by Resa Nelson
“Look closer.” Astrid reached her hand back toward Vinchi, hoping he would take it. “They aren’t made of solid ice. They’ve been coated with a layer of ice. The same would have happened to us if we hadn’t been shaking it off.”
Vinchi’s arm drifted down from Margreet’s shoulder and he took a step away from her. His face strained in disbelief. “That’s impossible.”
Astrid walked up to the first iceman, smiling and taking in every detail of his long and lean face. The curly hair cropped close to his head. His lanky limbs. And the icy replica of the sword hanging by Vinchi’s side that had once belonged to the dragonslayer. “Hello, DiStephan,” she whispered.
CHAPTER 37
“How is this possible?” Vinchi said as he stepped next to Astrid, staring in amazement at the perfect icy image of DiStephan.
“They’re ghosts,” Astrid said. “DiStephan must have asked for their help. He must have seen we were coming this way and assumed we’d need to go into the woods without being followed. They must have all stood in front of the road going into the woods and let the hail freeze solid on them.”
“How can hail freeze on a ghost? Wouldn’t it pass right through them?”
Astrid shrugged. “I took Night’s Bane so I could spend time with DiStephan once I knew he had died. He said he had limited strength. When he travels with me, he can make small things move, like throwing a handful of dirt into a lizard’s face. Maybe they have enough strength to stand up against hail.” She gazed up at the ghost of Starlight that DiStephan held above his head. “Or to remember the weapons they once held in their hands.”
Margreet called out behind them. Vinchi motioned for her to join them, pointing at DiStephan’s icy figure and calling out with confidence.
Turning back to Astrid, Vinchi said, “But why would he do this?”
Astrid smiled and gazed into DiStephan’s icy eyes. “It’s what he does. I’ve had no training as a dragonslayer, so I learn from experience. DiStephan travels with me and ahead of me. It’s how he watches over me. It’s his way of helping me stay alive while I learn my new trade.”
Margreet reluctantly joined them.
Vinchi pointed again at the ice people, apparently relaying the guess about who they were and what they were doing.
Margreet’s face paled while she listened to Vinchi. She scanned the faces of the ice people as if looking for someone familiar. Her gaze locked on the figure of a woman back near the tree line.
“Margreet?” Astrid said, following the woman’s gaze.
Margreet’s attention snapped to Astrid, who gestured to walk forward. Margreet nodded.
Astrid noticed that tears welled in Margreet’s eyes but assumed the cold air caused them. She waited while Vinchi and Margreet stepped slowly and carefully, winding their way between the ice people while Astrid paused and laid a gentle hand on DiStephan’s ice-cold face for just a moment, careful not to linger for fear of melting away his menacing expression.
CHAPTER 39
The hail pounded against the overhead canopy provided by the trees like raindrops on a wooden rooftop. Beneath the canopy, the air felt cold and dry. Margreet pulled the cloak tight against her chest, and she hurried to keep up with Vinchi and the boy as they wound their way through the wicked forest.
Brown, brittle fallen leaves and pine needles littered this narrow dirt path, unlike most roads that ran through the woods. Margreet’s shoe snagged on a gnarled root hidden beneath the leaves, and she caught herself from falling. She swore under her breath, watching the man and boy navigate effortlessly ahead.
Ridiculous path. Why couldn’t it be a normal road wide enough for a cart and horses instead of barely allowing enough width for one person to pass?
Footsteps shuffled behind her. Catching her breath in fear, Margreet looked back but no one walked behind her. She paused just long enough to see a small brown bird with a tufted head hopping among the leaves, peering beneath them for insects. It wasn’t a brigand or a dragon, after all. Through Vinchi, the boy had explained to Margreet that the smallest birds or animals sometimes made enough noise to sound like a herd of cattle crashing through the forest. Margreet hadn’t believed it at first, but now she gave credit to the boy. He seemed to understand the forest far better than Margreet or even Vinchi.
Taking one last glance to make sure nothing but the bird made the threatening noise behind her, Margreet took several hurried steps to catch up to Vinchi, who walked directly in front of her. Squirrels chattered and complained high up in the trees near the path and deep in the woods. The birds that had either decided to stay for the winter or were passing through on their way to warmer climates sang brightly, claiming their territory. And every so often something deeper and heavier seemed to trudge among the trees far on either side of the path.
Vinchi’s presence calmed her nerves. Even though he didn’t have the size or power of her husband Gershon, Vinchi knew how to use the weapons he sold and would be useful if they were attacked.
A stray piece of hail filtered through the overhead canopy and plopped on the end of Margreet’s nose. She brushed it off. Normally, the drumming high above their heads would have soothed her, but she was preoccupied with missing her husband.
Shuddering, she remembered the gazes of desire and entitlement cast toward her by Vinchi’s men during the time they were at sea. True, she’d heard Vinchi tell them more than once to keep their hands to themselves, and, thankfully, they’d obeyed.
But while in Gershon’s presence, no man dared to do so much as look at her. As long as she counted herself as Gershon’s wife, she could count on his protection from other men, and she took comfort in that knowledge. It hadn’t been long since she’d learned how cruel and cold the world could be toward an unclaimed woman.
She hadn’t thought about it in a long time—not since she’d married Gershon.
But now that they traveled in these woods—a place Margreet recognized—those unwelcome memories drifted back into her head.
The boy cried out, but she couldn’t tell if he’d made the sound in fear or surprise. The boy darted down the path and disappeared around a bend, and Vinchi raced to follow. Fearful of being left behind, Margreet ran to catch up.
She found them standing at the edge of a clearing within the heart of the forest. The size of a small village, a circle of grass lay before them like a patch of harvested land surrounded by towering stalks of grain. In the center of the circle, a cluster of ancient trees with immensely thick trunks towered above the forest, spreading hundreds of branches like a spoked wheel to protect the clearing from the elements. The high branches of the ancient trees overlapped the top of the forest surrounding the clearing.
Tears welled in Margreet’s eyes. She remembered how gold and silver chains once hung from those mighty branches, gifts from those who came to pay respect to the gods. She remembered the days when no thief would dream of stealing any of the treasures left by worshippers because even thieves asked the gods for help and protection.
It was unthinkable to steal from a god.
Now, bones littered the ground beneath the ancient trees. Thousands of bones. Hundreds of victims had been hung by their hair, and now only the hair remained on the limbs, replacing the gold and silver that had once adorned them.
This clearing of majestic trees had once been the Temple of Limru.
Now it looked like a nightmare.
Margreet sobbed, sinking to her knees. She hadn’t wanted to see this place ever again. Now she could no longer block the memory of the horrible men tying her own mother by the hair to a tree limb. Margreet remembered seeing her mother kick and scream before her own weight caused her to crash to her death on the ground below.
All the while, Margreet had hidden, clutching her hands over her mouth and willing herself to be silent so the horrible men wouldn’t find her and string her up by her hair, too. Torn between the urge to dash into the fray to fight the men with her young hands and the desire to live, Margreet had
chosen to follow her mother’s orders and save herself. But for days after, she’d been unable to utter a sound, still terrified that someone might hear her and kill her.
Now, alone in the forlorn temple with a weapons trader and a boy, Margreet cried the tears she’d spent a lifetime feeling too terrified to set free.
CHAPTER 39
Astrid stared at the enormous trees towering above them and the clearing surrounding them. Fighting back a lump in her throat, she finally recognized bones piled up under the trees and long locks of hair tied to their branches. She felt an urge to whisper. Clearly, something terrible had happened here, and she wanted to be respectful of the dead. “What is this place?”
“The Temple of Limru,” Vinchi said, his face drawn and pale. He stared at the trees.
Limru. Of course. Her brother Drageen had told her how a king claiming a new god marched his armies through the Southlands, slaughtering everything in their path—including Limru.
“Are we in the Southlands now?” Astrid said, feeling a sudden urge to look back and make sure no one stood behind them.
Vinchi nodded. “Just barely. Limru borders the Midlands.”
Astrid cleared her throat, gathering her thoughts as she remembered what Drageen had told her. “I heard the tribes that worship tree spirits roam the Southlands.” While Astrid never paid much attention to such things, she understood some people believed tree spirits were messengers to the gods of the land and sea and air and fire.
Vinchi automatically looked at Margreet, who knelt weeping by his side. “They once did,” he whispered. He knelt next to Margreet and spoke quietly to her.
Astrid’s eyes widened while she watched them. Since the day she’d met Margreet, she’d seen the woman scream and yell and cower in fear. For the first time, Margreet exhibited genuine pain, crying as if she’d received word that her only friend had died.
The Southland tribes. Could Margreet have belonged to them? Did she once worship the spirits of trees?
Standing, Vinchi said, “This place upsets her. We should keep moving.”
The more Astrid watched Margreet cry, the more she saw herself in the woman. Not even a year had passed since the burning of Guell and the murder of most people who lived there. Astrid easily remembered how she’d felt in the days that she’d been captured by Drageen’s men and taken from her home only to escape and return to find her friends and neighbors dead.
“What happened to her?” Astrid said, sinking next to Margreet, who now hugged her knees while weeping.
“She won’t tell me. She only says she wants to go home to Gershon.”
“I don’t know what they did to you or who they are,” Astrid said to Margreet. “But I appreciate what you feel.”
Startled, Margreet lifted her head, catching her breath in surprise to find Astrid next to her.
Before Vinchi could translate Astrid’s words, she placed a gentle hand on Margreet’s knee.
Margreet jerked back as if Astrid had touched her with a red-hot piece of iron, her eyes wide with terror as she barked an order to Vinchi.
Vinchi sighed. “She wants me to remind you that she’s married and her husband will slice your head off with his sword if you touch her again.”
Astrid realized she’d let everyone believe she was a boy in order to protect herself. Vinchi had seen through her ruse, but Astrid had become so relaxed when the three of them began to travel together that she’d forgotten Margreet didn’t know the truth. “Tell her who I am.”
Vinchi sank down to sit next to them. “How much should I tell?”
“Everything.”
Vinchi considered her words before launching into his explanation to Margreet, who looked at him in disbelief.
Astrid recognized her own name when Vinchi spoke it, as well as DiStephan’s. She recognized the name of Guell. But it wasn’t until she heard Vinchi mention her last name—Scalding—that Margreet gasped and took a closer look at Astrid.
No longer crying, Margreet pointed at Astrid’s face and chanted a familiar rhyme.
Astrid didn’t understand the words Margreet said, but she knew the cadence. In Astrid’s language, the words were:
Mind yourself
Mind your thoughts
Or Scaldings
Tie you into knots
They take you
Into their tower
Walk inside
Where dragons glower
Rip your head
Leave you for dead
Making sure
The dragons get fed
Astrid first left Tower Island as a child, and she’d encountered children in her own land who knew this rhyme. She’d never dreamed people in other countries knew it, too.
Margreet kept chattering, now touching her own face with her hands and pointing at Astrid again, saying, “Scalding! Astrid Scalding!”
“She says she should have realized it was you because of your scars,” Vinchi said. “She says she thought you died when you were a child.”
Astrid steadied herself, remembering how she’d learned the truth about herself just months ago. Drageen knew her body could produce the bloodstones that would make him invincible, whether against dragons or the king’s armies sweeping through the Southlands. Drageen had probably made sure Astrid didn’t die in childhood because he knew he’d need her years later to produce his bloodstones. “Tell her I know what it feels like to lose everything you hold dear,” Astrid said. “And tell her I think we should honor the dead at Limru in whatever way is most respectful to them.”
Margreet listened closely as Vinchi translated. Her eyes welled with tears, but she seemed to will herself not to cry again. Gazing at Astrid, Margreet nodded and told Vinchi what the dead would want.
CHAPTER 40
While Astrid and Vinchi scaled the sacred trees to cut down the hair of victims tied to their limbs, Margreet chose a place in the clearing, halfway between the edge of the forest surrounding it and the Temple of Limru. She squinted when she looked upward. The limbs of the sacred trees reached high above, spreading across the clearing to rest on top of the shorter forest trees. Most of the forest trees were evergreens, but the sacred trees had shed their leaves, shaped like the hands of giants and still tinged with the orange color of autumn. The clouds peeking through the limbs hung so low that they drifted through them.
Judging by the brightness of the sky, Margreet guessed sundown would come in a few hours.
Quickly, Margreet chose the best stones she could find in the forest and laid them on the brown grass to form a circle large enough to hold Vinchi’s ship. Again, moving quickly, she pulled the dried grass growing a forearm’s length behind each stone and threw it into the circle.
“North from which the water flows,” Margreet chanted softly to herself while she worked. “South from which the earthen rows. East from which the daylight grows. West from which red sunsets glow.” Suddenly realizing she chanted from old habit, Margreet jerked to a stop, looking around anxiously to make sure no one could hear her.
Vinchi and Astrid were still far away in the midst of the temple of sacred trees, lost in their own work. They were too busy to notice Margreet at all.
“Watch your mouth,” Margreet admonished herself. “Do you want to end up hung by your hair like your mother?” Heart racing in fear at the very thought of it, Margreet took out her anger on the brown grass by ripping it out by the handful. “I hate you!” she told the grass, keeping her voice low so that only the ground could hear her. “You evil, horrible blades of wickedness!”
It felt good to run her fingers through the dried grass as if it were a head of hair. It felt good to take a strong hold on a handful of blades. It felt even better to grunt while she braced her feet against the ground and jerked the dead vegetation out by the roots. She exhaled in relief, tossing each handful into the center of the stone circle.
Margreet would never allow herself to end up like her mother, who had refused to betray her gods in the face of the soldie
rs of the Krystr after they’d murdered Margreet’s father and every other man in their village. The Krystr soldiers had recognized the village and its people as the Keepers of Limru, those dedicated to the temple and those making a pilgrimage to worship there. The villagers should have run away at the first word of soldiers marching in the Southlands, but they believed they could protect the temple.
Instead, half of the villagers had been slaughtered in battle. The others were sacrificed in the temple as a warning to anyone who would not discard their beliefs in order to join forces with the soldiers of the Krystr.
Margreet couldn’t understand it. Until the soldiers of Krystr invaded their homeland, she’d never heard of anyone failing to respect the gods of another. The very thought of it baffled her. She understood war. She understood that men always wanted more land, more water, more food, more animals, more gold, more silver, more everything.
But what could be gained by forcing others to believe exactly the same thing?
On the day she watched her mother die, she’d taken her dying words to heart: save yourself. Any woman who failed to marry was asking for trouble. Marriage meant safety. Choosing a good husband ensured a woman’s security for life—or for as long as her husband lived, whichever came first.
And Margreet had chosen very wisely indeed. The day Gershon met Margreet, he acted shy and tongue-tied, even though he had no problems speaking to anyone else. He showered her with compliments. On the day he asked for her hand in marriage, he stuttered and stumbled over his words. Margreet agreed to be his wife, and he cried with joy. He looked as vulnerable as a newborn calf trying to stand for the first time on its wobbly legs, melting Margreet’s heart.
She’d never imagined that any man could ever want her so desperately and with so much hope. For the first time since her mother had been murdered, Margreet believed she had true value in the world. If Gershon thought so highly of her, that meant something, didn’t it? Like most traders, Gershon wore his wealth in the form of silver bracelets and rings. On their day of marriage, he removed a silver ring from his littlest finger and placed it on one of hers as a symbol showing the world that she now belonged to him.
