Chapter 32 #2
Iryana paced through the woods outside the field until she found the perfect branch: thicker than her wrist, almost as long as her leg, and most importantly, too green to burn.
Then she hunted for pitch. It was hard to see the oozes of thick sap in the dark, but she found a few softer chunks that she could twist the end of her branch in.
Before long, the whole end of the branch was covered in sticky, resinous pitch.
After inspecting it in the moonlight, Iryana smiled darkly. It would do nicely.
Stabbing the torch into the ground, Iryana considered the area, the potential damage.
The edges of the poppy meadow had been trampled down, crates and supplies littering the edge.
There were a few spots she could potentially clear the brush away more to avoid starting too large of a fire, but the forest hadn’t fully dried out yet from the dampness of spring.
Her inspections led her to a small logbook tucked into one of the crates, listing harvest quantities taken from the site, timing the blooms. Her vision blurred as she tried to focus on the words.
She knew far more than she wanted to about drawing the drugs out of the unassuming little flowers. She’d helped her mother do it a few times when they couldn’t get enough supply from the military to keep her father alive.
Extracting the best opium needed to happen before the seed pods were ripe, and it could be done a few times without killing the plant.
But it was time intensive and instead, tea could be brewed from the pods themselves.
It looked like they were doing a bit of both: taking the pods and extracting the milky fluid from them after it’d had time to seep out and form a gum-like texture.
She was ready to toss the book aside until she saw a note describing it as “site 2”, and she sucked in a breath. Hopefully, there were only two. She scanned quickly, trying to find anything that listed or mapped out the other sites, but it was useless.
A fluttering sound from above sent Iryana into a crouch, hand outstretched to form her spear as she looked at the sky, expecting to see something pouncing down at her from the trees.
It was just a flock of bats, a swirling mass of flickering wings against the dark sky. Iryana let out a breath, chiding herself for being too jumpy.
The book clattered as she tossed it into the poppy field. It could burn with the rest.
Listening first for any strange noises in the forest, Iryana decided it was safe enough.
Pulling out her supplies, she huddled beside the torch, hands right next to the pitch-end while she striked her curved firesteel against a bit of flint.
The clicking sound echoed against the trees as small sparks flew off.
“Come on,” she urged, striking again. She needed this. Needed them to burn.
Finally, the pitch caught.
Quickly, she crouched closer, shielding the small flame from the wind and gently blew, coaxing it to grow. When the red and orange flames grew large enough to overtake the end of the torch, Iryana pulled it out of the ground.
Her hands were shaking as she crossed the field, crushing flowers between her feet. Even over the smoky, oily smell of the burning pitch, the spicy floral scent of the poppies was suffocating.
The memories she had of that smell…
Gods, how she needed the poppies to burn. Her forging had released so many feelings and memories from their cages, and she needed them back where they belonged. Where they could no longer torment her. Where she could pretend none of it had ever happened. Then maybe she could hold herself together.
Just as she was about to lower the torch to the far end of the poppy field, the soft hoo of an owl stilled her hand.
Iryana’s head tilted back, her eyes burning.
You can do this, little owl. It was like she could hear her mother’s voice as if she were there in the clearing with her.
“Wherever you are, Mother,” Iryana whispered into the meadow. “I think you would appreciate this.”
She lowered the torch to the flowers, watching as the flames jumped to the petals, quickly burning them away and starting on the bulk of the plant.
They weren’t very flammable flowers, unfortunately, so Iryana walked in rows, snaking back and forth as the poppies burned. Somewhere around the fourth pass, she realized tears were trailing freely down her face.
She was so angry that the poppies had ever existed. That they had found their way into the Dovaki Post. Into the hands of the brigade. That her family had resorted to giving it to her father when the pain in his leg had grown too great.
Her throat burned with her desire to scream, but she wasn’t that stupid. The dakii wouldn’t come close enough to the fire to see her, but they would be out in the woods. Watching.
As she watched the fire grow, torch in one hand and scarf held over her nose and mouth with the other, Iryana heard her father’s voice. Like his ghost could sense the poppy she was burning and wanted to torment her.
Of all the things she tried to block out, she tried to forget his words the hardest. The memories of him.
Why are your dolls all over the floor? Are you trying to kill me? Losing a leg wasn’t enough?
Iryana sucked in a deep gasp, the smoke making her cough.
What have you done?
The torch trembled in her hand.
Stop crying. It was your fault.
“Please stop,” she whined, breaths hard.
If only you’d listened, been a good little girl like Hadima, maybe your mother wouldn’t have left you.
Iryana was only halfway done, but each step grew harder. She couldn’t stop.
You drove them away; that’s why.
She stumbled a few paces from the flames and crashed to her knees.
It’s good they’re gone, little one. Then they can’t see how broken we are.
“Stop,” she cried, shaking.
Misha deserves better. Best she’s nowhere near us.
Iryana dropped the torch entirely, crawling away, but she could hardly see the flowers beneath her hands through the tears and smoke clogging her eyes. It felt like her heart had torn straight out of her chest.
You can’t even pretend to be good, can you? You try so hard, and yet you’re still rotten at your core. What a pair we make.
“Stop!” she screamed, a mistake she would surely have to deal with the consequences of later.
She gripped the sides of her head, trying to silence the memories, his voice. It wasn’t working.
With the fire still burning behind her, Iryana reached her hands into the poppies before her, ripping them out of the earth. Throwing handful after handful behind her, Iryana continued until her hands were raw and cramping.
She hated her father, hated how he had ruined her life alongside his. But he had been the only one who could truly stand her.
Iryana forced herself back to her feet, not bothering to fight the torrent of her father’s words, letting them wash right over her instead. Sink into her.
She picked the torch back up and started walking the rows again.
Two days later, Iryana could still feel the heat against her skin.
She felt raw, her emotions numb inside her, but she had done it.
Watching the field turn to ash was her only comfort.
That, and the hope that she had finally pushed things toward her family’s favor.
If only she could burn every last one of the Beast’s Poppies off the face of the planet.
Iryana took a large sip of her vodka, perusing the hall from the bench closest to the door.
Evening was upon them, light no longer streaming through the windows to remind everyone they were being watched.
The edges of the room, far from the lights dangling from the ceiling, were bundles of shadow.
Some members of the fort were flocking to those corners while the center of the room filled with boisterous drinking.
“They’re tenser than usual,” Vaneshta whispered, then her thin eyes narrowed even further and her hand fisted her cup tightly. “Be glad you’re off tomorrow. I am tired of getting pushed around.”
Iryana nodded absently, hiding her frustration. What had she expected? For the new soldiers to bleed out of the fort the moment the burned field was found? There was time. That some soldiers were tense meant they knew, were biding their time. Or at least so she hoped.
“I always used to think this place, deep down, was noble. A place where the vicious had to protect the weak. But lately…” Vaneshta’s voice trailed off. Iryana didn’t comment.
She’d gone on a couple of missions since the fights, but mostly her team was training.
And that meant being around Pyetar. Watching his muscles moving as he sparred, as he ran them through drills in just his sweat-dampened shirt.
Iryana smoothed her hands over her thighs, forcing herself to think of something else.
“You’ve been out of it since your forging.” The words were directed at Iryana, but Vaneshta was watching a couple of muscled men trying to convince the others to start a dance.
“Just tired.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. She definitely wasn’t sleeping well, but she knew it wasn’t what Vaneshta meant.
Vaneshta eyed her, brow raised, but Iryana pretended not to notice, tipping the rest of her drink back.
Standing to refill her cup, Iryana wiped her chin and saw Pyetar slip into the room. His eyes caught on her briefly before he turned away and headed toward a now unoccupied table across the room.
Iryana slowly released the tension in her body, trying not to look his way. She wished he could just act like she didn’t exist instead of seeming to seek her out anytime he entered a space. It didn’t even seem intentional, but she could feel those eyes on her, burning into her skin.
She lost the battle, her eyes flicking to Pyetar. His whole body seemed tight, with a scowl even angrier than usual on his face. He kept looking toward the door, waiting.
Iryana sat back down slowly, wondering what he was waiting for.
It took only a few moments to find her answer. The doors burst open, and Karvek marched inside, a dark cloak partially covering his armor. The other soldiers followed him, but she didn’t even spare them a glance.
Karvek’s face had lost its tension and agitation of the last couple of days. He almost looked relaxed, and there was a sick feeling in her stomach because of it.
After leaning down to share a few words with Darish, Karvek started walking right toward her. Iryana noted her expression and made sure it was mild. Inside, she felt like running. Did he know? But how would he have figured it out?
“Welcome back, General,” she said as he reached the table, attempting a relaxed smile.
“I am glad you joined us when you did, Iryana Kleesolda.” Karvek leaned over the table, arm resting on the worn surface. “Your family is becoming a problem.”
Ice. Her body was ice.
“The Kleesolds?” She barely kept the words from becoming a cry.
“You’re not truly a Kleesold anymore though; you’re one of mine.” Karvek gripped her chin, the touch deceptively light. “Right?”
She nodded quickly. “They never appreciated me the way you do.” The words were stones in her throat, but she forced them out. “I’m where I belong.”
His pale eyes bore into hers, assessing. “Good,” he finally said.
When he was gone, having retreated to his rooms, Iryana realized her hands were shaking. Slipping them under the table, she remembered Vaneshta sitting beside her.
Vaneshta was watching her with a worried look but then turned back to her cup, sighing. “I’m getting another drink.”
She glanced over at Pyetar. He was the one who had visited Dovaki post in the past, so did he know what had happened? Had he been the one to talk to them?
Once Vaneshta’s back was turned, Iryana got up and headed out of the hall as quickly as she dared. What had her family done? What had Karvek done? The timing made no sense.
She had a terrible feeling.
Iryana made it to the Dovaki post quicker than ever—the forged weapons made her bolder. She even went to the main gate for once; the clan already knew what she’d done. The growing crescent of the Harvest Moon hung above her like a physical presence, urging her faster.
When the gate opened at her call, slight relief surged through her. If there was anyone left to man the gate, it meant her worst fears at least were not real.
As the gate opened, Iryana expected the fort to be quiet given it was the middle of the night, but it was anything but.
It was hard to see exactly what was going on. She couldn’t see the stars from how much smoke was in the air. People were running up and down the streets, carrying buckets and crates. Their clothes and skin were covered in ash, eyes fearful.
Smoke like the other night. When she’d burned the poppies.
She caught glimpses of family members in the chaos, but they were too hurried to notice her standing there.
Iryana stumbled down the street, heart crumbling. Then she saw her sister.
Hadima looked exhausted, with dark spots under her eyes and her blond braid gray with ash. Her dress and cloak were ruined and filthy; her arms were covered in scrapes.
“Hadima,” Iryana called, reaching out and grabbing her sister’s arm as she ran past. “What happened? Did Karvek do this?”
Hadima jerked to a stop, her face pale. “They burned the food stores—all of them.”
“What?” Iryana breathed as regret punched deep into her gut. “This was my fault,” she whimpered to herself, staring down at the ground.
“What do you mean, your fault?” Hadima demanded, gripped Iryana’s shoulders and forced her to look back.
“When the gang came to collect, grandmother refused because the dakii had been so bad lately and supplies are tight. Threats were made, but we were given ten days to pay or there would be consequences. We were going to pay, but then they came back almost a week early and burned the food stores—said it was our last chance to get back in line.”
It was too much of a coincidence to not be related to what she did. When she burned the poppies, Karvek could have assumed it was her clan. Could have assumed it was a message that they wouldn’t be paying.
“When,” Iryana gasped. “When did grandmother refuse to pay? What day, exactly?”
Hadima’s demeanor changed, hardened. “Five days ago. Why Iryana? What did you do?”
What did you do?