“Tell me your name.”

I look at the tenant, who stands a full head taller than me. Our feet crunch through the hardened snow as we make our way from the village, following the footprints Bronhold and I made this morning. I let my gaze fall back to the snow and squint against a sudden wind. “You may call me Fraela Solln.”

“Fraela,” he echoes. “Then you are unmarried?”

“I don’t see why that matters,” I say stiffly.

He smiles. “It comforts me to know that I will not be depriving you of your husband.”

I look away, having nothing polite to add to the conversation. After a few steps, the tenant says, “Solln. That’s a mountain name.”

“I’m a mountain girl.”

“I mean an old mountain name. From the Saani, isn’t it?”

Grudging interest draws my gaze back to him—to the black roots anchoring his white hair. “Do you have Saani ancestors?”

“Possibly,” he answers, pulling at a strand of his hair. It curls around his finger and falls back against his ear. He wears it longer than the other soldiers, leaving it loose and wind-blown. Most of the men I know favor shorter styles, or else pull their longer hair back out of their faces. When he looks down at me, his hair almost covers his eyes. “My mother was from the foothills, though she said her family came from the mountains. I never met any of them.”

He waits, his easy silence inviting me to offer my background in return. I study the bare trees beside the road instead.

“I suppose many in Vallegat can claim Saani heritage,” he continues when I don’t speak. “I’ll admit that I was a little disappointed to find no reindeer herds in the valley.”

I roll my eyes at him. “The Saani were forced to give up nomadic herding when the Awnians settled the lowlands,” I say. “There are few traditional Saani tribes left. Most intermarried with the Awnians generations ago. We raise sheep now.”

“So you’re a shepherd?” the tenant asks.

“I’m an apprentice.”

Tenant Gryfalkr gives me a patient smile. “Your father is a shepherd? Or that brother you haven’t mentioned?”

I shoot him a suspicious look, and he shrugs. “There must be someone helping your father if you spend your days with the fryrs. Let me guess. A younger brother? One you feel you must protect?”

“I want to protect all the villagers,” I say, a scarlet edge gleaming around my words.

His smile twists into something I can’t read—amused, dismissive, possibly even pitying. “How old is he?”

An anxious burst of something that could easily turn into panic flares up my spine. “He’s seventeen,” I say, the words rushing out of me. “But he’s also half Ielic. If you hate them so much, you wouldn’t want him in your army, anyway.”

“But you and your brother were born here in Vallegat?”

I hesitate. “Yes.”

“Then you’re Awnian. Plenty of border and coastal citizens claim Ielic ancestry. If we banned Ielic blood, we’d not have half our northern forces.”

The tenant’s gaze returns to me. I try to glare his attention away, but his expression remains pleasant and patient. “What?” I demand finally.

“Addressing you as fraela seems too formal when I am to be a guest in your house,” he says. “I thought the mountain people valued hospitality above formality and titles.”

My frown deepens into a glower. “You’re preying upon my ‘mountain hospitality’ to secure a bed for the night. That does not make you my guest. And don’t forget, Tenant, that I am half Ielic, and Ielics do value formalities and titles.”

“That’s a fair point,” the tenant says mildly. “I withdraw my objections and will content myself with your family name, Fraela Solln.”

Somehow, he still makes the title sound familiar—like it’s a private joke between us rather than the barrier I’d intended it to be. I look away, fuming.

We walk the rest of the way in silence, with me keeping a healthy distance between us while he acts as though he doesn’t notice. Before long, my snow-covered sod roof rises out of the field, puffs of smoke swirling from the ventilation window in the wooden gable. Despite my irritation, a glow of pride warms me when Tenant Gryfalkr gives it an impressed nod. Papa built this house with the help of his friends from the Coastal Wars, and it’s one of driest and warmest buildings in Vallegat.

Aze is outside splitting wood when we approach the house. The muscles in his back bunch as he lifts the ax Papa used when he was a boy, and the force of his swing sends half the log he was splitting careening off into the snow. I look at him through Tenant Gryfalkr’s eyes and see a young man made strong by daily work, unattached and eager for adventure.

As Aze bends to replace the log on the chopping block, he turns his head toward the sound of our footsteps. “Kjerrin came by,” he says, without lifting his gaze from his work. “Were there really soldiers in town today?”

I should have guessed Aze’s loud-mouthed friend would have rushed over to spread the news. “Yes,” I say. “There were soldiers.”

“They’re here about the war, aren’t they?” Aze says, straightening with his back to me.

“Yes. They spoke to—”

“Is there going to be a battle?” Aze says, swinging at the log again.

I frown as another slice of kindling splinters into the snow. “Let me finish.”

“Kjerrin already told me,” he goes on. “He was in town when they rode in. I told you there would be a war.”

“Aze.”

“I know you didn’t want to believe it, but—”

“Aze.” My voice is hard enough that he turns at last, surprise flashing over his face as he takes in the sight of Tenant Gryfalkr beside me. The ax sags from his grasp.

“Oh—sir,” he stammers. “You’re—I mean—what can we do for you?”

“Tenant Gryfalkr will be staying with us tonight,” I say, in as emotionless a voice as I can muster. “There aren’t enough beds in town.”

“Your sister was kind enough to offer your home,” the tenant says, flashing me a half grin. I bristle at the familiarity in his look, but he’s already reaching around me to offer his hand to my brother. Aze takes it enthusiastically, and I watch the way the tenant’s forearm flexes as they shake—testing Aze’s grip, gauging the strength hidden beneath his loose jacket. He’s built like Papa, like the strength of the mountain was bred into him. The dark hair he inherited from Mama is the only hint that he’s not fully Awnian.

I crouch to load my arms full of the wood scattered at Aze’s feet. “Does Mama know about the soldiers?”

“She was outside when Kjerrin came,” he says. When I move to stack the firewood against the house, he picks up another pile and hurries after me. “How did you get the tenant to agree to come here?” he whispers, leaning close to my ear.

“I didn’t want him here,” I answer in the same low tone.

“Why not? It’s an honor for him to stay with us!”

The scowl threatening my expression is getting harder to control. “You could try to look a little less green about it.”

“No one sees the colors but you,” he says, letting the logs tumble into place in their stacks.

“You know what green means.”

His gaze wanders back to Tenant Gryfalkr, who waits patiently for us to finish our whispered conversation. “Fine,” Aze says. “I’ll admit it. I’m excited. It’s exciting to think about traveling the world like Father did. Happy?”

Father, not Papa. He stopped saying “papa” when he turned sixteen. When he tried calling Mama “mother”, she referred to him as “male offspring” until he stopped.

“Is Papa back yet?” I ask.

“No, but Ina’s inside.”

I turn back to the tenant, who smiles as though we haven’t just been talking about him in the most obvious way possible. “If you wouldn’t mind waiting here for a moment,” I say, attempting a tight smile in return. “I should explain our situation to my mother.”

Tenant Gryfalkr nods. “Of course. Aze, is it? Here, allow me.” He takes the ax from the splitting log and lifts it over his shoulder.

“Oh, you needn’t trouble yourself,” Aze sputters.

“I’m happy to help,” the tenant says. “I aught to give something in return for a place to stay, after all.”

“No—please—it’s our pleasure,” Aze says.

I leave them arguing and duck inside the house. A fire burns in the pit in the middle of the floor, enveloping the main room in smoky warmth. Mama already has a cut of venison roasting in a soapstone pot in the coals, and the smell of onions and wild garlic blends with the dusky green scent of the rosemary she used for seasoning. The room is dark, lit only by the fire and the single window in the eastern wall. We don’t have glass like the Kynstett—few of the village houses do—but Papa made a covering of thin, flattened cow horn to let in the light.

The main room, which serves as kitchen, dining area, and common room, is empty, so I assume Mama must be in the study. It’s my favorite room in the house, built by Papa as a wedding gift to hold Mama’s collection of books from Ieli. It takes up most of the western wall, along with their bedroom. The doors to both rooms are open to take in the heat from the fire. I step around it and peer into the study, a small, plain room with bookshelves built into the windowless walls. Two wooden rocking chairs take up one corner, and beside the door, the table Mama uses as a desk bears a glowing lantern.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

She’s sitting at the table, bent low over a scattering of papers, and she doesn’t look up when I come in. I stand over her shoulder and read a few lines of Ielic text, unsure of how to broach the topic of our new houseguest. “What are you working on?” I ask instead, hoping to ease into the conversation.

“Seasonal records,” she mutters. “The fryrs asked me to translate the Ielic passages. They want to know the last time winter lasted this late in the season.”

Ah, Edlan had mentioned that. Something about wanting to prove a record. Mama runs her finger across the paper, her mouth pressed into a firm line. This had been her work before meeting Papa, when she still lived in Ieli, and Edlan makes a point of recruiting her as often as possible. I think he knows she misses it.

“Ina...” I use the Ielic word for “mama”, hoping her native tongue will comfort her.

She lifts red-rimmed eyes and motions for me to sit. I drag one of the rocking chairs to her desk and look over the tiny notes she’s made in the margins of the pages. The languages mix the way they sometimes do when she speaks. “Different words for different meanings,” she’d told me once. “The translation isn’t always enough.”

“Aze says there were soldiers in town,” she says, her voice a heavy, wilting blue.

I keep my eyes on her notes. “They said Anvarr Ryvenlock is no longer king. A man called the Grand General is in command now.”

Mama shakes her head. “No king? How did this happen?”

“I don’t know. But the Grand General is the one calling for soldiers. He says there will be war with Ieli again.”

“There is always war with Ieli.”

She knows that better than anyone. Before Papa, she lived in one of the Ielic port cities near the border of Awnia, and she saw plenty of fighting. She doesn’t speak of it as often as Papa does, but her life has been lived against the backdrop of the Coastal Wars just as much as his.

“They want a man from every family,” I say, unable to avoid the topic any longer. “They’re going to take Aze.”

Mama nods and lifts her eyes to the dark ceiling. “I know, afiila.”

Even the use of her nickname for me, the Ielic word for “little bird”, does not cheer me up. “We can’t let it happen,” I say, desperation sending tremors through my words. “If we refuse, we can—”

“We cannot refuse,” Mama says. “If we did not give the men willingly, the soldiers would take them. Besides, Aze is old enough to leave home, and it will do him good to see what life is like outside the valley. Your papa went to sea when he was Aze’s age.”

I stare at her. “You want Aze to go to war?”

“Of course not. But I cannot keep him here forever, just as I cannot keep you.” She gives me a wan smile. “The Pathkeeper blesses any choice that honors Him, especially when it comes to finding a new way in the world. He will bless Aze’s as well.”

“How is that Aze can choose his life with the Pathkeeper’s blessing, but I can’t?” I ask. “Isn’t a healer’s work just as honorable as a soldier’s?”

“They are both honorable,” Mama says. “But running your own household, becoming a wife and a mother—those are the most honorable things you can do.”

“I don’t want to marry Bronhold.”

Mama shifts in her chair and takes my hands. Her skin is cold, and when she speaks a melancholic blue stains her voice. “Marriage isn’t so bad. Bronhold will be kind to you, even if he does not understand you at first. He will not deny you your studies as some men might.”

“I can study without a husband. Perhaps Edlan would let me live in the Kynstett so I wouldn’t be a burden on you.”

“You are not a burden, afiila,” Mama says. “But there is more to life than cataloging plants. A little time from Bronhold will be a good thing. You will see him with new eyes when he returns.”

If he returns. I swallow and let my eyes drift away from her face. “You speak as if I am already his.”

There’s a long pause, and my stomach sinks as I stare at her. “Bronhold is a good match for you,” she says at last, squeezing my fingers. “Strong enough to build you a house in the north pasture by that little stream you love. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“No.” I have to force the word through a throat that constricts around every breath.

“This is good timing,” she goes on. “Bronhold will serve honorably and come back a worldly man. He will be able to provide for you.”

“Ina, please—”

“This is the best path for you. When the soldiers leave, you can move into Bronhold’s house, learn his family, help his mama, and continue your studies. Nothing will change.”

Panic flutters through my chest. “Mama, you don’t mean it. You wouldn’t make me marry him, not after how many times I’ve said I dislike him.”

She cups one icy hand against my cheek. “You lack perspective, my love. Marriage seems a wild and distant thing, a terrible curse that will bind you to a life you do not want. But marriage is a security. It will give you a warm home, food on your table, children on your lap. You will see.”

“What about Wordweaving?” I ask, my hands trembling in hers. “I will never be able to tell Bronhold the truth about me.”

“Wordweaving is a thing you do,” Mama says. “It is not who you are. We all must give some things up when we marry. I was once the best translator along the border, and now I use my talent for transcribing village records. You will find a way to Wordweave around Bronhold, or you will live without it. We always have paths.”

I pull my hands free. “Then you have made up your minds?”

Mama gives me a tired look. “Your father spoke with Bronhold’s mama this afternoon. I know you think we have not considered your feelings, afiila, but we do this out of love. If you do not marry Bronhold, there will be no one to take care of you.”

She doesn’t say the rest: no one else is interested. She doesn’t have to say it. I’ve heard her and Papa talking, late at night when they think I’m asleep. Papa’s father and grandfather both died young, and I know he fears the same will happen to him—that he will leave Aze to care for Mama and me on his own, the way Grandfather left him. Somewhere beneath the anger, I know they’re only doing what they think they must. But marriage is not my only option. If no one in Vallegat wants me, why must I settle for a man who can never know all of me? Why can’t I choose a different path?

“You have more to say,” Mama says, reading my silence and guessing my mutinous thoughts.

Oh, yes, I have more to say. But not now, not to her. Instead, I offer my other piece of news and resign myself to its reality. “There’s not enough room for all the soldiers to stay in the village. Their tenant has asked to spend the night here.”

She looks at me, her dark eyes set deep in a face that is just beginning to wrinkle. Her hair, nearly as black as the shadows between the bookshelves, is pulled into a loose braid that hangs down her back. With a sigh, she sweeps her work into a pile and stacks it neatly to her left. “Ieldran desires us to open our homes to those in need. Where is this tenant?”

“Outside with Aze.”

“Very well. Then we will prepare for supper.”

Mama carries the lantern to the main room and sets it on the counter, directing me to the dairy room for cheese and butter. She slices the rest of the sour bread she baked yesterday and sets it on the table, then returns to the cupboard for a stack of bowls while I pour cups of mead. She sings while we work, slow songs unlike the lively tunes she usually prefers. The words are in Ielic, filling the room with soft gold and crimson hues that settle over me like the last light of sunset.

> Remember me when you sail away,

>

> promises made under the stars,

>

> the summer wind that turned to rain

>

> and froze on the winter sea.

>

> Remember me, remember me.

The door opens as I plate the venison, and Tenant Gryfalkr knocks his boots against the door frame before entering the room. “Your father has returned,” he tells me, his cheeks flushed with the cold and the exercise of stacking wood. “Aze is helping him see to the sheep.”

The herd will be hungry after their march to the creek, which Papa makes daily. We have several pregnant ewes, and it’s important to make sure they stay well hydrated in these last few weeks before lambing. I want to go out and check on my favorites, Mynne and Stjere, but I won’t leave Mama alone with the tenant.

“Mama,” I say, hoping I sound welcoming rather than resigned. “This is Tenant Gryfalkr. Tenant, my mother, Ferina.”

He dips his head in greeting. “I am indebted to you,” he says. “Your hospitality is a great blessing in my time of need.”

“Your presence honors us,” Mama says. If her voice is a little less iridescent than usual, at least the tenant won’t notice. To anyone who doesn’t know her, she is as dazzling and warm as ever. “Please, have a seat. Supper is nearly finished.”

To my surprise, Tenant Gryfalkr takes the chair to the right of Papa’s seat at the head of the table. In Awnia, it’s traditional for a guest to sit at the foot of the table, across from the host. I didn’t expect him to follow Saani customs by sitting at the side of the table among the family.

As Mama scoops the onions into a serving bowl, the door opens again to admit Aze and Papa. For a moment, silhouetted in the doorway, they are two identical shadows standing tall as pines in a field. Then Papa pulls off his hat, revealing the same thick white hair that covers my head, and rubs a hand over his snow-colored beard. He notes Tenant Gryfalkr’s position at the table with an approving lift of his eyebrows and steps aside to remove his jacket.

Aze kicks the snow off his boots and hangs his jacket by the door. “Smells good,” he says, eyeing Mama carefully. Judging her mood, trying to see how excited he can be about the prospect of leaving.

He catches my attention on him and wrinkles his nose, so I shove a stack of plates toward him. “Make yourself useful and set these out.”

Mama places the onions on the table and takes her seat across from Tenant Gryfalkr. I settle beside her and leave the foot of the table to Aze.

“This is a feast fit for the Grand General himself,” the tenant says, flashing a bright smile at Mama. Despite the blue mood which has clung to her all evening, she flushes with pleasure at his words.

“Pass the tenant some bread,” Mama says, gesturing to the plate at my elbow.

Papa sits and cuts a slice of venison, which he adds to the tenant’s plate. “Forgive me, but you seem very young to be in command of an entire unit. When I fought in the Coastal Wars, all the officers were much older.”

“You are not the first to ask, though you are one of the most polite,” the tenant says. “I achieved my rank the same way all young officers do.”

Aze offers the bowl of butter to the tenant, his eyes bright in the firelight. “You must be very skilled in battle.”

Papa tries to hide his smirk with a bite of bread, but the tenant smiles openly. “Skill has little to do with rank, unfortunately,” he says. His voice is gentle, self-depreciating without mocking Aze’s naivete. “Like every other officer who was too young to serve in any real conflict, I owe my rank to my father.”

“Not every tenant is given command of such a large group,” Papa says. “There must be more to you than your father’s influence, else you would be behind a desk in Bresne, not here among the new recruits.”

I try and fail to picture the tenant sitting at a desk in Awnia’s capital, bending over his papers the way Mama studies hers. Tenant Gryfalkr accepts Papa’s compliment with a nod, his smile as pleasant as ever. “You say you fought in the Coastal Wars,” he says. “Where?”

“I served the fleet in Andred,” Papa says. “Two years at the docks, then five aboard the Iceberg and three with the Queen Seryn before the battle off the coast of Arlis.”

“That was in Ielic waters,” the tenant says. “The Queen Seryn was destroyed.”

Papa nods. “Those of us who survived were held in Arlis for fourteen months before King Anvarr made a prisoner exchange and brought us home. It’s where I met Ferina.”

“You met as a prisoner of war?” the tenant says, leaning forward on his elbows. “Please, I must hear the story.”

Ivy green climbs up the trellis of his words, a testament to his interest, but I scowl and push my meat aimlessly across my plate. He’s being too nice, too charming for a man who wants nothing in return.

Oblivious, Papa reaches for Mama’s hand and pulls it to his lips. “The Ielic captain who captured us brought us to shore for questioning because he didn’t speak Awnian. They called for a translator, but I and the other men pretended to only speak Saani. We thought they would try to get us to give up information about our mission, and we hoped to hide behind the language barrier. But the Ielic captain sent out again and found someone who spoke Saani as well.”

“Ferina,” Tenant Gryfalkr guesses.

A soft, violet glow pulses through Papa’s voice. “Ferina. We were so surprised to hear an Ielic speaking Saani that we could hardly think. Before we knew what was happening, Ferina had tricked us into speaking Awnian, and the ruse was up. They would only use her as a translator after that, but we gave them no information.”

“It is what I admired about him,” Mama says, squeezing Papa’s fingers. “He tried to protect the others, but he was never bitter or hateful toward Captain Salis. The captain grew to like him as well, and after a time, their conversations turned away from war. They spoke of farming, of songs, of the sea. And when word from the king came, that Captain Salis was to sail to Andred to make the prisoner exchange, I convinced him to bring me along.”

“And then she stayed with me,” Papa says proudly. “When the war ended, we returned to Vallegat and built the house, the farm, the herd. We built a life.”

And in two days, everything they’ve worked to build is going to change. Aze will be gone, and I will be with Bronhold’s family, waiting for him to return to make me his wife. Everything I’ve learned from Edlan will be tucked away like trunks in an attic. Like Mama’s translating work, left to gather dust until the next fond story, to be held up like an old dress that doesn’t fit anymore. Remember when I used to do what I loved? How the colors have faded! I can’t remember the last time I thought about this.

I pick at my bread and wait for the meal to end.