She just had to focus, one step in front of the other, and she’d reach it soon enough.
She crossed one of the small wooden bridges that stretched over the stream and headed through the pines, and up to her small cottage on the side of the valley.
Her breathing finally calmed.
Chapter Two
The morning air was chilled, and there was a frozen crust over the muddy path. Iryana’s tall leather boots squelched as she walked along the main village road, cracking the ice. There were enough people out and about that the few raised boards were crowded and Iryana would rather have muddy boots than navigate around the others. Tension wracked her body, but she kept her gaze straight ahead, ignoring the bleating sheep and villagers calling over their fences to their neighbors.
The Mud Moon was officially here, the first sliver flirting with the horizon against the deepening blue sky.
After her encounter with the First a few days prior, she was even more motivated than usual to finish her tasks quickly and return home. If she were lucky, the family wouldn’t notice her.
She glanced at the large gate at the end of the road, scanning the figures on the wall. They huddled on either side of the gate, fur caps and cloaks protecting them from the wind. Iryana sighed with some relief. Only village members were on duty that morning: no one that would see her and care to mention her presence.
Before she could turn toward the market square, her eyes snagged on a few teens playing bat and ball in the open field near the gate. She shivered. The villagers played alongside it easily, too trusting. The gate had stood for almost twelve years, but it would be little more than an obstacle to slow the dakii. Iryana could almost imagine the doors bursting open, screams echoing through the Dovaki Valley as her family was ripped apart.
With a ragged breath, Iryana tore her eyes away from the gate and focused on reaching the market.
Like any other springtime market, it comprised carts set on wooden boards, sparsely piled with baskets of excess produce and grains. Raised tables displayed baked pies and breads. Everyone in the post was working through the last of their winter stores, so the variety was limited. But this was the one day a month the market was busier than usual, at least during the warmer months. The far side was reserved for the great wagon brought by the duchess’s representative. Rations, letters, news, and payments were being handed out by the representative, along with luxuries sold from the bigger towns.
It looked like he even had bundles of smoked meat. Her mouth watered at the thought; she’d been rationing the little meat she had for months. She had worried the early mud would slow the representative down, make him late that month, but luckily her worries were unfounded. Smoked meat wasn’t what she’d come for, though.
Iryana began maneuvering through the stalls to get to an optimal position to sneak the supplies she had brought into the pile being set aside for the post. Not items to be sold, but supplies the duchess sent to help support them.
With a shake of her head, Iryana begged the unsettled feeling worming through her to go away.
Hoping to avoid the other shoppers, Iryana pulled her headscarf further over her face as she slipped between the stalls. She knew she didn’t stand out much; she was dressed the same as the other female villagers who held watch outside the wall. Trousers and a thick woolen jacket over a long undershirt and knee-length sleeveless dress. All shades of black and gray and brown. Even her cloak was unremarkable despite being imbued with fire to provide extra warmth. Her cousin’sfire-forged wife had sewn in the lining with her forgings to imbue it, but the rest of it was old with no detailed stitching or embroidery like others favored.
Iryana shifted her large basket, trying not to let the jars clink too loudly. She had a bit of fabric covering the piles of plants with pastes, ointments, tinctures, and salves beneath. They were nothing special, nothing like the water-imbued remedies her sister could create. But they were more than most people could get these days.
There were two women blocking the way.
“Where’s Ivak?” A nervous-looking woman asked as she picked through the paltry fabrics available at the stands.
“At the watchtower. Again.” Her friend sighed.
“I can’t believe they are forcing everyone to take so many shifts.”
Iryana edged closer to the women, hoping they’d notice she was trying to make it past them. “Excuse me,” she said, but not loudly enough.
“It’s better than having too few on duty.” The nervous woman shrugged. “Takes three of the non-metal-forged to take down one dakya.”
“Didn’t it take five last time?”
Iryana bit her tongue as one woman moved forward, allowing Iryana to finally slip past them.
There were more dakya sightings than ever; the dakii numbers were still growing. The First had forbidden anyone from venturing beyond the wall unless it was to stand watch in one of the towers. And with the guardians and villagers they’d lost in the last few years…
They couldn’t sound the bells to announce the deaths like they would have before the beasts came. Iryana still had memories of those haunting bells from when she was a little girl. Now, Iryana saw the black-dyed bundles of wildflowers and greenery hung from the gates as her only sign that someone had been lost. It was happening increasingly often.
A few steps away from her destination, she found a man approaching the usual shopkeeper. Iryana clenched her teeth with a flash of irritation. She would have to wait until the shopkeeper’s attention was away from the table to slip the supplies she’d brought in.
She could only see the back of the poorly timed customer, but he was clearly strong. His fur-lined cap and cloak covered most of his body, but there was a distinct way he held himself. A sense of readiness. Iryana might have thought him someone coming to work at the post for a season as there was only a knife and a hand axe hanging from his belt—but she glimpsed vambraces when he reached for his coin purse. His main weapons would be forgings, ready to be summoned at a moment’s notice.
She looked along the exposed skin of his neck and wrists, but there were no tattoos there to reveal which god’s magic he’d forged with.Disappointing. The tattoos could be almost anywhere, unfortunately.
The man was standing before the assortment of pies from the main house, bundles of herbs and jars of remedies. An offering that was extremely lacking, she noted.
