He hit me.
I fell backwards, banging my head on the end of the red chair. The room swirled. My cheek stung; my blood pulsed through the bone. I touched it and stared at where Sadriel had been, now just empty space. No one had ever struck me before. Not my father, not my teachers. Not even Mordan.
Sitting upright, I spied Death’s boots on my other side, near my bed.
“You are a senseless woman,” he growled.
Standing, I pulled my hand from my cheek and said, “Get out.”
He laughed.
I pointed to the door, though he hardly needed to use it. “Get out!” I shouted, my voice echoing between walls. “What do you want with me, Sadriel? Amusement? Sex? Not love, never love. You are Death; you don’t have a heart! But I do!” I pounded my uninjured fist into my chest, tears welling in the corners of my eyes. “It’s cold and cursed, but I still have a heart! How many times must I say it before you hear me? I. Will. Never. Go. With. You!”
It happened so quickly. One moment I was screaming at him and the next my back crashed against the cavern wall beside my bookshelf. Sadriel’s pale hand wrapped around my throat, just as Mordan’s had that day in the willow-wacks. Books tumbled to the floor at my feet.
The brim of his hat brushed my forehead.
The front door burst open, snapping its lock.
“Smeesa?”
Sadriel vanished.
I stood there, back against the wall, my chest heaving with every quickened breath. Blue dawn light flooded the cavern, along with icy winds and light flurries of snow.
I touched my neck. Heavy gooseflesh covered my skin.
The sound of footsteps drew my attention back to the present. Lo hurried to me, his eyes searching every shadow in the cavern.
I swallowed and blurted out the first coherent thought that came to mind. “What are you doing here?”
I asked in Northlander, and he replied the same, though not to answer my question. “I heard shouting. Who was here?”
His hand clutched the hilt of a dagger still sheathed on his belt, a knife long enough to pass clean through a man. He passed me and examined every cranny and corner where a person could possibly hide. The cavern had only one entrance, so his confusion was palpable when he found nothing. My mind scrambled to recall what language I had used with Sadriel. Angrean or Northlander? What had Lo heard, and what had he understood?
“Who?” he asked, brows knitted tightly together.
I swallowed ice down my throat and shook my head. “No one.” A deep breath. “No one.”
He glanced at me, his eyes falling to my cheek. “No one did that?” he asked almost darkly, gesturing with his chin.
“I tripped over the carpet and fell,” I said. “Onto the red chair.”
“Smeesa—”
“Please, don’t . . . ,” I started, trying to regain my wits, pulling my hair forward to mask any marks that might appear on my neck. “I can’t explain. Please, it’s fine. I’m fine.”
I wanted to run to him, to cry, to thank him and God in heaven that he had come when he did, for the thought of what Sadriel might have done scared—no, terrified—me. I had known Sadriel for years, but there was no understanding him. He was an ever-changing being, unpredictable. I had always been wary of him, but I hadn’t feared him since our first meeting. I couldn’t bear to think of him, not then. Oh, what a beautiful sight Lo was to me at that moment.
He stared at me, suspicion dripping from him. I started to repeat myself, but he shook his head and returned to the door. I thought he would leave, but he only shut it and fiddled with the lock until he had it working again. He did not apologize—not for breaking the lock, the dent in the door’s wood, or for barging in at the earliest hours of morning. He merely walked to the table and pulled a bag off his belt. Though it resembled a coin pouch, the sound it made when it hit the stone tabletop was more like the rattling of dried beans.
The tension in the air made it hard to breathe.
“What is that?” I asked, trying as hard as I could to relax, to sound casual.
Lo’s eyes surveyed the room once more before he said, “Coffee. It is meant to be brewed hot—perhaps it will be more comfortable to drink.”
How I wanted to cry.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
He nodded to me—mashadah still wrapped around his head—and headed for the door.
“Wait!” I called, sure I flushed somewhere beneath the layers of cold that embraced me.
He paused.
“Could you . . . stay, for a while?” I asked, embarrassment dripping down my spine like ice water. My heart still pounded from my encounter with Sadriel, and I didn’t want to be left alone, so soon. “A-Aamina will be here, today, but . . . I know you’re busy . . . and thank you, for the coffee—”
“Who was here?” he asked.
Words jumbled in my throat. “You wouldn’t . . . believe me, if I told you.”
“Try.”
But I just shook my head and looked at the floor.
I felt the intensity of his gaze on me, then heard him sigh, a long escape of breath. When I finally glanced up to look at him, he seemed to be deep in thought. He rubbed his chin—he had begun growing in his half beard again, I noticed. I shivered.
He walked toward me until we stood no more than a pace apart. “You are sure you’re all right?” he asked, stooping to see my face better. He focused on my bruise.
I nodded.
“I can stay until Aamina comes,” he said, stepping past me to pick up the fallen books.
I winced, thinking of my promise to care for them. “I’m sorry, I can—”
“Do you want to heat water? For the coffee?”
I remembered the pitcher left in the fire and hurried over to it. Its base had begun to scorch black, and the handle sizzled under my cold touch. I set it down on the table and retrieved a clean pair of gloves.
As I pulled them on, Lo untied the small bag and said, in Hraric, “Tell me about your home in Iyoden.”
“Euwan?” I glanced at him. His countenance seemed darker than usual—worry, perhaps, or distrust. But I felt so glad to have someone with me—him with me—that I didn’t care if he glared swords at me.
“Well,” I said, pouring water, my trembling now nearly invisible, “It’s small, with a lot of spaces between houses, not like here. And the homes are larger, made of wood. There are a lot of trees weaving through it. A mercantile, a school, a turnery where my father worked, crafting wagon wheels and some personal commissions.”
I thought of Mordan and stopped pouring.
“Your home?”
I sat down, facing him. Cleared my throat. “A single-story home with three bedrooms, much larger than the ones here. Near a lake—Heaven’s Tear Lake. There were a lot of mosquitoes in the summer: small flies that leave itchy bumps on your skin when they bite you. We had a small kitchen with a wood-burning stove, a big living room, and a barn . . .”
When Aamina came midmorning, she nearly startled herself to death at the sight of Lo. Lo had relaxed, somewhat, though he remained watchful and spoke little, leaving me to do most of the talking. He excused himself before Aamina could even sit down, bidding me a quick good-bye with handtalk. And though I was grateful Aamina was there to keep me company, I found myself wishing he had stayed, even in his silence. The cavern seemed . . . empty . . . without him.
I half expected Aamina to begin lecturing me on propriety the way my mother would have, but she merely launched into a monologue about how her youngest child was faring in school. I wondered at that. Then again, why would anyone worry about the wiles of a woman who could kill a man just by holding his hand?
Thinking of the Northlander hunter, I remained quiet for the rest of Aamina’s stay.
In the following days, I found myself looking forward to Lo’s next visit—planning passages to discuss with him, stories to share. I even tucked the remaining coffee beans into the cubby of my bookshelf, hoping to share them
with him again. Any time I heard, or thought I heard, footsteps outside my door, I ran to it with a girlish excitement fit for any winter solstice, but it was never him. I’d always find Rhono or Havid quickly retreating to their camels, or a new set of snow harvesters loading up their wagons.
But the days between Lo’s visits rolled by empty, one week, then two, then three. I began to fret that I had somehow offended him, or lost his trust by withholding information on Sadriel, whom I also had not seen, thankfully. As yet more time passed, the fear that Sadriel might have something to do with Lo’s absence started to eat into me.
I asked Aamina about it on one of her early winter visits, winter being no different than summer in Zareed, other than the nights growing longer. And my winter, of course, never gave way to any other season.
“He is captain of the guard, so he is very busy,” Aamina explained to me as she helped me pin my new mosaic drape over the one of the sight hound. With its simple yet vibrant squares, it resembled a quilt, and I was proud to have finished what I considered a grand piece of art. “And the dissenters are marching again, which always increases the guard.”
“Dissenters?”
“Grouches who want a king from the old line. They think our sheikh’s declining health is a good excuse to shuffle things around.”
I thought of Eyan’s words during our trip to Kittat, of the men riding out to scout the mountains, and felt cold metal pierce my lungs.
She stepped off her chair and looked at the new drape. “Very well done. I’ll bring you extra yarn next time I come.”
I hopped down, my head scarf falling to my shoulders. “Why extra?”
“My sister is pregnant as a melon—didn’t I tell you?”
She had, several times.
“She’s ripe as one, too, due to give birth any day now, and I need to be at her side when she does.”
“That’s wonderful news.”
Aamina nodded. “It’s a boy; I can feel it in my hips. Aunt’s intuition. I will be away until they’re on their feet, but Rhono and Havid will take care of you until I return, and oh, will I have stories when I come back! That farmer’s daughter eyes my sister’s husband like he’s a fresh-plucked chicken, so this new child will rile her well.”
Aamina chuckled, and I smiled, though the thought of not seeing her for so long tasted bitter.
Keeping true to her word, Aamina brought me a surplus of yarn in saffron, violet, and jade on her next visit, along with extra paper and extra rice. Three days later, no one came to my door—not Aamina, and not Lo.
My cavern became frightfully silent, save for the blowing—sometimes howling—winds outside. When my storm grew fitful, I spied neither Havid nor Rhono. When it calmed, I tried to invite both of them inside, desperate for company, but both refused without word. After that, Havid stopped coming altogether. I turned to my weaving for comfort and diversion and completed a simple, square-patterned tapestry the size of my bed, then unpicked all of it and started again. Sadriel did not reappear, not that I could see, but twice I had dreams in which I felt his eyes on me. When I woke, I could not tell if the sensations had been real or imagined. It made me tremble, and not from the cold.
I wove a tapestry of birds flying over the Finger Mountains, then unraveled the bottom half to include my cave and snow clouds. It was a picture I took pride in, and I eagerly wanted to show it to Aamina or Lo, but still they did not come.
The empty days drew by. One week, two weeks, three. I had spent years with no company other than Sadriel’s, but for some reason this loneliness stung harder and faster than all that time in the mountains. Perhaps because I had finally been accepted, curse and all—I had actually made friends and enjoyed company, and to lose all that now created a contrast for which I was not prepared. But I knew Aamina would return soon enough, and I kept the coffee beans in my cubby for Lo, as if doing so might summon him.
I struggled to keep myself busy. I wove bookmarks until I ran out of yarn. I tried once more to talk to Rhono, but I terrified her to the point that I worried she would stop coming entirely as Havid had done, and then I would be without food, for I could not walk into Mac’Hliah. I did not want to risk it, and I did not want Imad angry with me. The thought of the dogs alone was enough to keep me in my quarters.
I began to wait for the snow harvesters to arrive, for surely one of them would be willing to talk with me. I did not know their schedule, if they even had one, but I listened for their camels and wagons, and stepped outside my door countless times to search for them on the horizon. They did come, but by the time I realized it and rushed outside, they had already retreated. I ran after them and called, but the angry winds of winter carried my voice back to the mountains, and I lost my chance.
More days passed, and I spent them alone. I could feel darkness begin to brew in the recesses of my mind, the same darkness that had nearly driven me to accept Sadriel’s offer, and it terrified me. Though my fingers had little deftness to them, I began to write in my shaky and unruly penmanship, as small as I could manage the letters. I wrote to my father, my mother, and my sister, then transcribed the letters into Hraric, which read even worse than my Northlander. I even wrote a letter to Mordan telling him that he had made me, deep down, a better person. I truly believed it, and I clung to those words every time my hands cramped with the chill, or a shudder drew my pen down and ruined my script, or my pen became so cold the ink refused to flow.
When I ran out of paper, I began to read. I read The Fool’s Last Song so many times I memorized it, and I even took the liberty of acting it out on my own, playing each part myself, as I had loved to do back in Euwan, for I had craved the attention of others. I acted it out in Hraric and in Northlander, but between the bits of dialogue I always heard the silence of my cavern and the whistling of the never-ending storm outside.
When I could not bear the stillness of my cave a moment longer, I went outside and began sculpting snow as I had often done in the mountains, this time making depictions of hens and scorpions and spiders and ibexes. I gazed out at the distant city of Mac’Hliah and watched the sun’s shadows slowly trace their way across the mud-brick buildings, longing to be there with my friends. It was Rhono’s day to bring me supplies, and when she saw me standing outside the cave, she pulled her camel short and dropped my parcel of food right there in the snow. I called out to her, begging her to stay, but she only tapped her shoulder with her free hand and sped away. From there on out, she no longer left her parcels on my doorstep but on the edge of the snow. Large parcels, so she would not have to come as often. I did not bother to collect them. Part of me feared moving my storm, but in honesty, I lacked the motivation to eat much, so I did not need the things she brought me.
I read and reread Lo’s books and forced myself to push them away when I cried, for I had promised to take care of them, and I could not tolerate a single tear marring their pages. My darkness taunted me, creeping into my thoughts during my few hours of sleep. My cavern, so beautifully decorated, became a cage. I let my fire die. When my lamp dimmed, I did not fetch Rhono’s supplies to get more oil.
Though I urged myself—shouted at myself—to be happy and to be content, for Aamina would soon return, and perhaps Lo would, too, if only for his books, I shriveled inside my shell of ice and skin. I was so grateful for all Imad and Lo and the others had given me, but my cold heart splintered more with each passing day, until I could feel its shattered pieces rattling down my rib cage and settling somewhere in the hungry pit of my stomach.
Late one night, fear and seclusion feeding my insomnia, I realized I was not stationary. I was not made of stone. Seven weeks alone in my cavern had left me wearier than I can describe, and I needed to escape, if only for a while. I needed to use my legs, to discover something new. I realize now, looking back on it, that I must not have been of sound mind, for I barely drank and had stopped eating with the last of my rations gone and the rest a mile away.
I left in the dim light of predawn, my storm e
specially violent and blowing heavy snows in all directions, nearly concealing my mountain in purest white. I wore my gray dress and my patterned head scarf and gloves, and I walked away from Mac’Hliah, away from anyone I could hurt.
I walked, and the snow and wind calmed. I walked until I found sand under my feet instead of snow. I thought of climbing the mountains to see what lay on the other side, but their slopes proved too steep. I had to wait for a pass, for surely someone had built a pass somewhere in this range.
I walked and walked and walked, until the sand turned gold around me and not so much as a gust from my storm tousled my hair. I stayed close to the mountains at first, but the rocks tore at my slippers, so I moved away, into the open plains of sand. I walked until plains became hills. I passed a few twisted plants, none higher than my knee. The air tasted strange here, thicker in my throat. Perhaps from the heat—heat I could not feel. How I yearned to feel it. At that moment, I could not remember what warmth felt like.
On I walked, folding my arms against the cold, breathing through a dry, parched throat. I felt light-headed, but I continued onward, needing to get away. Needing . . . something.
Sometime in the day—I cannot remember when—my foot slipped off the ridge of a hill of golden sand, and I tumbled down, down, down the ripples of gold, landing in a void of black.
CHAPTER 19
I couldn’t breathe.
I woke up choking, coughing as water ran over my mouth, freezing in uneven streams down my cheek and neck. I felt so cold, a sculpture of snow, but with the weight of a boulder crushing me. Darkness. Gray. Darkness. My head pounded rhythmically, as if someone were pounding nails into my temples.
I heard shouting in the distance, then again right over me.
My eyes fluttered open. Storm clouds, orange light. Snow and sand. A blur of brown and black over me that looked remarkably like Lo. I heard his voice, but I didn’t understand his words.
Darkness threatened to descend again, but I fought through it and forced my eyes open. Where was I? A chill stiffened my back, and I coughed, droplets of ice hitting my tongue.
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