The rage roared to life inside Otec. It took everything he had to shove it back into the damp dark where it came from. “Who is he? Where is he?”
Holla wiped her face. “One of the highmen from Svassheim. They’re camping out on the east side of the village.”
In his mind’s eye, Otec saw the dozens of tents in that direction, and he realized they were different from the clan’s tents. “All highmen?” he asked. Holla nodded. “So the clan feast?”
“Cancelled.”
“What are they doing here?”
She shrugged. “Hiding from the Raiders.”
“Raiders! How—” Otec checked himself. Holla wouldn’t know the answers—they would frighten and confuse her too much. And right now, he needed to deal with one problem at a time. “Where is the rest of the family?”
“The highmen offered to feed the villagers the midday meal to repay our kindness.” Holla’s eyes welled with tears again.
With a trembling hand, Otec tried to smooth her wild hair. Sweet, perceptive Holla. “I brought you something.”
She sniffed. “A carving?”
He suppressed a smile that his attempts to distract her had worked so easily. “It’s not quite finished yet. I want it to be perfect.” She nodded as if that made sense. “If you promise to stay here, Holla, I’ll give you the spiral shell I found on the mountainside.”
She gave him a watery grin. “All right.”
“Stay here.” Otec pressed a kiss to her forehead and left the clan house at a trot.
It was ominous to see the village so empty. There were no women perched in front of a washing tub. No men chopping wood or cutting down hay in the fields behind the houses. No children tormenting whatever or whomever they could get their hands on.
Otec rounded the Bend house—second largest home after the clan house. Another enormous owl, just like the one from earlier, was perched on the roof. Otec wouldn’t have paid it any mind at all, except he was surprised to see two such birds in the same day, and away from the shadows they normally dwelled in. He would have studied the bird a bit longer, but he had more pressing matters to deal with.
On the other side of the home, a crowd had gathered. Hundreds of mostly clanwomen and children intermixed with hundreds of highmen and an equal number of highwomen—all of them under thirty years old.
For once, the familiar, sick feeling he had whenever he was confronted with a crowd failed to turn his stomach. Instead, anger simmered just beneath his skin.
Otec pushed through the crowd, searching the faces for Jore. He was about six people in when he caught sight of Dobber, his left cheek bruised and swollen. Something in Otec tightened. Dobber’s father was a mean drunk, and Otec had hoped the man would be exiled by now.
Dobber gave him a pained smile. “You’re back.”
“Have you seen the highman Jore?” Otec said more tersely than he should have. After all, it wasn’t Dobber’s fault his father was still around.
Dobber’s blond hair was the color that made it look dirty even when it wasn’t. “Who?”
“He has a sister named Matka.”
Dobber shrugged his thin shoulders. Gritting his teeth, Otec continued plowing through the crowd. Dobber followed.
“What’s going on?” Otec asked. “Holla said something about Raiders. And where did all these highmen come from?”
“There are Raiders off the coast—they haven’t attacked yet, but all the men have gone to defend our lands. As for the highmen, they’ve been spread throughout the clans for months, working on trade agreements. They couldn’t leave by ship with the Raiders out there, so High Chief Burdin sent them here for the time being.”
“There’s a war brewing, and no one bothered to come get me?” Otec asked through clenched teeth. “And why didn’t you go with them?”
Halting, Dobber stuffed his hands in the pockets of his trousers, which were even more ratty and threadbare than Otec’s. “I can handle him. My little brothers can’t.”
Otec had tried to make this right before he’d left five months ago. Clearly he’d failed. And now he’d insulted Dobber, but before he could think of what to say, Otec caught sight of Jore.
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 fracti
on. “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 do
wn 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.”