They packed a borrowed Land Cruiser for Dunte the next morning. Leo and Volos were loading the bags. Gustav had given them several weapons he needed Peter to repair at his forge. Max and Renata were having a heated discussion under the trees. Kyra was sleeping in the back seat.

The sun had warmed the leather bench of the Land Cruiser, and she’d drifted to sleep before Leo came downstairs with the first pieces of luggage. She hadn’t rested much the night before. Leo had taken her to bed, holding her silently while she lay sleepless. When emotions were high, as they had been during Renata’s singing, it was nearly impossible for her to shut out the voices around her.

It wasn’t that her defenses were thin. She had extraordinary perception, even for an Irina. It was why he’d been willing to translate for her the night before. She would have perceived the sorrow in the room. Better for her to understand what had provoked it.

Volos glanced at Kyra. “She’s delicate.”

Leo tried not to bristle. “She’s stronger than she looks.”

Volos shrugged. “I didn’t say she wasn’t strong. My Naina was delicate. A spider’s silk is delicate; that doesn’t mean it’s not strong.”

Leo carefully packed the swords behind the suitcases. “I’ve never heard you talk about your mate.”

Volos grunted. “You were a boy.”

“Not when I came back from the academy, I wasn’t.”

Volos frowned. “You didn’t understand then. You couldn’t have.”

You didn’t have a mate.

Leo couldn’t argue with the older scribe. Loving Kyra had taught him both bravery and weakness. Even the thought of losing her paralyzed him. He couldn’t even bring himself to imagine it; the places it took him in his mind were too dark.

“How did you survive?” Leo asked without thinking.

Volos’s face was hard. “You don’t have a choice.”

“Others chose—”

“I cannot face my Naina in the heavens,” Volos said, “if I haven’t fulfilled my duty on the earth.”

The rate of suicide in the weeks and months after the Rending had been high. They didn’t call it suicide, of course. But countless scribes died in reckless battles. Others performed magic that could only poison them in the end. Many who had lost their mates and children simply slept and did not wake.

For the first time, Leo realized that the cold men who’d raised him had been faced with a choice, and despite their many faults, they’d chosen to stay alive. Looking at Kyra sleeping in the back of the car, Leo finally understood how difficult that choice must have been. The scribes who raised him might not have been warm or affectionate men, but they had remained.

Leo held out his hand. “Thank you for teaching me how to ride a horse when I was ten. My father should have done it, but he never did. When you found out, you made me work with you in the stables every morning. You taught me without telling anyone because you knew I was embarrassed.”

Volos took Leo’s hand. “Your father had a duty too. That was all he had after Lauma died.”

No, he still had a son.

“He’s not patrolling anymore?” Leo asked. “Levi said Peter was only forging weapons. He takes commissions from all over the world now, huh?”

Volos shrugged. “He’s taking care of Artis, and Artis won’t leave Dunte. Taking care of Artis is his only duty now. The forge just keeps him out of trouble.”

Taking care of Artis was his father’s duty.

But Artis was dying.

So what did a scribe do without duty when duty was his only reason to live?

* * *

“It wasn’t necessary.” Max’s arms were crossed over his chest.

“I don’t agree. It was completely necessary.” Renata spoke in a measured voice. “It may have made you uncomfortable, and I’m sure it made them uncomfortable. But helping our people to grieve is why those songs exist. Singing them brings healing along with the pain.”

“Did you know Ganbaatar had three children?”

“I don’t know who Gan—”

“The Mongolian scribe. Did you know they were all slaughtered? His mate drowned herself because she failed to protect their children.” Max didn’t know why he was so angry. “You think singing about a lark in the morning is going to heal a wound like that?”

Renata’s mouth was set in a stubborn line. “Have you forgotten I am well-acquainted with grief? It’s my duty to help them, whether it pleases me or not.”

A wave of guilt shut his mouth. It was only a few months before that a small child had given Renata an outlet to vent her own grief. And that small child had suffered as a result. It had cost that child to comfort Renata. “It hurt you,” he said. “To sing that lament hurt you.”

“Of course it did.” Her expression softened. “But it’s part of the reason I exist. If Midwinter taught me anything, it’s that I’m more than a soldier. I’m still a keeper of memories, Max. It’s what I’m meant to do.”

He hooked an arm around her neck and pulled her close. “This place, Reni…”

“I know.” She slid her arms around his waist. “I know.”

They stood in the shadow of the oaks and lindens, morning dew wetting their feet from the uncut grass that grew like a wild meadow. Max wanted to take his shoes off and run under the trees like the feral child he’d once been. He wanted to run away.

“Singing a lament isn’t going to heal all their wounds. And maybe nothing will ever heal them completely. But it’s a step in the journey, Max. Just like this journey you and Leo have to take. You don’t have to know the whole path. You can’t. Right now you just have to take the next step.”

Max’s anger lifted with Renata’s gentle words, and the true reason he’d snapped at his mate became clear. “I don’t want to go to Dunte.”

“I know. But you will. And you’re going to face your uncle and your grandfather. You’re going to be with your cousin when he speaks to his father.”

“Peter is a bastard,” Max said. “He doesn’t deserve a son like Leo. At least my father had the decency to die an honorable death. Peter just lingered in the back of Leo’s life, resenting his own son for keeping him alive.”

Renata put both her hands on Max’s cheeks. “Leo is going to try to take care of everyone because that’s who he is. We have to take care of him.”

Max nodded. He could take care of Leo. He’d been doing it since they were children. Someone had to live in the dark corners so Leo could remain the lark singing in the morning. Because Renata was right—their world desperately needed that bright song, and if there was a pure Irin soul in existence, it was his cousin.

* * *

Max and Leo sat in the front as they drove the fifty-five kilometers north to the village on the edge of the Gulf of Riga. Kyra slept in the back while Renata worked on her tablet and occasionally took pictures out the window. The journey was silent as Leo watched the streets of the city give way to the patched pavement of the countryside north of the capital. The road ran in a quiet curve, north through wooded villages and farmland that edged toward the sea.

“Do you remember going on horseback?” Leo asked.

“Yes.” Max was behind the wheel. “It took longer.”

“It was a nice trip though. I think riding horses along the coast was one of the few times Artis was ever happy.”

“Music,” Max said. “He was happy when he was playing the guitar.”

“I don’t know about happy. He was content.”

“Yes.” Max eased the car into a curve in the road. “Content is a better word.”

Leo cracked open the window to smell the country air. It was night-and-day different from the dusty and spice-laden air of Istanbul. Latvia smelled of green woods and hay and the sea. “Did you call Malachi this morning?”

“I did. Nothing out of the ordinary at home. He says we can take as much time as we need.”

Leo was unsettled by the idea of an indefinite stay in Dunte. The farm they were going to had been his mother and aunt’s childhood home. There had once been a small community of Irin in the nearby village, which was known for excellent ceramics and ironwork. Their grandfather had been a respected sword maker and blacksmith.

There had been a farm with a large cowshed and many outbuildings, one of them an ancient forge. They grew vegetables. They tended apples. There was a great outdoor oven that his grandfather maintained with care, though it was barely used. Perhaps his grandmother had been a baker. Leo and Max had no idea.

They had no idea about any of their dead family. The dead were not spoken of. They didn’t know how or where their mothers had been trained. They had no idea how Lauma had met Peteris or Stasya had met Ivo. Leo knew his father was not from Latvia, but he didn’t know where he was born or who his people were. And Max’s father was a complete mystery; all they knew was his name.

Memories of the dead inhabited the farm like ghosts dancing in the corner of a vision. Leo had once found a pony carved into an old apple tree in the orchard. Max saw scribbles low on the wall of a closet. A forgotten note fell from the seam of a book.

The Irin village was long gone, but the ghosts of their mothers lingered in Dunte. Leo hoped they lingered because his mother and aunt had been happy. That was his hope. Whether he had any reason for it was debatable.

“Almost there,” Max murmured. “You might want to wake your woman.”

Leo reached back and rubbed Kyra’s knee as Max pulled off the main road and onto a track leading into a dense copse of trees. It was only wide enough for one vehicle and overgrown by weeds and spruce branches. As they bumped over the dirt road, he felt Kyra stretch and move.

“Are we there?” she asked in a sleepy voice.

“Almost.” Renata tucked her tablet in a backpack and leaned forward, placing her hand on Max’s shoulder. “So, is there plumbing in this place?”

“There’s a well on the property,” Max said. “Gustav said Peter has modernized it over the years. He did most of the work himself, but he’s very good with most machines, so there will likely be plumbing of some kind.”

“As long as there’s water, I can manage,” Renata said. All of them had been born before plumbing was common. She took a deep breath and smiled. “I smell the sea! And cows.”

“We’re close to both,” Leo said. “The Gulf of Riga is just past those trees. You can walk to the shore from the farm.”

“That’s so nice,” Kyra murmured. “I love the sea. I miss the beaches in Bulgaria.”

“It’s not warm,” Max said. “Not even in the summer. You’ve been warned.”

“That’s okay.” Kyra reached for Leo’s hand. “I can still walk on the shore.”

“And ride,” Leo said. “If Peter still has horses.”

They rounded a curve of the dirt track, and the farm came into view. Leo had thought he was prepared to see it again.

He wasn’t.

A large farmhouse with a straw-thatched roof dominated the yard. Across the mud-and-grass yard was a tall barn with a pen on one side. A horse was hobbled in the pasture, grazing on green grass while three cows meandered through an orchard in the distance, their bells tolling through the midmorning air.

Leo rolled down his window and was greeted with the familiar smell that took him directly back to his childhood. Sea air. Straw. A hint of manure.

“What a beautiful barn,” Renata said. “It must have been a sizable dairy at one point.”

“I think it was,” Max said. “But not when we were children. We only kept a few cows for milk and cheese. We didn’t sell anything.”

“Did you live here or in Riga?” Kyra asked.

“Both places,” Leo said. “Artis was always here. We spent the week in Riga with Peter, training at the scribe house. Then weekends and most of the summer here with Peter and Artis, learning how to forge.”

“And milk cows,” Max muttered. “And plant cabbage. And dig weeds.”

“You know how to forge?” Renata squeezed Max’s shoulder. “I didn’t know that.”

“I haven’t done it in over a hundred years,” he said. “Leo kept it up longer than I did.”

Because Max couldn’t wait to escape anything having to do with Peter. Leo glanced at Max and saw his stony face. “It’s a useful skill, even if you’re assigned to a house with a good smith.”

Leo saw someone walk out of the farmhouse door and stand on the wooden steps. The giant man had dark hair and light skin. Leo thought he could see Peter’s unusual green eyes from this distance, but it was probably only a memory. His father’s eyes weren’t blue like Leo and Max’s. They were green like seaweed bleached in the sand. He and Max had both gotten their coloring from their mothers, but they came from tall people on both sides. Peter was well over six feet tall and broad as the side of their barn, his chest and arms bulky from smithing. Artis was just as tall, slightly thinner, with a body similarly hardened by the forge.

Max parked the car, but none of them opened the doors.

Leo glanced at his cousin, who was staring at Peter with narrowed eyes. Leo reached for Max’s hand on the gearshift, squeezed it, and said, “It’s fine. Come. It will be fine.”

Max turned to Leo. “I won’t hold my tongue. I’m not a boy anymore.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to.”

Max gave Leo a slight nod; then he released his grip on the shift and opened the door. He got out and opened Renata’s door for her, grabbing her hand before he walked to meet Peter.

Leo opened his door and got out. Kyra’s door was already open, but he held it for her as she climbed out and stretched, avoiding the mud in the farmyard. He put a hand on her cheek and bent down to take her lips.

That simple touch gave him life. Kyra slid her hand along the back of Leo’s neck and pressed herself closer. Her touch told him without words: I adore you. You are mine. Leo released her lips and rested his forehead against hers.

“Thank you for loving me,” he whispered.

She kissed the corner of his mouth. “Introduce me to your father, Leo. Remember, he cannot be worse than mine.”

Leo’s smile was immediate and bright. “I suppose you’re right.”

“That’s the one benefit of mating with a kareshta.” She slid her hand in his and pushed his shoulder to turn him around. “You’ll win the less-evil-family contest every single time.”

* * *

Hand in Renata’s, Max approached his uncle. The man looked exactly as he had the last time Max had seen him. He hadn’t aged at all—he was keeping up his longevity spells—though grey touched the wild hair he tied back with a leather strap.

They did not embrace. That wasn’t something they did in their family. But Peter stared at Renata with a look Max couldn’t decipher, and it wasn’t unwelcoming.

“Does the fire still burn in this house?” Max asked, the formal greeting of the Irin giving him the script he needed in the moment.

“It does,” Peter answered. “And you are welcome to its light.” He glanced at Renata, then past them to Leo and Kyra. “You and your own.”

Max inclined his head but didn’t release Renata. “Uncle, this is my mate, Renata von Meren, a singer of the Istanbul house.”

“Well met in this place, Renata.” Peter inclined his head. “You honor us with your voice.”

“Welcomed with grace,” Renata said. “I’m happy to be here.”

“I am Peteris of Dunte, son of Artis.” He paused, his eyes drawn to Leo even as he tried to address Renata. “I am Maxim’s uncle.”

“I know,” Renata said. “And Leo’s father.”

Leo and Kyra stopped in the middle of the yard. “Peter,” Leo said, gripping Kyra’s hand. “This is my mate, Kyra.”

That indefinable look flickered in Peter’s eyes again.

“Well met, Leontios.” Peter’s voice cracked. “And Kyra.” He tore his eyes from them and looked at the barn. “I need… the cows. The cows need to be milked.” He motioned toward the house. “You know your home. Artis is in the library.”

Max heard the bells coming closer as the cows heard their master’s voice and walked back from the orchard with full udders. It was midmorning, and the fact that they hadn’t already been milked surprised Max. It also told him that Peter was distracted.

Renata stepped forward to greet the cows. “I’ll help you. I like cows.”

Peter nodded. “Very well.”

Kyra released Leo’s hand and walked through the kitchen garden, past the porch to the massive outdoor oven between the farmhouse and the orchard. She walked around it, her hand running over the whitewashed walls. Peter paused and watched her.

“This is beautiful,” she said, her entrancing voice capturing everyone’s attention. “Does it still work?”

Kyra didn’t speak much, but when she did, it was impossible to ignore her. Max couldn’t explain it other than to say his sister’s voice was magnetic. She was a first-generation daughter of an archangel; everything about her was magnetic. But there was something special about her voice. No one was immune. Not even Peter, who walked toward her.

“It was Evelina’s,” Peter said. “Artis’s mate. It still works, but we do not bake. We buy our bread from a woman in the village.”

Kyra’s smile was open and bright. “If I could get some wood for it, I can bake. I had an oven similar to this in Bulgaria. It was very relaxing, and Artis might enjoy fresh bread.”

All Peter could do was nod. He looked as if he wanted to say more, but he stopped, turned, and walked to the barn with Renata behind him.

Leo came to Max’s side. “We should have brought women home years ago.”

“It wouldn’t have worked,” Max said.

“Don’t you think so?” He nodded at Peter. “Look at him. He’s actually speaking.”

“It wouldn’t have worked because we needed to bring these women.” He watched his warrior mate guide the milk cows into the barn, patting them on their backs and trying to engage Peter in conversation. “Only them.”