The rage roared from the darkness. Otec found himself running, then slamming Jore into the dirt. He threw a hard punch into the man’s face and cocked back his arm to hit him again, but Jore twisted and wrapped his legs around Otec.

  Otec powered out of the hold. The two men ended up rolling, and rocks and hay stubble tore into Otec’s bare torso. He threw another punch into Jore’s stomach and head-butted his face.

  Then strong arms locked around Otec’s middle and wrenched him back. “Stop it! What are you doing?” It was Dobber.

  A highman stepped in front of Jore and reached out a hand. “You’re done.”

  Unable to break free, Otec swore at Jore, calling him the vilest name he could think of.

  “No need for such language.” The voice rang with anger. Otec’s mother, Alfhild, pushed through the crowd, her gaze furious. She stopped short at the sight of him. “By the Balance, what’s going on?”

  Otec tasted something metallic in his mouth and realized his teeth had cut the inside of his cheek. He spit blood into the dirt. “Jore slapped his sister. Drew his swords on me. And then he called Holla an idiot and shoved her to the ground.”

  Alfhild’s face went white. “Jore?”

  He looked at her with the one eye that hadn’t already swelled shut. “I am well within my rights to discipline my younger sibling. As for the idiot . . .”

  Otec’s vision narrowed until he could only see Jore. With a roar, Otec broke free of Dobber. He slammed into Jore and managed to get in a couple more punches before Dobber hauled him back again, this time with help from a couple of highmen. Two more restrained Jore.

  Otec struggled, angry that Dobber wouldn’t let him go. Matka stepped between him and Jore. She had both hands on Jore’s chest as she shouted, “Stop it!”

  He jerked his head in Otec’s direction. “He attacked me!”

  “After you insulted and threatened his sister,” she shot back.

  Jore’s glare moved to Matka, and he muttered something about killing idiots as babies. Otec struggled to break free again.

  Matka opened her mouth as if to say something, but another man had appeared. This one was slightly older, easily the oldest highman there. “Jore, by your oaths, you will stand down.”

  Jore tightened his jaw and stopped trying to fight his way free of the men holding him. “Yes, Tyleze,” he ground out.

  Otec’s vision slowly widened until he realized the clanwomen were shooing children away and backing toward the village, their gazes steely. And then Otec heard a sound he was very familiar with—the sound of Holla crying. He turned to find his sister sobbing quietly in the arms of Aunt Enrid, who lived with them in the clan house. A herd of women surrounded his sister, shushing her and patting her back. Holla loved everyone, equally and without restraint, so the clan loved her back. By the look of horror on his sister’s face, she’d seen the violence Otec had caused.

  All at once, the fight drained out of him. He realized Dobber was holding him tight enough to leave bruises. Scraping up his self-control, Otec nodded for Dobber to release him, which he did—slowly.

  Otec gestured for Holla to come to him. But she shook her head and buried her face into Enrid’s chest.

  Alfhild’s eyes locked on Jore, and Otec actually felt sorry for the foreigner for the briefest moment. “Is this how highmen act when visiting lands not their own?” she asked. She stepped up right in front of Jore, her wild blond hair only partially tamed by a braid. “She is my daughter, highman. How dare you speak to her thus. How dare you lay a hand on her.”

  He bowed. “I am truly sorry, Clan Mistress.”

  Alfhild slowly shook her head. “Not to me. To her.” She stepped aside, motioning to Holla, who still clung to Enrid, her body trembling.

  Jore hesitated before inclining his head a fraction. “I am sorry.”

  He didn’t sound sorry. Or not nearly sorry enough. As far as Otec was concerned, Jore should be on his knees begging. But Holla nodded. She was much more forgiving than Otec would ever be.

  Mother’s glare transferred to Tyleze. “Are all your grown men as impulsive as little children? Because I discipline little children.” The threat was obvious. If Tyleze didn’t punish Jore, Alfhild would.

  Tyleze nodded toward Jore. “Go to your tent. I’ll deal with you later.” Jore worked his jaw before turning on his heel and storming out of sight.

  “I assume we won’t be seeing more of him?” Alfhild said it like a question, but it wasn’t. Before Tyleze could reply, Alfhild motioned to the people around her. “The food is ready, so eat it. And then go home.”

  As she turned toward Holla, her expression softened. “My girl . . .”

  But Holla shook her head, backing away from all of them before whirling around and then stumbling towards the clan house. Otec nearly went after her, but his mother grasped his arm and warned, “Not yet.”

  He shot a glare at Jore’s retreating back, but instead his gaze snagged on Matka, who watched him with a calculating expression.

  Otec’s mother turned her attention to him. “What happened to your shirt?”

  “A lamb was sick all over me.”

  “Well, that explains the smell. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” She took hold of his elbow and started hauling him toward the clan house. “Have you grown some more?” she asked loudly as she squeezed the muscles in his arm. “You’re nearly twenty-one! You can’t still be growing. The clothes I’ve sewn for you will never fit.”

  People were watching them. Otec waited for the familiar sickness in his stomach, but he was too tired and too worried about Holla. In fact, he hadn’t felt nervous at all when he’d charged into the crowd earlier. “Mother, why didn’t anyone come fetch me to fight with the men?”

  She wouldn’t look at him. “I’ve already sent my three older sons off to war.”

  And obviously, Otec had nothing vital to offer, or his father would have insisted.

  “They’ve made no move to invade,” his mother answered with a reassuring pat on his arm—she must have mistaken his irritated silence for worry. “And if they do, the clanmen will deal with them in short order.”

  Word of Otec’s arrival must have spread, for as they approached the clan house, his younger siblings and cousins started coming at him from all sides, surrounding him like a pack of eager puppies, and more were coming. Unlike their adult counterparts, the children never brought about the sick feeling in his stomach.

  His two youngest brothers, Wesson and Aldi, latched onto his legs and sat on his feet. One of the boys was far heavier than the other, so Otec ended up dragging his left leg behind him like a cripple. “Did you make us anything, Otec? Did you?”

  He shot his mother a look, pleading for her to save him from the dozens of children, but she only laughed.

  “Yes, yes,” he said as he tried in vain to extricate himself. “They’re in Thistle’s packsaddles. I tied her up in the barn—bring her here.” The children ran off. “Let the older ones get her. She bites!” he called after them.

  They returned with his indignant donkey, but even she was helpless against the children’s enthusiasm. Otec went to the pack saddle and began passing out some of his carvings, along with several pretty rocks and petrified shells he’d found.

  Gifts in hand, his younger siblings and cousins all started clamoring for stories. But his mother shooed them away to fetch water for his bath and do several other chores, including caring for Thistle.

  Before his younger brothers could lead the donkey away, Otec removed the vellum on which Matka had drawn. Immediately he felt what she’d managed to capture—permanence and age and comfort.

  “Matka drew that. Where did you get it?” his mother asked from over his shoulder.

  Otec untacked the corners, rolled the vellum, and tucked it into his pocket. “She left it behind when Jore hit her. I’ll give it to her later.”

  Alfhild nodded and turned back toward the clan house. Otec hesitated, then followed her, saying, “I saw Dobber’s bruises. His father—”

  “His father won’t be happy until everyone he loves is as miserable as he is.” Alfhild frowned. “I did what you asked—offered to banish him, split up the children among the clanwomen willing to take them. Dobber’s mother begged me not to.” Otec’s mother gave him a sideways glance. “I know Dobber is your friend. I’m sorry.”

  Otec didn’t want to admit he wasn’t that fond of Dobber but the other man didn’t have anyone else. He rubbed the back of his neck, eager to change the subject. “One of the lambs is sick, Mother.”

  She sent a cousin of his to fetch Aunt Enrid and headed inside.

  As soon as Otec entered the kitchen, his oldest sister hugged the breath right out of his shirtless body. He gaped at her enormous pregnant belly, which pressed up against him. “When did that happen?”

  Storm obviously hadn’t gotten married while he was away, since she was still living with the family. She blushed the same way he did, the tips of her ears going pink before her neck turned red. “Never you mind.”

  Otec cleared his throat. “Well, how is the wee one?” He didn’t ask who the father was. Knowing his sister, she probably wasn’t certain.

  “Kicks as hard as Thistle,” Storm said with a smile. She clipped a few blankets around the fireplace and the beaten copper tub his other two sisters, Eira and Magnhild, had set up while his mother stoked the fire and set the iron trivet over the coals.

  “It’s her bite you have to watch out for.” Otec rubbed his bruised shoulder. “Why haven’t you kicked the highmen out yet?”

  “They’re not all so bad,” his mother answered.

  “She’s being kind,” Storm told him under her breath. “They’re all intolerable.”

  Mother shot Storm a look but didn’t reprimand her. “I like Matka—she’s a student of herbs.” His mother’s voice betrayed her excitement. “She has come to study our lore. Plans to write a book on healing.”

  Otec told her how he had found Matka and how Jore had threatened and hit her, but Otec didn’t admit to his mother that he had been watching Matka.

  His mother sighed. “I wish there was something I could do about it, but she’s not clannish. And with all the men gone, I can’t enforce any threats.”

  Otec looked between his mother and Storm. “Is it really such a good idea to have five hundred foreigners in the Shyle?”

  Storm ground the flour with more force than was necessary. “Aren’t we lucky?”

  His mother shrugged. “Half of them are women.”

  Otec looked out the open door, in the direction Holla had gone.

  “Not yet,” his mother answered his unasked question.

  Old aunt Enrid stepped into the house and wrapped her arm around Otec’s waist, giving him a sideways hug. “One of the lambs is sick?”

  He kissed the top of her gray head. “Drenched the whole left side of my chest. He’s pretty weak.”

  “I’ll get some peppermint and chamomile down him,” she said, lifting the trapdoor to go down to the cellar.

  His mother set a chair for Otec outside and went about attacking his hair and beard with a pair of sheep shears. Then he took his bath in the copper tub, which was so small his knees were pressed against his chest.

  His mother found him some of his father’s old pants and took them in at the waist—they weren’t in much better shape than the ones Otec was wearing, but at least his ankles didn’t show.

  One of his aunts gave him a hug and set about herding as many of his younger family members into the tub as she could find while it was set up.

  While Storm let out the hem of one of his father’s old shirts, Otec sat at the table, the sound of his mother’s knife slicing through a potato as familiar to him as the sound of his own breathing.

  His aunt started taking down the blankets—apparently she’d deemed the water dirtier than the children. A pair of his older cousins carried the tub out, and someone called, “May I come in?”

  Otec shot looks of surprise at his family; visitors never asked to come in. But no one else seemed to notice.

  “Yes,” his mother answered.

  He was even more surprised when Matka stepped inside the room. She didn’t look furious or full of pity or calculating like the last couple times he’d seen her. Instead, she looked relieved. He couldn’t figure her out.

  His gaze wandered over her pants, which showed off her thin but strong-looking legs. Maybe women should wear pants more often. At the thought, Otec felt the tips of his ears turn pink.

  Without preamble, Matka sat down opposite him, beside his mother. Otec had the impression this wasn’t the first time she’d sat at this table.

  “Do you not own a shirt?” Matka asked.

  His neck flared red. So he wouldn’t have to look at her, he took a slice of soft sheep cheese and laid it over some of his mother’s thick-sliced bread.

  His sister held up the shirt she was sewing. “Working on it,” she shot back with a glare at Matka.

  “Do you always answer for him?” Matka said. The two women locked gazes, but Storm looked away first, mumbling something about the highwoman being high and mighty.

  Matka responded in clipped Svass, then took a deep breath. “I have been granted permission from my fellow highmen to go into the mountains in search of a very rare plant that is sacred to my people.”

  “How could a highwoman know the plants of the Shyle Mountains?” Storm growled.

  Matka turned to her with an unreadable expression. “I have ways.”

  Alfhild gave Storm a warning look and then said, “Otec knows the mountains better than anyone else in the village.”

  Feeling Matka’s eyes on him, Otec stared at the grain in the table. He knew if he did speak, something ridiculous would come out of his mouth, so he kept it shut.

  “Specifically,” Matka went on, holding a piece of rolled vellum in front of his nose, “a flower that grows in the waterfalls beneath the glacier. I need to find it before the snows come.”

  Still not looking at her, Otec opened the small roll of vellum to see a hand-drawn, delicate flower—it looked like some kind of lily.

  “There are three petals and three sepals,” Matka said eagerly, her charcoal-stained finger pointing out each feature as she spoke. “The center of each petal is ringed with yellow and burgundy. Have you seen it?”

  Otec sat back, considering. She was waiting for him to speak, and this time no one else could respond for him. He cleared his throat. “There is something like that, but I couldn’t say whether it is this exact flower.”

  She snatched the vellum back and tucked it into a pocket in her tunic. “I must see it for myself. You will take me.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “It’s not even in bloom.”

  Matka waved his words away like a buzzing fly. “I can tell by the foliage.”

  Otec took a deep breath, shocked to discover he wanted to say yes—that he wanted to know this woman who saw the world in such infinitesimal detail. “No,” he said, hating the word even as it formed in his mouth. But he couldn’t leave his family when there were Raiders prowling on the clan lands’ doorstep.

  His sister bit off her thread and then smirked as she handed him the shirt. He stood to put it on and caught Matka staring at his stomach just before he pulled the shirt over his head.

  “I can pay you for your services, of course,” she declared.

  That made Otec pause. His dream was to own land at the base of the mountains. Perhaps have a family of his own. With the wages he collected from his parents, he would be in his thirties before he could purchase the land, in his forties before he’d built up a decent-sized flock. “How much?”

  Matka made a dismissive gesture. “Surely a few coppers would cover it.”

  This time, he met her gaze and didn’t look away. “Are you trying to insult me?” Angry, he started away.

  Otec was at the door when she called, “Three silvers.”

  He paused and glanced back at her. “When?”

  “Tomorrow.” She was studying her fingernails as if it didn’t matter whether or not he agreed. But the way her hands trembled told him it did matter. It mattered very much.

  He sighed. Why were people always playing games? Why not just say what she wanted? “I can’t,” he said. “My family might need me.”

  “Oh, go,” his mother said as she stood up to dump the potatoes in the cookpot. “Whatever’s happening with the Raiders won’t be over in four days. And we’re safe here.”

  “Your brother will allow you to go, will he?” Otec said darkly.

  He felt Matka’s gaze on him as she replied, “It was his idea.”

  Otec stared at the floor in front of Matka’s feet and realized he’d already been left behind. The Raiders were weeks away, and he would return long before anything could happen.

  “I’ll take you, but not your brother,” he told Matka. “In four days, one of us would end up dead.”

  Matka hesitated. “He’s staying behind.”

  Otec gave a curt nod and stepped into the sunshine, determined to find one wild-haired sister.

  Otec crossed the meadow of close-cropped, dying grass dotted with haystacks. The air smelled of hay and the spice of decaying leaves. The days were growing short, so it would be night soon. He climbed over a fence and then wandered up a steep hill, scattering a herd of shaggy cattle.

  He was just starting to grow nervous when he spotted Holla sitting by a little brook. She had her chin on her hands as she watched several snails inch across the surface of a white boulder in front of her.

  “Why am I different?” she asked once he had climbed down to sit beside her.

  Otec rubbed the back of his neck. “Everyone’s different, Holla. Sometimes those differences are just more visible.”

  “Why does Jore hate me?”

  “Because he’s ignorant.”

  She wiped her nose. “A few weeks ago, someone called me ugly.” Otec tensed, not sure what to say. Her perceptive eyes seemed to peer inside him. “Everyone says I look like you, but no one seems to mind that you’re not pretty.”

 

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