“Those were hard years for us all.”
She nodded.
“My father—” The words resisted, but she forced them out. “He was a great metal-forged warrior. He joined some of the others on expeditions away from our settlement, fighting the dakii and finding people to bring back. But then he lost his leg, and was forced to come home. The Kleesolds fussed over him, hailed him a hero.”
Ahero. The word cut roughly against her tongue.
“But he wasn’t a hero to you, was he?”
“He risked his life to protect people, and he followed every order from the Kleesolds. He fought bravely. He was perfect.”
The Keeper frowned. “What happened after?”
Iryana found her arms wrapped around herself. “He didn’t recover well. He was in so much pain, they gave him tea from the Beast’s Poppy. My father withdrew from the rest of the family, from the humiliation of being brought so low. So, my family moved to one of the smaller houses at the far end of the post. My older sister, Hadima, stayed at the main house instead, for training.”
Hadima had always been the fun one; she could turn anything into a game and cheer everyone up. Iryana had so many memories of those times that were now just as bitter as they were sweet.
“Iryana?” The Keeper touched her shoulder, and she realized she had gotten swallowed up by those memories.
“My father pushed everyone away. He tried to push my mom and me away too, even little Misha. But he couldn’t—we had to stay to take care of him. It was ourdutyto him. The Kleesolds were raised to be loyal. But he was always so angry with us.”
Iryana looked down and saw that her hands were shaking. It was still so hard to push down the anger and resentment, the feelings of a small child that refused to accept the hard things in life. That refused to accept consequences.
“Tell me.”
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Some secrets weren’t meant to be revealed. Weren’t meant to be remembered.
“I can’t,” she pleaded. “I can’t.”
“You can.”
“No, really. I just—I can’t.” Her head shook back and forth violently. “I don’t want to.”
The Keeper was quiet for a moment before speaking with as much gentleness as one used to coax a baby lamb. “Why are you doing this?”
The automatic retort fell on her tongue. It was a coming of age—every Istrin was forged before they turned twenty-one. It was just the way things were.
But that wasn’twhy, and the Keeper seemed to know it.
“Everything rides on it—on my forging,” she whispered. And then because he’d said her words would not leave the temple, and she somehow believed him, she added, “For my sisters, for my family.”
“What happened after you moved out to help take care of your father?” he asked again. “Close your eyes and think of your sisters. And say it.”
She obeyed, eyes fluttering shut. The image of her sisters was branded there in her mind. Not as they were now—Hadima a stressed healer and her sister a near stranger. No, she remembered them before her father was injured.
She pictured Hadima when she was thirteen, stuck between being a silly, happy child and a young woman desperate to make everyone else happy. Her braids were blonder back then, her face softer, but she was already beautiful.
She imagined little two-year-old Misha. She’d walked early, approaching the world without a single fear. She’d been so sweet, always wanting to snuggle or pretend to help with whatever Iryana was doing. Her hair had taken forever to grow out enough to braid; she’d just had these little curls that lay against the nape of her neck.
Gods how Iryana missed them.
“Now tell me,” the Keeper urged.
The words came easily that time. For them.
“He hurt my mother.” Tears welled in her eyes, and she turned away from the Keeper. “And when I tried to stop him, he hurt me too.”
Once the wordsstarted, they didn’t stop.
