Shadowmere lies twenty feet away, a dark shape against the white snow. She's trying to rise, but something's wrong with her left foreleg. Broken, most likely. In this cold, in this storm, with no help for miles...
She's going to die.
I stifle a cry. Shadowmere, who carried me to freedom, who trusted me enough to follow where I led. Now she'll die because of my reckless flight into the wilderness.
I crawl to her side, my legs too shaky to support me upright. She whickers softly when she sees me, a sound full of pain and confusion. Her dark eyes, so intelligent and trusting, reflect my own fear back at me.
"I'm sorry, girl. I'm so sorry."
I know what needs to be done. The eating knife Aunt Ravelle gave me would be quick, merciful. But my hands shake too badly to draw it, and even if I could, I lack the strength to do what must be done.
Instead, I press my face to her neck, breathing in her familiar scent one last time. Then I force myself to stand, to turn away, to leave her there, frozen.
Some choices have no good outcomes.
The ravine walls rise steep and slick on all sides, offering no easy escape. But into the gorge, the land might level out, mightoffer a path back to higher ground. I have no choice but to press forward into the storm's teeth.
Each step is agony. My shoulder screams with every movement, and my wet clothes are already stiffening with ice. The brown wool dress, so practical when Aunt Ravelle selected it, proves woefully inadequate against the northern cold. Within minutes, I cannot feel my feet inside my silk slippers.
One foot in front of the other. Don't stop moving. Don't think about the cold.
But the cold is all there is. It seeps through fabric and flesh, settling into my bones with teeth and claws. My breath comes in short gasps that burn my lungs. Ice forms in my hair, my eyelashes, the folds of my cloak.
How far have I come? How far is far enough?
Time loses meaning in the white void of the storm. I might have been walking for minutes or hours. The ravine seems to stretch on forever, a frozen hell where the wind shrieks like banshees and the snow falls thick as burial shrouds.
My legs give out without warning. One moment I'm stumbling forward, the next I'm on my knees in a drift that comes up to my chest. My dislocated arm dangles useless at my side, and I can't seem to remember how to make my fingers work.
Get up. You have to get up.
But my body refuses to obey. The cold has settled deep, too deep, turning my blood to slush and my thoughts to fog. This is how it ends, then. Not in a marriage bed or a birthing chamber, but alone in the icy cold, frozen solid as winter stone.
At least it was my choice.
I try to summon defiance, anger, anything to keep me fighting. Instead, I find only a strange peace settling over me like a blanket. The pain in my shoulder fades to a distant ache. The burning cold becomes merely cold. My eyelids grow heavy.
So tired. Just rest for a moment. Just close my eyes...
A sound slices through the storm's howling, distant but unmistakable. Wolves. A pack, by the sound of it, their voices rising and falling in the ancient song of the hunt. They're far away still, but sound carries strangely in these mountains. What seems distant might be very close indeed.
Wolves.
Father used to tell stories of the great northern packs, dire wolves the size of ponies with jaws that could snap a man's spine. Legends, mostly, but based on truth. In the deep wilderness beyond the Reach, predators still roam that haven't been seen in civilized lands for generations.
Hungry predators. Following the scent of blood and fear.
I'm too cold for proper fear. Instead, I feel almost curious. Will they find me before the cold claims me? Will there be anything left for Father's men to recover, or will I simply disappear into the white void of winter?
The wolf atop the ice cliff.Our House sigil, rendered in silver thread on countless banners and garments. I always thought it represented strength, dominance, the predator ruling from its mountain throne.
Now I understand. The wolf isn't ruling anything. It's lost, isolated, cut off from the pack. Just like me.
Just like me.
The howling comes again, closer now, or perhaps my hearing is playing tricks in the wind. Either way, I need to move. Freezing to death is one thing, but being torn apart by wolves is quite another.
I force myself back to my feet, swaying like a drunk. The world tilts alarmingly, but I manage to stay upright. My legs feel like they belong to someone else, numb and clumsy, but they still function after a fashion.
