“Could you truly stand up to yourbrother, 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 thelight 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.
