Iryana couldn’t tell Pyetar any of that, though. “I can’t leave, either; I need Karvek to accept me into the brigade.”
Pyetar stared at her for a moment longer before nodding slowly. “Try not to show him what you care about, or he will use that against you.”
Iryana felt her throat tighten. There was a story behind Pyetar’s words, but as much as she burned to ask, she couldn’t. Something that was almost like concern twisted inside her, and she couldn’t allow that. So she turned the conversation in a direction that would remind her of her anger.
“A couple of years ago, I saw you at the Dovaki post. You were threatening my cousin, Tonhald. Why?”
Pyetar blinked, eyes shuttering. “Ah, that must have been quite the sight. Yourcousinhad sent a letter to Myura River behind the back of your First, demanding a renegotiation.”
“So?” She felt indignation growing on her cousin’s behalf. He had been trying to help their family.
“Soif Karvek saw that letter, he would have just demanded more, or taken it from your post directly. A punishment to make sure your clan knew its place. Your cousin is lucky I saw the letter first.”
She blinked, her rage dying out. Confusion and disbelief replaced it. She’d have to process that later.
“What’s the plan then?” She changed the subject again. “To stop this war?”
“There is no plan,” he grumbled.
She snorted. That was a lie. Pyetar always seemed to have a plan, some angle he was working from the shadows.
“Do you want me to help, or not? You said it was my fault, don’t you want me to help fix it?”
“I was angry when I said that.” His voice was low, and his gaze distant.
Iryana stepped closer until the heat from their bodies mingled in the night air. She wanted to reach out and demand he look at her, but she held back, her fingers curling. “And now?”
His light blue eyes snapped to her. “I don’t need you to look out for me. I can take care of myself. And I don’t need your pity either.”
“Pity?” Iryana could feel her anger bubbling up again as she stared at Pyetar in disbelief. How dare he try to make her feel guilty for helping him? She didn’t pity him; she didn’t evenlikehim. She clenched her fists. “I am incapable of doing anything right in your eyes. At least your brother sees somethingusefulin me.”
The words hung in the air, taunting and bitter. Neither of them spoke. Pyetar’s eyes blazed with anger and something else she couldn’t name. Her breath caught in her throat as his gaze seemed to see right through to her soul. Every part of her was screaming to move away, but she held still, unable to look away even if she tried. The tension radiated between them, almost tangible in the air as if it were something solid that could be touched or felt or broken with a single move.
Something like grief flashed in Pyetar’s eyes when he finally stepped back.
“You don’t have to make up for helping Karvek. Just consider us even. I should get back,” he said gruffly, and Iryana felt a pang of disappointment even as relief flowed through her body at the distance between them.
She nodded slowly.
Pyetar headed back toward the stairs but paused. “Just remember that my brother is not an idiot. If he realizes you’re trying to manipulate him, he will kill you.”
“Don’t tell me what to do, Pyetar Horvol.”
Iryana paused in the main square at the center of the fortress, hesitating.
She didn’t know what to expect from a military party; she’d avoided them all so far. Now that she could see the warehouse, doubt was flooding her.
But she reminded herself that this was how the game was played. She needed allies, and they wanted her at this party.
Iryana was wearing the nicest dress she had, though she’d never intended to put it on when she’d packed it. The dress had been her mother’s, and she’d brought it as a reminder. Not of her mother necessarily, but of consequences. Not all mistakes are forgivable. And some little girls aren’t enough to keep their mothers from leaving.
Her fingers clenched her skirts uncomfortably. She hoped it wasn’t too much.
The dress was white, a color that had been popular before the dakii came, with voluminous skirts reaching midway down her boots. The harsh geometric symbols of metal magic, stitched in soft grays and purples, bled up the skirt and up the sleeves. It was beautiful, impractical. From another time.
She’d been a young girl the last time she’d worn something so nice, her hair twisted into detailed braids that Hadima had spent hours tugging into place. Once, she’d loved wearing things like this. Now, something about it felt inherentlywrong.
You are a grown woman now; she reminded herself, looking toward the warehouse instead of into her past.
