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“Look.” Eavus was out of breath, too. But ahead⁠—

“Ocean,” Revni breathed in relief. The coast.

The river had not been the Snake, because they found themselves too quickly at a familiar slope. They approached the monastery at a different angle than the first time they’d come, but when they came around the slope she still recognized the incline, the same view of Eavus’ back, the only difference the boy in his arms. Gods, had she been on this island so short a time? The crossing from Isfjold, the burning ships—it felt like it happened two lifetimes ago, to someone else entirely.

Eavus—she couldn’t fathom how he had the strength—hoisted the child more securely and increased his pace as they crested the top. Revni feared she’d collapse from exhaustion, but she kept on. The low round huts held some comfort. It wasn’t home, not by fathoms, but no one here was trying to kill her. At least that was something.

The monk was bent rump-up in the herb patch, but he straightened when Eavus called out, his eyes widening. He hustled them into the hut that held the well—the same place he’d sent her and Eavus to wash before. Only this time, there was no casual, if reluctant, welcome. He kept checking over his shoulder, and he and Eavus argued in Aleterian before Maetis gave a curt command and hurried off.

“What is it?”

“We can’t stay here.”

“Why not?”

“There’s to be a meeting—” Eavus sounded as frustrated as she felt. He propped the boy on his hip, his other hand cupping water and gently washing the child’s face. “Tribal leaders. They’re arriving any time. If we stay here we’re in danger.” The child winced. Eavus switched to low rumbles of broken Caerdeneii. “Good,” “safe.” These words were the same as Brigfaen, or maybe it was Dinaeii. Close enough to something in the fog of her mind that Revni understood. The child opened his mouth—to drink? To reply?—but the movement caused a yelp of pain. He blubbered, his small fists opening and closing on Eavus’ shoulder.

Revni’s heart seemed a thing of paper, the kind performed as a trick at a fair. Fold one way and a shape appears. Unfold to another. Eavus was already shushing the boy, guiding the tiny fingers to his buckles. He moved the metal back and forth, making them clank.

Fold, unfold. Another unfamiliar shape.

The little boy stilled, staring. His face was already so swollen that it was hard to tell if the tears had made a difference.

“The soldiers at the river. They said there’s some sort of uprising.” A tinny song underscored Eavus’ words, the boy gingerly testing the clasp. “I think we may have started it. I think I may have started it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“For the pain.” Revni jumped as Maetis appeared at her back. The boy shrank from the cup, but when Eavus held it the boy took a sip, then another, spilling down his chin. Eavus and the monk spoke Aleterian, and Eavus huffed a laugh.

“What?” Revni’s cheeks flushed. It was silly to feel left out.

“Maetis put honey in the boy’s drink. Didn’t do that for me. Mine tasted terrible.”

Eavus gave Revni an easy smile, and there it was again, that expanding of the paper core. What had they done to Eavus the boy? To turn him into the Aleterian soldier. Had he been gentle, before the House of Caea got their hands on him? Soft boys rarely lasted in Isfolj, either. Maybe that was just the way it was everywhere. You hardened, or the world hardened you. Revni didn’t feel like she was hardened, but she knew deep down she wasn’t the little girl she had been, the youngest of two loved daughters, making crowns out of spring flowers and singing songs to a doll of felted wool.

Revni would have left the child. The realization had been humming in the back of her brain since Eavus had picked him up. No Isfolj warrior would have taken the boy. He wasn’t blood. When Revni had first picked up an ax, her father had ruffled her hair and her sister had rolled her eyes, but she hadn’t thought about what it meant, to choose a side. That in choosing one version of herself she’d be losing all the others. Ynge had always wanted to be married, to grow a farm and children and luxuriate in someone taking care of her. Revni wanted to be a warrior like her father. Revni hadn’t known then, what privileges her mother’s naming rights had given her. A home, clan titles, kinship ties that meant spots on a boat. A childhood full of choices. Not like Eavus. Orphaned, enslaved, forced into battle. And still, between the two of them, he was the one who was gentle, with the little Caerdeneii boy, with her, when he had the chance.

Was that really who her people were? She ran through the times the Isfolj had been to Faen before, Ragn’s raid on this very monastery. He’d killed the monks that came before Maetis, would have killed Maetis, too. Her parents, their summer journeys, always coming back with a hoard and scars. Her own raids—ducking into quiet bays, the faceless people she’d killed, the glee at the sudden screams, the catch of fire. That was how she was raised.

Eavus handed the boy to Maetis, dunked his hands in water, and scrubbed his own face. A shadow lurked at the opening and Revni whirled, her instinct reaching for an ax that was no longer there.

“Stop! Stop,” Maetis repeated in several languages, flinging himself between the woman who had appeared behind him and whatever threat he saw on Revni’s face. Maetis passed the infant to the woman, who cooed when she took him. She wore a woven tunic, but it wasn’t the ugly brown of the monk’s. The leaves and vines embroidered on the sleeves and down the sides made Revni think again of Ynge. Her sister would have admired it, wanted to see how the woman made such small stitches.

Why did she keep thinking of Ynge now? They’d left her behind, after she had left them.

Eavus followed the three out, quizzing the monk. Fatigue yanked at Revni’s limbs, but she washed, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes until she saw spots.

Whose side would the Isfolj in Norbucum take, when she told them who she was? Her famous name had given her the life she’d enjoyed; now it might get her killed.

So much anger. So much pain. And for what? For names and titles and land that wasn’t even theirs.

A suspicion had been crawling through her, and now it bit at her skin from the inside, looking for an exit.

She loved her parents, and they had loved her. Deeply. They’d sung her songs, and brushed her hair, and wiped her nose when she was sick. Da’s rough hand had held hers so often she still knew the lines of his skin. And yet⁠—

The two pieces didn’t fit. She felt that her thoughts should nestle with little effort, but instead their jagged edges shoved roughly against each other, jostling for place:

My parents were good people. Brave, loving, wise.