears flattened sheepishly. There’s no avoiding a kigara—not with a turuk still intact.
His turuk huffed at him in loathing.
Soren collapsed into one of the kitchen chairs, pushed away from the table to make room for jamming. Tired and dejected, he didn’t even bother neatly folding his wings away, instead letting them slump to the floor.
Balar and Kiri blew out breaths and rolled their eyes, but Imogen, ever reasonable, level-headed, and kind—all reasons why she was his favorite sibling now—merely wiped her stained hands on an equally stained rag and hurried to fetch him a slice of dried salmon over a freshly made biscuit.
Soren groaned as his teeth sunk into the meal, the buttery warmth of the fresh biscuit making his whiskers twitch.
The others remained silent as Soren ate, although he didn’t miss the dirty looks Kiri shot him as the cub mashed his bowl of berries. Ibás, he’d had school at least one of the two days Soren had been gone. No doubt there’d been…questions.
And Soren, like the coward he was, had left Kiri behind to answer them.
His stomach turned around the meal as he put his empty plate on his lap.
The moment the final bite was swallowed, Balar asked, “Well, what’s wrong with her, then?”
Imogen elbowed her mate, not gently. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” she told Soren.
“Everyone’s talking about it,” Kiri pouted, smelling blood and going for the kill. “The village, the school—over a dozen people saw saba tem pash-keté.”
Groaning, Soren caught his spinning head in his paw.
“I tried to avoid telling them,” Kiri continued, “and Miss Maeve doesn’t seem bothered. At least, she didn’t say anything. You’re lucky she wasn’t offended.”
“He’ll be lucky if she accepts him at all,” Balar harrumphed. “Running away from a kigara. The very idea is—”
His words caught on a cough, and Soren looked up just in time to see the end of Imogen hip-checking his brother. Balar squinted down at his mate, who met his imperious expression with a calm one of her own. “Next time, I step on the tail,” she threatened.
Balar’s brows shot up, and Soren could see how much he fought to contain his laugh. “You had good reason, of course, nitlam. A large, strange male in the forest—you should always avoid those. You did the right thing, indeed.”
Soren, Kiri, and Imogen waited patiently as Balar talked his foot out of his mouth and bestowed over a half-dozen kisses to Imogen’s hair and temple.
When Balar finally felt himself out of danger, he pinned Soren with a serious look. “We’ll hear you out, of course, but I better get a good reason for all this.”
Soren’s lips thinned. He doubted any of his reasons would be called good by any of his brothers. His reasons were entirely his own—none of them could truly understand, not even Kiri, and especially not beloved, golden Balar.
Yes, Balar and the others had gone into exile, too. But that had been their choice. Soren was the only one banished. The only one scarred, marked by their erēz as a traitor. He hadn’t been the one to let the fire get out of control and endanger the pride, but he’d accepted the blame.
Balar was the darling of his mother’s eye.
Soren’s birth came at the price of his own mother, the favorite sister of the pride’s erēz.
All his life, he was told what a bad bargain it was, that if given the choice, anyone would trade him for his mother.
Even when Soren and Balar’s beloved, gentle father was still alive, there were many long nights Soren had wished for that very fate—that his mother could be returned to them and he may slip back into shadow.
Her death had surely cursed him with his unruly turuk. Harboring a lukan, a dangerous, violent beast, was not only taboo but feared amongst all mantii. Lukan couldn’t be trusted. They were unpredictable, aggressive, often mad.
Such a person wasn’t worthy of respect or happiness.
Soren had grown into a man knowing that none of the females of his pride, or any other, would choose him.
He worked hard to control his turuk, was useful as a hunter, and Balar liked him, so he was kept within the pride.
But when one of those things became untrue…
Their exile had become a long journey looking for a place to plant their spears, build homes, and find mates.
At least for his brothers. Soren had devoted himself to raising Kiri, and even though that was soon to be at an end, he hadn’t in any way turned his thoughts to finding his own mate.
Not even with Balar finding Imogen had he entertained the thought that such a thing might happen for him.
Soren wouldn’t know what to do with a woman, kigara or not. He’d no experience, no charm. He knew his own mind well enough—he was quiet to the point of sullen, with little to say and less desire to say it.
What could a woman like Maeve Brádaigh ever want with me?
Nothing. So best never to invite the idea.
It was Imogen who stepped in again in his defense. “He doesn’t owe us an explanation. I’m sure it was surprising, realizing she was your kigara all of a sudden.”
Soren tugged on his ear. “I was…shocked.”
“Just because he didn’t pounce on her right there doesn’t mean all is lost.”
Balar’s lips curled upward into a sultry grin. “Should I have pounced on you, urisá? Would that have made you sweeter for me sooner?”
“You were too busy vomiting your guts up,” Imogen reminded him.
Kiri hooted with laughter, and even Soren allowed an amused grin behind his paw.
“Be that as it may,” Balar said through his pout, “we likely have much ground to recover after that first meeting.”
Soren dropped his head, dejected. “I don’t know what to do,” he admitted. “I never imagined…”
“What do you want to do, Soren?” asked Imogen.
“I…don’t know.” That wasn’t his turuk’s answer, of course. If the beast had control of their mouth, he’d be raging, Find her, claim her, keep her!
Soren rubbed at his chest, where the angry turuk paced and rumbled. Ibás, if any of this was what Balar had felt when he first saw Imogen, she’d been right to flee from him. Honestly, Miss Maeve ought to have fled Soren just as hastily as he did her.
“Well…you should consider everything. Go in with a clear head.”
“That’s not possible with a kigara,” said Balar.
“What’s to think about?” Kiri asked incredulously. “Miss Maeve is kind and beautiful and smart. She has a lovely singing voice, and she always—”
“I’m sure she’s all those things, but she’s also…” Imogen cleared her throat, her gaze suddenly nervous as she turned it on Soren. “Maybe I shouldn’t say it.”
“You know her?” Soren asked, voice dropping as his turuk surged forward. Curiosity gnawed him worse than hunger.
“A little. I’m friends with her sister, Sorcha. I mostly knew her from before she went away. I’m sure those years changed her, they’d change anyone…” Now it was Imogen blathering, which only piqued Soren’s curiosity more.
“Well, then, what was she like before?” inquired Balar, also curious.
Pulling a face, Imogen admitted, “A brat. Spoiled and selfish. She’s beautiful, yes, and she knows it.
She uses it as a weapon. Most of the boys in Granach were in love with her and some of the girls, too.
She had her pick and her fun.” Shaking her head, she said, “I don’t really know her, only know of her, and that’s different.
She gave Sorcha plenty of trouble, but I’m sure if the students like her, there’s something to be said for that. ”
Soren could only nod, acknowledging Imogen’s words, but his mind was having trouble processing it all.
Oh, yes, Miss Maeve was certainly beautiful.
Even in the glimpse he’d had of her, he could plainly see just how beautiful.
He likely wasn’t the first man to lose a feather to her, even if humans hadn’t feathers to lose.
Beautiful, learned, charming—she’d had many suitors before leaving. Now, she’d have droves more no doubt. Human men and otherly.
Hearing that she’d been spoiled and selfish almost made him feel better.
It didn’t give him hope or ideas, but at least she wasn’t as flawless as she looked. That was a strange relief.
Still, young and beautiful were both things Soren wasn’t.
Perhaps if she was her elder sister’s age that might…
No, no, that wouldn’t, couldn’t truly matter. At whatever age, there was no reason for a woman like Maeve Brádaigh to even look askance at someone like Soren.
The sound of the front door opening interrupted them, and Soren’s ears flicked to listen to the heavy sounds of Akila and Diar marching through the cottage.
Although Imogen and Balar had expanded it, using the lumber and furniture from Balar’s cabin to add a bedroom and enlarge the kitchen and sitting area, it was still a small space for so many mantii.
The kitchen was all manes and feathers when they came to join them at the table, leaning over to sniff the fruit mash with interest.
“Is it ready yet?” asked Diar.
“We’ve been discussing important matters,” Balar replied gravely.
Akila scoffed, rolling his eyes like Kiri. “Soren’s got to be the only male in the world unhappy that his mate is young, beautiful, and smart.”
“If you don’t want her…” Diar drawled.
Soren felt his pupils turn to slits, and a warning growl shook his throat. Kill the rival, tear his throat, claim her—
“Absolutely not,” Imogen interjected.
“Yes, take it outside if you must brawl,” Balar agreed.
“No, no brawling at all!”
A disappointed chorus shook the rafters, and the scene quickly devolved into laughter and arguing. Fruit mash was nearly thrown, and a bit ended up in a few manes, but Imogen managed to salvage most of it and get it into the jars.
Soren slid to stand beside her, happy to return to his place of silent observer. Imogen threw him a grateful grin as she washed and he dried, all to the tune of four hungry, irate mantii finding anything to argue about.
He appreciated Imogen’s quiet strength. They understood each other, Soren and Imogen, and it was why he’d been able to speak with her more than even his brothers. He also appreciated her candor over Maeve Brádaigh.
If my kigara had been like Imogen, maybe, maybe…
But the goddess had never been kind to Soren—he could hardly expect her to start now.