by Graceling
“I don’t understand much of what either of you do,” the girl said.
Katsa stood and pulled experimentally at the string. She reached for one of the arrows she’d whittled. She notched the arrow and fired a test shot through the falling snow into a tree outside their cave. The arrow hit the tree with a thud and embedded itself deeply. “Not bad,” Katsa said. “It will serve.” She marched out into the snow and yanked the arrow from the tree. She came back, sat down, and set herself to whittling more arrows. “I must say I’d trade a cat steak for a single carrot. Or a potato. Can you imagine what a luxury it’s going to be to eat a meal in an inn, once we’re in Sunder, Princess?”
Bitterblue only watched her, and chewed on the cat meat. She didn’t respond. The wind moaned, and the carpet of snow that formed outside their cave grew thicker. Katsa fired another test arrow into the tree and tramped out into the storm to retrieve it. When she stamped back again and knocked her boots against the walls to shake off the snow, she noticed that Bitterblue’s eyes still watched her.
“What is it, child?”
Bitterblue shook her head. She chewed a piece of meat and swallowed. She pulled a steak out of the fire and passed it to Katsa. “You’re not acting particularly injured.”
Katsa shrugged. She bit into the cat meat and wrinkled her nose.
“I’ve been fantasizing about bread, myself,” Bitterblue said.
Katsa laughed. They sat together companionably, the child and the lion killer, listening to the wind that drove the snow outside their mountain cave.
Chapter Thirty
THE GIRL was exhausted. Warmer now in the hide of the cat, but exhausted. It was the never-ending upward trudge, and the stones that slid under her feet, pulling her back when she tried to go forward. It was the steep slope of rock that she couldn’t climb unless Katsa pushed her from behind; and it was the hopeless knowledge that at the top of this slope was another just as steep, or another river of stones that would slide down while she tried to climb up. It was the snow that soaked her boots and the wind that worked its way under the edges of her clothing. And it was the wolves and cats that always appeared so suddenly, spitting and roaring, tearing toward them across rock. Katsa was quick with her bow. The creatures were always dead before they were within range, sometimes before Bitterblue was even aware of their presence. But Katsa saw how long it took Bitterblue’s breath to calm and grow even again after each yowling attack, and she knew that the girl’s tiredness stemmed not only from physical exertion, but from fear.
Katsa almost couldn’t bear to slow their pace even more. But she did it, because she had to. “It’s no use if our rescue kills him,” Oll had said the night they’d rescued Grandfather Tealiff. If Bitterblue collapsed in these mountains, the responsibility would be Katsa’s.
It snowed hard now, almost constantly, and so now when it snowed, they kept moving. Katsa wrapped Bitterblue’s hands in furs, and her face, so that only her eyes were exposed. She knew from the map that there were no trees in Grella’s Pass. Before they reached that high, windy pathway between the peaks, the trees would end. And so she began to construct snowshoes, so that she wouldn’t find herself needing them in a place with no wood to make them. She planned to make only one pair. She didn’t know what terrain they would find in the pass. But she had an idea of the wind and the cold. It wouldn’t be the place to move slowly, unless they wanted to freeze to death. She guessed she would be carrying the child.
At night Bitterblue sank immediately into an exhausted sleep, whimpering sometimes, as if she were having bad dreams. Katsa watched over her, and kept the fire alive. She pieced together slats of wood, and tried not to think of Po. Tried and usually failed.
Her wounds were healing well. The smallest ones barely showed anymore, and even the largest had stopped losing blood after a few hours. They were no more than an irritation, though the bags she carried pulled on the cuts and the half-constructed snowshoes banged against them. Her shoulder and her breast protested a bit every time her hand flew to the quiver on her back, the quiver she’d fashioned with a bit of saddle leather. She would have scars on her shoulder and her breast, possibly on her thighs. But they would be the only marks the cat left on her body.
She would make some sort of halter next, when she was done with the snowshoes. In anticipation of carrying the child. Some arrangement of straps and ties, made from the horse’s gear, so that if she must carry Bitterblue, her arms would be free to use the bow. And perhaps a coat for herself, now that Bitterblue was warmer. A coat, from the next wolf or mountain lion they encountered.
And every night, with the fire stoked and her work done, and thoughts of Po so close she couldn’t escape them, she curled up against Bitterblue and gave herself a few hours’ sleep.
WHEN KATSA FOUND that she was shivering herself to sleep at night, wrapping her own head and neck with furs, and stamping the numbness out of her feet, she thought they must be nearing Grella’s Pass. It couldn’t be much farther. Because Grella’s Pass would be even colder than this; and Katsa didn’t believe the world could get much colder.
She became frightened for the child’s fingers and toes, and the skin of her face. She stopped often to massage Bitterblue’s fingers and her feet. The child wasn’t talking, and climbed numbly, wearily; but her mind was present. She nodded and shook her head in response to Katsa’s questions. She wrapped her arms around Katsa whenever Katsa lifted her or carried her. She cried, with relief, when their nightly fire warmed her. She cried from pain when Katsa woke her to the cold mornings.
They had to be close to Grella’s Pass. They had to, because Katsa wasn’t sure how much more of this the child could endure.
An ice storm erupted one morning as they trudged upward through trees and scrub. For the better part of the morning they were blind, heads bent into the wind, bodies battered by snow and ice. Katsa kept her arm around the child, as she always did during the storms, and followed her strong sense of direction upward and westward. And noticed, after some time, that the path grew less steep, and that she was no longer tripping over tree roots or mountain scrub. Her feet felt heavy, as if the snow had deepened and she must push her way through it.
When the storm lifted, as abruptly as it had begun, the landscape had changed. They stood at the base of a long, even, snow-covered slope, clear of vegetation, the wind catching ice crystals on its surface and dancing them up into the sky. Some distance ahead, two black crags towered to the left and right. The slope rose to pass between them.
The whiteness was blinding, the sky so close and so searingly blue that Bitterblue held her hand up to block her eyes. Grella’s Pass: No animals to fend off, no boulders or scrub to navigate. Only a simple rising length of clean snow for them to walk across, right over the mountain range and down into Sunder.
It almost looked peaceful.
A warning began to buzz, and then clamor, in Katsa’s mind. She watched the swirls of snow that whipped along the pass’s surface. For one thing, it would be a greater distance than it looked. For another, there would be no shelter from the wind. Nor would it be as smooth as it seemed from here, with the sun shining on it directly. And if it stormed, or rather, when it stormed, it would be weather befitting these mountaintops, where no living thing survived, and all that had any hope of lasting was rock or ice.
Katsa wiped away the snow that clung to the girl’s furs. She broke pieces of ice from the wrapping around Bitterblue’s face. She unslung the snowshoes from her back and stepped into them, wrapped the straps around her feet and ankles, and bound them tightly. She untangled the halter she’d constructed, and helped the child into it, one weary leg at a time. Bitterblue didn’t protest or ask for an explanation. She moved sluggishly. Katsa bent down, grabbed her chin, and looked into her eyes.
“Bitterblue,” she said. “Bitterblue. You must stay alert. I’ll carry you, but only because we have to move fast. You’ve got to stay awake. If I think you’re falling asleep, I’ll put you down and mak
e you walk. Do you understand? I’ll make you walk, Princess, no matter how hard it is for you.”
“I’m tired,” the child whispered, and Katsa grabbed her shoulders and shook them.
“I don’t care if you’re tired. You’ll do what I tell you. You’ll put every ounce of strength into staying awake. Do you understand?”
“I don’t want to die,” Bitterblue said, and a tear seeped from her eye and froze on her eyelash. Katsa knelt and held the cold little bundle of girl close.
“You won’t die,” Katsa said. “I won’t let you die.” But it would take more than her own will to keep Bitterblue alive, and so she reached into her cloak and pulled out the water flask. “Drink this,” she said, “all of it.”
“It’s cold,” Bitterblue said.
“It will help to keep you alive. Quickly, before it freezes.”
The child drank, and Katsa made a split-second decision. She threw the bow onto the ground. She pulled the bags and the quiver over her head and dropped them beside the bow. Then she took off the wolf furs she wore over her shoulders, the furs she’d allowed herself to keep and wear only after the child was covered in several layers of fur from head to toe. The wind found the rips in Katsa’s bloodstained coat, and the cold knifed at her stomach, at the remaining wounds in her breast and her shoulder; but soon she would be running, she told herself, and the movement would warm her. The furs that covered her neck and head would be enough. She wrapped the great wolf hides around the child, like a blanket.
“You’ve lost your mind,” Bitterblue said, and Katsa almost smiled, because if the girl could form insulting opinions, then at least she was somewhat lucid.
“I’m about to engage in some very serious exercise,” Katsa said. “I wouldn’t want to overheat. Now, give me that flask, child.” Katsa bent down and filled the flask with snow. Then she fastened it closed, and buried it inside Bitterblue’s coats. “You’ll have to carry it,” she said, “if it’s not to freeze.”
The wind came from all directions, but Katsa thought it blew most fiercely from the west and into their faces. So she would carry the child on her back. She hung everything else across her front and pulled the straps of the girl’s halter over her shoulders. She stood under the weight of the child, and straightened. She took a few cautious steps in the snowshoes. “Ball up your fists,” she said to the girl, “and put them in my armpits. Put your face against the fur around my neck. Pay attention to your feet. If you start to think you can’t feel them, tell me. Do you understand, Bitterblue?”
“I understand,” the girl said.
“All right then,” Katsa said. “We’re off.”
She ran.
SHE ADJUSTED quickly to the snowshoes and to the precariously balanced loads on her back and her front. The girl weighed practically nothing, and the snowshoes worked well enough once she mastered the knack of running with legs slightly splayed. She couldn’t believe the coldness of this passageway over the mountains. She couldn’t believe wind could blow so hard and so insistently, without ever easing. Every breath of this air was a blade gouging into her lungs. Her arms, her legs, her torso, especially her hands—every part of her that was not covered with fur burned with cold, as if she had thrown herself into a fire.
She ran, and at first she thought the pounding of her feet and legs created some warmth; and then the incessant thud, thud, thud became a biting ache, and then a dull one; and finally, she could no longer feel the pounding at all, but forced it to continue, forward, upward, closer to the peaks that always seemed the same distance away.
The clouds gathered again and pummeled her with snow. The wind shrieked, and she ran blindly. Over and over, she yelled to Bitterblue. She asked the girl questions, meaningless questions about Monsea, about Leck City, about her mother. And always the same questions about whether she could feel her hands, whether she could move her toes, whether she felt dizzy or numb. She didn’t know if Bitterblue understood her questions. She didn’t know what it was Bitterblue yelled back. But Bitterblue did yell; and if Bitterblue was yelling, then Bitterblue was awake. Katsa squeezed her arms over the child’s hands. She reached back and grasped the child’s boots every once in a while, doing what she could to rub her toes. And she ran, and kept running, even when it felt like the wind was pushing her backward. Even when her own questions began to make less and less sense, and her fingers couldn’t rub and her arms couldn’t squeeze anymore.
Eventually, she was conscious of only two things: the girl’s voice, which continued in her ear, and the slope before them that she had to keep running up.
WHEN THE GREAT red sun sank from the sky and began to dip behind the horizon, Katsa registered it dully. If she saw the sunset, it must mean the snow no longer fell. Yes, now that she considered the question, she could see that it had stopped snowing, though she couldn’t remember when. But sunset meant the day was ending. Night was coming; and night was always colder than day.
Katsa kept running, because soon it would be even colder. Her legs moved; the child spoke now and again; she could not feel anything except the coldness stabbing her lungs with each breath. And then something else began to register in the fog of her mind.
She could see a horizon that lay far below her.
She was watching the sun sink behind a horizon that lay far below her.
She didn’t know when the view had changed. She didn’t know at what point she had passed over the top and begun to descend. But she had done it. She couldn’t see the black peaks anymore, and so they must be behind her. What she could see was the other side of the mountain; and forests, endless forests; and the sun bringing the day to a close as she ran, the child living and breathing on her back, down into Sunder. And not too far ahead of her, the end of this snowy slope, and the beginning of trees and scrub, and a downhill climb that would be so much easier for the child than the uphill climb had been.
She noticed the shivering then, the violent shivering, and panic consumed her, racked her dull mind awake. The child must not sicken now, not now that they were so close to safety. She reached back and grabbed Bitterblue’s boots. She screamed her name. But then she heard Bitterblue’s voice, crying something in her ear; and she felt the girl’s arms snake around her front and hold her tight. The line below her breasts where Bitterblue’s arms encircled her felt different suddenly. Warm, oddly warm. Katsa heard her own teeth chattering. She realized that it was not the girl who shivered. It was herself.
She found herself laughing, though nothing was funny. If she couldn’t even keep herself alive, there was no hope for the child. She shouldn’t have let this happen; she’d been mad to bring them into Sunder this way. She thought of her hands and held them up to her face. She opened her fingers, forced them to open, and cursed herself when she saw her white fingertips. She shoved her fists into her armpits. She willed her mind to think clearly, lucidly. She was cold, too cold. She must get them to the place where the trees started, so that they could have firewood, and protection from the wind. She must start a fire. Get to that place, and start a fire. And keep the child alive. Those were her needs, those were her ends, and she would keep those thoughts in her head as she ran.
BY THE TIME they reached the trees, Bitterblue was whimpering from numbness and cold. But when Katsa collapsed to her knees, the girl unwound herself from the halter. She fumbled to remove the wolf furs from her own back and wrapped them around Katsa’s body. Then she knelt before Katsa and tugged at the straps of the snowshoes with her chapped, bleeding fingers. Katsa roused herself and helped with the straps. She crawled out of the snowshoes and flung off the bags, the quiver, the halter, and the bow.
“Firewood,” Katsa said. “Firewood.”
The girl sniffled and nodded and stumbled around under the trees, collecting what she could find. The wood she brought back to Katsa was damp with snow. Katsa’s fingers were slow and clumsy with her dagger, unsteady with the shivering that racked her body. She had never in her life had difficulty starting a fire befor
e, never once in her life. She concentrated fiercely, and on her tenth or eleventh try, a flame sparked and caught a dry corner of wood. Katsa fed pine needles to the flame and nursed it, directed it, and willed it not to die, until it licked at the edges of the branches she’d assembled. It grew and smoked and crackled. They had fire.
Katsa crouched, shivering, and watched the flames, ignoring fiercely the stabbings of pain they brought to her fingers and the throbbing in her feet. “No,” she whispered, when Bitterblue stood and moved away to find more firewood. “Warm yourself first. Stay here and warm yourself first.”
Katsa built up the fire, slowly, and as she leaned over it, and as it grew, her shivering quieted. She looked at the girl, who sat on the ground, her arms wrapped around her legs. Her eyes closed, her face resting on her knees. Her cheeks streaked with tears. Alive.
“What a fool I am,” Katsa whispered. “What a fool I am.” She forced herself to her feet and pushed herself from tree to tree to collect more wood. Her bones ached, her hands and feet screamed with pain. Maybe it was for the best that she’d been so foolish, for if she’d known how hard this would be, perhaps she wouldn’t have done it.
She returned to their campsite and built the fire up more. Tonight the fire would be enormous; tonight they would have a fire all of Sunder could see. She shuffled over to the child and took her hands. She inspected the girl’s fingers. “You can feel them?” she asked. “You can move them?”
Bitterblue nodded. Katsa yanked at the bags, and groped inside them until she found the medicines. She massaged Raffin’s healing ointment into the girl’s cracked, bleeding hands. “Let me see your feet now, Princess.” She rubbed warmth into the girl’s toes and buttoned her back into her boots.
