Lo considered this for a moment before standing and rolling his neck, the bones popping several times. “How much oil do you have left for the fire?”
I watched him. “Enough for a few days. Why?”
“Do you want me to stay?”
Blood rushed to my cheeks even without the heat.
He motioned to the front of the cave with a jerk of his head. “Over there,” he clarified. “If you are afraid, I will stay.”
My heart threatened to break my ribs. “But won’t Imad—”
“Even my sheikh cannot keep me every hour. There are men to fill in for me. Misa, do you want me to stay?”
I nodded.
He moved to the north wall, ready to pull down a drapery, but I scurried to my feet and pulled the blankets from my bed. “Use these,” I said, holding them up. “They make no difference to me.”
“For my camel?”
“I don’t mind.”
Lo accepted them, then studied the one I had woven of the Finger Mountains, my storm, and the birds. “Your talent is growing.”
I smiled.
He stepped outside, brought his camel into the lip of the cave, and covered it, then set the last blanket beside the fire, rolling it at one end to form a pillow. When he had finished, he glanced at me as though we hadn’t just had a conversation about Death and him staying the night and asked, “What coffee?”
Smiling, I tossed him the bag and set the pitcher by the fire to warm.
CHAPTER 22
I did not sleep well that night. It was in part due to the cold, in part my determination not to let my teeth chatter in the silence between wintry gusts that swooped over the cavern, and in part because I was very aware of Lo’s presence on my floor. He lay far from my reach, and I could not see him unless I sat up, but my thoughts ran rampant, and I could not—or, perhaps, did not want to—rein them in.
I do not think he slept well, either. The moment I dimmed the lamp he went into guard mode—utterly silent, his body tense and ready to spring at any moment, much like a panther. His eyes had a way of seeing everything at once, while never looking at anything directly, and I knew even the faintest shiver would not escape his watch. I listened to his breathing as I massaged the cramps in my calves and sides. It did not sound like the breathing of a sleeping man. I felt guilty for stealing away his sleep. But I hadn’t felt so safe since before I left Euwan, when I had a sturdy home to sleep in and a strong-armed father just down the hall.
Sadriel did not come.
Not long before dawn I selected River of Tears from my bookshelf and began reading through it—it was a short novel about an old man who loses everything in a fire and, using the roof of his ruined house as a boat, travels upstream until he can find a new home. What he finds is an ancient burial ground, where he lies down and dies among the bodies of his unknown ancestors. It was my least favorite of my books and the least read among my small collection. I preferred happy endings, though I appreciated that the story was rich with symbolism.
At the first pink light of dawn Lo rose wordlessly from his bed and took his time folding his blanket and stacking it at the foot of the bed. I set down my book and poured oil on the coals to light the fire. I found myself constantly tucking strands of hair behind my ears—I had cut it too short to tie.
“Are you cold?” I asked.
“I am fine.”
“Do you want some coffee?”
I stood up and grabbed the pitcher before he could answer, then slipped outside to gather fresh snow. It fell in wide, soft flakes, silent and beautiful, catching the colors of the sunrise. I watched it for a moment before heading back into the cavern, shutting the door quickly behind me.
Lo was sitting on the edge of my bed, turning over River of Tears in his hands, running a calloused finger down its broken spine. He regarded me with a faint grin, and I smiled back at him. I set the tarnished pitcher on the coals to warm.
“You never told me what you thought of this one.”
I took my patterned head scarf—I had given away the mustard one—wrapped it around my forehead, and knotted it at the nape of my neck to hold back my hair. “It’s well written and thoughtful, but it’s a sad story with a sad ending.” A tale of a man truly alone.
“Hmm.” He turned the book over. “I always read it when I became too aware of myself. When I ‘could not see the big picture,’ as you might say in the Northlands. I find it . . . realistic.”
“Realism is what philosophy is for,” I said, wetting a rag to wipe out the previous night’s cups. The water froze on the fingers of my gloves. Lo put down the book and took the rag from me, cleaning the cups himself. “Fiction is for dreamers.”
He smirked. “Is it?”
I turned up the flame in the oil lamp. “Why else would one read unbelievable stories but in hopes of believing? I always saw novels as an outlet for which the mind can escape this world, not be tethered to it.”
“I think I know an author you may like, in that case,” Lo said, placing the cups on either end of the table. “I will have to bring you his works.”
He looked at me with those rich, dark eyes. I forced myself to look away, if only to hide a girlish grin.
To my surprise and great joy, Aamina arrived later that morning, her arms wrapped around a basket nearly too large for her to carry. Lo took it from her, and her eyes popped at the sight of him, then goggled at me in astonishment. Thankfully, she said nothing while he was present.
“I was so worried,” I said as Aamina stepped in from the snow, her shoulders and head scarf nearly soaked. “Your sister, is she well?”
“Yes, yes, she’s healthy as a wild pig. But child, that babe wanted to come into this world feetfirst, and you must know what a poor idea that is, and bad luck at that. Oh goodness, if that midwife had arrived ten heartbeats later—”
Lo gathered his things as Aamina prattled, silently excusing himself. However, as Aamina began unloading yarn and foodstuffs from her basket, Lo leaned down to me, his fingers brushing my scarf, and whispered, “You do not have a cold heart, Misa.”
My pulse quickened at the feel of his breath on my skin, and his words stopped my heart completely.
He left without a second glance back, disappearing into the drifting snow.
Aamina continued her story behind me, but I admit I did not hear it. My body had fixed itself to the ground, as though the cavern floor had risen and solidified about my ankles. I stood there, barely breathing, staring at the door. Staring at the place Lo had been just moments before.
“You do not have a cold heart.”
My lips quivered, and tears blurred my vision. I pressed one palm to my lips and the other over my heart, shivering and aching and feeling . . . light. A sort of airy relief I can’t describe passed through me at those words, words I hadn’t realized I needed to hear. Words that answered the question buried in the deepest part of me—the one I had never thought to ask.
And Lo . . . oh, Lo. How had he known the one simple phrase that could relieve such weight from my shoulders?
Aamina gasped. “Goodness, your hair! What have you done?”
I swallowed hard and blinked back my tears before turning around. Clearing my throat, I touched the short, uneven locks.
Aamina’s eyes bugged. “What is wrong? Are you ill?” Her brows skewed and nearly crossed each other. “Did that man do something?”
I shook my head, wiping away half-frozen tears. “No . . . no, Aamina. I’m just glad you’re back.”
She rolled her eyes, but her face lifted into a smug smile. “I told you I would be. I sent a letter with Rhono—didn’t you get it? Anyway, you’re skinnier than I remember, and I have a treat for you. Ever heard of chocolate? It comes from a funny sort of tree that grows in the Hurot Isles, and you wouldn’t think much of it on its own, but get your hands on some honey and it will do wonders for the soul.”
Using her sewing scissors, Aamina very carefully fixed my hair while wearing a pair of my gloves,
evening it out so it looked acceptable, even cropped as it was. She talked a great deal about her sister and her new nephew, and I was glad to hear they were in good health, though try as I might, half my mind lingered in Mac’Hliah, a bird perched on Lo’s shoulder, unable to fly away.
CHAPTER 23
The next time Aamina came she brought me leather shoes with hardy soles and long stockings, as well as a new mauve dress with especially baggy sleeves and a white head scarf trimmed with olive. She was insistent that I try out my new shoes, so we used my newfound mobility to journey into Mac’Hliah together for the afternoon, she on her camel and me walking alongside. The idea of me riding on the back of the saddle didn’t bother Aamina, but I did not want to risk harming her, and her camel looked at me with the sort of knowing eye that affirmed my decision to walk. Walking or riding, I was elated to leave the cavern.
When we reached Mac’Hliah, we walked through the vibrant market, which brimmed with a surprising number of soldiers. Aamina chatted about anything and everything, from how to select the best melons to the strange shapes of moles on her husband’s body. She often spoke of her husband, who worked as a trader between countries in the Southlands and was often away. Aamina painted a laughable picture of a short, stout, dark-skinned man with half a head of hair, but I could tell from her small smiles that she cared for him deeply. I hoped I could meet him someday.
Aamina had a strange way of shopping. She stopped at nearly every booth to gander at its wares, often prodding produce or examining strings of beads against her wrist, completely ignoring the merchants’ sales pitches. She fondled this and sniffed at that but rarely pulled a coin from her purse. I wondered if she was picky or just curious. I stayed close to her, constantly aware of my surroundings, stepping this way or that to avoid brushing shoulders or startling a camel. I tried my best to smile when others stared, to laugh at the few who still crossed their chests and tapped their shoulders at the sight of me, and to nod to those who greeted me. I recognized a few of the soldiers from my spring trek to Zareed’s largest cities and waved. A few signed to me in handtalk, simple things like Hello or Nice to have some shade.
Nearly an hour into our jaunt in the city Aamina took great interest in a shop that sold clay pottery. Not wanting to hold still, and seeing the shopkeeper’s wariness over my presence, I excused myself to await Aamina outside. As I paced the store’s perimeter, I noticed a group of women across the street and down a ways, eyeing me and whispering. I paid them little mind at first, but their eyes followed my every move. While I could not hear them from such a distance, particularly over the noise of bartering and gossip, I saw them constantly shake their heads and gesture with their hands, always in my direction.
I was about to fetch Aamina when she stepped out of the shop of her own volition, a chilly breeze from my storm nearly tossing back her head scarf. She carried in her hands two bowls carefully wrapped in linen and began explaining her bargain to me when one of the women who’d been watching me, apparently startled to see us leaving, cut off a man pulling a handcart to cross the road and hurried after us. I paused and waited for her. It must have unnerved her, for she hesitated before approaching me. The other women gawked from their cluster.
“Svara Idyah,” she said, her voice quivering, “forgive my interruption”—she nodded to Aamina—“but I have a son sick at home with fever, and when I saw the clouds . . .”
She stared at me for a moment before dropping her eyes. “His body is so hot; I thought perhaps you could cool him. Anything will help.”
Astonished, I glanced back to the woman’s friends, who quickly separated and went their separate ways. Had this been their discussion? I had assumed they were eager to see the back of me.
Aamina shook her head. “Terrible news—how old is he?”
“Seven,” the woman answered, eyeing me.
“I am no doctor,” I said, “but I will try my best to help.”
The woman seemed both terrified and relieved. She wet her lips and said, “This way,” and wove back through the market, leading us around tents and down a dirt road that meandered through the homes on Mac’Hliah’s north side, closer to the mountains than the rest of the city. She said nothing as she led us, only wrung her hands together and occasionally glanced over her shoulder at me. I noticed bags under her eyes. There must have been a great deal of worry hiding beneath her skin.
She stopped at a single-level brick house and led us through a door made of hanging cloth. A few pieces of wicker furniture lined the walls of the front room, and an elaborate but faded oval rug lay over the center of the floor, a few dishes scattered atop it. The woman led us into a second, smaller room filled with narrow beds. A young boy lay on one in the corner, his black hair matted to his forehead with sweat. His eyes did not open when we entered the room, and his stomach heaved with each breath. A young woman—I can only assume his sister—knelt beside him, wiping his face with a wet rag. My presence obviously rattled her, but she did not move from her brother’s side.
The woman—her name was Boani—quickly crossed the room and knelt at her son’s side, pressing her palm first to his cheek, then to his neck.
I swallowed. This reminded me too much of Bennion Hutches.
Boani waved to me. “See? His head is too hot. Come, feel.”
“I cannot,” I said at the same time Aamina spurted, “No!”
Boani and her daughter gazed at me with wild eyes.
In careful Hraric, I explained that my direct touch would do more harm than good. I noticed a dented pail half-filled with water at the bedside.
“Do you have a sack?” I asked.
Boani nodded and hurried out of the room, careful not to brush me as she went.
I neared the bed, Aamina behind me. The daughter shivered.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “How long has he been sick?”
She held up two fingers. Two days.
“It looks different.”
I whirled around at the voice, causing Aamina to start, seeking that honey-slick voice that spoke the dead tongue of Angrean. Death stood in the corner of the room, his arms folded over his chest, his back leaning against the wall.
“Smeesa?” Aamina asked, studying my face. I remembered that she and the others could not see the man in the corner.
Boani returned with a burlap bag that smelled something like chicory, and I forced my attention off Sadriel. I took the bag and placed its base in the pail, twisting it until most of the water was inside its netting.
“I do not want it to snow on Mac’Hliah,” I explained as I pulled off my gloves and tucked them into the broad sleeves of my dress. “But I will do what I can to help you cool him. Has he seen a doctor?”
Boani stared at the pail and nodded.
I knelt and clasped the metal bucket between my hands. Frost etched up its sides, and for a quarter second condensation formed along the rim of the pail, but within moments the water inside it froze, clinging to the burlap.
Death appeared beside me, blocking my view of Aamina. “It’s different. What did you do?”
“Now is not the time to talk about my hair,” I snapped quietly in Angrean, though not low enough to avoid being heard. Boani eyed me strangely, likely suspecting some form of witchcraft. “Why are you—”
The truth came to me in a sudden rush of understanding, and I ripped my hands away from the bucket and glared at Sadriel. He wasn’t here for me. He was here for the boy.
“You cannot take him,” I hissed.
From behind Sadriel, Aamina whispered, “What are you saying?”
“Just talking myself through what I’m doing,” I answered in Hraric. “Boani, take this.”
Boani hurried over to me and grasped the top of the sack while I held the pail, and she lifted the solid block of ice after a few tugs.
“Not your hair,” Sadriel said, oblivious to the mortals around him. “Your curse. It looks . . . different.”
I stiffened and glanced at him, then forced my e
yes away. I did not want the others to think me insane.
To Boani, I said, “Do you have more water? For more ice?”
The word for ice was the same in Hraric and Northlander, though I pronounced it with the Zareedian accent. She nodded and nearly tripped over herself in her haste to rush out of the room.
“Are you all right?” Aamina asked, rubbing her chin.
I nodded and murmured in Angrean, “What do you mean, it’s different?”
Sadriel only shook his head and shrugged. “I can’t explain it in a way you would understand.”
My teeth chattered, and I clenched them tight. Different or no, I felt as cold as the day Mordan had cursed me. Cold as the water of Heaven’s Tear Lake, when the ice broke beneath my feet when I was ten years old. Cold as the deepest layers of snow on the highest peaks. Cold as my heart.
“You do not have a cold heart, Misa.”
I shivered. “You cannot have him.”
Without intending to, I had spoken in Northlander. Boani’s daughter narrowed her eyes and repeated in a thick accent, “Have him?”
Giving her my attention, I said, “Get some clean cloth to wrap that ice in; it will hurt him if you put it directly on his skin. I will make more for a cold-water bath to help lower his temperature.” At least, that’s what my mother had done for us when our fevers ran too high.
Winter wind swept through the windows, and Aamina hugged herself in a futile attempt to get warm. I needed to leave, soon. I nodded to the young girl and left the bedroom with the pail to search for Boani. She had already returned to the main room with a jug of water.
“Do you have a hammer?” I asked.
She nodded.
Kneeling, I poured the water into the pail and froze it. “Use the hammer to break off pieces. If you have a cellar, or even a deep hole, the ice will keep for longer there. I need to leave before snow starts to fall on the city. Can I do anything else?”
Boani shook her head, and I saw tears in her eyes, which instantly made me regret the need to make haste. “No, thank you,” she said, bowing slightly at the waist. “This has helped so much.”
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