Iryana swallowed the shame that filled her mouth like a swig of spoiled milk. His disappointment may not have been earned this time, but it was often enough.
She looked away, hoping no one had caught the exchange, only to find Pyetar was watching her from across the room. He didn’t look confused or entertained by her self-inflicted suffering, just contemplative. He raised a brow as if to ask: what now?
“Set the water over here,” Teshya ordered, forcing Iryana to catch up.
They were walking toward Hadima and Uncle Byorsh. The nervousness that filled her was muted due to her exhaustion.
“Hadima, isn’t there anything else you could give my father?” Kladara, another cousin, asked harshly, mopping Uncle Byorsh’s brow with a damp rag.
Hadima looked frazzled, and her eyes were wide with worry, but her blond braids were wrapped around her head without a single hair out of place. She looked beautiful as always.
“I’m sorry, I’ve given him everything I can. My supplies are too low.” Hadima sighed. “I will try talking to grandmother. Again.”
Iryana’s throat felt like it was closing up. If they couldn’t make medicine, would they resort to the poppy? The brigade’s liaison, Nevesh Dyol, would sell to the family just like he had sold to her father. The thought made her sick.
Her eyes jumped over to Pyetar; still sitting in the corner. He didn’t even bother looking up.
“We lost one of the last metal-forged villagers today.” Teshya told Iryana numbly as she hurried past them. Her little infant was now in her arms, her face transformed as she looked at her daughter, softened and full of relief.
Losing even one fighter was something they could not afford, but Iryana kept herself from asking who it was. She’d mourn them later, in private. In truth, she had thought they would lose far more.
As her eyes followed baby Anara, a slight smile tilted Iryana’s lips. She had to be grateful for those left.
Teshya’s comment drew the room’s attention to Iryana, and her face fell again. Some of them drifted right back to what they had been doing, but most watched her intently, as if waiting to see why she was there or what she would do.
It made her feel small, like an animal caught in a trap. Like they were trying to decide if she was wild, to be sent back outside, or docile, like a pet to be taken in. She knew that either way she would be kicked when she misbehaved.
Iryana wished she could do something, fetch more bandages or grind up ingredients. Anything to get the attention off of her. Her skin prickled from their gaze, and she had to fight the urge to rub her arms. But every time she helped, every time they relied on her, they eventually regretted it. They always seemed to forget that, but Iryana didn’t—couldn’t.
She was about to flee back out the door when her grandmother swirled into the room, all eyes converging on her.
The way the First held herself made it impossible to forget that Vesima Kleesolda was a force of nature, the First of the Guardian Kleesold Clan. A legacy of metal-forged magic all her own, but she also came from generation after generation of prodigies.
Tonight she was wholly embodying her role, spine stiff and face grim. It was like Vesima had been made for authority, or perhaps having it had shaped her this completely. It made Iryana worry about the future of the clan once she was gone.
The five magics dominated different parts of Istrin society, all with their own strengths and uses. While warriors of guardian clans had almost always been metal-forged, they commonly had other types of magic as well. But a guardian clan could only be led by the strongest metal-forged leader of each generation, a tradition that was at the heart of how the clans functioned. Even before they were needed to kill the dakii, metal-forgings were the sharpest, the strongest, and made the best melee weapons. And the clans were the warriors and protectors of Istri.
The Kleesolds had a First and Second named, though their clan currently had four generations living. The First was the last of her generation, and the second generation was down to five Kleesolds, although only three were metal-forged and one of those was not much of a fighter. Thankfully, the Second still lived while many of his siblings and cousins did not. The last generation only contained baby Anara so far, who could hardly be judged yet. It would be decades before an heir of that generation would be named.
The third generation was in a difficult position. There were eleven living Kleesolds in that generation, but the Third was not yet named. Tonhald was the oldest at 28, and the youngest was Velemik, at only 5. They were the largest generation left. The older ones had only been children when the dakii first came, spared from the early years of war. Now, most had already taken their guardian oaths, but without access to a metal well, none could be metal-forged.
Iryana looked between her cousins and sisters, knowing that stress hung over them constantly. Once the First and the Second passed, was there a future left for their clan? She didn’t want to think about it.
Iryana shrank slightly, sidling behind a few others to remain unnoticed. She had no desire for her grandmother to recognize her after their last encounter.
“The Second is back,” the First announced gravely. “Gather the family.”
The Second, the heir of the second living generation, was the First’s nephew. He was their clan’s main emissary with the duchess and her council, frequently bringing back news. Based on the First’s tone, this message wouldn’t be good.
Iryana desperately tried to decipher her grandmother’s look, tried to piece what she could together, but the First wore her normal stoic expression. Iryana gave up on deciphering it, her gaze scanning down her grandmother’s usual dress, longer than those of the family that were still active guardians, but black with now fraying embroidery at the hem. The sleeves of her white underdress hid her thin wrists as she held her hands clasped together. Iryana watched those hands squeeze a little harder and felt dread work its way inside her.
The Kleesolds looked around at each other nervously, then started handing off tasks for village volunteers to take over. Those villagers eyed her family nervously, but they wouldn’t question the clan.
It was time for Iryana to leave. She didn’t belong at a family meeting, hadn’t attended one in years. Worry strangled her throat, each breath a struggle to get out, but she still had to leave. She had gotten what she had come for. So now she needed to retreat to her cottage and pray sleep came quickly. Let the family worry about their news.
Taking advantage of the family heading further into the house, Iryana slowly moved back toward the door. It took all her self-control.
She glanced back at Pyetar, who was watching them all with far more interest than she cared for. It was apparent from her family’s behavior that he had kept her secret, though, so he was no longer her problem. The Kleesolds could deal with him.
