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ONE: A Day to Remember

Today was my wedding day: after years of waiting, months of planning, weeks of preparation and the agonizing days of anticipation, it was finally here. The sun was shining and a wild wind was gusting out of the west on a bright spring morning as I exited the kitchen door, nearly at a full run, almost tangling up in my skirts. My heart was in my throat, swollen and ready to burst from excitement, nervousness, anticipation and exhaustion all at the same time. I wanted to shout at something, to dance around in circles until I couldn’t stand up.

Everything was going to go right today. I was sure of that.

The whole farmyard was a crazed buzz of activity. All of the flower arrangements, both fresh and dried, were already hanging in their proper places. The cooked dishes for the guests were nearly finished; the smells of delicious things were wafting out of the windows of the main house kitchen. The common yard in-between the main house and the largest barn nearby was all set up for the ceremony. Everything was arranged and ordered, all down to the smallest detail.

The farmstead where I lived—a massive collection of larger communal houses, smaller private cottages, large barns where the animals were kept, storehouses, a silo for grain storage, and more—was far away from anything resembling civilization, which made getting spell-steel expensive. But the common yard had been freshly-tilled that morning with a new green-steel plow purchased especially for the occasion. I had watched in fascination as a pair of draft horses pulled the enchanted steel blade through the yard, at how the thick earth that turned over looked so rich and thick with a sweet scent, fresh and ready for planting. Now, it was already covered with a fresh coat of soft, short grass that felt wonderful between my toes.

A wooden platform near the center of the clearing was constructed where Pyotr and I would stand and speak our vows. Some of the younger children were playing games nearby, relieved of their chores for the day, climbing over the dried bales set up for seating or chasing each other through the rows, bored from waiting for the grown-ups to finish their work. While hurrying past the farthest barn, a pair of hands grabbed me from behind. I gasped from surprise before a pair of familiar lips pressed to mine, and that surprise melted into a slow moan instead.

A moment later, pulling back, I squinted up at a pair of impish blue eyes. “Pyotr!”

“Oh, Inga! It’s you!” he said, feigning innocent surprise. “Did they tell you I’m marrying the prettiest girl this side of South Woods today?”

I snorted and smacked his shoulder. “If any of the other women hear you’ve been sneaking kisses before the ceremony, I’ll hear about nothing else for a month.”

My future husband grinned at me. “Maybe we should do other things, too—that’ll really give them something to talk about.” I’d known Pyotr since we were children: when the other youngsters teased me for my mother’s insistence on physical and martial training, as well as learning to use a sword, Pyotr never joined in; when I struggled to keep up with my chores, Pyotr never hesitated to help.

His brown hair was combed back, showing off his wide, handsome face. It was traditional for a wife and her husband to not see each other on the wedding day until vows were exchanged. But I was the one who’d picked out his clothes and helped him dress that morning: a pressed white shirt to match my dress, his best trousers and a pair of polished boots.

I’d sewn most of my dress myself, although I had some help from other seamstresses on the farm. It had a modest neckline and a pair of white sashes wound about my waist. I’d bound my dark hair up with a marigold-colored ribbon, and wore a plain metal barrette behind my left ear. My own feet were bare, which was also traditional.

“You look very nice today, by the way,” he added.

“You always say that,” I said, resting my head to his chest. “The idea of ‘other things’ sounds lovely…but I can’t. There’s still so much left to do.”

“Well, I heard your mother was looking for you.”

My heart skipped. “She is? Now?”

“What do you think she wants?”

“I don’t know.” I sighed. “But I expect she thinks it’s important.”

“Maybe she thinks you need a serious discussion about what a new bride should be anticipating on her wedding night.” He gave me a sly wink.

I snorted a laugh. “I don’t need or want any sort of discussion about that, thank you!” I reached up on tiptoes to kiss his mouth—several times, for good measure. “But I should still make time to talk to her before the ceremony.”

“Outplayed by my own mother-in-law,” he answered with a dramatic sigh.

I reached up, stroking his cheek with a smile. “I suppose you’ll have to settle for second place just this once today.”

Pyotr rubbed his mouth, looking concerned. “Alright…but if your mother follows us home tonight, she has to sleep on the floor.”

I started to grin, but then he gave me a funny look. “What, what is it?” I said, feeling bashful. “Is something wrong?”

“You’ve got more straw in your hair.” My husband-to-be took hold of my ponytail in one hand, and with the other he pulled at several pale strands amongst the black hairs. “I guess we didn’t find all the pieces this morning after all.” Pyotr rubbed them between his fingers before he gave me a crafty smile.

I started to swear, but forced a laugh instead. Then I stole several more kisses to distract him before I slipped out of his arms, trying not to act too suspicious. “You should go check with Mistress Pol to make sure that everything is ready before the ceremony; she’s probably still huddled over one last concoction in the farmhouse kitchen. I’ll go see what Mother wants.”

“Don’t be long,” he said. Neither of us wanted to go, but we both knew our parting would be short-lived, so I hurried on.

My mother’s cottage was a small, one-room shack that was barely large enough for one person, much less two. I’d grown up in that tiny house, one of the smallest buildings on the farmstead, but that very night I’d be moving into a new cottage with Pyotr. The whole farmstead had come together to build it, and once it was finished, I’d been so proud of it that I’m sure I walked on air for a week. But even while the thought of leaving my old home for good was a welcome one, at the same time, I dreaded the thought of Mother being alone.

Ilyan Ivanova was waiting for me when I stepped inside. The curtains were drawn in spite of the sunny day outside. An oil lamp with a diminished glow sat on the bedside table. “There you are. Where have you been? Come in, and hurry. Close the door.” My mother was wildly gesturing, urging me to hurry inside, and she shut the door loudly behind me. The sky-blue dress she wore didn’t suit her, I thought—she was too thin, and her face looked too pinched, eyes dark and puffy underneath. Ilyan had never re-married after my father Sasha died when I was young. Even though she had never asked for my opinion, I always thought Mother’s stubborn insistence on spinsterhood was a mistake: Ilyan had a severe, untouchable beauty, the kind that didn’t belong on a farmstead on the northern end of nowhere. That air of aloofness always set her apart, and eventually the men-folk on the farm gave up on courting her.

“Hello, Mother. Can you get me another barrette, please?”

“What?” Mother had started pacing but stopped, frowning at me. “Why, what happened? Did someone see you?”

“Pyotr almost caught my hair changing again.” I lifted up the loose tail of hair from over my shoulder—just in the time it took to reach my mother’s cottage, more strands had turned pale, rather than the midnight black they should’ve been.

“Honestly.” Mother grumbled, reaching over to a small dish on the bedside table, next to the lamp. She fished out a small, metal barrette matching the one I already wore behind my ear, the same place where Mother had always worn one. “How many times have I told you to check yourself before you go out, Inga?”

“Yes, yes… I am going to have to tell him the truth eventually, Mother—you realize this.”

My mother sniffed, looking unconvinced. “You’d be surprised what secrets a woman can keep to herself, dear.”

I didn’t answer, as I was in no mood to argue. With practiced fingers, I unsnapped the bright-steel barrette from behind my ear, watching in the cottage’s solitary mirror as the black in my hair bled away from scalp to tip as the illusionary magics of the spell-steel accessory faded. In another moment, my hair returned to its unlikely shade of pale gold. None of other farmsteaders had hair of that color; black was, by far, the most common hue.

I quickly fastened the new barrette in place. Once the thing snapped shut, the renewed black surged through the thick strands of hair, and in seconds the golden sheen was gone. I fully intended to tell Pyotr the truth about my hair tonight when we were finally alone, but I saw no reason to start an argument with Mother about that. I checked my face and hair, giving my ponytail a slight fluffing before turning around. “Just don’t threaten me with another can of shoe polish; I’d sooner shave it all off first.”

“Perish the thought,” Mother said, showing just a hint of a smile. Her hair had gone prematurely grey years earlier, but getting me a regular supply of spell-steel accessories proved costly on a commune farmworker’s pay. My barrettes were in constant use during daytime hours, so the ensorcelled steel usually lost its luster quickly, its magic fading after a few weeks. I grabbed a few extras, tucking them into an inner pocket of my dress for safekeeping; there was no guarantee I’d have a chance to slip away anytime soon.

“Well, I’m here,” I said. “What did you need to talk to me about?”

“Something important, Inga,” Mother said. “Sit down.”

I repressed another sigh while taking a seat on the edge of the old, rickety bed. “Mother, please. There’s so much going on, and so much left to do, and then Pyotr said you were looking for me—”

“No,” she said, cutting me off. “I said it was important, and this is—more than today, more than your wedding, all of it.”

“What?” I was shocked, even a little angry. “Today is the most important day of my life! What could matter more than that?”

Mother didn’t answer. She knelt down in front of a large, black steamer trunk sitting against the far wall. It had turned to muted grey from age, and was one of the few items that belonged to my grandparents. Both of them died from an outbreak of red fever, the same that killed my father and nearly half of the workers on the farmstead at the time.

“I’d planned on waiting to show this to you once you and your husband started giving me granddaughters to dote on, but…well.” Mother cut herself off, sounding agitated and impatient. Once she opened the heavy lid bound with tarnished brass, she hurriedly began to pull out piles of clothes, coats, and other keepsakes I recognized: faded finger paintings, small bags of dried flower buds, a threadbare doll I’d slept with for years. All were set aside, forgotten for the moment.

“Show me what? Did something happen?”

She looked at me and paused—it seemed to me that she wasn’t initially sure how to answer my question. “I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure…” She seemed flustered. “I don’t know.”

I was at a complete loss; I loved my mother, and while she was a mysterious sort of woman, this was too much, even for her. “What does that even mean?”

“Would that I knew myself.” With that enigmatic answer, Mother delicately twisted two of the intricate brass fixtures on the trunk’s front before she pressed down hard on them with both thumbs; I heard a muffled ‘click’ from inside. She reached inside, pulled away what I now saw was a false bottom, and carefully pulled out an object nearly a meter long, bound in frayed cloth and leather strings. My mother took the item up with delicate care, then turned and took a seat next to me on the bed, resting the wrapped item across her lap. “Inga, what do you remember about your grandparents?”

It was the last sort of question I’d expected. I blinked, casting my thoughts as far back as I could manage. “About Gramma Tasia? I…I don’t know, really.” Mother’s hard, intense stare cut off anymore of my objections and for a moment I concentrated very, very hard. “I remember you telling me she died along with Grampa Avgust and Papa when I was little. I also remember…you once told me Gramma hated farming, and that Grampa was the one who taught you how to use a sword. That’s how you taught me to use one.” I kept any opinions of just how much I intended to use that particular skill to myself.

“That’s right,” she said. “My Mama very much hated farming—she loathed having to get dirty for as long as she lived. But there’s an explanation for that…and it has to do with this.” Mother ran her fingers across the wrapped item, toying with the old leather cords tied around it. “Your grandmatron belonged to the family of someone very important—a noblewoman, someone I’ve never told you about before today.” She carefully unfastened the cords, which were drying out from age and starting to crack in places. “This belonged to that noblewoman, and your Gramma Tasia was given it before that woman died. When Tasia died, it became mine, and when I die, it will be yours.”

That revelation made my eyes go a little wide. “What? A noblewoman?” When she didn’t answer me, I added: “What is it?”

Mother took a hard glance at the curtains covering the windows, as though suspecting someone of lurking outside. Then she pulled the cloth away: wrapped inside was a sword with a blade of black enameled steel so dark it seemed to absorb the lamplight. The crosspiece was forged of twisted black iron or steel; the hilt was made of matching leather, wrapped in gold wire.

It was, without question, the most valuable looking thing I’d ever seen in my life.

“Winter’s blight!” I cursed aloud. “We own a sword?”

“Mm. Why do you think I insisted you learn how to use one?”

“Well… I mean, I didn’t know…” I reached out to touch the thing but hesitated at the last second; it didn’t look like the sort of thing someone like me had any business touching. “Why didn’t you ever tell me about this?”

“Because this weapon is a secret, Inga, as deep and dark a secret as we have.” Mother’s voice was as hard as the beaten metal lying across her lap. “Your Gramma swore me to secrecy, that I should never reveal or show it to anyone. Your Papa never knew it existed. No one can ever find out about this—not Mistress Pol, not Pyotr, no one.” Her eyes pinned me in place like a bug on a needle; I’m sure I stopped breathing for a moment. “I meant what I said about keeping secrets. When I die, this sword will become yours. When you finally have a daughter, you must tell her about it when the proper time comes. For two generations, our family’s carried this secret, and it must stay secret, no matter what. Do you understand?”

It took a great deal of self-control just to focus on what my mother was saying—my mind was abuzz with questions and confusion, processing everything she was trying to tell me. “Mother—”

“Do. You. Understand?” Her voice never rose in volume, but she was so insistent, so demanding of my obedience that I could hardly look at her without flinching.

“Yes, I understand!” I could see that my answer had satisfied her; the tension in her face, her entire body, lessened as she let out of a breath. “But what’s so special about it?” Now I did dare to touch the flat edge of the weapon. The metal was smooth under my fingertips, but it seemed almost warm to the touch, like a living thing. I pulled my hand away, quite sure I didn’t want to touch it a second time. “Is it…cursed, or something?”

“No, Inga, not cursed; this isn’t a bedtime story. I’ll try to tell you more about it later, but this much I can show you.” Mother picked up the sword by the hilt. The weapon looked quite heavy, but she took it up one-handed without struggling under the weight at all. I watched her set the edge against her arm just below the elbow, then she pulled back; when the blade opened the skin, I hissed and winced in sympathy as blood oozed from the wound. A moment later, the red line across my mother’s flesh began to knit itself closed right before my eyes. My hands flew to my mouth, smothering a gasp of surprise. The blood that had welled up remained as a crimson smear, but when I reached over, gently probing and pushing against the mended skin, it felt quite whole—Mother never even winced.

“Mother! B-but… How’s that even possible? Is it spell-steel?” Changing hair color was one thing; watching skin knit itself back together was on a totally different level.

“No, Inga,” she said, re-wrapping the sword in its bindings, tying the cords back in place. “It’s older than any spell-steel you’ve ever seen—older, and much more powerful.”

I was completely absorbed in all the talk of magic swords and nobility, trying to understand everything Mother was telling me. I was also flustered, hardly able to form a coherent thought without it fluttering away. “Well…where did it come from? Who was the woman who gave it to Gramma? Why didn’t you ever tell me any of this before?”

“She was your great-grandmatron—someone very great, very powerful. With this sword, she led an army as vast as an ocean. The sword itself has power…magic…a purpose. I’ll tell you more about what that means soon, I promise.” Mother put the weapon back in its original hiding place, making sure the trunk’s false bottom was secure, then piled everything else back inside and shut the lid again.

Mother turned around, on her knees in front of me, taking my hands in a tight grip. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment; a sort of serenity came over her as she opened them again. “Inga: you can never tell anyone what I showed you today. I need to be absolutely sure you understand this. Your Gramma told me that, long ago, a great many people in her family—our family—died to protect this sword. Nobody can know about it: not your new husband, not the Mistress, no one. If anyone was to learn that we owned such a thing—”

The sound of a quick, insistent knock on the door made me jump. Mother’s eyes went wide then narrowed to slits as she stood up. “Who is it?” she called.

“It’s Pyotr!” came the muffled voice on the other side of the door.

The wedding! I was a snow-blasted fool and had somehow completely forgotten about it.

Mother nodded at me, I called out: “C-come in!”

He opened the door, and although I was happy to see him, the anxious look on his face made my heart start racing. “Good, you’re both here. We have to hurry!” he said, urging me to stand. “Everyone’s in the yard waiting for us. Miss Pol’s ready to start the ceremony!”

“Already?!” I stood up and checked myself in the mirror, realized I still had another half-dozen things to check on, then realized there was no more time for checking on anything else. My earlier excitement now turned to panic. I grabbed my mother’s hand, hoping that she wouldn’t feel that mine was shaking. Any further questions about swords and noblewomen were pushed aside, for the moment. “Come on, Mother, we have to go!”

My mother allowed herself to be pulled along, a tiny smile on her face. “What’s your hurry? It’s not like they’ll start the wedding without you.”

Pyotr took Mother’s other hand, and together we all hurried back towards the main house. As we approached, I could see everyone seated in even rows, all looking eager to get started. Several onlookers pointed and clapped when they saw our arrival.

“See you soon,” Pyotr said with a wink as he headed to where he was meant to stand and wait for his bride to appear. I heard laughter from some of the gathered crowd as I hurried with my mother to take our place by the kitchen door; it was likely now that I’d have to tolerate some teasing from the other women in the weeks to come, but I didn’t really mind it too much—these were the people I’d grown up with, who’d helped to raise me after Papa died. It was as close to an extended family as any woman could hope for, and I was happy to have them.

Pyotr stood on the platform, handsomer than ever; when he smiled at me, I just had to smile back—it was impossible to resist his charm and good mood. Next to him stood Mistress Poledra, the Steadwoman who owned the farm where all of us worked and lived our lives. Miss Pol was practically a second mother to me, teaching necessary skills I’d need to know like cooking and mending, running a household, managing a farm, raising livestock and children, and more. The Mistress wore her grey hair back in a tight bun, with handmade wooden earrings dangling from both earlobes. She was wearing one of her best dresses for the occasion, even though I’d seen her in a flour-scoured apron just a short while ago. Now she looked matronly and wise, with her knowing eyes and easy smile.

As we approached the platform, Mistress Pol raised her voice: “Who comes with this woman to see her wed this man?”

My mother raised her head; the look on her face seemed sad, but also proud at the same time. “I do.”

“Let these good people bear witness, then,” Pol said. She extended both hands towards me with a wider smile. “And let the bride state her name for the witnesses gathered here.”

This was the moment I’d waited for, a moment years in the making. Everything my mother and I had talked about was pushed aside for that moment—I could trouble myself about keeping secrets once the wedding was over. I stepped away from Mother’s side and onto the platform, raising my voice to state my name the way Mistress Pol had coached me that morning. “I am Inga—”

I was cut off by the sound of gunfire: just a single shot, but it was sudden enough to make me and nearly everyone else jump. As one we turned to the far side of the yard; in the shadow of the main house, a group of strangers had arrived without managing to alert anyone. There were almost two dozen in all, all mounted on horseback. They wore blue-and-silver uniforms, with glittering buttons that matched the silver insignia on their saddles and coats: a six-pointed snowflake pierced by a down-pointed sword. The riders had pistols and sabers in their belts, and they carried the air of men who knew how to use them.

The men were Avardi soldiers, the militia that served Matriarch Yenda Avard and her family, rulers of the Northern Territories. Mistress Pol’s farmstead was on the extreme northern border of Avardi land, and even though I’d heard about the militia, I’d never seen an Avardi soldier in my entire life.

The one leading them wasn’t a soldier, but a woman with dark hair tied back. She wore a grey dress, with a dark blue wrap hanging around her shoulders and long, leather gloves that stretched up to her elbows. I saw a silver choker on the woman’s neck beset with a pale blue diamond that had to be worth more than every woman, man, child and anything that ran on four legs on the entire farm.

It was she who fired the pistol into the air, and I watched her hand it back to the soldier on the horse next to her. As soon as I saw the woman’s face, I felt uneasy. “I’m looking for the Steadwoman who owns this place,” she said. “Let her speak now, for I come on authority of the Matriarch herself.”

Horses stamped and the farmer-folk murmured to one another; several stood up and moved away from the strangers. Pyotr pressed close to me, wrapping an arm about my waist in hopes of comfort—I was alert and alarmed, but his touch did help a little. Mother was also standing close-by, looking stiff and tense. I could tell she was nervous from the look on her face, the stance she took.

“I don’t like this,” I said.

“What do you think they want?” Pyotr asked.

“Nothing good, I expect,” Mother answered.

I saw Pyotr start to reach for his waist, but then he stopped. It was the hip he usually kept his gun on, but this was our wedding—he wasn’t wearing one. “Hopefully they’re just passing through,” he continued as his hand fell. “Just watch and wait for now.”

Mistress Pol stepped around Pyotr and me, then down from the platform. She held up her hands, trying to calm the crowd. “I’m Poledra Alekhina, the Steadwoman here,” she said, raising her head respectfully. “Welcome to our humble farm. I hope the Matriarch Avard is in good health—”

“I am Yenda Avard the Younger, First Daughter of my Clan,” Yenda said, cutting Pol off. The crowd’s murmuring only increased—not only did the woman speak with the Matriarch’s authority, she was a direct relation. “I’m looking for someone.”

“O-of course, Lady,” Pol said. The old woman kept her smile, but I could sense reluctance in her voice. “How can I help?” The crowd seemed to notice her mood shifting as well: the youngest children clung to the skirts of their mothers, watching with shy, curious eyes; the older children huddled together close-by, not even speaking to each other. Men and women both stayed quiet, but the worry in their eyes was plain to see. Everyone was still, waiting to hear Yenda’s demands.

The First Daughter folded her hands across the pommel of her horse’s saddle. “I’m searching for anyone going by the name Ivanova, and any daughters they might have. I heard that someone living here might fit that description.”

If it was possible for my mother to go even stiffer, she did. Come to think of it, so did I. “We should leave,” I said, fighting against a surge of panic as my heart started racing in my chest. “Now.”

Mother kept her eyes locked on the horsewoman. “No,” she answered, sounding resolute.

“But, Mother—”

“Stay calm, Inga. We don’t know what she wants just yet. Just remember what I told you.”

If I lacked anything at that moment, it was my mother’s confidence. Looking back at the noblewoman, I thought I sensed a determination on her face, a shine to her eyes that told me she was dangerous, not to mention having a contingent of soldiers at her beck and call.

When Pyotr looked at me, I saw his confusion and just shook my head. “Later,” I whispered.

Mistress Pol swept her arm across the entire gathering. “Why, this ceremony here is to celebrate Inga Ivanova’s marriage today, in fact; both Inga and her mother, Ilyan, are here. If you’d like to join in the festivities, I’m sure that—”

“What I would like is to speak to these women,” Yenda said, sounding impatient. “Will you please bless our ears with your silence now?”

“Y-yes, Lady,” Pol said. There was a displeased look on her face, but she didn’t object further. “She’s over there,” she added, nodding in our direction.

Now I felt every eye on me. I hated being the center of attention, even on my own wedding day. Fighting against every instinct and the screaming voice in my head, I swallowed and forced myself to let my mother take my hand while we both stepped away from Pyotr. “Here we are,” I said.

Yenda motioned to me, beckoning impatiently. “Come here, child,” she said. “You and your mother.”

Now, I didn’t really want to obey—Yenda couldn’t have been much older than I was, and talking to a new bride in such a manner on her own wedding day was downright insulting. Even so, I bit my tongue. We walked together, even though Mother was much calmer about it than I was.

We stopped together, several steps from Yenda’s horse. “I’m Ilyan Ivanova,” my mother said, still radiating calm and composure.

“And your daughter?” the noblewoman said.

“Inga,” Mother said. “First Daughter of our family.”

I blinked at her choice of title: a First Daughter had authority, influence. Women like Yenda Avard, who bore such titles, carried the prestige of an entire family or clan behind her, enough to command the whole group of soldiers who’d accompanied her. I had no such upbringing or influence to speak of. Of course, after what she’d said about our family, a family I hadn’t even known existed until a short while ago—

“And what family is that?” Yenda said. Behind her, one of the soldiers’ horses nickered.

Mother’s smile was small. “Ivanova is our family name. We’re lowly farmers, with little to lay claim to besides that.” A day ago—an hour ago—I would’ve believed my mother’s words without a second’s hesitation. But what sort of family would own such a weapon as the one I’d seen? The look on her face was one of total control, unblinking in the face of Yenda Avard’s intensity.

“…Quite.” Yenda seemed to ponder my mother’s words for a moment, then reached into one of her saddlebags and pulled out a small item in her gloved hands, a pendant or necklace of some kind. I watched her open it, then as she looked at whatever was inside, back at me, then back and forth several times. “You,” she said to me, “come here.”

I hesitated. “Why?”

Yenda’s look was flat and unfriendly. “Come. Here.”

At that, I pressed my lips tight together and blew out a long, slow breath as I stepped up next to Yenda’s horse. “What is it?”

“Let me take a look at you,” Yenda said as she pulled off one of her gloves; her skin looked clammy, like she’d been sweating inside the snug leather. When she reached out towards me, quick as a thought I grabbed her by the wrist and squeezed, stopping her before she could grab my chin—it was instinctive on my part, more reaction than conscious thought. I did not want this woman touching me, that much I knew.

I saw her eyes narrow, heard the sound of voices gasping in surprise and the noise of horses grunting and nickering in complaint as several riders reached for a weapon. Yenda and I never moved—instead, we stared at one another for a long moment as the clearing went quiet, save for a whistling spring wind. I was the first to flinch as I let her hand go before taking a half-step back again, holding my hands up in a show of surrender; even though she hadn’t truly touched me, I felt a surge of consternation and anger all the same.

But then, Yenda Avard showed me the pendant she was carrying. The piece of jewelry appeared to be very old; the metal was tarnished and stained from regular handling, showing its age. “Do you see this?” she said, still watching me with those fierce, intense eyes.

I looked. The pendant was made of bright-steel, similar to the barrette in my hair, but the pendant’s illusion showed the image of a blonde woman’s head in profile. She looked forward with a strong, decisive manner, her jaw set, focused on whatever task awaited her. In spite of how the image flickered, it still looked so real that I half-expected the woman to turn and lock eyes with me.

“Who do you see there?” Yenda said, voice quivering with anticipation of my answer.

It wasn’t an exact match—the figure had her hair pulled tight against her scalp, and a slightly-longer nose; she was dressed in dark-grey finery, with a black cloak and a hood lined with thick fur draped on her shoulders, as well as an iron circlet set with pearls upon her brow—but the resemblance was uncanny. “She looks…almost like me,” I said, unable to contain my surprise. Then I felt Yenda’s hand in my hair before I could get away, felt the sensation of unwanted fingertips behind my ear and the sting of lost hair as my barrette was roughly ripped away. “Ow! Hey!”

There was a new humming in the crowd, sounds of surprise and bewilderment as the illusion faded away; even Pyotr’s eyes got a little wide as he watched my hair turn back to its natural, golden hue. I gave the noblewoman a glare that should’ve set her on fire. “Who do you think you are?”

Yenda tossed the absconded accessory away. She looked at my mother. “The girl is the uncanny image of her ancestress. The pendant and her hair color mark her as a descendant of Mad Katarina Alenir. Don’t bother denying it.” There was another, louder murmur in the crowd, sounds of fear and surprise. The noblewoman leaned in closer towards us; the shine in her eyes and the smug grin on her face made her seem like a mad thing. She lowered her voice: “Katarina’s Sword—I want it. Now.”

I looked at Mother, trying not to react even as the image of that black blade came back to my memory. I felt exposed, and had the irrational wish that I could put on a spare barrette without anyone noticing, like that would be enough to wipe everyone’s memory clean. I also wondered who Katarina Alenir was—was she the great-grandmatron Mother spoke of?

“You’re mistaken,” Mother said, still keeping a brave face. “We have nothing to admit to or deny. This is a farmstead, Mistress. You’ll find no weapons here.”

“Give me the Sword,” Yenda said, leaning in even closer, lowering her voice further while putting every bit of authority she had into it. She was breathing heavily, as though ready to leap from horseback and attack us. “I won’t ask again.”

“Ask as many times as you like,” my mother said, jutting her chin out. “We cannot give what we don’t have. You’ve wasted your time by coming here.”

Yenda’s eyes got wide for the span of a heartbeat. When she sat up, she looked stiff and angry, glaring down at my mother. “Think so, do you?” Then she looked at me, rubbing the same wrist I’d grabbed; she seemed to turn thoughtful for a moment, as though considering what to do next. When she spoke, it was to the soldier sitting next to her: “Are your men prepared?”

The Avardi soldiers were shifting in their saddles, rolling their shoulders and tightening the grip on their reins. The man who appeared to be their leader took a look over his shoulder, and then turned back. “Yes, Lady,” he said, his face smooth, eyes hard.

“Good.” She looked me in the eyes. “Kill them all.”

YENDA

Yenda Avard the Younger sat atop her horse, reins tucked in one hand while she used the other to pull out her pocket watch. It was made of toughened shield-steel, designed to last longer and withstand more handling than a normal watch. It was polished to a silver sheen, but she still insisted on holding it in a gloved hand; Yenda found the sight of fingerprints on her precious things intolerable.

The sound of screaming farmers and the rapid staccato of guns firing was almost as insufferable, but Yenda consoled herself with knowing such annoyances would be concluded soon. It appeared that her forces had only suffered several injuries and one casualty when one of her men allowed himself to be dragged off his own horse before being gored to death by farming implements. Still, the cost of the man’s severance benefits was a small price to pay compared to what she might find. Besides—if the little yellow-haired wench had kept her hands to herself, none of the killing would’ve been necessary in the first place.

The dark-eyed man seated on his horse next to her—Yenda didn’t remember his name, and frankly, hadn’t cared to memorize it—cleared his throat. “It looks like they’re nearly through, Lady.” His voice didn’t waver or hesitate like other men she’d dealt with in the past, which was good. She allowed herself the thought of reconsidering her opinion of him: Yenda the Younger needed capable men who could follow orders when she was Matriarch.

“I want that weapon, Lieutenant,” she said, pulling her other glove on again. Yenda could practically feel the filth in the air of that place creeping into her lungs, poisoning her, breath by labored breath. “Pure black and painfully-cold to the touch, just as I described it to you. If I don’t acquire it, this entire trip was a waste of my time.”

“We’ll find it, my Lady,” he said. “I’ve already sent several of the men to start ransacking the dormitories and living quarters—anyone fool enough to hide something like that here likely would’ve kept it close-by for safe-keeping.”

“For your sake, I hope so,” Yenda told him, plucking out a perfumed handkerchief and taking a long sniff of it. “My train departs in less than four hours. I do not relish the thought of missing it.”

Somewhere close-by, a high-pitched scream split the air, but it was cut blessedly short. Yenda grumbled and rubbed her temples, resisting the urge to roll her eyes at the pageantry of it all. Many of the hay bales were upset or turned over; the lawn was stained with filth and blood, torn up in places from stampeding feet. Bundles of flowers were torn and thrown onto the ground.

What a bother.

“Where do we bury the bodies, Lieutenant Alek?” asked one of men, a red-haired man who refused to look at Yenda. His name she definitely did know, yet she found his behavior more amusing than anything else. He refused to talk to her, to even acknowledge her beyond what propriety and her high station required, but Yenda was a patient woman. When the time was right, she’d see to it that he was properly dealt with.

Alek pursed his lips, but that was his only outward reaction to the carnage he’d witnessed. “Pile them in the barn,” he ordered, pointing to a white-painted building on the far end of the yard. “I’m sure the sight of them is offending the Lady Avard.”

The soldier nodded.

Alek set his fingers to his lips and gave a sharp whistle. “Get ‘em in the barn!” he shouted at the other militiamen. There was a short chorus of grunts and affirmations before the men set about finishing their grisly clean-up work.

“Lieutenant! Lady Avard!” shouted one soldier on the far end of the yard, waving both arms over his head. “We found something! You’ll want to see this!”

“That was quick,” Alek said, punctuating his comment with a sniff. “That’ll be one of the search party. You might make that train after all, First Daughter. Follow me.”