Beasts of the Frozen Sun

by Jill Criswell

  “What?” he asked.

  “You. You stand out. You’re too tall. Your hair’s too light. Your eyes—” They looked into mine curiously, and I lost the thread of my thoughts. I tore my gaze from his and focused on the maps. “Your eyes are too blue. You’re a bloody frost giant.”

  For some reason, he found that hilarious.

  “I’ll give you some of Garreth’s clothes. They’ll be tight on you, but serviceable. If you wear a cloak and keep the hood pulled low, you’ll draw less attention. I could cut your hair or try to dye it with powder.”

  He grabbed possessively at the long strands of gold.

  “Vain, aren’t you?” I teased. “It doesn’t matter. Hair or no, you’ll never blend in.”

  We’d received messages from other clans that Westlander invasions were escalating along the coasts—possessions stolen, men slaughtered, cottages burned. Men and women put in shackles, taken as slaves. When the invaders took their leave, entire villages were left in ruins. The clans wanted vengeance. Reyker wouldn’t be safe until he was off Glasnith.

  I pulled out the skin of wine I’d brought, drinking deeply to ease my nerves before passing it to him. We ate and drank, discussed and planned.

  Once the details were settled, I asked to read his soul one final time. “I know I don’t deserve it, after what I did, but I’d like to try. All this time, I’ve been pushing my way into your memories, choosing which ones you relive. This time, you choose. I’d like to see one of your happiest moments, if you’ll let me.” I offered a contrite smile, making it hard for him to say no.

  He narrowed his eyes, like he could see right through me, but after thinking for a bit, he took my hand and placed it on his chest.

  I drifted into his memory.

  I gather my spear and bow, strap knives to my belt, readying for the hunt.

  Mother’s voice carries from down the hall. “I don’t want him to go. The ice is melting. It’s dangerous.”

  “The winter stock is depleted,” Father says. “Our people are starving, Katrin. If we don’t replenish our stores, Reyker will starve with them. He knows the land. He can hunt and track as well as any of the men.”

  “You push him too hard.”

  “He pushes himself.”

  “To be like you. To be like his brother, whose thirst for glory earned him an early grave. Can’t we let him be a boy for another year?”

  Father sighs. “This is what it means to be lord. One day the village will be his to protect and lead. He must prove to himself that he can. No one will follow a man who doesn’t believe in his own abilities.”

  I stomp past them, heading for the door.

  “Reyker?” Mother calls.

  I ignore her, rushing outside to my mount, joining the other men. There’s little snow. The earth is brownish green, budding with life, on the cusp of spring. The women of the village watch from their doorways, clutching their children, faces drawn with worry. They have a shadowed, gaunt look about them. We all do.

  Father leads the hunting party, heading for the mountains. “That was disrespectful,” he scolds, riding beside me.

  “Mother thinks me a child,” I say. “She doesn’t believe in me.”

  Father chuckles. “Yes, she does. That’s the problem. She sees your fate, Reyker. You’ll lead by example. You’ll march beside your men into battle. You’ll give all of yourself, sacrifice everything to defend your lands and your people. It will make you a great lord, but it’s a hard life. Your mother fears the treacherous road you must travel. So do I.”

  I ponder this as the party arrives at the foot of the mountains. There are fresh hoofprints. We follow them until we spot the giant elk near the high banks of the Fjokull River, chewing on tufts of newly sprouted grass, forked antlers rising above its bowed head. It’s thin from the long winter, but huge. Enough meat to feed the entire village for days.

  The men surround the creature. Arrows slice the air, hitting home. The elk arches its broad neck and bays. Glassy eyes rolling, it bolts, hooves slipping on the rocks.

  “No,” the men say, a quiet prayer that becomes a shout as the elk trips and falls over the banks. “No!”

  I don’t think. I leap from my horse and sprint to the edge, barely hearing the gasps and cries of the men, of my father, as I jump after the elk.

  I land feetfirst, arms at my sides. The cold is jarring, but I’m used to swimming in frigid water. What I don’t expect is the current. The river is swollen with snowmelt, and it sweeps me into its fierce grip. I slam into rocks, white water sucking me under. There’s a moment of panic, of death’s shadow looming, and then I fight, breaking the surface.

  The elk floats ahead of me, and I swim, grabbing its hind leg. I dig into the water with one arm, kicking, towing the elk.

  Before me, the land suddenly ends. The water drops. How tall are these falls? Trapped in the veins of the gushing river, I hear little else. Tall enough, I assume.

  Death for me.

  Death for the villagers.

  I push myself, fighting the water, pulling the elk, aiming for the bank. Rocks are everywhere, and the river beats me against them. The falls are close. The rocks—it’s the only way. I let the river shove me. Slammed into two rocks, I thrust a leg into the space between them, sling my free arm around one, clinging desperately, still clutching the elk with my other hand.

  Water batters me. I shiver, cold seeping into my bones. My leg is squeezed, sharp needles climbing from ankle to hip. My arms ache, each pulled taut, muscles cramping. I could let the elk go, clamber onto shore.

  Death for the villagers.

  “No,” I growl through chattering teeth. I can do this. Mother believes in me.

  How long am I there, freezing, beaten, wrenched by the river? How long until I hear Father’s voice calling, feel arms reaching for me, securing my burden, lifting me from the water? Hours, it seems. Their hands dig and pull. With the relief of letting go of the elk comes a flood of pain. Father already sent for healers, and they bend over me, prodding and fussing. I’m stripped, bandaged, wrapped in blankets.

  The ride back is hazy, but the reception clears my head—villagers cheering, shouting my name, greeting me as a hero.

  Even Mother, furious as she is with me, with Father, smiles and hugs me proudly. There’s a celebration: wine and ale and heaping bowls of elk stew. People crowd around, slapping my shoulder, toasting me. I’m sore and limping, but I am so alive.

  I opened my eyes and took a steadying breath. Reyker looked back at me with a bright, unfamiliar grin.

  “I wish you’d shown me this memory sooner,” I said. “Were you hiding it from me?”

  “No.” He patted his chest. “From me.”

  “Why?”

  “Death.” He stared into his lap. “Mother, Father, village. All.”

  I knew what had happened to his village, to the people in it. Those tragedies couldn’t be undone. But if Reyker could move beyond his loss, he could rekindle the purpose he’d lit upon when he dove into the river. “Hold on to this memory. When darkness surrounds you and you fear you’ll give in, remember it. Hold it as tightly as you gripped the elk.”

  He bowed his head. “Thank you.”

  “You can be a good man, Reyker.” I clasped his hand. “I believe in you.”

  He put his hand over mine and his gaze changed subtly, like a veil had fallen from his eyes. “Thu aer vakk,” he said.

  “Vakk?”

  “Beautiful.”

  You are beautiful.

  I looked at Reyker, really looked at him, feeling the weight of everything that had been slowly building between us these last weeks. “Thu aer vakk, Reyker.”

  As if he couldn’t help himself, he brushed a strand of my hair with his fingertips.

  My pulse sped up, spiked by fear and something else I didn’t yet understand. Th
is wasn’t supposed to happen. I was only meant to redeem him; I was never supposed to care about him. I couldn’t care about him—it was a betrayal of my country, my clan. Of Rhys.

  I stood abruptly, backing away.

  “Lira?” Reyker moved cautiously toward me, aware of our roles: he the wolf, and I the deer that might spring away.

  If I was smart like a deer, I’d have run before the threat cornered me, but the closer he got, the less willing my limbs were to evade him. He stood in front of me, the heat of his skin caressing me across the gap between our bodies. “We can’t.”

  “No?” His hands were at his sides, waiting for permission. He wouldn’t breach the space between us unless I consented.

  “You’re a Westlander!” I was suddenly furious at him for making me feel so weak. “I hate your kind. I hate …” I couldn’t say it. It wasn’t true.

  “Hate me.”

  I raised my eyes to his. My reluctance was a speck of snow landing on a fire—trifling, dissolving. Here, now, he wasn’t an invader. Just a man.

  “I wish I hated you.” I leaned my head against him and his arms settled lightly around my waist. His eyes closed as I trailed my fingertips over the faded bite marks on his torso. His face was relaxed, but his hands twitched as if it took boundless effort not to use them.

  “Reyker?” My voice was a hoarse purr, asking for things I couldn’t put into words.

  When his eyes opened, they reflected my own longing. His palm pressed the small of my back, drawing me closer. His fingers glided through my hair, curling behind my ear. Brushing over the scar the Savage had left there.

  The change in him was instant.

  His body tensed, the blood rushing from his face, hand shaking as he traced the wound. He angled my head to the side, gathering my hair out of the way. Phantoms eddied in the dark pools of his eyes as he stared at my scar.

  The sweetness between us shattered, my desire buried by my rage.

  “Who is he?” I trembled with fury. “The Westlander who marked me and killed my brother?”

  Reyker looked haunted. I should’ve been kinder. I’d been inside his nightmares; I knew how the Savage had made him suffer. Yet all I could think of was Rhys dying in my arms. “Tell me his name.” When Reyker said nothing, I hammered his chest with my fists. “His name!”

  He wheezed like he was choking on the name, fighting to cage it. It forced its way up his throat, and he spit it out in a strangled rush. “Draki!”

  “Draki.” My tongue rolled over the thick tiers of each syllable. The name tasted of blood and bile, the dank must of a bottomless abyss. “He’s the one you came here with years ago, isn’t he?” I’d sensed it, when the Savage grabbed me, that I had felt his touch before. “He leads the invaders. Has he marked others?”

  “Magiska,” Reyker said through clenched jaws. “Girls with gifts.”

  My mouth went dry, thinking of how Draki had looked at me. Like I belonged to him: my mind, my soul, my abilities. “He wants to use me.”

  I worried briefly about Aillira’s Temple, and what Draki might do to the pledges if he found them, before remembering how protected it was—by guards and spells and every defense the Daughters of Aillira had been gifted with. It was probably the safest place in all of Glasnith.

  “Will Draki come back for me?”

  Reyker pressed his lips into a thin line, wrath contorting his face, telling me all I needed to know. “I stay here,” he said. “When Draki comes, I kill him.”

  I’d already lost my brother to Draki’s blade. Westlander or not, I couldn’t abide Reyker sacrificing himself. “You aren’t staying. I won’t let you die for me.”

  “I will—”

  “No!” I smacked my palms into his chest. “Go home. Defeat Draki in Iseneld, where your gods can help you.”

  “Gods aflame, Lira! Why you do not listen to me? The Dragonmen will return, and they will do worse—”

  “Reyker? How are your words so clear?” He froze. Lowered his head, averting guilty eyes. “You speak as if … you already know the language.” I took a step back. “Where did you learn Glasnithian?”

  He raked a hand through his hair. “Prisoners.”

  Of course. The first time I saw Reyker, there were other prisoners tied up in the boat. I wondered what horrors befell those men after Draki was done using them.

  “You lied.” All the nights Reyker and I had spent together, speaking in gestures and broken sentences. All an elaborate ruse. I felt like a fool.

  “Not a lie.” He sighed, chasing after me as I stormed off. “I did not speak Glasnithian for many years. I forgot. I came here and spoke with you. I remembered.”

  “Yet you let me believe you needed to be taught.”

  “It was safer if you did not know.”

  Safer for him if I babbled on and spilled secrets, thinking he didn’t understand.

  He blocked my path, sidestepping when I tried to go around him. “And I like how you teach. How you listen and understand without words. Forgive me.”

  I glanced up at him, then quickly away. He was giving me that look again, the one that threatened to undo me. “Fine. You’re forgiven.” What did it matter? He was leaving tomorrow; we’d never see each other again. I swallowed hard. “You look tired. We should go.”

  We walked in silence, Draki’s shadow hovering between us. By the time we got to the hovel, Reyker was swaying on his feet. I pointed at the blanket. “Sleep.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You give me orders now?”

  “Please,” I added with false sweetness.

  He sat down, arms crossed, scowling like a stubborn child. Blinking heavily. Slumping over almost instantly. Knowing how little he slept, how much he needed rest before his journey, I’d slipped one of Ishleen’s sleeping draughts into the wine when he wasn’t looking and let him drain the skin.

  I took off his boots, adjusted the blanket beneath him, and told myself to leave.

  I didn’t. I sat beside Reyker, watching him sleep.

  His body twitched, jaw stiff, teeth grinding. Nightmares. No wonder he fought off sleep. How long had Draki haunted Reyker’s dreams?

  How long would Draki haunt mine?

  Reyker gasped, clawing at the blanket. “It’s all right,” I said, pushing hair back from his forehead. “You’re safe, Reyker.”

  When I touched him, his hand shot out, clenching my arm. I started to wake him, but stopped, remembering how his mother sang to him. In a hushed half whisper, I sang the ballad about the woman whose love was lost at sea, the song I’d been singing just before I found Reyker in the harbor. At the sound of my voice, he quieted, his breath slowing. He curled onto his side and burrowed his head into my lap.

  “I don’t care that you’re leaving,” I told him. “I won’t miss you at all.”

  He mumbled softly in his sleep. I traced the ridged skin of his warrior-mark, feeling the pull of time rushing onward, the inevitable flux of darkness fleeing the encroaching day.

  This was all we would ever have.

  I moved through the day in a fog, chewing my nails and pacing, going over lists and plans in my mind. There was nothing more I could do. It was up to Reyker whether he made it off Glasnith or …

  I couldn’t finish that thought.

  Seeking solace, I made my way toward the sanctuary. I was nearly there before I realized someone was following me. When I turned, Dyfed’s son froze, glaring; it wasn’t the first time I’d caught Ennis haunting my steps. “If you’re going to stalk me, at least let me apologize.”

  The boy spat in my direction and ran.

  I found the sanctuary empty. From the niche within the stone wall, I chose three brass lamps, holding each to the torch that burned at the center of the sanctuary. One for Garreth. One for Quinlan. One for Reyker. I spoke their names into the fire as I lit the lamps, offering prayers
for their protection.

  “Is it truly your will that I aid a Westlander?” I asked the gods. “That I redeem him and help him escape, as the mystic instructed?”

  A squawk answered. Lammergeiers perched in the arched windows of the tower, watching. Veronis—the Great Betrayer—had worn the guise of lammergeiers as he observed the mortal world. Perhaps these were gods looking down upon me now.

  I bowed to them, just in case. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  Night came. I donned Rhys’s clothes and snuck to the stables, where a sentry was posted to watch for thieves. Stomping on a branch, I cracked it beneath my foot.

  The noise brought the sentry running. From the trees beside the stables, Reyker snuck up behind him. One quick punch to the sentry’s head, and he was unconscious. Reyker took the sentry’s sword and dragged him into the stables, tying him up and pushing him into one of the stalls so it would look like the work of a vagabond horse thief.

  I saddled Wraith, Garreth’s stallion; I didn’t want to lose my brother’s horse, but Wraith was fast and would serve Reyker well. As I buckled the straps, my sleeve slipped, exposing the scar on my wrist.

  Skoldar, Reyker called it. A shield-scar, meant to protect me. And it had. Draki had been furious when he saw the skoldar. Somehow it dampened the effects of the mark the warlord had cut into me. Without it, I’d be Draki’s prisoner. His slave. I allowed myself to accept what I’d suspected for some time—when Reyker had marked me, he’d saved my life.

  The blind mystic’s warning echoed in my mind: Many forces seek to destroy him.

  It was these thoughts that made me take off my medallion. I tried to slip the rope over Reyker’s head, but he took hold of my hands. “No.”

  “It’ll protect you.”

  He slipped the medallion around my neck, his fingers sliding down the rope, brushing my skin in a way that made my breath catch. “You keep this. For your mother.”

  “If you won’t accept the medallion, there’s another way.” I pricked my finger on my knife, mixing my blood with a handful of earth, motioning for him to open his collar. On his chest I drew four blades with a moonflower blooming where the steel-tips touched, an ancient protection symbol: Llewlin and his three sons were the blades, and the flower was his daughter, Aillira, uniting them. “This marks you as one of us, so forest creatures won’t harm you.”