He was worse than ever. They both were. Ilyenna had been healing since she was old enough to thread a needle. She knew how close she was to losing both of them. In the end, that made the choice for her. Before she could change her mind, she tiptoed through the clan house so as not to wake the Argons scattered everywhere.
When she reached the hall where the most severely wounded were kept, she nearly gagged. The air was rank with garlic, whiskey, and a myriad of body odors. Hiking up her skirt, she stepped over a slumbering woman, her arms clutching her child—even in sleep, she was afraid to let go.
Just before Ilyenna reached the door, she caught sight of the old man with the amputated foot. He was dead. All she could feel was relief that there was one less mouth to feed. She covered his face so as not to frighten the children. “So passes a warrior,” she whispered. “So passes an Argon.”
Brushing the death from her hands, she stood. She’d have to remember to call one of the men to haul him out.
She entered the kitchen and fed the fire. Having the refugees in her home left her feeling like she slept under too many blankets. And the dying hadn’t slowed. If anything, it had increased. Already a line of shrouded, frozen bodies waited for the ground to thaw so they could be buried behind the clan house. But Bratton was right. Ilyenna couldn’t worry about burying the dead until the living had the time and strength to dig the graves.
Without waiting for the fire to take off, she wrapped her coat over her dress, braced herself against the cold, and stepped outside. The cold immediately took her breath away.
When Ilyenna was a child, Great-aunt Enrid had told her stories of the constant battle between the queens of winter and summer—two women on opposite sides of the Balance. In winter, the summer queen was always forced to retreat to her personal domain far to the south. A place where summer never faded, where no one ever died of cold and where food was always fresh.
Ilyenna thought if she ever came to such a place, she’d never return to her home in the mountains. She hated winter, hated the sickness, hunger, and death it brought. It had tried to break her once. She’d vowed it would never come so close again.
She trudged through the snow to the slight rise behind the clan house. There, snow-covered mounds dotted the hillside far back into the trees. A graveyard was a link between the living and the dead, and she had to speak with her mother. Twilight or morning was best. The dead were tied to night’s side of the Balance, as the living were tied to the day’s. She stopped at her mother’s grave.
“Mother . . .” She hesitated. It was dangerous to seek the dead’s attention. Dangerous because they might just decide Ilyenna should join them. “I need you to let Father and Bratton stay with me. I know you miss them. I know you long for them. But I–I’m not strong enough to lead the clan by myself. Please. If you hold any sway with death, let it pass them over.”
Wondering if she’d been heard, Ilyenna waited. Nothing happened. It was said that the dead no longer understood the living’s fondness for life. Ilyenna’s mother had died trying to save her. Perhaps it was selfish to ask for more. Perhaps Matka wouldn’t understand why Ilyenna wished her father and brother to remain in a world of cold and cruelty.
But she had watched so many die. She couldn’t bear to see her father and brother join them. As she turned to go, a small shadow fell across her. But that was impossible; the sun had yet to rise. She glanced at the sky. Frost was still falling, but one of the flakes was acting strangely, almost as if it was moving of its own will.
Ilyenna stared as it zipped and twisted, moving horizontally instead of downward as falling frost was meant to. But it moved so fast and erratically, Ilyenna kept losing sight of it. She started when she felt a strange pressure at her feet.
In the hollows of the snow, shadows boiled like cauldrons of vapors. Ilyenna’s breath caught in her throat. The shadows surged and spilled over her feet like smoke, then stretched up, reaching for her. She cried out as they crawled up her body, covering her like a second skin.
Ilyenna scrubbed at her arms, trying to remove the shadows, but they clung to her. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest as she stumbled and fell back into the snow. Suddenly the shadows returned to the ground. She pulled her sleeves up, revealing her pale skin, no shadows in sight.
She scrambled to her feet and ran from the graveyard. At the clan house, she hurried past Enrid and went straight upstairs to her father. She knelt beside him, pressing her fingers to his face. He shifted away from her cold touch.
Moving to the other bed, she touched her brother. His fever had broken and his color was better. Relief warred with horror inside Ilyenna. She pressed her hands into her stomach and doubled over. It was never a good idea to attract the attention of the dead. But if she was careful, perhaps they would forget about her. Besides, she’d had no choice.
After feeding the qatcha to her father and brother, Ilyenna stumbled back to the kitchen and collapsed in a chair. The first thing she noticed was that someone had already removed the dead man.
Enrid glanced up. “You’re up early,” she whispered so as not to wake those lying on the floor. As cold as it was outside, heat shimmered from the huge fireplace. Enrid ran a knife through a nutty brown loaf of bread and slapped some lard on a slice; the butter had run out a few days ago. She held the bread out to Ilyenna.
Ilyenna shook her head. “I’m all right.” The burden of caring for so many was crashing down on her. She braced herself against the table as panic swelled in her chest.
“Winter’s almost up,” Enrid said.
Ilyenna grunted. “Just in time to start digging for roots and shriveled berries.”
They’d already started killing barren ewes. The dogs would be next. She wondered how they’d survive next year if they were forced to decimate their herds.
Glancing around, she couldn’t help but once again notice the Argon’s clothes. Most of the people had been forced to flee their homes with what little clothing they’d had on. Ilyenna was still treating their frostbite.
It was cold still, cold enough they’d need warm clothes and coats. At least Ilyenna wouldn’t have to worry about finding enough wool. The Shyle’s poor, rocky soil didn’t offer up much in the way of fields or even gardens. But the steep slopes and harsh winters were perfect for raising sheep and goats, and the Shyle had wool by the bagful. The clan women carded and spun that wool into the finest yarn and cloth in all the clan lands.
Ilyenna stood abruptly, took the bread, and put her hand on the door latch. She had to get away from here—from the dead, the injured, and the emptying foodstores.
“Ilyenna, what’s wrong?” Enrid asked.
She paused. She almost considered telling Enrid what she’d done. But it would only anger and frighten the old woman. “I’m going to buy every skein of yarn or bolt of felt Volna Plesti will give me.” The woman and her family operated the enormous dye vats far downwind of the village, near the mouth of the canyon.
Enrid smiled and nodded. Just yesterday she’d said Ilyenna needed to get out of the clan house. “Make sure you bring all the knitting needles she has as well.”
Ilyenna hesitated. “You’re certain you can handle things?”
Enrid cast Ilyenna a look of exasperation. “I was the clan mistress not long ago, remember?”
Ilyenna shouldered open the door and hurried away. The sun had turned the west mountain faces pink, but had yet to touch the valley. A cold wind snaked through the tightly woven fabric of her coat. She hugged it tighter, wishing Otrok hadn’t taken Myst with him to guard the entrance to the Shyle.
Already, many figures were about—boys gathering and chopping wood, girls feeding chickens, goats, and sheep. Ilyenna barely noticed them, all her concentration was on getting away from the graveyard. What if she’d brought the attention of the dead on her whole village?
She jumped when someone called out to her. Lanna, a steaming pail of goat’s milk in her hand, trotted toward her. This was the beautiful clan woman Ilyenna’s brother had taken a fancy to a few months back. But long before her brother had come along and the clan-mistress duties had taken all her free time, Lanna had been Ilyenna’s best friend. With pale features, a curvy build, and blond hair as thick as an arm, she fit in everywhere Ilyenna stood out.
Lanna visibly braced herself. “How’s Bratton?”
Trying to banish the image of the shadows crawling up her arms, Ilyenna took a deep breath. “He’s much better. His fever is broken.”
Lanna smiled, revealing slightly crooked teeth. “I’m so glad.” Her face fell when she glanced back at her house. “Where are you off to?”
“Volna Plesti’s to buy some wool,” Ilyenna answered.
“Mind if I come? I’m not sure I can bear going back. We’ve four sick Argon babies. All they do is cry.”
Ilyenna tried to swallow the lump in her throat. She’d visited those babies yesterday. They’d been exposed to too much cold. Two were very young and very ill, and they refused to eat. She doubted either of them would live. If a Tyran had been present at the moment, she’d have gladly taken her knife to his tender parts.
Instead, she forced a smile. “I could use the help.”