She somehow ran, cheeks slick and heart crumbling.
With nowhere else to go, her body too worn down to take her far, Iryana found herself back at her cottage.
She limped inside, nearly having to drag herself.
The house had been neglected; the floor was covered in a layer of dust and grime; the stove smelled off, and the pantries were nearly empty. The barn connected to the back of the main living rooms was empty, her animals somewhere else in the village. But beneath all that, it was still the house she had lived in before: first with her entire family, then just with her father, and finally by herself.
It didn’t feel the same, though. There was a silence she had never really noticed before, an emptiness. It hung ominously in the air, as if it were a thing to fear.
That emptiness seemed to grow as Iryana cleaned herself off and wrapped her injuries the best she could. She needed to rest, lay down on the dust-covered bed, but then what would she do other thanthink?
No, anything but that.
She had always hidden the stillness with busyness, hadn’t she? That was all she was missing: tasks. Chores. Iryana decided it would be good to clean the house out, to have a fresh start. The growing pain in her body, her leg especially, would not stop her.
First, she scrubbed out the oven. It was hard work and left her dirty and hurting far worse, but her mind was still too free. She needed the numbness that she remembered, not the fear and despair that were stubbornly clinging on.
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 wasruined.
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 wasinside. 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.
