I flick a hand at him. “Then go on. We will move again soon.”
He snorts and mutters something under his breath, storming forward.
I toss my light shoulder-wrap onto the snow and set my son down on it. He makes a burbling sound and raises his hands into the air, reaching for me. His tail flicks wildly back and forth, and there’s a bright, gummy smile on his face that makes me laugh with sheer joy. When he makes that face, he looks like Farli did when she was young. Does he look like me? I touch his small features. I have never seen my own face, but I must look somewhat like my sister.
His legs wiggle in the air and I peel one corner of his leather breeches off. It is hot and wet, and a horrible stench rises in the air. “Faugh!” I bury my nose in the crook of my elbow, trying to protect it from the smell. “Is he sick?”
Stay-see gives a small laugh—still fragile, but sounding more like herself. “No, he’s just a baby.”
“Does his dung always smell so foul?” I return the scrap of leather to its place at his belly in an attempt to cut the stench.
“Not always.” After a moment, she adds, “But a lot of the time, yes.”
I glance over at her. She’s lying down on the sled, and the hood is pulled over her face. Maybe she feels better now that she cannot see the cliffs. Good. I will fix the problem of my son’s leathers, and I will carry him so she can relax for a time. “What do I do with the dirty one? I have never changed a kit’s leathers…or if I have, I do not remember.”
“You have,” she says, and her voice is so soft. “But I can walk you through it.”
For some reason, I feel sad. It is just leathers…I look down into my son’s happy face as he waves his arms and legs. And I wonder what else it is I have missed.
4
STACY
Today makes my heart hurt so much. For a little while, it was almost like having my Pashov back. Not the Pashov with the single horn and the confused smile on his face when he changes diapers. For a brief, shining moment, we felt like husband and wife. Or mate and mate, I suppose. Like nothing had ever come between us.
But something always comes along to burst that bubble.
I hear a happy giggle and peer out from under the hood of my fur wraps. I’ve been keeping my head down and my eyes closed ever since we started traveling along the cliffs. I’d forgotten—safe and cozy in the tribal cave—that this land is nothing but peaks and valleys and snow as far as the eye can see. There’s not a lot of flat surface, and I’ve got a killer fear of heights, which means that when it gets rockier, I get freaked out. I want to go down low, where it feels safer to me, but Pashov says it’s not as safe or fast to travel there, and I trust him.
I don’t like the answer, but I trust him.
I glance out and see Pacy wiggling in his papoose, strapped on Pashov’s big, broad shoulders. Pacy’s small hands are waving in the air, and he’s laughing that happy, careless baby giggle that just makes you feel good all over to hear it. I don’t see what he’s laughing at, though. Then, a moment later, a long strand of leather with one of Pashov’s decorative feathers comes flying over his shoulder. Pacy gives another shrill giggle of delight and tries to grab it as Pashov pulls it slowly back. He’s rigged his sled to where both handles are strapped across a chest harness and it leaves him one hand free. I guess he’s using it to tease Pacy with a feather toy. It reminds me of someone playing with a cat, and I smile. I’ve never thought to entertain my baby while he’s on my back. He’s going to be spoiled, but I can’t find it in my heart to chide Pashov.
For a man that doesn’t have any memories of his son, he’s really, really good with him.
I look out at the sky, but the snow’s still coming down in thick, heavy flakes. They’re so big they’re practically Cornflake-sized…and now I’m hungry for a bowl of Cornflakes and some warm milk. Sigh. I know that’s a pipe dream, but right now I’d settle for it to stop snowing. The world looks like one big gray and white blur, and the wind is picking up. My face feels hot and wind-burned under the cloak, and I’m sure it’s just going to get worse as we continue on. Nothing to do about it but suck it up, I suppose. “Is it almost time to stop?” I call out. I’m exhausted, and all I’ve done is ride all day.
“Not quite yet,” Pashov calls over his shoulder. “If you are yet tired, sleep longer. We have another valley to cross soon.”
Which means more walking along the ridge instead of in the valley itself. Eek. The thought makes me anxious as hell, butthere’s nothing I can do. The sa-khui know the safest route of travel and are familiar with these lands. If it’s safer walking along a cliff instead of in a valley, I’ll take their word for it. And it’s not like I plan on ever making this journey again.
I just have to stick it out. I bury my head back under the blankets and hope I can fall asleep.
Seems like I must be pretty tired, because I do fall asleep. Right away.
When I wake up later,it’s bitterly cold and dark. Pacy isn’t crying, and I’m still exhausted despite riding around all day like a queen on her chariot. I sit up on the sled, peering around in the darkness. “Pashov?”
“I am here,” he says, and footsteps crunch in the snow before a warm hand touches mine. “Your tent is ready.”
“Where is the bonfire? Where is Pacy?” My breasts feel heavy with milk, and I resist the urge to put a hand on them as I yawn. “God, why am I so tired?”
“It is a taxing journey,” he says, and his hand goes under my thighs, his arm around my back, and then I’m being lifted into the air as if I weigh nothing. “Pacy is asleep. My mother fed him a mash while you slept, though he will probably be hungry in a short time. And there is no bonfire tonight. The weather is too bad.”
“Oh.” I huddle closer to his chest, because it’s petrifyingly freezing out here in the wind. “That sucks. I’m freezing.”
“I will stay with you tonight,” Pashov says in a low voice, and I feel his body bob and move as we duck into the tent.
“You don’t have to,” I begin to protest, but it’s not much warmer in here. The furs are spread on the snow, and as he sets me down, I begin shivering all over again.
