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A Much Darker Motive
Tyr’s mother and sister, Agnes, ventured out twice a week to barter for meats, tubers, and the rare green vegetable for the tavern stew in the village shops. The weather had caused them to miss some trips, which had put them behind schedule, but the Cider Festival in a few days meant they couldn’t put off a visit any longer.
Though he was exhausted, Tyr offered to come along and pull the wagon while they stocked up.
Fransiska shifted her basket high on her arm as they passed other shoppers on the road. She nodded to all, greeting many by name. She used the Vjestikaan greetings—hej for hello, or dobryzen for good morning, even a few kahk si’s to ask after their health—which made her popular among villagers. Olov was the same way, memorizing the little details patrons shared about their lives.
Tyr followed, wondering how he’d inherited none of their charm. Rikard meowed urgently from inside the cart as if to say,Faster!
“We really might be in luck this season,” Agnes remarked, cradling her very pregnant belly. Where the Penhallows had come from in the Westerlands, being unmarried in her condition would have made her a pariah; there’d have been whispers about her betrothed, Stojan, being trapped into wedding her to avoid scandal. But the Vjestik didn’t subscribe to such archaic notions. Agnes loved Stojan, and Stojan loved Agnes, and that was all that mattered to Tyr, his family, and the village. “I canalmostmake out a hint of sun through the clouds.”
Fransiska laughed. “We’d need more than a hint to melt all this ice.” Her face curved into a scowl. She shook her head at a boarded-up butcher’s stall as they passed. “Another poor season, thanks to the Hunt. It isn’t my place to question their traditions, but another year of the import tax on meat is going to put us all out of business.”
“Maybe we should raise prices to cover the taxes,” Tyr said from behind them. His breath formed a white cloud as he shivered.Hint of sun, my ass. “The Vjestik lose the Hunt far more than they prevail.”
“The people suffer as much as the businesses,” Fransiska said. “If we raise prices, they’ll be forced to choose between patronizing our tavern and putting food on their own tables. That helps no one.With luck, the next Vjestik son will triumph, and we’ll have a solid hunting season ahead.”
“Didn’t your girlfriend lose her brother to the Hunt, Tyr?” Agnes asked.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” Tyr retorted, beginning to regret coming along. Agnes never missed an opportunity to goad him about something. “Stepan Wynter died in the Hunt several years ago, yes.”
“Terrible,” Fransiska muttered, clucking her tongue as she perused the stalls. “But what do they expect, sending their sons into the wilderness every year without even a bow?”
“They get daggers,” Tyr said, unsure why he was defending a tradition he thought was arcane and ridiculous. “And for some, that’s enough. Every few years, one of them comes home from the Vuk od Varem with the wulf’s heart.”
“Most do not, and we beseech the Guardians for their lost souls,” Fransiska said.
“What would happen if men hunted the forests anyway?” Agnes slowed to examine a vegetable stand, but the pickings were sparse.
“I don’t really know, darling,” Fransiska said. She nodded at a group of women passing by. “There are more wulves in those forests than men in this village though. Their arrangement has worked for hundreds of years, so who are we to question it?”
“You’re questioning it right now.” Tyr’s shoulders were already screaming, so he released the cart handles and took a rest.
“You don’treallybelieve the Vjestik can speak to wulves, do you, Mother?” Agnes asked with a laugh.
“Notallof them.” Fransiska clucked her tongue again and changed topics. “What shall we make for the party?”
Tyr perked up. “What party?”
“Is he serious?” Agnes asked with an eyeroll back at him. “Pern and Ev?”
“What?”
Agnes held her hands out with a slow shake of her head. “Mother, he’s hopeless.”
“Tyr, love,” Fransiska said, sighing. “Their sendoff? It’s springtide. Evert’s apprenticeship starts in a few weeks, and Pern and Drago can’t afford to put off leaving any longer, unless they want to be stuck in the Cross for another long winter. They’re leaving in two days.” She inhaled an excited breath. “Oh, Agnes, look! They have rhubarb again. Let’s grab several bushels, and we can make apple rhubarb tarts for the festival. If you’re feeling up to it, you could make some of your compote we all love so much.”
“So soon?” Tyr asked, stepping forward. “Before the Cider Festival?”
“We’ve been talking about both departures for a year, Tyreste. I’m sure neither your brother nor sister will be terribly sad about missing another season of naked, drunken men crushing apples with their feet and ‘lively’ carols that sound more like dirges.”
Fransiska looped her arm through Agnes’s and enthusiastically ushered her to the crates of rhubarb.
Tyr moved the cart off of the road and leaned against the creaky stall wall, taking a moment for himself. He wasn’t unaware springtide had arrived, of course, but how had he missed Pernilla and Evert were leaving so soon? He hardly saw them as it was, with both working opposite shifts as him, and it might be years before he saw them again. If ever.
From several feet away, he heard his mother and sister running down all the sweets they could make with their precious rhubarb as he fought the doze threatening to do him in.
He started to rest his eyes when he saw something unexpected.
