Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Everything about Iryana’s body hurt. One of her ankles was likely sprained, a few ribs bruised, and cuts and bruises covered her body. She wanted nothing more than to stoke the fire high and curl up above the great oven in her cottage.
There would be time for that later.
It had taken her most of the afternoon to lead the dakii away until they eventually gave up, thankfully heading out of the lower valley and not back into it.
She’d been walking for so many hours that her legs were practically numb and everything ached.
The cold had seeped so deep that she felt like she’d never be warm. It was already getting dark.
She didn’t know how her family and the other guards had fared from their battle.
People could have died before she drew the dakii away.
There was even a part of her that worried she had miscalculated the size of the pack and that those remaining could have overwhelmed the Dovaki post despite her help.
That fear drove her back to the center of the village instead of her cottage.
As she climbed over the ridge into the valley, she visibly relaxed when she saw the wall still stood, the gate latched tight. But quiet chaos reigned in the village below.
It all felt like a dream.
She still couldn’t believe she’d done it.
Lured an entire pack away from her family.
Saved the post. If they knew, she would be chastised for such a reckless move.
They would have to make a point of how stupid she’d been, lest other guardians think to attempt it in the future.
But though she wouldn’t admit it, the First would be impressed.
Proud. Once, that had been all she had wanted.
But now that would mean unrelenting pressure and suffocating expectations.
It would backfire on her. She’d learned that lesson.
Instead, Iryana made sure to wipe the dirt off her clothes, neaten her braids, and quickly wash the mud off her boots and hem in the stream as she passed.
She pulled her sleeves down and her cloak together at the front, making sure her cuts and bruises, and damp clothes were sufficiently hidden.
The only thing she couldn’t check was the state of her face, but she didn’t feel any significant wounds there.
Satisfied, Iryana hurried as quickly as she could along the main road of the village, hiding her face as one of her aunts passed by her.
She turned toward the main house and found the chaos centered there.
There was a constant flurry of movement visible through the open gate that led to the house’s large courtyard.
The sight almost had her turning back, but she had to know.
Would bouquets of blue squill flowers and bluegrass be dripping black tonight?
You can do this, Iryana assured herself as she hesitated at the edge of the courtyard.
The main house was large, but simple and wooden. It wasn’t forged construction, so the structure wasn’t nearly as durable as the small village houses that had been in the valley long before them. And once, it had been her home.
She saw Teshya first, a woman in her mid-twenties with dark-brown curls in an unraveling braid.
Iryana froze, her bravery gone. Teshya wasn’t even a Kleesold, not really.
She was a rare fire-forged who had volunteered to come to the Dovaki Post years ago and was now married to Iryana’s oldest cousin, Tonhald, and they had a new baby that Iryana had only seen glances of.
Iryana begged herself to get a grip. If she couldn’t handle seeing Teshya, how would she go any further?
Teshya stood by the well, filling the last of three buckets with a careless splash that joined the puddle already pooling on the ground. Her head snapped up; her dark, wide-set eyes locked on Iryana.
“Grab this last bucket, Iryana,” she ordered as she hauled the other two up.
Only Teshya would bother trying to order her around, but Iryana found herself listening. Grateful for the excuse to enter the house.
She followed Teshya close behind through the main door and into the large hall, the water in the bucket she carried sloshing.
Iryana looked around nervously, fighting back painful memories. She had lived in the main house twice: when her family had first established the post and then after her father died. It had been a very long time since the main house had felt like home. Now, it just felt like it was full of ghosts.
The room was overwhelming; the press of people, the heat from all the bodies.
The hall had been set up like a makeshift infirmary; a few beds pulled to one side of the room. Iryana’s older sister, Hadima, huddled over the table next to the beds, using her forged mortar and pestle to grind some combination of medicinals.
Byorsh, Iryana’s oldest uncle, was on one of the beds.
His normally kind face was twisted in pain, his chest wrapped with bandages.
Uncle Byorsh was the only Kleesold that had chosen to be air-forged back when there was still a choice, before the dakii had come.
He was lethal with his forged bow, and had taught Iryana archery when she was young.
It was a deep blow to the family to have him out of commission.
“Are you coming, Iryana?” Teshya asked and Iryana realized she had frozen inside the door.
She took another step inside, eyes sweeping over the room, hands nervously clutching the handle of the water bucket. Her younger sister was nowhere to be found.
It was mostly her family in the room, as well as some villagers having their injuries tended.
The only surprise was in the back corner where Pyetar sat, looking only slightly worse for wear.
He was slowly eating a bowl of stew, eyes unfocused.
Her family must have felt obligated to feed him after he helped them.
Everyone seemed to leave a wide berth around him, but with the way he seemed to take up the entire corner of the room, she didn’t blame them.
Hopefully, he had done as she’d asked and kept his mouth shut about her involvement.
She started a tally in her head of everyone she’d seen, and evaluated their expressions for how dire the situation was. Thankfully, it didn’t seem as bad as she’d worried.
“And where were you?” her cousin Edvar snapped as he headed her way.
Her shoulders tensed. At least that made it clear no one knew what she’d done.
“Well? Did you hear the call for aid?” Edvar demanded.
His blond hair was slicked back from his face with blood, as if he’d tried to push it out of his face and not realized, or not cared, that he was bleeding. Without breaking eye contact, Edvar took a long swig from the bottle he was carrying.
“I didn’t have my armor and I—” but before she could finish scrambling for an excuse, he had already shouldered past her.
Iryana swallowed the shame that filled her mouth like a swig of spoiled milk. His disappointment may not have been earned this time, but it was often enough.
She looked away, hoping no one had caught the exchange, only to find Pyetar was watching her from across the room. He didn’t look confused or entertained by her self-inflicted suffering, just contemplative. He raised a brow as if to ask: what now?
“Set the water over here,” Teshya ordered, forcing Iryana to catch up.
They were walking toward Hadima and Uncle Byorsh. The nervousness that filled her was muted due to her exhaustion.
“Hadima, isn’t there anything else you could give my father?” Kladara, another cousin, asked harshly, mopping Uncle Byorsh’s brow with a damp rag.
Hadima looked frazzled, and her eyes were wide with worry, but her blond braids were wrapped around her head without a single hair out of place. She looked beautiful as always.
“I’m sorry, I’ve given him everything I can. My supplies are too low.” Hadima sighed. “I will try talking to grandmother. Again.”
Iryana’s throat felt like it was closing up. If they couldn’t make medicine, would they resort to the poppy? The brigade’s liaison, Nevesh Dyol, would sell to the family just like he had sold to her father. The thought made her sick.
Her eyes jumped over to Pyetar; still sitting in the corner. He didn’t even bother looking up.
“We lost one of the last metal-forged villagers today.” Teshya told Iryana numbly as she hurried past them. Her little infant was now in her arms, her face transformed as she looked at her daughter, softened and full of relief.
Losing even one fighter was something they could not afford, but Iryana kept herself from asking who it was. She’d mourn them later, in private. In truth, she had thought they would lose far more.
As her eyes followed baby Anara, a slight smile tilted Iryana’s lips. She had to be grateful for those left.
Teshya’s comment drew the room’s attention to Iryana, and her face fell again. Some of them drifted right back to what they had been doing, but most watched her intently, as if waiting to see why she was there or what she would do.
It made her feel small, like an animal caught in a trap. Like they were trying to decide if she was wild, to be sent back outside, or docile, like a pet to be taken in. She knew that either way she would be kicked when she misbehaved.
Iryana wished she could do something, fetch more bandages or grind up ingredients.
Anything to get the attention off of her.
Her skin prickled from their gaze, and she had to fight the urge to rub her arms. But every time she helped, every time they relied on her, they eventually regretted it.
They always seemed to forget that, but Iryana didn’t—couldn’t.
She was about to flee back out the door when her grandmother swirled into the room, all eyes converging on her.
The way the First held herself made it impossible to forget that Vesima Kleesolda was a force of nature, the First of the Guardian Kleesold Clan. A legacy of metal-forged magic all her own, but she also came from generation after generation of prodigies.
Tonight she was wholly embodying her role, spine stiff and face grim. It was like Vesima had been made for authority, or perhaps having it had shaped her this completely. It made Iryana worry about the future of the clan once she was gone.
The five magics dominated different parts of Istrin society, all with their own strengths and uses.
While warriors of guardian clans had almost always been metal-forged, they commonly had other types of magic as well.
But a guardian clan could only be led by the strongest metal-forged leader of each generation, a tradition that was at the heart of how the clans functioned.
Even before they were needed to kill the dakii, metal-forgings were the sharpest, the strongest, and made the best melee weapons.
And the clans were the warriors and protectors of Istri.
The Kleesolds had a First and Second named, though their clan currently had four generations living.
The First was the last of her generation, and the second generation was down to five Kleesolds, although only three were metal-forged and one of those was not much of a fighter.
Thankfully, the Second still lived while many of his siblings and cousins did not.
The last generation only contained baby Anara so far, who could hardly be judged yet.
It would be decades before an heir of that generation would be named.
The third generation was in a difficult position.
There were eleven living Kleesolds in that generation, but the Third was not yet named.
Tonhald was the oldest at 28, and the youngest was Velemik, at only 5.
They were the largest generation left. The older ones had only been children when the dakii first came, spared from the early years of war.
Now, most had already taken their guardian oaths, but without access to a metal well, none could be metal-forged.
Iryana looked between her cousins and sisters, knowing that stress hung over them constantly. Once the First and the Second passed, was there a future left for their clan? She didn’t want to think about it.
Iryana shrank slightly, sidling behind a few others to remain unnoticed. She had no desire for her grandmother to recognize her after their last encounter.
“The Second is back,” the First announced gravely. “Gather the family.”
The Second, the heir of the second living generation, was the First’s nephew. He was their clan’s main emissary with the duchess and her council, frequently bringing back news. Based on the First’s tone, this message wouldn’t be good.
Iryana desperately tried to decipher her grandmother’s look, tried to piece what she could together, but the First wore her normal stoic expression.
Iryana gave up on deciphering it, her gaze scanning down her grandmother’s usual dress, longer than those of the family that were still active guardians, but black with now fraying embroidery at the hem.
The sleeves of her white underdress hid her thin wrists as she held her hands clasped together.
Iryana watched those hands squeeze a little harder and felt dread work its way inside her.
The Kleesolds looked around at each other nervously, then started handing off tasks for village volunteers to take over. Those villagers eyed her family nervously, but they wouldn’t question the clan.
It was time for Iryana to leave. She didn’t belong at a family meeting, hadn’t attended one in years.
Worry strangled her throat, each breath a struggle to get out, but she still had to leave.
She had gotten what she had come for. So now she needed to retreat to her cottage and pray sleep came quickly. Let the family worry about their news.
Taking advantage of the family heading further into the house, Iryana slowly moved back toward the door. It took all her self-control.
She glanced back at Pyetar, who was watching them all with far more interest than she cared for. It was apparent from her family’s behavior that he had kept her secret, though, so he was no longer her problem. The Kleesolds could deal with him.
“Iryana.” Her grandmother’s voice, stern and unyielding, froze her retreat. “You will join us too.”