The Balance would be off. Bad things happened when the Balance was off.
Ilyenna shook her head. She needed to keep the clan busy, keep their fears buried under a heavy load of work and exhaustion. “You’ve poultices to make, food to prepare, carding and spinning to do.” None of the women seemed to hear her as they stared after their men. “Move to it!” she shouted.
That brought a satisfying round of jumps and purposeful strides. As Otrok passed her, Ilyenna caught his arm. “Round up two other boys. Use some of the horses we have left. Take turns watching the road at the mouth of the canyon. If you even think you see a Tyran, ride here and don’t stop for anything.”
She hated to ask sentinel duty of one so young that even the men had left him behind. But Otrok’s small size would give him many advantages. If he had to run for it, his horse wouldn’t tire so quickly, and even the clumsiest Shyle boy was quieter than a deer and left fewer tracks. Besides, he was the closest thing to a warrior she had left.
Otrok’s big eyes opened wider. He wet his lips with the tip of his tongue and squeaked, “Yes, Clan Mistress.”
It was a risk she had to take, for until the men returned, the safety of the Shyle rested in her hands.
Wearing only her full-length linen underdress, Ilyenna broke the thin layer of ice in her washbasin and used a cloth to bathe her face and body before taking the salt to her teeth. She shivered violently and cursed the bitter cold. Winter had strayed far too long into the warming months. The summer fairies were losing the battle to regain their footholds in the clan lands—another indication the Balance was off.
Ilyenna quickly pulled on her felt overdress—a long garment that resembled a blanket with an opening for her head. She buckled her clan belt over the dress to keep it in place. As she pulled on her socks and heavy felt and leather boots, she was careful not to look at her feet. They were long and thin. Pretty, really, except the tips of some of her toes—two on each foot. There, only stumps remained. They ached terribly sometimes, a constant reminder of what she’d done.
When she finished dressing, Ilyenna braided her thick hair and tied it off with a leather cord. It had been three days since the men left. Three days without a word. Already knowing what she’d see—tired brown eyes and fair skin even paler than normal—she avoided looking in the mirror altogether.
Moving down the hall, she passed numerous doors. Most led to unoccupied rooms. Once, they’d been filled to the brim with the clan chief’s family. But that was before Ilyenna’s time. Before the war that killed her grandfather and all his brothers, leaving their valley vulnerable to the raiders who had killed or enslaved a third of the women and children—including her grandmother and three of her aunts—leaving only her father and great-aunt Enrid behind.
Hearing of the attack, the clans had responded with hundreds of men who eventually managed to fight off the invaders. In their rush to leave, the Raiders had left something—or rather someone—behind. Ilyenna’s mother.
Now the attic rooms only held Otrok, Bratton, Enrid, Ilyenna’s father, and Ilyenna. If what the dying man said was true, she suspected they’d soon be overflowing with Argon refugees. She descended the ladder into the great hall. After crossing the cavernous space, she pushed open the kitchen door on the other side.
The scent of bitter herbs hit her in a hot, steamy wave. Qatcha—garlic, oregano, onions, and salt simmered with chicken organs. It was her mother’s recipe for staving off fevers. “The ranker the smell, the better the cure,” she’d always said whenever Ilyenna and Bratton complained about the stench. But in the end, even the qatcha hadn’t been enough to save Ilyenna’s mother.
Great-aunt Enrid glanced up from the hearth, still stirring the qatcha. “Bad night?”
Ilyenna rubbed her eyes. “I’ll sleep better when the men return.”
Enrid grunted and handed Ilyenna the silver spoon, which was only used for making qatcha. “Have I got enough garlic?”
Ilyenna licked the spoon and made a face. “A little more.”
“Much more and the men won’t drink it even if they’re holding death’s hand,” Enrid grumbled.
Enrid was one of the few women Ilyenna didn’t have to be the clan mistress around. “We’ll hold out on the whiskey until they finish their dose,” Ilyenna said. “That ought to bring them around to drinking as much as we want.”
She pulled her coat from its peg by the door, swung it on, and stuck her knife in the coat’s sheath. The women of her clan never went anywhere without the knives they used for cooking, eating, and if needed, defense. She couldn’t help but glance down the road leading to the canyon. She didn’t see the men returning, but what she did see made her groan.
“What is it?” Enrid asked.
“Trouble,” was all Ilyenna had time to mutter before Larina Bend marched into the kitchen.
“Ah, Ilyenna, good. I need to speak with you.”
Ilyenna bit the inside of her cheek to keep from snapping at Larina. “Oh?”
“Yes. The other women keep insisting my family take in one of the—” she waved toward the canyon that separated the Shyle from the Argons “—families when they arrive. But as I’m sure you understand, we simply do not have the room or the food.”
Ilyenna bit down harder on the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. “Larina, you’ve the biggest house in the village, next to the clan house. If you want more room, go to your empty summer home and have all you want. If not, accept a family with all the grace your mother is so renowned for.”
Enrid snorted, but covered it well with a cough.
Larina shot a suspicious glance at Enrid. “Of course we are generous, but my poor mother—”
Ilyenna planted both hands on Larina’s back and guided her toward the door. “Your poor mother is too kind. Tell her to send you to me the moment she thinks she can fit another family. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve animals to feed.”
Larina opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Ilyenna caught sight of three horses galloping through the village toward the clan house. She pushed past Larina and hurried out the door. When she recognized Otrok as one of the riders, she broke into a run.
His face was drawn, his cheeks chapped with cold, but thankfully he didn’t appear injured. The moment he saw Ilyenna, he shouted, “Big group of people coming.”
“Who are they?” she asked as he and the other two boys reined in beside her. Their horses were blowing hard and shaking with fatigue. Even in the freezing weather, the animals were coated with sweat.
“Clanmen . . . bunch of Argons, most . . . women and kids.” Otrok spoke so fast his words blurred together.
Ilyenna felt some of the tension ease from her chest. At least they weren’t about to be attacked. “Father and Bratton?” she interrupted. “Are they all right?”
“Dunno, mistress. Didn’t see them,” one of the other boys responded.
Then, as if ashamed he couldn’t tell her more, Otrok stared at his horse’s mane. “You said to come back as soon as we saw them. I didn’t take time to ask questions.”
“Did you see Rone, Clan Chief Seneth, or Clan Mistress Narium?” Ilyenna held her breath.
The boys exchanged glances before finally shaking their heads. Ilyenna’s hopes crashed to her feet.
Otrok’s eyes welled with tears. “I’m sorry, mistress, I—”
She placed her hand on his leg and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “You did well, Otrok. All of you did well. You and the other boys cool down these horses before they freeze and then get yourselves warmed up and fed.” She started toward the bell.
The other two boys moved away, but Otrok dropped from his horse to follow Ilyenna, still talking so fast she only caught snatches of what he said. Something about sending horses and food. But she already knew all that.
“Otrok, what kind of shape are the Argons in?”
He sighed. “Some seemed pretty bad. Others looked a’right.”
At least he knew that much. Ilyenna caught
Yessa Tuck by the arm as the girl darted past. “I’ve nine horses left in the barn. Find some girls to help you hitch them to any sleighs you can find. If there are any spare horses left in town, tie them to the sleigh bed.”
The girl took off at a run.
Ilyenna gave the bell rope one good tug. It clanged three times before swaying silently. Within seconds, women were pouring from their homes. “The clanmen are coming with injured Argons,” she announced. “Load up the sleighs with food, blankets, and medicine for double our number of men. Anyone willing to drive a sleigh or heal the injured, dress warm and wait for me at the bell. The rest of you make a hearty stew and be ready to help in any way you can.”
Lifting up her skirt, Ilyenna hurried to the clan house. Great-aunt Enrid met her at the door, disapproval on her stout face.
“Let the others go,” the elderly woman said. “A clan mistress mustn’t put herself at unnecessary risk.”
Ilyenna wanted to remind Enrid just who the clan mistress was, but she’d be better served to ask the burrs not to grow on her mother’s grave. Practicality was the way with Enrid, not arguments or whining. “They may need me. And Otrok didn’t say anything about Tyrans.” She pulled on her fur-lined gloves and tugged a knitted cap over her braid.
Enrid pressed her lips together and stood with her fists on her hips. Gnarled and bent over as she was, she possessed a stubbornness that made her a formidable woman. “I heard him. Didn’t sound like he saw much of anything, really. And your father wouldn’t approve.”
“No,” Ilyenna admitted. “He wouldn’t. But Father’s not here. He left me in charge, and I’ve made my decision.” She held her breath. Enrid no longer held the authority to stop her, but she looked determined to try. “Enrid,” she said more softly, “what if Bratton or Father’s injured? You know I’m the best healer.”
Sagging in defeat, Enrid seemed to age twenty years before Ilyenna’s eyes. “If you must.”
Ilyenna snatched her medicine satchel and hurried out before Enrid could change her mind. Eighteen grim-faced women in nine sleighs greeted her. The rest of the village’s horses were tied to the backs of the sleighs. The women’s hands gripped the reins, and each wore a knife strapped over her coat. Most of these women had helped Ilyenna with the healing during times of sickness.
She nodded to gray-haired Sharina as she slid in beside her. The woman had finished Ilyenna’s education in birthing after her mother’s death. Sharina snapped the reins and the horse took off, the runners slicing smoothly through the snow.
By midday, Ilyenna caught sight of the first dark figures struggling up the curving road. The Argons were easy to recognize. If their clan belts hadn’t given them away, their appearance would have. Even from a distance she could see most were disheveled; some had their feet wrapped in cloth instead of shoes. The worst hunched painfully over a horse’s withers or were carried between stretchers.
Ilyenna’s father had left with just under four hundred men. Ilyenna could only guess there were at least double that in Argons—mostly women and children. The occasional man she did see wasn’t in good shape. Usually, he rode a Shyle horse. Sometimes only the hands of the men and women surrounding him kept him in the saddle.
The village would double in size in one day. In the throes of winter. How could Ilyenna possibly provide healing for so many? Feed so many?
As the two groups drew closer, she stood in the sleigh, searching for her father and brother in the mass of people, but they were as thick as winter wool. Her stomach twisted into knots. Father and Bratton should’ve been here to greet the sleighs. Then she caught sight of Konj, her father’s enormous horse. But it wasn’t her father who rode it. Instead, a pale Argon clutched his ribs and winced with every step the horse took.
As the other women fanned out to help load the most severely wounded, Ilyenna launched herself over the side of the sleigh and rushed to the man riding her father’s horse. “Where’s Clan Chief Otec?” she asked breathlessly.
Straining through the pain, the man tried to turn in the saddle, but then shuddered and simply tipped his head. “When he fell off his horse, they put him in a stretcher.”
The words knocked the breath from Ilyenna’s lungs. “Fell off his . . .” She whirled in place, her eyes frantically scanning the nearby stretchers. A hand fell on her shoulder. A heavy hand, just like her father’s. Her heart aching with hope, she turned.
But it wasn’t her father. It was Bratton. Bloody bandages wrapped various parts of his body, and one side of his face was swollen and bruised.
With a small cry, she reached for him, but he held her back. “He needs you, Ilyenna.”
With a quick nod, she followed him as he limped through the crowd. Two of her clanmen, bloody and battered themselves, carried a heavy stretcher between them. She fell in beside them, hardly believing the man inside was her father. His skin was ashy and sagging, as if he hadn’t moved in hours. “What happened?”
Bratton winced with pain as he struggled to keep up with them. “Took a war hammer to the side of his head.”
Ilyenna stepped into the sleigh ahead of the men and helped them load her father. Usually, Ilyenna was the calm one, the one who took charge while other people panicked. But seeing her father being jostled into the sleigh and not so much as stirring . . . She took a deep, biting breath of winter air and forced her mind to still.
She unwrapped his bandages, revealing a wicked knot that began just below his bald spot. The skin had split, and blood crusted the wound. “Father! Father, can you hear me!” He didn’t respond. Prying apart his eyelids, she checked his pupils. One was wide, the other narrow.
His brain was swelling.
“Not good,” she muttered. Desperate to try anything, she slapped his cheeks. Nothing. Knowing it needed cleaning anyway, she poured some whiskey on his wound. He moaned and shifted a little. She nearly cried out in relief. She barely noticed when the sleigh moved forward. Instead, she gave him five spoonfuls of dandelion tincture to reduce his swelling from the inside. Then she bandaged his head with a compress of mountain daisies, packing it on the outside with snow to help reduce the swelling.
After checking her father for more injuries, she realized there wasn’t much else she could do. She tried to rub some warmth into his cold hands, silently hoping death would stay away.
“Ilyenna,” Sharina said gently. “There’s a little one what needs your help.”
Forcing herself to turn away from her father, Ilyenna saw a girl of about seven who cradled her arm as tenderly as if she held a newborn. Her face was gray, her breathing quick and shallow. Reluctantly leaving her father, Ilyenna crawled over to where the girl sat. “What’s your name?”
“Dekle,” the girl answered weakly.
Ilyenna gently reached for her arm. “Can I see?” Reluctantly, Dekle held it out. It was a mass of swollen, black tissue. A hard knot revealed where the jagged edges of the bone pressed against the swelling muscle. “What happened?”
With a shudder, the girl looked away. “When I wouldn’t come out of the wood pile, a Tyran hit me with the butt end of his axe.”
Rage flashed hot in Ilyenna’s breast.
Balance, she tried to remind herself. For every innocent, there is also evil.
But the adage did nothing to dissuade her anger. She gave the girl a strong dose of dandelion tincture, but she didn’t dare wait for the alcohol to take full effect. The girl’s eyes were starting to droop—a dangerous sign. “I’m going to have to set it.” If I don’t, you’re going to die, she thought.
Dekle winced. “You’re going to hurt me?”
Ilyenna hesitated before discreetly motioning for Sharina to come help. “Sometimes a healer has to hurt in order to heal.”
Dekle violently shook her head and shrank into the sleigh bed.
Ilyenna was sorry, but she didn’t have time for this. “You may as well be brave, Dekle. We’ll do it either way.”
Wide-eyed, the girl looked between both healers. S
he must have believed they meant it, for she finally bit down on the blanket and lay back in Sharina’s arms.
Ilyenna nodded to Sharina. “Hold her.” To the girl, she said, “It’s going to hurt, Dekle, but I need you to hold as still as you can.” Dekle nodded. Pushing down on the break while pulling on the girl’s hand, Ilyenna felt the bone snap back into place. She fought the nausea that rose within her as the girl arched her back and screamed.
With those screams ringing in her ears, Ilyenna probed the break to see if it had lined up.
Dekle jerked away, clutching her arm and sobbing.
“Dekle,” Ilyenna said softly, “I need to make sure it’s lined up. I know it hurts, but after I’m done you can rest.”
But Dekle was done cooperating. Sharina had to lay herself across the girl so Ilyenna could finish inspecting the break. Satisfied, she allowed the girl to cradle the arm against her stomach. Sharina helped Ilyenna apply a compress of mountain daisy, wrap it with heavy strips of canvas, splint it, and use hemp as a sling. Then they gave Dekle another dose of dandelion tincture. After Dekle, there were more breaks to set and wrap, ointments to rub into wounds, dressings to change, and tinctures to hand out.
Ilyenna regularly checked on her father. She gave him another dose of dandelion tincture and stuffed more snow in his wound. But aside from the occasional moan, there was no change in his condition. Blowing on her numb hands, Ilyenna realized they were crossing into Shyleholm. She’d been so busy she hadn’t realized how far they’d come. She jumped down from the sleigh. All these people would have to sleep somewhere, and she was going to displace her clan to do it. With a suppressed sigh, she jogged on ahead.
Women ran out to meet her. Worry and fear added a sharp edge to their normally soft features. When they realized Ilyenna had nothing to tell them, they spread out, searching for their loved ones. She couldn’t bring herself to ask for their help with the injured Argons. Not yet. Some of them had lost husbands, sons, fathers. Others would have their own wounded to tend to.