FOUR: Resolute
Darya Varin’s farm sat near the edge of a freshwater lake, which itself fed a long river that ran all the way to the western ocean. The farmstead was more than double the size of Mistress Pol’s—as well as her farmer’s fields, Darya owned a vast tract of range on the nearby steppe where her workers raised horses, monstrous buffalo and thick-wooled sheep.
Darya was a gracious hostess—I was fed, given a fresh set of rancher’s clothes in my own size, even offered shelter for as long as I wanted it. The farmstead was a busy sort of place, and there’d be plenty of work for a young woman like me to take on if I settled there. I could start over: I was young, smart enough, worked hard, and—to my chagrin—unattached. I could figure out how to make a new life for myself. No one had to know where I’d come from; no one would care about one more farm girl living alone.
But even as I thought about it, I knew that staying wasn’t an option. Yenda Avard had taken that chance away from me when she’d murdered my husband, my mother, and everyone else I’d held dear. I could no more stay on Darya’s farm than I could bring Pyotr back to life. When I told Mistress Darya that I intended to leave once the storm passed, the older woman was stunned. “Whatever for?” Darya said. “You barely escaped with your life once already.”
I took a long moment, considered my next words carefully. “Yenda Avard and I have…unfinished business.”
Darya snorted. “Saints alive, girl, if you’re thinking of trying anything foolish, just put a bullet in your brain and save everyone the trouble.” When I didn’t react to that, or at least not the way she’d expected—face blank, save for furrowed brows and a faint sniff—Darya’s features softened; her eyes looked sad to me, or even haunted. “After what you told us, on the road…while you were sleeping, Ira and I, we rode ourselves all the back out to Pol’s place to see what happened—didn’t we, Ira?”
The old man, seated next to Darya, grunted once in the affirmative.
“Something you didn’t notice,” Darya said, “and no surprise, given the state you were in, was they put up a marker out on the main road: a warning to any passers-by that there was an outbreak of red fever on Pol’s farm.” Darya’s face looked grim. “It’s not unheard of for a farm or village to be burned down to prevent further spread of disease.”
“That’s a lie,” I said with a snarl. “There hasn’t been a case of red fever anywhere near here for years. She’s just trying to hide the real truth about what happened.”
The Mistress nodded. “Quite possible. I’ve heard rumors that the First Daughter’s done the same or worse in places where there’s been records of such ‘outbreaks.’”
“She’s done this before?”
Darya nodded again.
Growing up, I never thought of myself as a hateful sort of person—I sometimes held the occasional grudge, same as anybody, but I never actively hated someone before. Now I discovered a new, rawer part of myself that I hadn’t expected to find: the hate I held for Yenda Avard was as hot and painful to hold onto as a red-hot stove, yet a part of me savored the sensation, refusing to let go of it. Pyotr deserved better than the shameful death he’d been given. So did Mother, and everyone else on the farmstead. Yenda Avard deserved the hatred of an entire community, but I was the only person left to keep it alive for all of them.
If I was going to die in less than a week, I was going to find a way to make Yenda Avard pay for it. “She can’t get away with it,” I said. “Somebody needs to stop her.”
“You think we don’t know that?” Darya sounded torn between exasperation and frustration. “Yenda Avard does as she pleases, and there’s precious little that anyone can do about it. The woman is a menace, just to send a message: that she knows she’s untouchable.” Darya gave a deep, mournful sigh. “It’s a dangerous game she’s playing, but she’s got the advantage of knowing all the rules from the beginning.”
“Cheat,” Ira said, grunting the word but not speaking further.
Darya nodded. “As my mother always said, it’s almost impossible to cheat a cheater. There’s no shame in refusing to play her game.”
For a long moment, I mulled over Ira’s monosyllabic response. Darya had taken the word to mean one thing, but I took it to mean something else: if I was going to win Yenda’s game, I had to learn how to cheat, too. As to exactly how I was going to do that, well, that was anyone’s guess.
“Mistress Darya, you’ve been very kind to take me in,” I said after a time, “but I can’t stay here. If word got back to Yenda or the Avardi that you were harboring me here, more of them might come to finish the job—and everyone else here with it.” The old farmer woman looked ready to argue, but I stopped her with one upraised hand. “Please.”
The one word cut Darya short, and with obvious reluctance, she nodded.
“I’ve had time to think about this, and I won’t change my mind. But if you would do me one final favor before I go—”
“Name it.”
“I need money.” I took a short breath. “I have to find some way to get to Whitehold, as soon as possible. I’ll pay you back, when I can. Someday.” Money was no small thing to ask of a farmer on the northern frontier, I knew that. The offer to pay her back felt like a lie, but I made it anyway, making some silent promise that I really would try.
The Steadwoman considered it for a moment before she nodded. “Alright, done.”
I sighed with relief. “Oh, thank you—”
“And I want you to take this.” She unfastened a wide leather belt around her waist, bearing a heavy knife in a plain steel sheath. Darya firmly pressed it into my hands.
I wrapped my fingers around the hilt of the knife. It was a plain thing, as much a tool as a weapon, meant for a working woman like Darya. The blade was more than a hand’s length. When I pulled it out of the sheath, the mirror shine of it showed that it was polished and sharpened regularly.
“That’s beaten shield-steel,” Darya told me. “Durable, strong, guaranteed not to chip or wear out. That knife’s served me well for years—it’ll do the same for you, I’m sure.”
I slid the knife back into its sheath and bowed my head over it. “Thank you, Mistress.”
“Do you know how to use one of those? Really use it?” Darya asked, giving me a long look. “It’s one thing to have a weapon, girl. It’s something else to stick it into somebody.”
I took another moment, considering the question as never before. I knew how to defend myself, but actively harming someone else… It was obvious why Darya was asking, given what my intentions were. After another second, I nodded. “That woman…” I swallowed, took a breath. “That…animal used me as an excuse to…to kill everyone else. Whether she held the sword or pulled the trigger doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. She’s the reason they’re dead, and if I have to go through every single man who followed her orders to get to her, I will.”
Darya curled both hands around mine, squeezing them tight for a moment. “Vengeance can be a worthwhile goal, Inga. But don’t lose yourself if you go down that road—it’s a dangerous one, and all you have to do is slip just once. If you do, you may find it hard to get back up again.” She sighed and sat back. “Now then—the first stop on this…trip of yours is Svolyn, but that’s a three-day hike from here through the South Woods. It’s the middle of shearing week here, so I can’t spare myself to take you, but Ira can give you a ride that far, at least.”
Once again, Ira grunted a wordless affirmative.
Looking from one to the other, I swallowed past an uncomfortable thickness in my throat and nodded. “Thank you.”
As if that was the confirmation he was waiting for, Ira stood up, rubbing wrinkled hands over the worn knees of his trousers. “Storm’ll be passing soon. Best get the wagon ready.” With that announcement made, the old man squeezed Darya’s shoulder and left.
The Steadwoman watched him go, a small smile on her face, before turning back. “Inga—woman to woman, just between the two of us, we’ve some matters left to discuss.”
I nodded, preparing myself.
“Your…wedding dress.” To call her tone hesitant was grossly inadequate. “I’m guessing you don’t want it back.”
I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. Somehow, I managed to shake my head without crying.
“Right. Moving on.” Darya took a breath. “Why do you think the First Daughter did what she did? I mean, I may just be one woman living on the backside of nowhere, but I’ve still got friends. If Yenda Avard thinks she can kill a friend of mine and get away with it, I want to know why.” Darya’s eyes were momentarily hard as agate, dark and hostile. It was a question I’d been anticipating, but one that I wasn’t sure how to answer. Darya Varin deserved the truth for her kindness, but I still hesitated. I didn’t want to bring more bad luck to the woman’s doorstep.
“Mistress Darya—”
“Polina Alekhina was my friend, Inga.” Darya’s eyes were narrowed, her jaw set tight. “We grew up on these lands together; our mothers and grandmatrons grew up together; our families have farmed this land for generations. I’ve known you and your mother for years. If Yenda Avard the Younger is responsible, I have to know why. If you think you know anything about why it happened, I’d like to know, as well. Please.”
I nodded. “Before all this happened, I…I found out that my mother was secretly holding onto something of great value, especially to someone like Yenda Avard. Yenda’s motive was to steal my mother’s possession, and the only way to cover it up was to eliminate any witnesses to the theft.”
Darya’s brows furrowed. “Are you certain? All of this over a bauble?”
It was hard to keep my face smooth at Darya’s choice of words, but I managed. “I believe so, Mistress.”
“And do you know what it was that Yenda stole?”
The choice I had to make was agonizing. Hoping I was right, yet dreading the consequences, I chose: “It was a Sword, Mistress.” The silence that hung between us was long, thick enough that I could have sliced and buttered it with my new knife.
“A Sword.” Darya’s tone was impossible to decipher, but somehow, I knew that Darya was smart enough to follow my trail of bread crumbs. “There’s only one Sword—with a capital S—that’s unaccounted for in this day and age, Inga.” She rubbed at her mouth, looking uncertain, even afraid. “We’re not talking about any old blade…are we?”
I shook my head. “No, Mistress. My mother swore me to secrecy about it before she died—she meant to protect me, but if Yenda Avard knew about that secret, others may too.”
“Inga…” Again, she seemed hesitant. “I dressed your wounds myself—I sent everyone else out; that seemed the most decent way of it.” Darya opened her mouth several times, always starting a sentence, then cutting herself off.
“What is it?”
“Well…you didn’t have any!” She threw up her hands in disbelief. “Save for that hole in your gut, you don’t have a scratch on you. Would this Sword have something to do with explaining that?”
I nodded. “Yes, Mistress.”
“Saints.” Darya looked down for a moment, a haunted, intense look on her face. “Deathbringer… Yenda found and stole the Deathbringer, didn’t she?”
I kept my face unreadable and nodded again.
Darya covered her mouth with one hand for a moment. “If she’s been looking for it, that could have something to do with all of the havoc she’s been wreaking around the territory for years now. But that weapon…” She pointed a finger at me. “It was supposed to be destroyed before you or I were born, girl, and with it, all of the brood that was meant to Bear it. To think such a thing was here…or near enough to here, I suppose, and nobody knew of it. And now Yenda Avard the Younger has it, of all people.” The rancher woman let her hand fall. “Do you have proof, Inga? Of your story, and it’s more…fantastical elements?”
For a moment, I stared down at my hands, at the sheathed knife in my lap. I weighed my options again, but the choice was already made—I had to adhere to that now and to winter-winds with the consequences. Ira had shut the door behind him, so it felt safe enough to reach up to my left ear and unfasten my barrette; I could almost imagine the tingling of the magic fading, and watched the woman’s eyes go wider with surprise as the darkness in my hair ebbed away, nothing but gold left in its wake.
“Well then.” Darya licked her lips, covering her mouth again, deep in thought for a long moment. “I’ve heard tales enough about Crazy Katarina; there’s more than a few stories that talk about her ‘bright locks of morning glory,’ so that’s proof enough for me, I suppose.” She turned her head, checking herself to confirm that the bedroom door was shut before turning back again. “But be cautious, Inga, with who you tell this to—people have long memories, and if they knew you were Katarina Alenir’s progeny…” The older woman’s voice fell away, leaving plenty of unspoken, unwanted promises behind.
I frowned while returning the clip to my hair, confirming that the illusion was back in place. “I’m not Katarina Alenir, Mistress Darya. I’m myself, my own person.”
“You know that. I know that. Others don’t. Just…be mindful of what you say, and who you say it to, especially given this path you’ve chosen for yourself.”
Outside the window, the rain had slowed to a light trickling, and now a glimpse of bright midday sunlight fell across the thin glass panes. Both of us looked over at it for a moment, then back again. A good many unsaid things lay between us, but I felt that making the honest choice was the right one, so I was content with that. Wherever this journey led, premeditated murder had started it, and the same was almost assuredly waiting for me at its end. It seemed best to give my conscience some last bit of salve before I started sullying myself with less savory choices.
Darya led me out of the borrowed bedroom. I had a few moments to admire the construction of the log-walled farmhouse, its great room with tall ceilings and high crossbeams, polished wood floors with woven rugs of dyed wool, and multicolored bedroom doors of blue, yellow, green and crimson as we passed them by. The cooking fires were burning in the kitchen, and the smells of delicious food filled the house. I spotted people working at this task or that one; several looked up and smiled hellos or farewells without speaking as we passed by. A small, squash-nosed dog with black eyes and matching fur sniffed and barked around my ankles, protesting my intrusion into its ankle-high kingdom, then barked several times more for good measure when we stepped outside.
I took a deep breath and smelled the fresh scent of clean air. I knew I wouldn’t be coming back to this place for a long time, and I wanted to remember some piece of it that was still good in my mind—not that I had many good things to think about just then.
Ira sat on the same wagon that had borne me to the farmstead the day prior. A big-shouldered sheepdog was sitting in the back, its furry head resting on Ira’s lap. He wore a wide-brimmed hat and a long-sleeved coat, dyed brown to match his rancher’s clothes. The old man offered a second, matching coat to me.
I took the coat, pulled it on and climbed up onto the seat next to him. The dog raised its head as I sat down, a pair of dark, curious eyes peeking at me from behind a heavy veil of grey and white fur.
Darya clasped my hands tight for a moment. “You’ve a long road ahead of you,” she said, either in preparation or warning. “If you come out of it, you’re always welcome here. I owe Polina that much.”
“Thank you, Mistress Darya,” I answered. “I won’t forget your kindness. Not ever.”
“See that you don’t,” Darya said with a tiny smile. Then she looked at Ira, nodded once, either choosing or not needing to speak. Ira nodded back, clicked his tongue, and urged the buffalo into moving with a flick of the reins. One of the great beasts gave a bellow, and the other butted shoulders to the first in protest as they started moving. The wagon rolled along at a brisk pace, pulling away from the farmhouse and towards the main road to the east.
Find Whitehold, Deathbringer had told me. I only had days left to do it, and who knew what I’d come across on the way there. The tiny, white-hot pit of hate and anger in my belly kept me warm in spite of the wind in my face, and I began to nurse it, feeding and nurturing it with every meter of bumpy dirt road that passed beneath our feet.
YENDA
Commander Golova was a recent transplant to the region. Her predecessor, Lekina Aloriev, had run the local militia for more than three decades, a silver-haired matron who’d been beloved by her men before retiring. By all accounts, her replacement was a model soldier who followed her orders to the letter, though she was much younger than her predecessor: Golova kept her chestnut hair cut short to just above the shoulders; she also wore a thick leather strap across her head and right eye to cover an old injury, but her other eye was as cold and unfriendly as the northern tundra.
Yenda had disliked Golova immediately upon meeting her. It wasn’t hard to tell that the feeling was mutual. “No, you don’t understand,” she said, gesturing with her hands for emphasis. “I don’t want the girl detained. I want her eliminated. She’s an enemy of the state—that makes her my mother’s enemy, which makes her my enemy, which makes her your enemy.” Yenda reached out, giving a firm pat to the woman’s cheek: hard enough to feel it, but not enough to leave a mark. Golova hadn’t earned that, not yet. “We do not detain enemies, Commander, we remove them. With extreme prejudice.”
The train whistle blew a harsh, long blast. Its departure had been delayed under Yenda’s direct orders, but she was still impatient to depart. She had the Deathbringer in her possession, and with enough time, once the Alenir girl was eliminated, Yenda was sure that she could bend it to her will. What Yenda wanted to do was to ride the next train all the way back to Svolyn and roam the countryside until she found Katarina’s wicked spawn and put her out of her misery, but Yenda had to get the black Spellsword back to Whitehold first, to present it and her plan to the Matriarch in person. It rankled in her gut, having to depend on a subordinate to finish the job, but she had no other choice.
Yenda gave the other woman a moment to process her orders. “Do we understand one another, Commander? A girl, maybe twenty winters. Brunette at first appearance, but that’s a farce: she’s got hair that’s yellow as a wheat stalk once you get take off the bright-steel she’s wearing. She’ll also be traveling alone. And you will see to the matter personally. Do I make myself clear?”
Golova blinked her one good eye, but from her long look, she might as well have been staring right through Yenda. “Yes, First Daughter. Swift travels to you.” After a stiff salute, the Commander strode from the train car without looking back or bothering to shut the door behind her.
Walking to the open door, Yenda leaned out, watching Golova and her subordinates hurriedly depart, crossing a field of broken shale and gravel towards the train station; in the distance, she could see the smoke of Nukorovo’s chimneys in the distance.“Take care of it, Commander!” she shouted. “I’m paying triple anyone’s yearly stipend if they find that girl! Don’t disappoint me!”
The militia commander didn’t turn back or respond, but Yenda’s shouting hadn’t been for her benefit anyway. She could go back to Whitehold, collect as many soldiers as her mother would allow her to have, then come back and hunt down the Alenir girl personally, but that would just take more time. Time wasn’t a luxury she possessed, not yet.
Yenda shut the door to her car, and reached for a chain-pull above it. If the conductor was paying attention, he’d see a painted yellow bell swinging over the roof of her car, it’s ringing giving him the all-clear to depart. Three times, she rang the bell. By the fourth, the train’s whistle blew two loud blasts, followed by a heavy rumbling sound as the engine roared; moments later, the train began to move.
Leaving unfinished business behind chafed at Yenda, but time and circumstance didn’t give her much choice. For now, at least, she was heading home.