Iryana looked down at her clenched fists and forced them to stretch out. Bloody crescents marred her palms, and the joints of her fingers ached. She didn’t like the way her body felt, how on edge she was, how untethered. There was nothing she could do, but if Hadima told her she would fix it, she could have faith in that.
Slipping around the others, Iryana followed Hadima down the hall.
It had been years since she had been so deep in the house, but it still made her feel like it would close in on her at any moment. There were just so manythings, so many reminders of the family she couldn’t have and the lives they had long since left behind.
Hadima rushed into her study, and Iryana moved to follow but froze at the threshold of the room. Hadima stood at the far end, facing away. Her arms moved quickly as she ground something at her worktable, and Iryana recognized the distinct scraping sound of Hadima’s water-forged mortar and pestle.
The room looked just as Iryana remembered, with cabinets of tinctures and ointments, herbs hanging from twine stretching across the ceiling. Small cauldrons, mortars, pestles, and knives dotted the many tables shoved against the walls. There were neat labels with Hadima’s careful scrawl and so many smells that she couldn’t pick out the plants and barks they came from.
Iryana remembered Hadima’s study had always been full of people who needed her help, lingering and chatting with new smiles when they were through. Hadima brought life to the Kleesolds, and not just with her magic.
Watching her sister work, Iryana’s mind split between memories of watching her as a child and the desperate fear clutching at her heart.
When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, but it didn’t tremble like she worried it would.
“Hadima?”
With a slight jump, Hadima turned around; brow furrowed. She opened her mouth a few times, slowly setting the forged, pale-blue mortar and pestle down on the worktable. Iryana shifted nervously on her feet, sure she was the last person Hadima expected to see.
“What are you doing here?” her sister demanded, voice both a plea and a demand.
“I—” Iryana’s words slipped away from her.
“Do you need something?”
“The family—there has to be something the clan can do.”
Hadima sighed, sagging against the table behind her, watching Iryana warily. “Grandmother is the most stubborn person I know.” She squinted at Iryana,mouth softening a bit. “Or one of them, anyway. But she wouldn’t accept this if she could see another way.”
Iryana stared in disbelief, unable to believe her sister was giving in so easily. Hadima was supposed to be the one to hold the rest of them together. She was the stubborn one who had forced Iryana to try again and again to fit in with the others when she’d moved back in at thirteen. Never accepted it wasn’t possible, even long after Iryana knew it. Yet this she’d just accept?
“Since when did you start giving up so easily?” Iryana snapped. “We have until winter.”
“We?”
Iryana turned away. “The Kleesolds need to show the duchess they can hold the post. Whittle down the dakii packs, get more metal-forged, something.”
Hadima reached up absently, touching the forging tattoo that peeked above the collar of her dress.
It had been four years since Hadima went on her pilgrimage to the water well, just before Iryana moved out of the main house. She had come back quieter and more serious, as if taking care of the family had become a duty instead of just a quirk of her personality. Iryana had seen that tattoo once, when she had gone with her sisters to jump in the mostly frozen river one autumn.
It was almost translucent blue, the color of deep water. The symbols flowed along her arm, shoulder, and down her back like a river. Swooping waves, tight swirls of rapids, overlapping circles, and fish scales. She was sure the tattoo symbolized her sister’s kindness and compassion, friendship and laughter, but looking at it had made her sad. Iryana had always wished she could ask what they meant, but it was not something you could just ask about—especially with how difficult their relationship was.
Forging tattoos were deeply private, and to share their meaning was akin to sharing one’s deepest secrets. The exact nature would be a mystery until Iryana went through her own forging. Even now, a decade and a half after society as they knew it crumbled, some traditions still held on tight.
Was Hadima touching them to remind herself of her family? How her duty was to take care of them? Iryana hoped so.
Hadima cleared her throat. “The duchess’s entire settlement only sees a new metal-forged every couple of years, and they’re almost always military runaways,” Hadima reminded her. “We don’t have access to a well. It’s too dangerous to try and find one, even if it weren’t for the brigades.”
Iryana’s jaw clenched at the mention of the brigades—the military gangs. “They stopped being our country’s military when they turned on us, claiming the metal wells for themselves. Military should protect the people, not force them to pay for their ‘protection.’ They’re criminal gangs only pretending at honor.”
“I know, Iryana. I deal with them more than you do.”
Iryana swallowed, her words drying up.
“You’ve always been clever, Iryana. You got us out of so much trouble as kids. Tell me what to do.” Hadima’s eyes pierced right into Iryana’s. A plea and a challenge.
“Me? That’s a joke, and you know it.Youcan convince the cousins to stay. They’ll follow if you lead them.”
