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Everything they taught me is wrong.

And the horrid irony of it all was the person she most wanted to talk about it with was them. Sit next to Da by a fire or rest between Mama’s knees, her long fingers raking through Revni’s hair to plait new braids. They would have listened. They would have argued back. She could have wrestled her thoughts into something tangible, if only she had their hands to help form them.

Or maybe she was giving them too much credit. Maybe they would have dismissed her. Scoffed and told her you’ll learn, in that adult way that made her want to stab something. Maybe she would have ended up hating them.

Did Ynge hate them? Revni had chosen to believe that it was Ynge’s husband that had stopped her from visiting, cut them off like an infected foot, that Ynge mourned for her family from all those bays away, desperate to send word. But she hadn’t sent word. As far as Revni knew, she hadn’t even tried. Maybe it was the opposite. Maybe the thing that was gnawing on Revni’s insides, desperate to burst forth, was something Ynge had figured out:

That the person your parents wanted was not the person you had to be.

“He’ll be ok.” Eavus reappeared, startling her out of her thoughts. “The Caerdeneii are part of the group that’s coming. Come on.”

Gods, what kind of Isfolj was she? The gods spoke in the voice of violence, and who was she? To be drawn to Eavus’ gentleness. Because she was. She followed behind, mesmerized by the relaxed slope of his shoulders, the way when Maetis talked Eavus truly listened. Eavus did the same to her: asked questions as if he actually wanted to know something new, instead of the way so many others talked, as if they were only waiting for you to inspire their own next cleverness. Revni had locked their cold nights together in a box, but now she found herself prodding the memories like a loose tooth she couldn’t stop wiggling with her tongue. The first time he had curled behind her she had been shivering. He’d quietly wrapped her in that soft strength, not knowing she was still awake, taking the wind at his back so she wouldn’t have to. The memory tasted of copper. Once, in the Sculpae mountains, he had run a finger over the scar on her eyebrow, the one the slaver gave her, checking for infection, and the trace of his skin still burned if she let herself feel it—that solid, sudden understanding that all the violence in him was a farce. A performance for survival.

The monk’s compound had been tidied in the time since they’d left—the carts neatly aligned against the freshly-wattled fence that surrounded the new vegetable patch. The firepit in the center was piled with fresh logs, the clean scent of cut pine traveling on the breeze.

Eavus translated. The woman was Catavarrus, and had come to the monastery for a night and stayed for longer, Maetis explained with a blush.

“I thought one night only was something of a rule,” Eavus noted drily.

“She helps. Laundry, growing food. I was never meant to be here alone. Sending a replacement for my dead brother will take months.”

Revni was too torn in her thoughts to respond. Eavus’ translations—again, his kindnesses, trying to make her feel included—instead made her feel so desperately out of place that fire bubbled in her belly, and again she wondered just how deep those Isfolj hooks were sunk, and how painful it might be if she were ever to try and fully yank them out.

Maetis’ reputation as a sanctuary had spread, as intended, but it meant that at any time people could suddenly appear on his doorstep—just as they had done, he pointed out—and not all of them were welcoming. They curved around a bend, and in the distance, Revni saw what looked like ruins.

“You will be safer here than with me.”

He said more to Eavus, which was not repeated, but the sight of the abandoned farmhouse in the distance had made Revni’s heart speed up.

It looked Isfolj.

Maetis hiked his dress higher as they started downhill, picking his way among the sloping rocks. It took them another angle of the sun to get close, but as they did, the surrounding structures came into view, like slumbering creatures standing guard. The longhouse itself seemed to be in better shape than it had looked from afar, except for the one end.

“I don’t know what tribe they were,” Maetis explained, as if he, too, had looked for clues in the architecture. Eavus’ translations echoed the monk’s voice, making Revni feel as if she was hearing everything twice, and still not completely. “I didn’t speak any of the local languages when I arrived, and my brother didn’t know their people either. This family was here when he came, as far as we could tell, though I imagine there used to be more of them.” The round stone huts were small in comparison to the longhouse—three were still standing, though decrepit; two had collapsed, their roofs caved in. Inside the longhouse, there was only one hearth in the center room, as if only one family lived here—not Isfolj, then—and the walls were woven: sticks and hay sealed with mud and manure. Still, it was close enough to familiar that a dull yearning throbbed behind Revni’s ribs.

“What happened to them?” Eavus asked.

Maetis hunkered in front of the dead fire and began building the charred remains into a pyramid. “Died. Left. Who knows? A winter storm crushed the roof—” He pointed to the far end, where long beams had fallen in diagonal lines and the remains of a turf roof now made up half a wall, the wind coming in over the top. “—but I think the house was empty before that. Do you have a flint?”

Eavus did. When the fire caught, the monk stood and wiped his palms on his dress.

“Do you need food? I’ll come back in a few hours. I can’t guarantee Aesna will not tell someone who she saw, so I would not stay beyond tomorrow morning.”

“Can’t you tell her not to?” Revni’s small flare of rage was instinctual more than accurate. Still, what use was offering safety if you were going to rat people out? And yet here they were—kindness saving them once more, if only for an evening.

“I can ask. But she is not mine to command. And besides,” he added, pausing at the door, “I don’t speak Catavarrus.” He shut the door, Eavus’ repeat of his words echoing after, like Revni was three breaths behind reality.

The crackling of flames became the only sound.

They were alone.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Eavus removed his helmet, his shorn head slick with sweat, and unbuckled his breastplate, groaning in relief as he set it aside. Revni turned away, her cheeks heating. Why did it feel so strange? They’d been nothing but alone for most of their knowing each other. Maybe it was because of the space, the neat stack of firewood, the dusty dishes still tidily organized on the shelves, the wooden chest against the wall. It felt cozy and lived-in, despite the underlay of mildew, the sawdust piles beneath the wood from some invading bug, the shredded heap of what had been a hay-stuffed mattress riddled with evidence of rodents. She thought of Ynge again, of their own childhood games, toasting empty cups of imagined aul, making cakes out of mud and Mama angry they’d dirtied the plates.

“I’ll go see if I can find water.” Revni had to move past Eavus to get to the door, and again she was struck by how different it was between them now than before. He had one hand on his ear, pulling his head to the side to stretch his neck, and he switched to the other.

“Be safe.”