Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
A crash of longing and panic filled her, and Iryana struggled to breathe through it. Then she remembered that expression on his face again, the regret after they’d kissed, and she found control of herself.
Iryana pushed him back, not letting her hands linger on his chest. “At first light, we need to go our separate ways.”
“What?” Hurt flashed in his eyes.
“If we spend more time together, we might do something we’ll regret. And I need a plan to deal with your brother. I am not going to get that here.”
“And that isn’t something you want to work with me on?” he asked, but he was already pulling back.
“No, it’s not.” Iryana turned on her side, away from him, eyes burning.
“Why?” he demanded.
She needed him to let her go. Needed to get away from him. Iryana searched for the words that would let her.
“Could you truly stand up to your brother, Pyetar?”
“I tried to turn General Loid against Karvek, get him proof of what he was doing before it was too late. I failed. And I tried to get the King Commander to deal with him too, but he wants peace too much.” Pyetar’s voice sounded desperate, like he was trying to convince himself as much as her.
“And I am working to make it harder for him to—”
“You’re afraid, Pyetar. Of what your brother will do. There are certain risks you won’t take.” The words seared her throat. “I have to take them all.”
“I—”
“Go to sleep, Pyetar.”
She left Pyetar first thing in the morning after coordinating where and when they would meet back up. His eyes had been dark and closed off, perhaps even tormented, but he’d let her leave.
Iryana was exhausted by the time she made it to the Dovaki post. It was the last place she wanted to be, but she knew she didn’t have anywhere else to go. And she had an idea simmering that would require their help.
Still, that didn’t stop the tightness in her chest or the way her fingers fidgeted in her skirts. She was a mess and needed a good wash. Cleaning up in the river before climbing up to the post wall had not helped nearly enough.
She found her sister in her workshop.
“I didn’t expect to see you… so soon,” Hadima said gently, a hint of strain to her voice. Her hands shook as she wiped dirt and bits of pulverized green onto her apron. She smelled earthy and woody, like ginseng root.
There was guilt in Hadima’s eyes.
“Is it okay that I’m here?” Iryana half expected Hadima to yell again. “I need to speak to the First.”
“Of course,” Hadima hurried to say. “We’re sitting down for dinner; you can talk to her after. Aunt Emadya and Sanora made meat dumplings and beet-root soup.”
Once, a third of the family would gather in the kitchen, making a dozen dishes for dinner, but with the loss of the food stores… well, it was no surprise that they were rationing.
Iryana nodded, not able to think of a reasonable excuse to say no. This was what she had signed up for; she just had to get through it.
“And, uh…” Hadima hesitated, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I was just scared and freaking out, and I shouldn’t have taken it out on—”
“It’s fine,” Iryana interrupted, looking away from her sister. She was not in the mood for Hadima’s apologies.
Her sister just nodded.
Hadima led her into the hall, where the family was preparing for the meal.
Iryana braced herself for the glares, the looks of accusation.
Uncle Byorsh was sitting at the table, still limited by his healing injuries, spreading out the plates and platters on his table.
He strained to reach the far ends, more than was probably safe, but it wasn’t Iryana’s place to say.
At the table, Kladara was holding baby Anara for Teshya, who was trying to feed her fussing baby something creamy and lumpy-looking.
Uncle Dinhal was tugging a few tables back into their usual spots, while some of the younger cousins carried the dishes out to the tables.
At the center table, the First sat watching them all, directing a few of the youngest. It was so normal. So foreign to Iryana.
Misha scurried into the room carrying a large pot of soup, her face tense with focus. She looked so much older than she had last time, as if the fire had aged her. Iryana stared, watching as Misha crossed the room.
After their mother had left, Misha had taken the longest to recover. She had only been four, a little girl with shoulder-length braids no thicker than a bit of woolen yarn, and she had clung to her older sisters.
At first, Iryana hadn’t wanted the clan to know her mother had left, for them to ask why.
So, Iryana picked up all the chores and the caring, trying to keep Misha occupied.
But the little girl had mostly been left to play on her own, and her voice grew smaller each day.
It was only at night, when their father was finally asleep, that Iryana actually felt useful to Misha.
In the shadow of night, with only the light of the oven’s dying embers to brighten the small kitchen, Iryana held her little sister and told her stories.
When the clan found out their mother was gone, Hadima had stepped up to take care of Misha at the main house.
She picked up where their mother had left off, where Iryana had failed.
Iryana had known it was best for Misha, but she couldn’t help feeling alone.
And she had been too ashamed, too guilty to reach out to them.
“Let’s sit here.” Hadima’s voice pulled Iryana from her painful memories.
The rest of the family had noticed her now, and their eyes weren’t as sharp as Iryana had expected, but more curious. Watchful. Except for her grandmother; her gaze was always cutting.
With a nod, Iryana sat down on an old chair, the hand-carved spindles matching only a few in the room.
Hadima went and whispered in the First’s ear before joining her. An exhausted sigh escaped from Hadima as she sat down beside her. The rest of the table filled in, and they erupted into chatter, passing platters and spooning out the soup when it came to their table.
They carried on as if Iryana was not there.
That’s how it had been before she moved out too. They didn’t know how to talk to her, what to do with her.
Iryana sank down lower in her seat, her ribs compressing with each half-understood conversation that passed around her.
She didn’t know which boy Kladara alluded Sanora had a crush on.
Edvar and Levek were upset about something that had happened yesterday, and everyone else seemed to know what.
Tonhald wanted to know if someone would switch shifts with him that evening since baby Anara was teething badly.
“Are there really so many more dakii out there?” Misha asked between bites.
No one answered as Iryana continued stirring her soup awkwardly.
“Iryana?” Hadima asked.
She jerked slightly. “What?”
Misha rolled her eyes at her. “I asked you if there really are more dakii. Grandmother said so, but you have been out there, right?”
“Oh. Well, yeah. Even in the time I have been staying out there, it’s getting worse.”
The table quieted down, the cousins all watching Iryana with interest.
“Are the soldiers better at killing them than we are?” Misha’s earthy-green eyes squinted with intensity.
“Maybe we shouldn’t have this conversation during dinner,” Hadima said carefully, but Misha ignored her.
“I mean, they just live out there, right?”
Iryana swallowed. The entire table was staring at her now.
“This post is out of sight,” Iryana started, words stilted under her discomfort. “So we normally escape notice. Those that find us, we kill.”
Iryana shrugged, trying to put her words together under her sister’s expectant stare.
“The brigades don’t hide; the dakii all know where they are.
But the dakii can’t attack directly, or at least they don’t try it often, but soldiers spend a lot of time outside the walls.
The dakii can come at you from any direction, in packs that rival what we see here in the valley. ”
“So they are better at killing them. How many have you killed?”
“Misha!” Hadima chastised.
“What?” Misha rolled her eyes again, the epitome of dramatic youth. “I bet she’s killed a lot.”
Those eyes all turned back to her.
“Uh, I don’t—a few dozen, maybe?” She had hardly been keeping count.
Edvar scoffed, pushing the blond waves across his forehead. “There’s no way.”
“Why not?” Levek snapped, their tension from earlier rising back to the surface. “She’s metal-forged, so she should be better at killing them than us.”
“The stronger Iryana is, the stronger we all are. We’re one clan,” Tonhald added peacefully, nodding toward Iryana with a smile.
“And remember who her father was,” Uncle Dinhal added, smacking a meaty fist against his chest.
Iryana lost the ability to breathe entirely.
“We wouldn’t be about to lose the post if we still had Josik with us,” Uncle Byorsh grumbled.
A chorus of agreement sounded. Iryana clutched the edges of her seat, gripping tightly.
“It’s like during the war again, when we never knew how long we’d be safe. Where we’d be holed up next, always on our toes.” Uncle Dinhal looked around the room, as if to see if they remembered. “That was a time of true heroes. Seeing what you were worth.”
“Not all of us had the chance,” grumbled Edvar, who was barely eight when the dakii came. His sharp features were pulled tight with resentment.
Uncle Byorsh and Dinhal didn’t hear Edvar, or were too caught up in their glory days, diving into stories from the war.
“I never thought I would hear someone talk about those years with fondness!” Aunt Emadya chastised them, but it was lighthearted.
“I’d send every one of those dakii over the tallest mountain to fall to their death if I could, our glory with them.” Uncle Byorsh smacked the table. “But we should be proud of our own, proud of what the Kleesolds can do. Especially now.”