Winter Queen(2)

Why had the Tyrans attacked the Argons? Ilyenna thought again. What if Rone was already dead? She’d hardly seen more than a passing glance of him in years, but for some reason she feared his death the most. Other Argon faces flashed in her mind—people she’d met over years of feast days and hunts. A growing sense of fear settled over her like a cold, wet blanket.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw their small village, nearly fifty homes built beside the river. Behind Shyleholm, the rolling valley floor gave way to massive mountains. Village lore said the mountains were actually the last of the rock trolls—creatures who had died gripping their legs, their snow-mantled heads and shoulders rising above the tree line.

The village houses were made of river stones made shiny from generations of hands. Chimneys on the split-shingle roofs exhaled wisps of smoke, and the acrid scent mingled with the smells of cattle and sheep.

The Shyle survive, Ilyenna thought. Whether it be Raiders or border disputes or disease, they survived and would continue to survive long after death had claimed her.

The sheepdogs heard the riders first. The dogs ran out of barns and yards, yapping shrilly. Just before the clan house, Ilyenna’s father grabbed the warning bell’s rope and gave it a mighty pull. Men hefted their axes, grabbed their shields, and started running. Women, their blond hair pulled back into tight braids, left their carding and spinning, picked up a child and their skirts, and hurried after the men.

With the clang of the bell still ringing in Ilyenna’s ears, her father cried, “On our border we found an Argon near death. He carried a message signed by Clan Chief Seneth’s own hand. The Tyrans attacked them in the night.”

The women gasped and the men exchanged hard looks.

Ilyenna felt the same apprehension. While individual clans ruled themselves, they followed the verdict of the clan chiefs that made up the Council when conflicts arose between clans. This act by the Tyrans could spark a war.

“What is the Shyle’s answer?” her father went on. “Will we allow Clan Chief Undon and his clanmen to kill our closest neighbors and friends—clanmen who’ve provided us succor in hard winters? Clanmen who saved us from the Raider invasion of my boyhood?”

Pride swelled in Ilyenna at the sight of her father, still so strong and capable, though well into his middling years. The clan loved him dearly, for he had loved them first, never asking for more than he was willing to give.

“No,” came the men’s response.

He nodded grimly to her brother. Bratton nodded back. Tradition dictated they both turn to her. “Clan mistress?”

Ilyenna felt nearly seven hundred pairs of eyes turn to her. Wishing her great-aunt Enrid hadn’t recently passed the full duties of the clan mistress to her, Ilyenna folded her arms across her middle to keep them from shaking. Her fingertips traced the embroidered knots on her leather clan belt. One knot for herself, one for every member of her family, and one for her clan. Each built upon the one before in a long, sinuous line, with no beginning and no end. Life perfectly balanced. “We will hold the lands until your return.”

The saying was more a custom than a reality. The women hadn’t needed to fight for their lands since Ilyenna’s grandmother’s time, when all the men were away at war and a party of Raiders had invaded their valley. But the words still rang true. Each woman carried a knife and knew how to use it. If it came to it, they would fight.

And Ilyenna would lead them.

Her father hefted his axe, pointing it skyward. “Then the Shyle rides!” With a shout, the men ran to prepare for battle, leaving Ilyenna to give the orders to those who remained, as a proper clan mistress should.

She nervously faced the women, children, and crippled men. Every face was tight with fear. Winter was a difficult time for fighting. If the men survived the battle, they still faced hunger and exposure.

“Sound it, even if you don’t feel it.” That’s what Ilyenna’s mother had always said.

Ilyenna threw her shoulders back. “Clanwomen! Food must be packed, and flint and tinder, and blankets and spare clothing. Boys, saddle the men’s horses. Any extra, load with packsaddles. Girls, go into the woods and find roots, moss, and bark for poultices. Prepare bandages and slings. Dig in the mud around the river to see if you can find some leeches. And keep your knives with you.” She added extra emphasis on the last. “Off with you. Be quick.”

The women snatched the youngest children and raced for their homes, while their daughters took to the forests. The boys headed for the barns, their eyes gleaming with excitement. Ilyenna let out a breath of relief and almost managed a smile. Her mother had been right. Sound like a clan mistress, and the clan will treat you like one.

Otrok scrambled through the crowd toward her. He was her tiam, in principle little better than a slave, but she treated him like a brother. Dancing from one foot to the next, he said, “Mistress, you want to send the horses?”

She leaned down and spoke low, “Bring me two with packsaddles. Give three more to anyone who really needs a horse.” She glanced at Larina Bend, whose family always demanded more than they ever needed, and back at Otrok. He was a smart boy. He’d know what she meant. With a grave nod, he raced toward their barn.

Ilyenna turned toward the clan house. It was easily four times the size of any other home in the village. The clan house was a place for feasting and upholding the law, but it was also Ilyenna’s home. She went past the hall’s entrance to the smaller kitchen door. Great-aunt Enrid was hauling supplies from the cellar to the rough wooden table that was older than Ilyenna’s great-grandfather.

“The Argon you found, was he someone we knew?” Enrid asked, her expression tight with worry. She was trying to knot a cloth over handfuls of dried meat, but her gnarled fingers weren’t cooperating.

Ilyenna gently took the bundle and tied the cloth. “I think I recognized him, but I couldn’t remember his name.”

Enrid moved to wrapping loaves of bread in cheesecloth.

When they had almost finished, Otrok poked his head through the kitchen door.

“Larina give you any trouble?” Ilyenna asked.

He came inside. “Some, but I told her you’d already promised the horses to the Hiders and my father.”

That would leave her twelve horses in case she had to evacuate. She ruffled his shoulder-length hair. “Good boy.” Otrok moved to help them scoop up armfuls of supplies, haul them outside, and stuff them in the pack saddles. But his face remained troubled.



“Ilyenna, I don’t understand,” he finally said. “You told me the clans are like a family, each clan brother to the next. Why would one clan attack another?”

How could she explain war to one so young? She shot a pleading look at Enrid. But months ago, her great-aunt had claimed she was too old for clan-mistress duties. She simply nodded toward the boy with her customary “You’re the clan mistress now—you handle it” glance.

Holding back a sigh, Ilyenna heaved some rolled blankets onto the back of a saddle and used the straps to tie them on. “Otrok, sometimes people do bad things.”

His brow furrowed. He was no more than ten, but his soul often seemed much older. “But why would the Tyrans attack their brothers?”

This time, Ilyenna let her sigh escape. She bent next to Otrok and put her hands on his shoulders. “You remember what we talked about . . . with your father.” Otrok’s expression turned wary. She continued carefully, “Sometimes people hurt each other—even people who should be family—and there’s never a good reason for it.”

Otrok pursed his lips and nodded. He would understand that all too well. It had taken Ilyenna weeks to nurse him back to health after the last beating his father had given him.

She looked up to see Otrok’s older brother run toward her through snow dusted with hearth-fire ash. He wasn’t old enough to trim a beard—not yet old enough to fight, and yet too young to leave behind.

She looked past him, searching for the boys’ father. As usual, Dobber was drunk. She’d had him at the beating pole not two weeks past for altering some sheep’s earmarks to look like they were his. Perhaps he’d manage to kill her horse, giving her an excuse to take his other son as her tiam as well.

Without a word, she handed Otrok’s older brother the horses’ lead ropes. “Be careful.”

He grinned in response and led the horses to a group of boys clustered beside the packhorses. She bit the inside of her cheek. The men might use the boys in the fight, but only if no other choice remained. Ilyenna hoped it never came to that.

She felt a strong hand on her shoulder. “Remember, Ilyenna, the Shyle are strong as stone—”

“And supple as a sapling,” she finished for her father. Had it really only been a few hours since they’d left the dead Argon? Ilyenna hated the tears that threatened to reveal just how frightened she was. Clan mistresses weren’t supposed to be frightened. “Let me go with you. You’ll need a healer.”

He withdrew his hand. “You’re our clan mistress, as was your mother once. Your place is here.” He stepped closer and whispered, “And clan mistresses don’t ask for things they shouldn’t.”