A finger of disquiet trails down my spine, and instead of continuing on to the next row house, I stuff the remaining goat’s meat into my pocket and limp down the riverbank toward the grazing lands. As I draw closer to the fields, the usually hard-packed streets become muddy and wheel-riddled, peppered with mounds of animal dung. Shanties made of driftwood and sheepskin are stretched beneath every tree.
The king would never have held his lavish Qusbegi Festival if people were without food and shelter.But then I think of the mounted warriors blockading the entrance to the square. The beggars in rough homespun. The overturned food cart and the wild-eyed boy who barreled into me. I quicken my pace, my fists tightening into rocks.
When I reach the fields that are usually verdant despite the season, I find brown grass crusted with old, filthy snow. Instead of fragrant globeflowers, there are boulders of ice. Sheep and horses bray and whinny, bemoaning the unbearable cold. Even the wisps of night are at the mercy of the frigid temperature, gliding slowly through the sky as if swimming through sap.
The shepherds bustle around their tents, lashing blankets and furs over the felt walls for extra insulation. Their dwellings are made for easy transport, composed of lightweight poles and cloth that provide adequate shelter for the majority of the year, but they will never protect the nomads through the great freeze. Many of them will be lucky to survive the night, let alone the entire winter. And their animals have no prayer at all.
A sick feeling climbs up my throat as I turn a slow circle. Families huddle around pathetic dung fires, blue-faced and shivering. Some men go from camp to camp, begging for extra blankets, extra food, anything that can be spared. Others are not so meek. Two women tumble through a clearing, brawling over a dried flank of lamb. While I look on, horrified, an old man hobbles up beside me on a crutch made of rotting river wood. He points into the crowd, and when I look, he kicks my ankles and nabs my staff, laughing as he scuttles away.
I land in a freezing puddle of mud and curse as it soaks my tunic. Before I can peel myself from the dreck, the clouds open up and release a torrent of stinging sleet.
Cold takes on a whole new meaning.
I blink through the icy rivulets and hunker deeper into my cloak. The stench of wet fur and bodies is so foul, I nearly gag.
Orbai abandons me for the shelter of the old Gesper Temple—a black marble sanctuary that was once the center of Miigrath’s court. Back then, it was a wonder of construction, with its vaulted prayer hall and fine black columns, marbled with golden veins. But it fell to ruin long ago, when the Sky Palace was constructed. Now the pillars are cracked and entire walls have collapsed. Yet trembling refugees still occupy every inch of it. There isn’t room for even one more, and I would never be able to climb to the bell tower where Orbai rests, warm and dry. I finger Ghoa’s carved bracelet, cursing each feather. Worthless stone wings. “And worthless friend who abandons me!” I shout at my bird.
After throwing myself at the mercy of a dozen different tents and being shooed away from each, I stumble upon a few warped boards leaning against a tree, far upstream, where the river twists into the forest. Most people have given the woods a large berth—they are known hunting grounds for snow bears and wolves—but I’m out of options. And perhaps it’s safer if I’m apart from the others.
The ground is too wet to start a fire, but I duck beneath the boards and make a nest of leaves to cover my legs and feet. “This isn’t so bad,” I say as the glacial wind skims across the river and wisps of night buzz around my face like gnats.
I want to cry. Iwouldcry if my eyes weren’t too frozen to form tears.
Why couldn’t I have been a Sun Stoker? Their gift is so much more practical than night spinning. A sweep of my arm, and I could warm the shivering masses. Or, if not a Sun Stoker, I would even prefer to be an Ice Herald, like Ghoa. The subzero temperature would give her no trouble. She could stretch out on the frozen ground and use the snow as a blanket.
Ghoa.
The thought of her makes my stomach flip. She commands the Kalima, which means she and the king must have sanctioned withholding the Sun Stokers. They had to know this would happen as a result. But perhaps they don’t know the extent of the shepherds’ suffering? Or maybe the situation isn’t as dire as it appears? I am undoubtedly in shock—unused to life beyond the monastery walls. And the dark and cold could make conditions appear worse than they truly are. Or the refugees could have grown in number since last Ghoa checked?
Or you could be making excuses for her,says a voice in my head that sounds eerily similar to Serik’s.
I swat it away like a fly.
There’s a logical explanation. I must have a little faith. Give Ghoa the benefit of the doubt, as she’s always done for me.
I watch the chunks of ice floating down the iron river until my eyes burn. Then I squeeze them shut and conjure images of a bonfire. Of drilling in full armor in the dead of summer. Of the sun-scorched sand in Verdenet burning through the soles of my sandals. And of Serik’s arms around me. How warm and solid he felt when he picked me up and spun me around at Qusbegi.
My cheeks flare with heat, and I shake my head. The cold is clearly warping my brain.Butsince he isn’t here to mock me, I indulge a little longer. I imagine twining my fingers through his cloak and trailing my palm across his stubbled head.
A twig snaps outside my lean-to, jolting me back to reality. I clamber to my knees, listening for the crunch of footsteps.
Most likely it was river rats, scuttling through the bramble, or another refugee seeking shelter, but something inside me—perhaps my rekindling warrior instinct—compels me to check. Carefully, I collect the largest branch I can find, which is no wider than my finger but better than nothing, and I hold it like a saber as I inch out into the open.
I’m so busy scanning the trees, I trip over a small gray parcel sitting directly outside my shelter. My arm thumps to my side. I edge closer to the lump and poke it with my stick. To my relief, it doesn’t move. It appears to be a blanket—a neatly folded square of gray wool with a finely embroidered ram in the corner, head lowered as if to charge.
Who would leave this out in the snow?
They wouldn’t. It’s a trap.
I stare at the blanket for five full minutes. When no one materializes, I cautiously pick it up, waiting for someone to leap from the trees and ambush me. When they don’t, I wrap the wool around my shoulders and trip back inside my lean-to, choking on tears of gratitude. Maybe the Lady of the Sky heard my prayer at the shrine and sent this token. Or, more likely, one of the shepherds took pity on me. These forsaken refugees, who are freezing themselves, are still willing to help a stranger in need.
Their generosity feels like a boot crushing my windpipe.
I need to do something. Need to help. And I’m supposed to send Ghoa a missive anyway.
I rifle through my satchel until I find a quill and parchment, then I compose a letter: short, succinct, and, most important, holding Ghoa and the king blameless.
Dearest Sister,
