by Amber Argyle
Jore rubbed at his beard, which clung to his face like mold to bread. “You have to. For both our sakes.”
The charcoal shattered under Matka’s grip. She stared at the destruction, surprise plain on her face. “This is wrong, Jore. I can’t be a part of it.”
“It’s too late, and we both know it.” His voice had hardened—he sounded brittle, as if the merest provocation could break him.
She tossed the bits of charcoal and rose to her feet, her gaze defiant. “No. I won’t—”
Jore took a final step from the shadows, his hand flashing out to strike Matka’s cheek so fast Otec almost didn’t believe it had happened. But it had, because she held her hand to her face, glaring fiercely at Jore.
She opened her mouth to say something, but Jore took hold of her arm. “I’m your brother—I’m trying to protect you.”
All at once Otec’s sluggish anger came awake like a bear startled out of a too-long hibernation. He forgot he’d been eavesdropping. Forgot these were foreigners. Forgot everything except that this man had hit her—a woman, his sister.
Otec burst into the brightness. The man saw him first, his eyes widening. Matka was already turning, her hand going to something at her side.
A mere three strides away, Otec called, “How dare—” He came up short. Jore had drawn shining twin blades, and the ease with which he held them made it clear he knew how to use them.
“Who are you, clanman? What business do you have with us?”
“You hit her!” Otec’s voice rumbled from a primal anger deep inside his chest. His hands ached to strike Jore. Ached to wrestle him to the ground. But Otec held no weapon save a weathered shepherd’s crook—he’d left his bow tied to Thistle’s packsaddles when he’d gone in search of the lamb.
Jore surveyed Otec, his gaze pausing on his bare chest. Otec had forgotten he’d thrown his shirt away, too. “Who are you? I haven’t seen you before.” Jore said.
Otec raised himself to his full height, a good head and a half taller than this foreigner. “I am Otec, son of Hargar, clan chief of the Shyle.”
Jore stepped back into the shadows, his swords lowering to his sides. “You do not know our customs, clanman. I am well within my rights to discipline my younger sister.”
“It is you who do not know our customs,” Otec said, barely restraining himself from charging again.
Jore jutted his chin toward Matka. “Come on. You’ve caused enough trouble for one day.”
For the first time, Otec met her gaze. He saw no fear, only sorrow and pity. He wondered what reason she would have to pity him.
She turned away and followed after her brother without looking back. Feeling a gaze on him, Otec glanced up to find the strange white owl watching him with eerie yellow eyes. The bird stretched its great white wings and soared off after Matka.
The strange trio was halfway across the meadow when Freckles came panting up to Otec’s side. She plopped on the cool grass, her tongue hanging out. “Didn’t catch that blasted rabbit, eh?” Otec said to her, anger still burning in the muscles of his arms.
It was then that he noticed Matka had forgotten her drawing. He picked it up. He’d never seen anything so fine, since clanmen didn’t waste valuable resources on something as extravagant as art.
Otec traced the lines without actually touching them. With a few strokes of charcoal, Matka had managed to capture his village—to freeze it in time. Simply by looking at her drawing, he felt he knew her. She saw details other people glossed over. She felt emotions deeply. And she saw his village as he saw it.
Otec remembered the lamb with a start and hurried back to the forest. After settling her back over his shoulders, he called out commands to Freckles, who circled the scattered sheep, gathering them together. Otec fetched his donkey, Thistle, from where he’d tied her to the trunk of a dead tree. He led her toward the paddock to the west of the clan house, where he lived with his parents, his five sisters and eight brothers, and three dozen members of their extended family.
At the thought of them all crammed into one house for another never-ending winter filled with wrestling and lessons with axes and shields, Otec had a sudden urge to command his dog to drive the sheep back into the wilderness, to live out the winter in his mountain shack or under the starry sky. But of course that was impossible. The hay would already be laid up for the coming winter. And his mother would never allow it, even if he was nearly twenty-one.
As he unlatched the gate, Otec expected someone from the house to come out and greet him, or at least for his younger cousins and siblings to help bring the sheep in. The boys and girls were always eager for the toys he carved over the summer. But no one came, so he herded the flock into the paddock by himself and tied his donkey in one of the stalls.
He went to the kitchen door, rested one hand on each side of the frame, and called inside. A thin whimpering answered from upstairs, something not unusual in a house bursting with children. Grumbling, Otec tied up his dog outside the door—dogs were strictly forbidden inside, except for after mealtime when the floor needed to be licked of crumbs and spills.
Following the sound, Otec walked through the kitchen and the great hall, then climbed the ladder to the upper level. The sound was growing louder—someone crying. He finally pushed the door open to the room his five sisters shared. Sixteen-year-old Holla was huddled on one of the two beds, her wild blond hair a matted mess. She was his favorite, if for no better reason than because she talked so much he never had to. But also because she was the kindest, most gentle person he’d ever met.
At the sight of Otec, she pushed to her feet and ran to him, then threw herself in his arms. He grunted and stumbled back, for Holla was not a waifish girl. She sobbed into his bare shoulder—luckily the side that hadn’t been covered in diarrhea.
He rubbed her back. “What is it, little Holla?”
“I’m not little!” she said indignantly. Some people found her hard to understand, for she often slurred her words. Before he could apologize, she lifted her tear-stained eyes with the turned-up corners and the white stars near her irises. He always thought she had the prettiest eyes. “I can’t tell.”
Otec guided her onto one of the two beds and held her hand. “Remember what Mama always says—‘Never keep a secret that hurts.’”
Hiccupping, Holla nodded solemnly. “I can tell you. You never talk to anyone.”
He winced. Not seeming to notice, she leaned forward to whisper in his ear, “I was waiting for Matka to come back—she always has pretty drawings. But Jore told me to get away.” Tears spilled from Holla’s eyes again. “I froze and he called me an idiot, and …” She paused, her sobs coming back. “He pushed me and I fell.”
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 pr
omise 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.
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Thanks go out to my amazing editing team: Charity West (content editor), Jennie Stevens (copyeditor), Cathy Nielson (proofreader), Elissa Strati (proofreader), and Amy Standage (proofreader); and my talented design team: Michelle Argyle (cover designer), Julie Titus (formatter), and Bob Defendi (mapmaker).
My everlasting love to Derek, Corbin, Connor, Lily, and God.
Bestselling author Amber Argyle writes young-adult fantasies where the main characters save the world (with varying degrees of success) and fall in love (with the enemy). Her award-winning books have been translated into numerous languages and praised by such authors as New York Times best sellers David Farland and Jennifer A. Nielsen.
Amber grew up on a cattle ranch and spent her formative years in the rodeo circuit and on the basketball court. She graduated cum laude from Utah State University with a degree in English and physical education, a husband, and a two-year-old. Since then, she and her husband have added two more children, which they are actively trying to transform from crazy small people into less-crazy larger people. She’s fluent in all forms of sarcasm, loves hiking and traveling, and believes spiders should be relegated to horror novels where they belong.
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OTHER TITLES BY AMBER ARGYLE
Forbidden Forest Series
Lady of Shadows (prequel novella)
Stolen Enchantress
Piper Prince
Wraith King
Curse Queen
Fairy Queens Series
Of Ice and Snow
Winter Queen
Of Fire and Ash
Summer Queen
Of Sand and Storm
Daughter of Winter
Winter’s Heir
Witch Song Series
Witch Song
Witch Born
Witch Rising
Witch Fall