Three days of wind and snow would have erased my trail completely. Even if they found where I entered the wilderness, how could they possibly track me through the blizzard that nearly killed me?
They can't.
The realization hits like a blade between the ribs. I'm truly alone, further from home than I've ever been, dependent on the mercy of people who apparently consider me less than human.
Barbarians with their clan law and their tusks and their talk of challenges.
What kind of challenge? Combat? Some barbaric ritual designed to test worthiness? My sword training consists of pretty flourishes designed to impress suitors at court. I couldn't fight a determined house cat, let alone whatever horrors these people might devise.
You should have married Lord Aldric.
The thought rises unbidden, carrying a bitter taste of self-recrimination. At least in his bed, I would have been warm and fed and alive. Whatever indignities he might have visited upon me couldn't be worse than dying alone in a frozen wasteland.
Could they?
Outside, the voices grow louder. More distinct. I catch individual words in that harsh northern tongue, though their meaning escapes me entirely. The cadence reminds me of stone grinding against stone, all hard consonants and rolling Rs.
They're talking about me.
The certainty settles like ice in my stomach. Whatever these elders are deciding, it concerns the noble girl who stumbled into their territory half-dead and desperate.
The noble girl who knows too much about their location, their numbers, their customs.
Strategic thinking was never my strongest suit, that honor belonged to my younger brother Cyril, who could plot three moves ahead in any game of politics. But even I can see the problem my presence creates.
If I return home, I carry information that could be valuable to House Cyrdan's enemies. Troop strengths, defensive positions, trade routes through the Northern Reach that others might want to exploit or block.
Or maybe they just hate outsiders on principle.
From what little I know of clan culture, that seems equally likely. These people have survived in one of the world's most hostile environments by trusting no one and taking no chances. An unexpected guest might be seen as a threat regardless of her intentions.
The tent flap rustles, and I tense. But instead of my silent rescuer, a different figure pushes through the entrance.
This one is smaller, older, bent with age but moving with surprising grace. White hair hangs in intricate braids decorated with bone charms that click softly as she walks. Her face bears the same snowflake tattoo pattern, though hers is done in silver rather than blue.
A woman.
"Child." She has the same accent but sounds less harsh somehow, warmed by what might be kindness. "How do you feel?"
"Confused," I admit. "Frightened."
She nods as though this is exactly what she expected to hear. "Good. Fear keeps you alive in the Reach."
Moving with practiced efficiency, she kneels beside my makeshift bed and begins unwrapping the poultices around my hands. The greasy substance smells of herbs I don't recognize, sharp and medicinal.
"Your fingers heal well." She examines each one with gentle pressure that still makes me wince. "No blackening. You keep them all."
"The man who found me said I might lose toes."
"Vorrak sees the worst possibilities. Hunters must." She begins rewrapping my hands with fresh bandages. "But flesh heals. Spirit..." She shrugs eloquently.
Vorrak.
So that's his name. It suits him somehow, all harsh consonants and suppressed violence.
"What will happen to me?"
The woman, elder, I suppose, doesn't answer immediately. She finishes with my hands and moves to examine my feet, her touch surprisingly gentle despite the calluses that speak of a lifetime's hard work.
