“What happened?” Isana asked.
“We don’t know,” Bitte said, sitting back. “He has a terrible wound on his thigh. Perhaps a beast, though it could be a wound from an axe or a blade. It looks like he managed to put a tourniquet on it and to let it out once or twice. We may be able to save the leg—but he lost so much blood. He’s unconscious, and I don’t know if he’ll wake up again.”
“A bath,” Isana said. “We need to draw him a bath.”
Bitte nodded. “I’ve sent for one, and it should be here in a few moments.”
Isana nodded, once. “And get Tavi over here. I want to hear what happened to my brother.”
Bitte looked up at Isana, dark and keen eyes sad. “Tavi didn’t come home with him, child.”
“What?” Fear flooded her, swift and chill and horrible. She had to fight to push it aside, covering the effort by pulling tendrils that had escaped her braid back from her face. Calm. She was a leader in this steadholt. She had to appear calm, controlled. “Didn’t come home with him?”
“No. He’s not here.”
“We’ve got to find him,” Isana said. “This is a furystorm. He’ll be defenseless.”
“Only that poor idiot Fade would go out into the storm at all, child,” Bitte said in an even tone. “He went out to make sure the barn doors were sealed and was the one who found Bernard. The furies watch over fools and children, they say. Perhaps they will help Tavi as well.” She leaned forward and said, lower, “Because no one here can do anything about it.”
“No,” Isana insisted. “We have to find him.”
Several of the men of the steadholt struggled down the stairs, carrying the big copper bathtub. They set it down on the floor nearby and then began, with the help of some of the children, to relay buckets of water to the tub from the spigot on the wall.
“Isana,” Bitte said, her voice frank, almost cold, “you’re exhausted. You’re the only one I know who has a chance of bringing Bernard back, but I doubt you’ll be able to do even that, much less find Tavi in this weather.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Isana said. “The boy is my responsibility.”
Old Bitte’s hand, warm and surprisingly strong, gripped her wrist. “The boy is out there in that storm. He’s found shelter by now, Isana. Or he’s dead. You must focus on what you do now — or Bernard will be dead as well.”
The fear, the anxiety pressed closer, in tune with the terror rising inside of her. Tavi. She shouldn’t have let herself become so distracted with the preparations, shouldn’t have let Tavi deceive her. He was her responsibility. The image of Tavi, caught in the storm, torn to shreds by the windmanes, flashed to the front of her thoughts, and she let out a quiet sound of frustration, helplessness.
She opened her eyes to find her hands shaking. Isana looked at Bitte and said, “I’ll need help.”
Old Bitte nodded, but her expression was nervous. “I’ve spoken to the hold women and they’ll give you what they can. But it may not be enough. Without skilled watercrafting, there would be no chance at all of saving him, and even with it—”
“The hold women?” Isana snapped. “Why not Otto and Roth? They’re Steadholders. They owe it to Bernard. For that matter, why aren’t they caring for him already?”
Old Bitte grimaced. “They won’t, Isana. I already asked.”
Isana stared at the old matron, startled. After a moment, she asked, “They what?”
Bitte looked down. “They won’t help. None of them.”
“In the name of all the furies, why not?”
The matron shook her head. “I’m not sure. The storm has everyone nervous—especially the Steadholders, worrying about their folk at home. And Kord has been working that for everything he can. I think he’s hoping to stop the Meet.”
“Kord? He’s in from the barn?”
“Aye, child.”
“Where’s Warner?”
Bitte grimaced. “The old fool. Warner nearly flew at Kord. Warner’s boys took him upstairs. That girl of his talked him into a hot bath, since they’ve not had a chance to bathe since arriving. Otherwise, they’d have been at one another’s throats an hour ago.”
“Bloody crows,” Isana snarled, and rose to her feet. The men and children filling the tub blinked and took a cautious step back from her. She flicked a glance around the hall and then said, to Old Bitte, “Get him in the tub. They’ll help my brother, or I’ll shove those Steadholder chains down their cowardly throats.” She turned on one heel and stalked across the hall toward the trestle table at the head of it, where several men had gathered — the other Steadholders.
Behind them at the fire were Kord’s sons, the mostly silent Aric and his younger brother, the handsome—and accused—Bittan. Even as Isana crossed the hall, she saw Fade, his hair and tunic soaked with cold rain, his head ducked down, try to slip close to the far fire. He reached for the ladle standing in a pot of stew hung by the fire to stay warm.
Bittan scowled up at the slave from his seat immediately beside the fire. Fade moved a bit closer, his branded face twisted into a grotesque parody of a smile. He bobbed his head at Bittan nervously, picked up a bowl, and then reached for the ladle.
Bittan spat something to Aric and then said something harsh and sibilant to Fade. The slave’s eyes widened, and he mumbled something in reply.
“Cowardly dog,” Bittan spat, letting his voice rise. “Obey your betters. You stink, and I’m sitting here. Now get away from me.”
Fade nodded and picked up the ladle, his motions hurried.
Aric spun the slave around by his shoulder and threw a short, sharp blow at his mouth. Fade let out a yelp and stumbled back from the fire, ducking his head repeatedly and shuffling off away from the young men.
Aric rolled his eyes and looked at Bittan, scowling. Then he folded his arms and leaned against the wall on the other side of the stone fireplace.
Bittan smirked and called after Fade, “Idiot coward. Don’t come back.” He bowed his head again, mouth tilted up at the corners in a cruel smile, contemplating his folded hands.
Thunder shook the air outside, and Isana braced herself against the accompanying flood of startled fear that flowed through the room. It washed over her a second later than she would have expected it, and she remained standing still, her eyes closed, until it had passed.
“That’s crow fodder,” snarled one of the men in the group around the table, the curse ringing out into the silence after the thunder had passed. Isana drew herself up short, assessing the Steadholders before she confronted them.
The speaker, Steadholder Aldo, continued, his hazel eyes fastened on Kord, his shaven jaw thrust out pugnaciously. “The holders of this valley have never stood idly by while one of the others needed help, and we’re not going to do it now.”
Kord tilted his grizzled head to one side, chewing on a bite of meat he had spit on his knife. “Aldo,” he rumbled. “You’re new to your chain, aren’t you?”