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Only when she’d gotten inside, she’d alternated between shock and disgust. For this everyone she loved had died? The building was nothing but darkness and cold stone. There were no overflowing treasures, only a few cheap trinkets. And the gods had known it. They had tried to steer them away, so many times, sign after sign that the clan should move on, go upriver, to the land where they belonged⁠—

And now everyone was dead.

And then Eavus had appeared at the temple door, a lurching ogre from a child’s tale blocking the setting sun, and here she was stuck, tied to the floors and walls, without a map, without a guide, without even the right language. The monk didn’t speak Brigfaen either. The native language he had tried on her shared similarities, but felt like sailing an unknown cove: curves she almost recognized, the same movement of tides, yet still totally lost.

Still. She’d need a weapon, that had to be first. Then find the Snake river. If that was where the boats had been headed, she could follow it upstream on two legs just as easily. Well, maybe not just as easily. She’d be in enemy territory, totally unprotected, unable to communicate… She wasn’t even sure how far up the Snake she needed to go, or what river came after that.

She reconsidered her plan as she worked. Her heart pulled her towards the settlements, but it was Councils that were more important, and it was entirely possible that the Isfolj here kept Councils in a different pattern than they did back home. Councils weren’t people, they were gatherings. Two Councils, her mother had said. That was the time limit to claim an inheritance, or it was forfeit. In Isfjold, Councils were held twice a year—once after the ice broke at the end of winter and once after the harvest and the summer raids, when the first frost crackled underfoot. But would they be the same in Faen? In a place like this, perhaps they met as often as once a moon, or called Councils whenever needed.

Was there another option than wandering upriver for weeks, hoping to find answers? If there was, she couldn’t see it yet. The boats that had left her behind would have brought news of the failed raid, and other claimants would be coming forward. Distant cousins, adopted kin. Families with no surviving children often took on heirs, and the complex web of which adopted sibling outweighed which had often led to arguments that delayed Councils for days. Her parents had had children, of course, with no need for borrowed blood, but who knew Revni was still alive? And who knew what clan ties her sister Ynge had made, with her rugged husband that owned three ships and refused to let her visit? If Ynge was even still alive herself. If Ynge had ever had the baby they had all expected, rich enough in friends and furs that she didn’t need gifts from her family, a rabbit skin jël made with a younger sister’s sloppy stitches. Revni’s heart twisted. Was she an only child now, or only just that forgotten? The thought shattered something new within her. Her heart was encased in glass, each fresh thought breaking a new layer.

Revni squeezed her aching fingers into fists, then resumed her task. Her fingertips were raw. But this was her best chance. She was a child of the gods, a sworn soti.

The last of her line.

She pushed that particular thought down.

Finally, blissfully, she managed to squirrel space beneath a loosening spot. The clapper of the bell gave another lazy swing, caressing the edge. But no sound. Revni released a quiet exhale and retrieved the wooden spoon she’d taken from Maetis’ table from inside her shirt. She wedged the thin, flat handle into the tiny opening and worried it wider, the warm wood pressing relief against her skin.

She was Revni Hyldyttr. She would not fail her mother a second time.

The ankle knot finally fell away. Revni tucked the spoon back up her sleeve and took a moment to rub her sores. She crept to standing, then forward, the metals on the line twisting to watch, but holding their tongues. It felt like a strange game at a feast—a slow parade, the rope at her waist tightening its tug with every inch forward like hands holding her back, the odd banner hoisting higher, each swaying object teasing tense anticipation of a telltale ting that would mean she lost.

Revni paused at Eavus’ cot. He was a hibernating bear, an immovable lump blocking her escape. He slept in his tunic, inner belt, and shoes—not quite sandals and not quite boots, the thick soles studded with nail heads, the upper portion dozens of straps that rose halfway up his calves. But now that she was only a few feet from freedom, she couldn’t see where he’d put the rest of his belongings—his armor, his sword, her knife. His deep breaths rose and fell. He looked younger when he slept. Vulnerable. She dropped to a crouch to look under his cot, shoving that shameful rise of tenderness away. He wasn’t innocent. He wasn’t a helpless little boy. Her eyes adjusted, but the space was empty. She stood, too quickly, the bell whispering towards its iron sides. Revni froze.

Where could he have put everything? She couldn’t go anywhere without a weapon—but she didn’t have time to ransack every building. She hadn’t even noticed that he’d taken that outer belt off. By the time he’d returned with his cot and all his machinations for keeping her secured, she’d been too distracted with her own anger. He’d been moving so slow and stupid, and collapsed onto the cot like a felled tree. The monk had offered her the same painkilling tea, indicating the bruising on her jaw, her neck where Eavus had strangled her, but it had smelled like rotten armpits and Revni had refused. She’d need her head clear for exactly this moment—though admittedly she’d had regrets during the night, her head pounding and neck throbbing. Now she was grateful for her foresight. Eavus slept so deeply he could be dead.

Revni swallowed her fear and put her hands on his back.

Nothing. She pushed.

He snuffled.

But didn’t wake.

Revni’s relief came out too close to a laugh. She leaned more of her weight on him, slowly, suddenly thinking of the fair at Ysidra, when the horsemaster had encouraged her to help break a colt. Eavus smelled different than a horse—his stink had grown familiar in her nose, heavy spice and leather, the woodiness of oversteeped tea—but the process was the same. Revni gave her whole self over, waited to see if he bucked her off. When he still didn’t stir, she climbed, enjoying the feel of her knee digging into his calf. He was burning hot, slick with sweat. Slowly, carefully, she stretched her foot to find the opposite floor. She was practically straddling him, hands on his chest to keep that steady weight, no sudden movements⁠—

Revni sucked in a surprised breath. A hard line grazed her inner thigh, and its existence whooshed all other thoughts from her head. She was afraid to swallow. The sound would be too loud.

It was pathetically small. Barely anything.

But an eating knife was still a knife, and it was right here, tied to his thin belt. She should leave it—the door was so close, and if she got that main knot free, she could lower the noisemakers to the floor and untie her waist, then go find her own weapon, wherever he had stashed it. But the nubby handle was pressing into her thigh, and if she had to run it was better than nothing, and if he woke, she’d have it instead of him.

Revni went for the knife.

She stretched her toetips to skim the floor, the other leg slowly sliding over his body. One hand wormed along his waist. Closer. His chest rose and fell beneath her. She risked flicking her eyes to the worn woven loops, a knuckle hooking near his hip⁠—

The cacophony of jangling metals wrenched at her ears before she was even aware of the jarring lightness of being flipped, the sudden renewed pain in her mangled wrists, hard fingers squeezing. The cot groaned. She was on her back and Eavus was above her, eyes that had been blue in daylight now the cold silver of the icebergs that floated into Gudrun Bay in spring.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” A low growl—the scrape of a bear’s claws on his cave. For a panicked moment, Revni thought he might bite her.

“I need a knife,” she seethed.

“So you can kill me with it?”

“No.” She twisted, but he held.

His huff had no humor in it. “Of course not. You were just what—tucking me in?”