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I met his gaze and held it for many beats.

“I know,” I finally said.

He nodded. He took one glance around the hall, straightened, and left the way he’d come.

And I knew—as unlikely as it had seemed—that I’d seen grief in his eyes as well.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Fenli

Ipulled myself together. It wasn’t like I could sit around crying all the time (though part of the time seemed to work out just fine). I needed to get busy. For starters, I needed food. I’d stolen a bag full of grains from the kitchens that would last me until I joined the Godless, but there was no point in eating only that when there was a river full of fish not far from me. I set out my clay pitcher to catch rain along with a wooden bowl Rahv had carved me as a wedding present and struck out. I’d helped build the fish traps as a child, and I picked the skill up again easily, finding the saplings I needed and weaving them together just so. Satisfied, I set my first trap and got started on the next.

Soon, I decided I needed a door. I had no boards or nails but gathered heaps of saplings and grasses. It took me the better part of a day, but I figured out how to weave them into a tight and thick manner, reminiscent of the way my mother had taught me to weave a mat when I was little. I didn’t like thinking of her. My loneliness would rise like a wave out of nowhere at the thought, hitting me and dragging me under. I sat in myshelter, working and sipping a pine needle tea I’d made in my solitary pot, and I tried to think of anything else.

When I had a strong, square door, I stretched it across the opening on the inside, overlapping with the stone walls on all three sides. After that it was time for the easy part—chopping down a tree to use as a bar, dropping it into the two metal cradles that had been built into the walls for the very purpose.

Thank you, ancestors.

A draft could slip in between the saplings and grasses, no matter how tightly I’d woven them, but I had an extra wool blanket, and I hung it over the door. It would fail me in winter, but I would have moved on by then. For the time being, it was good.

My first night there was cold and rainy. The next day, I turned my sights to the large fireplace against the back wall of the shelter. It took me the first half of the day to clean it out and make sure it would vent well. When I was satisfied, I moved on to chopping wood for fires.

The axe I’d swiped from the storehouse was my constant companion. I felled trees and split logs with it; stripped kindling and took the branches off trunks. Strapped across my back, it brought me comfort.

Then there was the battle sword on my hip. Once on the island, I’d pulled it from its sheath and looked at it carefully for the first time. And I almost wished I hadn’t. It was beautiful, with clouds and sheets of rain carved into the hilt and swirls of wind blowing down the fuller, between the two edges of the blade. I’d strapped it to my waist, and once I’d reached for it, my hand kept going back, resting there on the pommel.

It made me think of Roan. Every time I felt it bump my thigh, every time I wrapped my fingers around the smooth grip, every time I drew it out from its sheath just to slide it back in.

But not for long. There was always more to do, and I threw myself into the work.

I found small trees that had been blown over, and this was where I started chopping and splitting. It seemed there had been a big storm in recent years, and I found more than enough to keep my fires burning for the time I’d planned on spending with the wolves. In a few days, I was well-stocked and sore as hell.

I was a part of the forest now. It was like slipping off one self and stepping into another—a part of me that had always been there, tucked away and waiting.

I didn’t know how to feel about it, so I tried not to feel. I didn’t think about it either. I just let myself be, out there in the woods with the wolves, and things were simple for a little while. I carved a poem, short and eerie, on a tree near my hut, hardly thinking. When I wondered how far it was from one end of the island to the other, I set off hiking it, never questioning my choice. I just did the things that came to me. I saw myself through my own eyes, for once, and I didn’t stop to question how others viewed me. I felt the wildness under my skin, and it felt good. I was glad to have it, and, for a handful of days, I was just that wild bit inside of me. I held onto it and blocked out the rest.

When I started coming back to my full self, it was in dreams. I’d wake to sobs, and I wouldn’t realize they’d been mine until I felt the tears on my cheeks. I missed my people so much it nearly broke me, always in the dark of night, when my hands weren’t being kept busy and my guard was down. Eventually, I started thinking through my pain during the days as well.

Then I began to grow scared.

It was unreasonable. It was paranoia. I tried to tell myself again and again, but I found I couldn’t reason with my own mind. From the moment I first had the idea that I’d removed myself from Toke’s protection—maybe even made an enemy of him—I couldn’t shake it. Were two gods angry with me now? I’d been taken from Runehall and had now run from Toke. Would he abandon me as I had him?

It was stupid. The gods cared nothing for me and wouldn’t notice if I were here or there.

But the thoughts remained, nagging. Persisting. Growing louder.

When I wasn’t at my hut or watching the wolves, I liked to explore the island. It helped to keep my mind off too many questions I had no answers for, but it ended up getting me into trouble. I was crossing a river, hoping to climb an embankment and map what I saw below, when I slipped off the rock I’d been standing on and fell into the frigid waters below.

The current was undeniable. I fought to stay above the surface, my gear weighing me down, and I scraped against several rocks, scrambling to grab hold and failing, before my fingers finally held. I hauled myself onto the bank—coughing and sputtering and shaking with cold—and pulled myself up to my feet.

It didn’t matter that it was the warm season; it was never warm enough when the sun was setting and you’d been submerged in the icy waters of a river. By the time I made it back to my hut and my fireplace, my fingers felt brittle. Teeth chattering, I fumbled with the morning’s coals, trying to feed them and fan them with shaking hands. I was not as effective as I normally was, my own fear creeping in and threatening to make me unsuccessful. In a move that was equal parts desperation and rage, I abandoned the coals long enough to rip off my dripping clothes andthrow them at the far wall. Naked as a babe, I turned back to the work, shouting encouragements until I’d managed a small fire.

I squeezed out my hair again, grabbed my wool blanket, and wrapped myself in it, shuddering into its warmth.

It wasn’t until my hair was mostly dry and I was sure I would survive the fiasco that I realized what I’d lost to the river. My axe, which I’d taken to carrying on my back, was missing. I feared it’d been dislodged from its sheath on my shoulder strap when I’d been dragged along the rocks in the water. I prayed I was wrong.

The next morning, I was up early, scouring the path I’d taken the day before, hoping it was on dry land somewhere.