I ate at the fire until my stomach stretched to its limit, then fetched water to wash the pan. The hotter the pan, the easier I could clean it before my wash water froze. But as soon as I stood, I saw Sadriel on my bed, propped up against my pillows—the book of ancient Hraric Lo had given me clutched in his long, unadorned fingers.
The cold rooted me to the floor.
He turned the page. Without looking up, he said, “That Southlander of yours is rather interesting.”
So long since our last encounter—I had dared to think he’d left for good. Touching my once-bruised cheek, I glanced over my shoulder to the door. If I ran, would he follow me? Yet how could I hope to best Sadriel if I lost the courage to face him alone?
Straightening my stiff shoulders, I met his gaze.
Death set the book down and regarded me from beneath the rim of his hat. “Come closer, Smitha. Surely you’re not afraid of me.”
I removed my head scarf, hoping he attributed the shaking of my hands to my usual bitter chill.
“You’ve been gone a long while,” I said. “Was it because you thought I feared you?”
He laughed. “I wanted you to see what it meant to be truly alone, love. Not pleasant, is it?”
I frowned and busied myself turning up the flame in the oil lamp. “I’m only human.”
“No need to remind me.”
I watched him, his first words itching at me. Fortunately, he explained without my asking.
“Twice he’s kept you from me.” Sadriel flashed and reappeared standing, taller even than Lo. “I really thought I had you, in the desert. But then, your death would just make you like all the other lost souls in my realm. You wouldn’t be the same, then.”
“What did you intend, the last time?” I asked, touching my cheek where he had struck me. “Does Death have the power to take me against my will?”
He smiled. “As far as I’m concerned, Smitha, you’ve got one boot in the grave. No ordinary mortal could survive in your state.”
“Is that why you still come to me, Sadriel?” I asked, watching the flickering flames of the lamp for a moment. “Because I’m live bait? Or because you can’t entertain yourself with a true corpse?”
His smile shrunk but did not disappear. In three strides he closed the gap between us and touched my face with his fingers—fingers that felt as cold to me as anything else, and perhaps they were. I bit my tongue to keep myself from flinching. I would not fear Death, and I would not allow him to wield any power over me.
“I’ve told you, haven’t I?” he said, studying me. He wore a peculiar expression. He looked almost . . . lonely. “Yet in recent months I’ve often wondered the same thing. What were the words of that young man’s curse, hmm? Do remind me.”
I had not forgotten them, even now. Mordan’s spell had etched itself in my memory.
“I don’t remember the spell itself,” I said quietly, pulling away from his touch. “It was in a language I didn’t recognize.” I shivered, thinking of the rest. “‘I curse you . . . to be as cold as your heart.’”
Sadriel smirked at that.
“‘May winter follow you wherever you go,” I recited, and my eyes widened. I stared hard at Sadriel and finished, “and with the cold, death.’”
His amber gaze glimmered with amusement.
“But mortal curses don’t affect you,” I said, stepping back. “You said so yourself.”
“Correct you are, love,” he said. “But it’s interesting to think about, hmm? Perhaps that was a hint to breaking it.”
“If it takes death to break my curse . . .”
He touched my chin, tilted my head to the side, and released me. “Something to ponder on.”
He turned around and walked toward the back of the cave, stretching out his arms. “I am bored. Perhaps if you cannot entertain me, I’ll find someone else to catch my interest.”
I stalked after him, my skirt flapping around my ankles. “Sadriel—”
“Who shall I go visit in the city?” he continued, glancing back at me.
“They can’t even see you!”
“Oh, but I can make them.”
I gaped and pressed a hand to my frozen chest. “Don’t you dare, Sadriel!”
He began to fade.
“Sadriel!”
I rushed for him, but he vanished before I could grab him, and my violet fingernails clawed only air.
“Sadriel!” I shouted, spinning around. Surely he didn’t have the power to take a healthy soul for no other reason than to taunt me . . . but who was I to question the strength of Death?
I snatched my head scarf from beside the hearth and ran out into the desert, my feet skidding along fresh snow made golden by the distant evening sun. I did not see Sadriel outside. Then again, he had a quicker method of travel than I did.
Running across the snow as fast as my cold-cramped legs would carry me, I wrapped the head scarf around my head and neck, constantly searching for the flourish of a black cape or the gleam of his ruby necklace. I called out his name once more, hoping he was merely toying with me, but he did not reappear. He had never been the sort of man to come when called.
Snow thinned beneath my feet and made way for sand as I broke through the perimeter of my winter. The cloud floated above me as always, tethered to me by unseen threads. My heart thudded in my chest, pumping icy blood to icy muscles. I ran, desperately searching. Why had he drawn me to the city? Had he been bluffing? Was it too late to stop him if not?
To my surprise, I reached Mac’Hliah without stopping for a rest, though my lungs burned with each frosty breath and needles filled my legs. It was twilight, and there were few people on the streets.
A man hammering a small nail into a shoe glanced up at me through thinning black hair as I struggled for breath. I brushed sand from my dress and swallowed. My legs ached, but I hurried at a quick walk, searching up and down lanes and between homes. I heard a dog bark not far off and quickly changed direction, hugging myself against the chill.
I dared not call Death’s name, but as I weaved between homes and tents I began to feel sure Sadriel had only meant to rile me—or at least I prayed he only meant to rile me. If he truly wanted to hurt someone, I had little hope of stopping him. I would not have put it past him to frame me for such a thing, either.
I stepped aside to let a short man with a handcart pass me, his eyes wide with earnest wonder. Kneading a tight muscle in my shoulder, I allowed myself a moment to catch my breath and calm myself. Surely I would return to the cavern to find Sadriel laughing at me.
I turned around and navigated my way back through the north-most homes of Mac’Hliah, not entirely sure which route I had taken into the city, but I could see the white-crusted peak of my mountain, so I had no fear of getting lost. Yet as I made my way through narrow alleys and winding streets, I knew I tread new ground, for I saw people I would have remembered my first time through, even in my panic.
An old man, too old for me to name his age, sat huddled against some sort of shop with dark windows, his stringy beard long gone gray, a dirty mashadah draped over his head and shoulders. Filth lined his wrinkles, and he reached for me with a wrist so thin a wintry gust from my storm could have broken it. Not far from him, on the other side of the road, huddled another man, slightly younger but in no better condition.
Beggars. My heart grew heavy at the sight of them. During my few trips into the city, I had always taken the main roads either to the market or to the palace and always with others to distract me. I had never stepped foot on this edge of town. How many more homeless wandered the streets without help or home? Did Imad know about them?
I reached into my dress for my coin pouch and pulled it free, working open the cord-closed mouth. The first man looked at me hopefully, but when I poured out half the coins into his hand, his eyes turned round and awed. It was as if he had never seen so much money in his life. Perhaps he hadn’t. I had unknowingly given him enough to buy a camel. He seemed unfazed by the cold e
manating from my gloved hand. I smiled at him, feeling the weariness of my long walk drain away.
The rest I handed to the second man, who mumbled something incoherent and bowed to me. I shook my head and said, “Jya,” meaning no, for I made no sacrifice; I had everything I needed, and the coins I’d been given were excessive. I glanced over my shoulder before continuing on my way.
I had almost reached the city’s edge when I saw one last beggar, a woman who looked to be in her forties, with a mashadah of her own wrapped about her head, and a tattered shirt and skirt covering skin riddled with stretch marks. She was washing what looked like a long sock in a shallow puddle in the street. Where the water had come from, I wasn’t sure. My guess was that it must be from one of the camel troughs around the corner.
She glanced to me, unperturbed by my appearance, and continued kneading and folding the sock in the muddy water.
I had no coin to give her, and I dared not ask the others to spare some of what I had given them, but I could not walk by and do nothing. My cold heart wrenched itself, sending shivers down my back and arms.
I searched myself for something to give her—even my head scarf would be an improvement over what she wore. But as I reached for it, I touched my braid and had a thought. An uneasy thought, for I had always been fond of my hair, and despite its grandmotherly color, I considered it to be one of the last vestiges of beauty I had left.
I stepped forward and in Hraric said, “May I talk to you? I won’t hurt you.”
She glimpsed me for only a moment and nodded her head, tirelessly working on that sock that would never get clean.
“I come from Iyoden, in the north,” I explained slowly. “In Iyoden, girls sometimes sell their hair for money. Do they do that here?”
She paused in her washing; I noticed her cracked knuckles. With a frown she pulled up the edge of her mashadah, revealing a scalp almost void of hair, save for a few scraggly pieces. I could only imagine such a thing coming from either abuse or illness, but I did not inquire.
I pulled my own braid over my shoulder and rubbed it between my fingers. I took a deep breath and said, “Could you use this?”
Now she looked at me with the sort of stare to which I had grown accustomed.
“It won’t hurt you, and you can dye it,” I said. “Could you sell this?”
She hesitated for a long moment, glancing between my face and my braid. She finally nodded slowly, unsure.
“Do you have a knife?”
Hesitant to take her eyes off me, the woman reached behind her and pulled out a small paring knife, the dull blade barely two inches long and rusted at that, the sort of knife used in a kitchen for things like potatoes and radishes. I took it from her. Though she flinched at my cold aura, she did not move away from me.
I grabbed my hair at the nape of my neck and set the knife against the top of the braid. I admit I hesitated for a moment, but I knew the hair would grow back. Besides, I really had no need for it. I carefully sawed through it with the dull blade until the last strand came free—about three feet of hair. To my own shock, when I held it out to her, it was not white as an old woman’s, but a soft blond, the color my hair had been when I was seventeen. I marveled at it for a moment. Severed from me, the locks no longer held the curse.
“Gold,” she murmured, for blond hair was nowhere to be seen in the Southlands.
I smiled and handed her the braid, which she took with delicate fingers. “Sell it for as high as you can,” I insisted.
She nodded and quickly scrubbed her eyes with the back of her hands.
I smiled, feeling light within, and for a fleeting moment I did not feel cold. Standing, I handed her my head scarf as well. I didn’t need that, either; I hardly had trouble keeping off the sun.
I walked back to the caverns without a real path to follow, but I felt so glad inside, sweeter than a hundred honey taffies. Almost enough to forget the soreness in my joints, my bones of ice. The cheer morphed into a strange sort of fullness as I continued on my way, so much so that I almost wanted to thank Sadriel the next time I saw him.
The trek to the cave, much of which was uphill, would have made a normal woman sweaty and sunburnt, but I was just breathless, and my thinning slippers and the hem of my dress were dirty. I hated to do it, but I would have to ask for new shoes the next time I saw Aamina. Preferably sturdier ones.
As I neared the mountains, I spied someone leaning against the lip of the cavern by my door, feeding his camel from a wide canvas sack. I could not help but smile when I recognized Lo, still dressed in his indigo uniform, but free of his helmet and mashadah. When he saw me, my short, uneven hair tousled by the wind, he made no gesture other than raising one eyebrow.
“What is this?” he asked, fastening the feeding bag to his camel’s saddle.
I touched the frayed ends and shrugged, pausing a moment to catch my breath. “It’s a long walk back here; I didn’t want to carry the extra weight.”
He smirked. “I would not say it is becoming, but it suits you. But why have you gone to the city again, and without a ride or escort?”
“I . . .” I couldn’t think of an excuse. Scarlet sunlight far to the west cast a red glow over Lo, making his uniform look violet and his earrings orange. “Do you want to come inside? Do you have long?”
He narrowed his eyes but followed me inside and waited silently as I built up the fire.
“I bought some coffee today. I . . . Qisam thought you might like this kind,” I said, going to the small table where my purchase sat. I could smell its richness before I even reached the bag. “If you’d like, I—”
“Misa,” he said, dropping the s from my name, “why did you go into the city?”
I glanced at him, subconsciously working the muscles of my frozen hands. “Is that not all right? I was only there for a few minutes. And thank you, for speaking to Imad. It means—”
“Only a few minutes. I know; I saw the cloud. Why?”
I didn’t answer. I used to be such a good liar. Where had those skills gone?
I fumbled an answer. “I was worried. About Aamina.”
He frowned. “If that’s true, then tell me where Aamina lives.”
I hesitated too long.
He stepped toward me. Perhaps it was a trick of the firelight, but he seemed very, very tall. “Who was in here, that day I heard you shouting?”
I glanced down at the carpets, then forced myself to meet his eyes. “That was two months ago, Lo.”
He stared at me so intensely I thought I could feel a hole drilling right into my forehead.
He dropped his hands to his hips. “If you do not trust me—”
“No,” I interrupted. “No, I . . . trust you.” My pulse throbbed from breast to chin. Could he hear it?
“You said I would not believe you if you told me,” he said, pulling out a chair and sitting in it. “I am listening.”
I bit my lower lip and shivered, chills running laps between my toes and ears. I ran through every possible excuse, anything I could think of that might convince him to drop the topic, perhaps even play the “trust” tactic myself. My heart feared what Sadriel might do if I were to tell anyone about his visits. There was the chance he wouldn’t care. But there was the possibility he would be angry with me, and the last time he had gotten angry . . .
Yet something inside me rioted from the idea of lying to Lo. I did trust him. Truly, I did.
So I told him about Sadriel. I told him everything.
The words flew from my mouth and crashed into the cavern around me. I told him about Mordan and my harsh rejection of him. I told him about the curse, Euwan, Bennion Hutches, and the first time I had seen Death. I told him how I left home and my conversations with Sadriel. I described him in such detail that, even with the skewed stare Lo gave me, I knew he had to believe me.
Once I started, I could not stop. I told Lo about the dogs and the hunters from the coast, even about that weak, awful moment when I almost gave in to Sadriel,
and once more I was grateful my frigid skin forbade me from flushing.
I told him about the mountains and the villages and crossing the northern border, and how terrified I was when he and Imad and the others chased me down . . . and how very afraid I was that they were more hunters come to kill me. I told him why I had been shouting that day he broke the lock on my door, why I had the bruise, and why I had feared telling him the truth. Why I still feared telling it to him. And I told him Sadriel’s threat about hurting someone within Mac’Hliah.
“And I realized I had no sway over him, so I came back,” I said, filling a cup with trembling hands and wetting my throat until the water froze.
Rather than respond right away, Lo stared past the cavern walls, taking his time to think, as he always did. I rolled my lips together, massaged my hands, and offered him water—a gesture that went unnoticed. His silence went on for so long that I went to my bookshelf and selected my book of Hraric plays to keep me occupied. My hands shook as I turned the pages but not from the cold. I read three of them before he finally spoke.
“Aluhra.”
I lifted my eyes.
“That is his name . . . in Hraric,” he explained slowly, dark gaze shifting to me. “Aluhra.”
I closed the book in my lap. “You believe me?”
“Should I not?”
I shook my head and blinked quickly to chase away tears. “Thank you. I haven’t told anyone. I don’t know . . . what he’ll do if he finds out. With any luck, he won’t.”
Clasping his hands, Lo leaned forward in his chair. “Will he come tonight?”
Again I shook my head. “I don’t know. I can’t depend on anything with him.”
Shivering, I took a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves. Without thinking of it, I touched my cheek where Death had struck me, but Lo noticed.
“You are afraid.” It wasn’t a question.
I didn’t want to be, but I nodded. “But he won’t come, not now. He stays away from the living. The uncursed living.”
Followed by Frost Page 16
