Chapter 36 #2
With a fire lit, Iryana pulled all the trunks from under the bed and out of the storage area in the hall between the house and the barn. They took up most of the kitchen, hinges creaking as Iryana threw them open to rifle around inside.
Her leg was sprawled out to her side, the joints swollen. Her ribs felt bruised from bending over. She kept ignoring it.
There were some things her sisters would want, a few things from when Misha was young that baby Anara could use. Iryana set those aside for her cousins.
A mouse had made a nest in one, chewing away at the clothes that had been stored inside. Fluffy piles of the nest filled the corner. Iryana pulled out everything that was ruined, mostly her father’s old clothes, and started a pile to use as scraps.
Then she pulled out a soft blue dress, and her hands shook. Desperately, she laid it out, hoping the garment had been spared. But no, her fingers found a hole that had been gnawed out of the waist.
It was ruined.
Iryana sank down, her arms falling limply at her sides. She couldn’t stop staring at the ruined dress.
Her eyes burned as she thought of adding it to the scrap pile.
It had been her mother’s favorite dress, little pearls and silverwork embroidery decorating the neckline and sleeves in rows of flowers.
Iryana remembered when her mother had packed it to be brought to the cottage, telling her stories of the parties she’d worn it to back when she’d first married.
The stories had been full of joy and hope, but it was not a happy time for Iryana to remember.
After her father was injured, Iryana had thought the clan would have some grand plan to help him.
Some way to heal his heart and body. But after months of her father growing worse and lashing out at everyone who tried to help, her mother had told her what the First had decided.
Her father would go to a small cottage far from the main house—far enough to get the peace he needed.
And her and her mother and little Misha all had to go with.
But Hadima was staying to continue her training as a healer.
Hadima had been thirteen, Iryana eight, and they’d never been apart.
Iryana had cried and protested, begging for Hadima to come too or Iryana to stay behind as well, but it hadn’t mattered.
The decision was made. It was what was best for the post, for the clan, and for her father.
So her mother packed all their things—Iryana refused to help—and they moved to the little cottage.
Hadima had always been the fun one, always able to turn everything into a game.
Always able to cheer Iryana up. Without her, things were colorless.
And instead of helping, the isolation made her father worse.
More angry and demanding. They barely had time to play, just constant chores that had to be done quietly and out of the way.
Iryana always thought he had felt abandoned by their family.
He never wanted them to help, never wanted the rest of the Kleesolds around.
Her mother had said it was easier to do what their father wanted.
Iryana tossed the ruined clothes back in the trunk, shoving it across the floor toward the door. She would burn it later. When she could handle it. That would have to be her strategy. Do what she could, when she could.
Her hands stilled before she opened the next trunk.
It had been under the bed behind the others, running the entire length along the wall.
She knew what was inside. Not once had it been opened since they moved to the cottage.
She briefly considered ignoring it longer, but part of her welcomed the pain. She had earned it.
Iryana threw the carefully carved trunk open, revealing a bundle of gray wool.
She lifted it, surprised that it didn’t feel as heavy as she remembered, and started pulling back the layers of fabric.
The sword inside was steel, but it had been made by a metal-forged smith, and it didn’t have a hint of rust.
She tossed it onto the floor, the metal clanking loudly.
Standing abruptly—a frenzied rage fueling her—Iryana grabbed the large hammer from a basket of tools beside the oven.
She slammed the hammer onto the sword, a sharp pain going up her side, but it didn’t even dent.
Angrier now, Iryana slammed the hammer down over and over, until her arm ached.
Throwing the hammer to the side with a cascade of thuds, Iryana pulled the magic of her metal-formed dagger into her hand.
Crashing to her knees, Iryana drove the blade down onto the sword as if she were driving it through someone’s chest.
The metal sword flinched, the blade chipping.
So she stabbed down again, growing wilder with each swing.
For every time the blades met with a clang, she missed and stabbed into the wood planks of the floor.
But each chip was like a door being ripped open in her chest, one she had kept locked for years.
She screamed, staring down at the mangled mess of steel.
After all those years of taking care of him, living with him, Iryana finally realized she had never forgiven him.
She knew she hadn’t at first, even though her mother constantly reminded her it wasn’t his fault he was injured.
He had saved so many lives, but Iryana had still hated him.
Her mother had begged her to behave, but Iryana had refused.
Iryana thought eventually she had put aside that hurt, perhaps not forgiving him but accepting what he became. She hadn’t.
She struggled to calm her shaking breath. Now that she acknowledged it, the pain was overwhelming.
Why did she always have to make things worse?
It was so unfair. Her family couldn’t rely on her, couldn’t trust her.
And yet, had she been the only person who could save them?
Had she pushed and run and hid for too long, dooming them?
Had there ever truly been a chance of saving them, if she was the only chance they had? That wasn’t really a chance at all.
But if she hadn’t been so afraid of failing them, of losing them when they saw how broken she was, there might have been a chance. It was still her fault.
Iryana screamed, her back arching and neck straining. The sound echoed painfully against the wooden walls and floors, but she couldn’t stop. She screamed and screamed until she collapsed in the middle of the kitchen, banging her fists against the cold floor.
Hadima might die, and it was all her fault. Iryana should have done it herself, should have at least tried.
She drove everyone away. Her mother, her family, Vaneshta, Pyetar.
Why was she so broken?
It didn’t matter anymore. Iryana couldn’t help them. She couldn’t help anyone.
Standing, stepping around the chaos of ash from the oven, trunks, and the mangled sword, Iryana looked at her stash on the top shelf. Most of the little jars and bottles of herbs and other supplies would still be good. Some she would have to replace.
Her eyes fell on her market basket, full of jars stuffed with extra supplies she’d intended for the clan, and she thought of running into Pyetar at the market.
Iryana threw the basket against the farthest wall, glass shattering and scattering across the floor. There was no peace here, not anymore. She didn’t fit in the solitude, the loneliness.
A strangled laugh escaped her. It was fitting. Her time with the 18th had robbed her of her home more than she had ever expected. She didn’t fit here anymore, she couldn’t stay.
It was time for Iryana to leave. For good.
The decision settled in her calmly. It wasn’t peaceful, but it was a numb sort of relief.
There was time to go back to the fort if that was what she wanted—where she wanted to be.
Her mission with Vaneshta wouldn’t be over yet; she could get back before they’d expect her.
But she couldn’t bear to be so close, to have the constant reminder of her failures.
Couldn’t face Pyetar again. Couldn’t pretend with the man who might have killed her sister. She’d have to go far away.
Iryana started packing her things back up and paused.
How could she leave without knowing if Hadima had made it through the night? If she would survive, if Misha would be all alone. Could Iryana truly live her life without knowing?
It was the memory of Hadima in the days after their mother left that decided it for Iryana.
Hadima had been so hurt when she’d found out months later. So confused. Their mother had never said goodbye, and that had left wounds on her sisters that Iryana could not rip back open. She had to at least say goodbye, make sure Hadima knew it wasn’t her fault.
After packing the few things she couldn’t bear to never see again, Iryana left the bundled sack by the door to retrieve later, and headed back toward the main house.
It was before dawn, far too early for anyone to be awake in the house. Yet the windows around the main hall and kitchen glowed with the soft yellow of candlelight, and Iryana could hear voices arguing within.
The thought of the family in there—the ones she would likely never see again—hurt.
She snuck around to the other entrance, avoiding the part of the courtyard bathed in light. Her leg was doing better now that it had been re-wrapped tighter, but it still ached with every step she took.
The door opened with a moaning creak as she pushed it open with shaking hands. The back of house was quiet, Hadima’s workshop empty, and Iryana had a safe shot up to the second floor. There could always be someone up and about, but Iryana must have found some rare luck because the halls were empty.
She paused when she reached the door to Hadima’s room. If Hadima hadn’t made it, would they have put her body in her room? The thought of walking in and seeing her older sister’s corpse nearly sent Iryana retching.
But she needed to know, and there was only one way to find out.