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In all her years as Dannhren, Natta had never seen anything like it. The mootplace was in uproar, and it was all the other council members could do to keep everyone back from the dais. Faren sat there, grey with pain and muttering as Marken assessed the damage.
“Do we take him to my place or yours?” Marken asked, looking up at Natta. She wanted oh-so-badly to say My place – but she couldn’t. That would be as good as condemning Faren as a criminal and, unfortunately, the people saw him as a victim.
“That wrist needs treating, yes?” Natta said instead. Marken nodded. “Then yours, obviously.”
“Obviously?” Kristan echoed incredulously. Natta hadn’t noticed him until then, but he had appeared by Marken’s side and was staring at her as one might regard a ghost. Natta took a few slow, deliberate breaths through her nose.
“Yes, Kristan. He’s wounded.”
“But he was saying that stuff about Auntie, lying at a moot—”
“He’s wounded,” Natta repeated, because she couldn’t bear to think about all the questions Kristan would want to ask now. Rost had been against hiding her magic from Kristan; she said lying would come back to wound Natta in the end.
But now Rostfar was gone, and Natta was wounded anyway. What difference would another twist of the knife make?
Natta turned away from Kristan. “Hrall?”
“I’ll handle things out here,” Hrall said. Natta almost sighed in relief. At least she could still rely on him.
With a sharp jerk of her head, Natta motioned for Marken and Laethen to take Faren across the mootplace to Marken’s home. With her leading the way, nobody stopped them – but the tension and doubt were still there, passing from whispering mouth to whispering mouth. Ethy brought up the rear.
Inside Marken’s home, away from Kristan’s questioning eyes, Natta let some of her composure slip. Just a little. She crossed the room in a few measured steps and grabbed Faren by his injured wrist. He released a strangled yelp.
“Nat-Hrenna,” Marken said sharply. Natta ignored him.
“What was that?” Natta demanded coldly – because she had to be cold. It was either that or break completely. Faren’s mouth gaped. “I’ve half a mind to call you straight to trial for disturbing our traditions, you slimy little—”
“Natta!” Ethy’s hands were surprisingly strong as they closed around Natta’s. “Let him go. Don’t deal with him like this.”
Natta looked around. Laethen was staring at her with blank-faced confusion, Marken with disappointment. Aethren looked horrified.
Natta let go. Faren slumped. Marken made to help him, but Natta held up a commanding hand.
“No,” she said firmly. “Not yet.”
“But Nat—”
“No.” Natta fixed Marken with the same icy glare she had just used on Faren. He recoiled, and if that made her feel guilty – well, it was necessary.
Faren quailed under Natta’s gaze as she returned it to him. His eyes were full of pain and shock.
“You’ll answer me two questions – and you’ll answer honestly,” she said. “And then I’ll let Marken look at you.”
Faren gave a stiff nod. Some resentment was creeping into his eyes now, but he was still badly shaken. Good. Natta could work with that.
“Did you truly get your – information – from Isha?”
“Yes,” Faren said hoarsely. “He needed someone to talk to, after Whiterift. I was there for him.”
Natta let her voice drop to a cool, level tone. She didn’t look away from Faren. “Are you attempting to insert yourself into our council as Dannaskeld in my sister’s place?”
To Natta’s surprise, Faren laughed. The sound was unbearably bleak and tinged with hysteria.
“No, Nat-Hrenna,” he said, lips curling bitterly. “I never want to be Dannaskeld again.”
Natta almost lost control of her expression. She could feel the surprise in the room; it turned the air taut and brittle.
“That’s impossible!” Aethren burst out. “I met the Dannaskeld of Ysaïn at the last tradesmoot. She taught me to fletch arrows.”
Faren’s grim smile looked almost skeletal. “None of Darmir’s arrowcraft helped her when that – that wolven beast ripped her up.”
“A wolf,” Natta repeated softly. “And how, exactly, did—”
“You said two questions,” Marken interrupted. Natta wanted to scream at him, but that wouldn’t do. She had to stay in control of this situation; she had lost too much else today.
“Pa . . .” Aethren looked like they might throw up as they put a hand on Marken’s shoulder to stop him. “This is a security matter, right? So.” they paused and glanced at Natta and Laethen, as if asking permission to continue. Natta’s heart almost ached in sympathy for Aethren. Almost.
“So,” Natta continued. “What happened?”
Faren couldn’t hold her gaze this time. “Darmir and her daughter hadn’t come back. I took people to look for them when it was clear something’d gone wrong. We got to the girl in time, but Darmir – there was barely enough left of her to bring home.” He blinked quickly and looked down, but didn’t wipe away his tears.
“And that’s how you sustained your own injuries?”
“Yes,” Faren said. His voice was tight – and Natta didn’t think that was because of pain. She would have dearly loved to accuse him of lying, but Marken had clearly had enough. He took Faren’s wrist as if to examine it, placing himself between them.
“Very well.” Natta stepped back. “But this isn’t over. I’ll be at home if I’m needed again.”
Natta left by the back door and stood in the little herb garden outside, her breath shaking in the eerily still air.
“Best if you let it be over for now, Nat-Hrenna,” said Ethy, stepping up to Natta’s side. She put a hand on Natta’s arm, and Natta had to fight her impulse to pull away.
Ethy was a slippery one. Oh, she was loved and respected – and with good reason – but still. Natta trusted her less and less with every year she spent as Dannhren. There was something sharp and hungry in Ethy’s eyes when she thought nobody was looking at her, and she always knew far too much about the goings-on in Erdansten.
Ethy’s eyes now were soft – but in a calculated way. Natta could recognise it, even if nobody else ever did. She had pulled the same expression too many times herself.
“Let it be over?” Natta repeated dryly. Ethy nodded.
“Move against him too quickly, and people might become . . . suspicious.”
“Of?”
“Well—” Ethy laughed bitterly. “Your poor sister, of course. And maybe you.”
Internally, Natta seethed. Gods damn her, Ethy was right. Natta’s hold on her position was bound by dozens of threads – the trust and respect of the people, her skills and her decision-making, her past record of leadership. And those threads could break so easily. She couldn’t afford to bring Faren to a trial, but doing nothing would be as good as admitting he was right . . .
He is right, Natta thought to herself. That’s the problem.
Externally, Natta gave Ethy a tight little smile. “Of course. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Ethy patted Natta’s shoulder in a friendly manner. “Well, I must be off. I promised Kristan I’d let him spend some time with my ravens after the moot, and I’d better keep that promise, don’t you think?” With a little wave and a smile, Ethy turned and walked away.
Natta watched Ethy go, her hands clenched into fists beneath the folds of her cloak.
There was another thread, one she didn’t think about as often as she wanted to: her relationship with Kristan. It was small, but it was the most important thread of all. She could feel it wrapped around her heart, so tight it often drew blood. If it ever snapped, she knew it would cut her deeply.
She didn’t know what to do about it. Rost had always been the one she went to, and now . . .
And now, I’m alone.
There in Marken’s herb garden, hidden from everyone else, Natta allowed herself a single heartbroken sob.
⁂
The house around Mati felt far too big. He sat at the table, trying to crochet a blanket. He had been working on it since before Arketh’s disappearance – the bright yellow and red yarns had been her choice. She had helped dye it.
The hook fell from Mati’s trembling fingers. He was just about to pick it up when the door slammed.
Isha stood just inside the threshold, his chest heaving, eyes bright and glassy.
“You broke his wrist,” Isha said.
“And you broke Rostfar’s trust.”
Isha went silent. They stared at one another across the expanse of the room, separated by a table and a million unspoken thoughts. Isha’s lower lip trembled, but he didn’t say anything else. He looked pale and clammy, as if he had just been sick.
With a weary sigh, Mati gestured for Isha to sit opposite him.
Isha sat slowly, his eyes shifting around the room. It was too quiet. Too big.
“Why did you tell him?”
“He was convinced that Rost was – is – like Pa was.” Isha put his face in his hands, but Mati couldn’t muster up the energy to comfort him. He didn’t feel angry anymore, just . . . tired, right down to the bone. “Every time I changed the subject, he took it as another sign he was right. I thought—”
“You didn’t think.”
“Yes, I did!” Isha stood abruptly, his hands planted on the tabletop. “I couldn’t bear to have her remembered like I remember my pa and I couldn’t stand anyone to think she’d raise a hand against Arketh. He broke my trust. He—” Isha choked off and turned away.
Mati’s heart swelled in sympathy despite his slow-simmering anger. He had been blessed, he knew, to have parents who loved gently and stuck around when they were needed. Isha hadn’t; all he had was Faren, and Faren was a sharp little bastard who never knew when to stop. That wasn’t Isha’s fault.
“Come here,” Mati said and took Isha’s hand. Isha’s skin was cool against Mati’s throbbing fingers.
“You tucked your thumb in, you daft turnip,” Isha said softly, a hint of incredulity creeping into his voice. The familiarity of the phrase brought a small, brief smile to Mati’s lips.
“I’ve never punched anyone before,” he admitted as he flexed his fingers. Pain shot from his swollen thumb and he hissed through his teeth. “I didn’t even mean to. I just – wanted him to stop talking.”
“You managed that.” Isha shook his head. He got up and rifled through a box on the shelf above the hearth until he found some bandages. These Isha dipped in water from the basin before he returned to the table and gently began to bind Mati’s fingers. Mati leant away from the pain and tried to think about other things.
Once finished, Isha sat down and curled an unused bit of bandaging around his fingers again and again.
“I—” Isha began, at the same time as Mati said, “Listen—”
Both broke off. Mati cleared his throat and motioned for Isha to continue.
“What happens now?”
Mati bit the inside of his cheek. What does happen now? How are we supposed to keep going? Mati suspected there would be a punishment for injuring Faren, and he didn’t mind accepting that. But. That would only clear a small sample of the shit heap he and Isha were in.
“I can’t say,” Mati admitted. Isha lapsed back into silence. The dull thud of his heel hitting the floor as he bounced his leg repeatedly was the only sound in the room.
“Do you blame me?” Isha finally broke out. Mati hesitated. He had been expecting another outburst, not that question, barely whispered into the fraught silence.
“I think,” Mati said carefully, “that you’ve fucked up.”
Isha bowed his head. He looked so small – or at least, smaller than he usually did to Mati. Aching inside, Mati closed his hands over Isha’s again. Isha looked up, startled.
“You fucked up, but everything’s . . . it’s all different now. It’s just you and me, and I’m too exhausted with it all to be angry at you.”
Tears glistened in Isha’s eyes. He looked at Mati, expectant like a tame raven awaiting feed. Mati exhaled slowly. He knew what he had to say next; the words had been building up inside his chest weeks, but that didn’t make it any easier.
“I’m standing by Rostfar and Arketh, and you know that.” Mati licked his lower lip and plunged on before Isha could say anything. “So no, I don’t blame you, even though I probably should. But you pushed Rost away and you let Faren get into our home, our family, our bed. He’s always overshadowing us. I can’t pretend I understand magic or the wyrdness much other’n praying to Erdan for a good crop harvest, but none of that means shit. It’s our daughter we’re talking about, not some monster from the marshes. She’s kind and sharp and wants to see the good in the world and now she’s—” Gone, Mati wanted to say, but the word stuck like bile in the back of his throat. He sucked in a sharp breath and clenched his wounded fist, letting the pain ground him. “We can’t give up on her.”
Isha stood up. For a moment, Mati thought Isha would leave or hit him or both. Instead, he came around the table, took the front of Mati’s shirt, and leaned in to kiss him. Mati put a hand on Isha’s chest.
“Not now,” he said.
Isha’s eyes filled with tears. “But—”
“Isha . . .” Mati closed his eyes and brought one of Isha’s calloused hands to his lips. “I’m sorry. But I can’t – not now,” he mumbled against Isha’s knuckles. Isha sniffed and pulled away to wipe his nose on his sleeve.
“I’ll fix this.”
“I don’t think any of this can be fixed.”
“No!” Isha’s eyes blazed with rare determination. “You’re wrong. It can – I’ll find a way.”
“What . . .?”
“Rostfar said Arketh’s not dead, so I will believe that. And I swear, on Erdan and Norðunn and all else that’s good, I’ll make this right.” Isha’s fists were clenched and his cheeks were flushed. “I’ll – I’ll find Rost and bring her home, and we’ll fix it together.”
“How?”
“We’ll find someone capable of tracking; someone we can trust.” The look on Isha’s face was one that Mati recognised – it was how he looked when working out how best to fill a complex request at his forge. And when he looked like that, he always succeeded.
Mati nodded. “But don’t swear on the gods. People swear on them all the time.”
Isha looked Mati directly in the eye. “Then I swear it on the wyrdness,” he said. “And I swear it on our family.”
