Beasts of the Frozen Sun

by Jill Criswell

  I was clever enough to understand his plan. This was an auction, and he was creating a frenzy to raise the stakes. When it was over, the prize would go to the highest bidder. I was no better than a fertile plot of land or a well-bred mare.

  Every week the chieftain made me read the souls of his councilors, to ensure none plotted against him. All except Madoc, who was exempted from this indignity for some reason, no matter how much I tried to convince Torin this was a mistake.

  “What will you do when I’m gone?” I asked after what felt like the hundredth time I’d delved into the guilt of the councilmen, searching for betrayal. I’d found various misdeeds, but none committed against the chieftain. “How will you trust anyone without a soul-reader to ensure their loyalty, when you’ve married me off and I no longer belong to you?”

  “You’ll always belong to me.” Torin stood at a window, looking out at the village. He was cagey as usual, like he was waiting for someone to come and burn down everything he’d built. “A husband won’t change that. When I call, you will come.”

  It sounded eerily similar to things Draki had said when he tried to get inside my head. I realized then that there would be no escaping Torin. No matter what I did, no matter where I went, the chieftain would never let me go.

  Though Torin’s order for me to teach Reyker our language was meant as a ruse, I followed through. Reyker wanted to improve, and I enjoyed teaching him. He knew a great deal of Glasnithian, but there were always grammar rules to practice, new words to learn. For everything we spoke of in Glasnithian, Reyker taught me its equivalent in Iseneldish. We grappled through each other’s muddy lexicons, teaching, correcting, learning. We told jokes, sang songs, shared the legends of our people and our gods. I was as fascinated by his language and the stories of his people as he was by mine.

  As I sang the ballad about the woman whose love was lost at sea, Reyker tilted his head and smiled. “Do you think her love found her after?”

  “After what?”

  Reyker rinsed off with the water I’d brought him. His time in the sun had darkened his pale skin. He was one of several laborers clearing the remains of my family’s ruined cottage—salvaging stones, building a new home on the site. I wondered if anyone had dared question the chieftain’s decision to burn it down in the first place.

  “After she died. In the world after death.”

  “Maybe. It’s up to the god of death. If Gwylor judges a person worthy, they enter his Eternal Palace. If not, the person wanders hopelessly in the black depths of the Halls of Suffering. What of your gods?”

  He scratched absently at the slave-brand on his neck. “Seffra is mother of us all. She is love. Sjaf is our father, god of tides and sea. He is strongness.”

  “Strength,” I corrected.

  “Strength, yes. You must have love for your country and kin, and you must fight for them. If you have love and strength, no matter how you die, you go to Skjorlog Felth.” Fortune’s Field: a lush, infinite meadow, a place without pain, where the dead were united with their ancestors. The Westlanders’ Eternal Palace, in the otherworlds. “If a man is weak, if a man has a heart full of hate and he hurts his people, when he dies he will go to the goddess Ildja, queen of the worlds underground. It is a place of demons, a place of … cloud?”

  “Mist.” When the mystic showed me Reyker’s nightmare, I’d heard one of the captured warriors say this to Draki. May the Destroyers drag you into the Mist.

  “The Destroyers—the demons—bring souls to Ildja. She is a woman, but also a …” He searched his mind for the word. “Serpent.”

  I thought of the Bog Men’s legend of the venom-spitter—a snake-woman who lived deep in the earth and ate unsuspecting wanderers. Could Ildja be a venom-spitter? Were the two creatures related?

  “Ildja tortures, burns, and eats the souls of enemies and traitors.” That familiar expression crossed Reyker’s face, where the warrior crumbled to reveal a broken boy—one who feared he wouldn’t be allowed into Fortune’s Field, but would be condemned to a place of torment, where a snake-goddess would prey on him for eternity.

  He’d risked damnation for those he’d saved from the Dragonmen.

  He’d risked damnation for me.

  “Don’t let Draki decide who you are, Reyker. Don’t let him drag you into the Mist with him. Your soul doesn’t belong to him, or to Ildja.” I’d grasped his hand through the bars without realizing. I stared at our twined fingers, thinking I should let go, but not wanting to. “It was Draki who killed your mother, wasn’t it? He marked her, as he did me?”

  “Yes.” Barely a whisper. “She was a magiska, like you. Her gift was her voice. Her songs. When she sang, she could soothe a spooked horse, a feral dog, a rabid wolf. She could coax a warrior into dropping his sword in the middle of battle.”

  “But not Draki?”

  “Draki is part god. His father was mortal, but he is the goddess Ildja’s son. Years ago, Draki offered the mortal part of his soul to Ildja in exchange for an immortal’s power. Magiskas’ gifts are weak against him at best. They cannot harm him.”

  A demigod. Reyker had said as much before, that Draki was godlike, unstoppable. But Ildja’s child? This was the first he’d spoken of Draki’s lineage. It explained why I’d found nothing when I touched Draki’s soul—Ildja had already claimed it. As Gwylor had claimed part of my father.

  I’d seen firsthand what a god could do wearing a mortal’s skin. How could my country stand against someone so powerful? How could anyone?

  “My father tried to hide my mother,” Reyker said. “Draki still found her. He ensnared her mind and used her gift against his enemies, as he does with all magiskas he takes. But magiskas’ gifts are not meant to be controlled in this way; it drains them, destroys them. I didn’t know about the skoldar then. I tried to help my mother …” Reyker stopped and closed his eyes. “In the end, I could only watch her die. It was my fault.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  A shadow passed over his face. Reyker traced the skoldar on my wrist, and it warmed beneath the caress of his finger.

  I touched the other scar, the cursed one behind my ear. “If Draki comes for me, I’ll run. But if I must, I’ll give myself over to Gwylor’s judgment.” And pray the god of death was more merciful than he seemed. “I’ll die before I let Draki take me.”

  “I’ll stop him. Draki will not have you.” Reyker pressed my palm to his chest. It was sweet and it was bitter, knowing he would fight Draki to protect me, knowing it might cost him his life—that the heart flexing under my fingers could be silenced. “I think her love found her,” Reyker said, staring into his lap. “In the Eternal Palace, or Skjorlog Felth, or even the Mist. Wherever she was sent, he found her.”

  “Or perhaps she found him.”

  He looked up at me. A smile tugged at his lips.

  My escort opened the door to the cells. Our time was up. As I stood to leave, Reyker pressed something small and cool into my fingers.

  I didn’t look until we were nearing the manor. Opening my palm, I stared at the blackened metal. The small buckle from one of Rhys’s belts. It wasn’t pretty or well-made. It wasn’t what I’d choose, if I had my pick of objects to survive the fire. Yet it brought me to tears, this tiny piece of my brother Reyker had found as he dug through the wreckage of my old home, keeping it hidden so he could return it to me.

  I held it against my heart.

  “Takka thu,” I said, setting my thanks upon Anad’s winds, hoping the god would carry the message to the Westlander, delivering it with the fullness of the gratitude I felt.

  REYKER

  The door to the cells opened. He rubbed his eyes. “Lira?” It was dark outside; she never came at night.

  “Guess again, beast.”

  Just the sound of Madoc’s voice stoked his hatred. As Reyker rose, the commander came closer, standing just out
of reach. Smart. Otherwise, he’d have torn Madoc apart.

  “You and I share a mutual contempt, Westlander. We also share a mutual enemy. I believe we can help each other. Torin wants to show you off to the other clans soon. This presents a unique opportunity.” Madoc slipped a piece of metal from his pocket, setting it on the floor. The key to the shackles Reyker wore every time he was let out of his cell. “Kill the chieftain.”

  Reyker held his tongue.

  “I know who you are,” Madoc said. “Reyker of Vaknavangur. Son of Lagor and Katrin. A lordling, before your village was destroyed.”

  Reyker felt like he’d been punched in the chest. He didn’t blink.

  “Your family was influential in your homeland, and that makes you valuable. Unlike my brother, I believe our people can coexist. But I need a contact I can trust, and I need Torin dead by an invader’s hand, so it cannot be traced back to me. We have much to offer each other. Lira, for instance.”

  Reyker took a slow, controlled breath.

  “Unless you don’t want her. In which case, I’ll find someone who does.” Madoc placed a finger behind his ear. “The Dragon, perhaps.”

  Briefly, Reyker’s composure slipped—a twitch of his jaw, nothing more.

  Madoc’s eyes lit up, victorious. “Torin’s always been soft on the girl, indulging her. Lira won’t break cleanly. After enough time at Draki’s mercy, her mind will crack, her spirit will dim. A terrible way to die, don’t you agree?”

  Reyker gripped the bars, thinking of Draki’s mark cut into Lira’s skin. It had kept Reyker alive through beatings and insults, through hopeless nights lying in the dirt, cold and aching and lonely. He had to live, to kill Draki when he came for her.

  “It doesn’t have to end that way.” With his boot, Madoc pushed the key closer. “Agree to my terms, and the girl is yours. Refuse me, and you’ll die in this cell tonight.”

  There was a trap here. This was a dangerous man to make deals with. But Reyker had no other options. He picked up the key—a symbolic acceptance.

  “You’re smarter than you look, beast.”

  Madoc explained what he wanted as Reyker listened. When the commander was done, he drew his dirk. “You should know, if you fail to carry out your end of the bargain, I’ll make it my mission to ruin you.” He stabbed the blade into the dirt floor to punctuate his words. “And I’ll start with her.”

  There was no turning back.

  Lira had tied herself to Reyker when she’d dragged him from the harbor, and again when she’d saved him from her father’s sword. Reyker had cinched the knot tighter with this deal.

  If he failed, they would both pay for it in blood.

  Winter is beneath me. The Savage rides beside me on his demonic black steed, his hand closing around my elbow. Jerking me from my horse. The forest vanishes as I fall, and the world turns white. I land on an icy surface that crackles under my weight. Silver droplets of snow drift from the sky. Before I can move, Draki is on top of me, pinning me down.

  “I am your god.” His voice is deeper than the frozen loch we lay on. “You will forget him. He cannot save you.”

  “Forget who?” My own voice is a frightened wisp.

  He smiles. The sight makes me shiver. I try to pull away from him, pressing my back harder against the ice. There’s a sharp crunch as it shatters.

  I plunge into waters darker and colder than anything I’ve ever known.

  My eyes opened to the waxen light of morning spilling through my bedroom window. I touched the icy scar behind my ear, the terror of the dream slowly fading as another took its place.

  Today we would leave for the conclave. Reyker had refused to tell me anything vital that Torin could use against Iseneld. By Torin’s decree, torture awaited Reyker in Selkie’s Quay, and likely death. I could no longer protect him.

  I dressed slowly, avoiding leaving my room as long as possible, but from the other side of the door, Sloane called out, “You have a visitor.”

  Ishleen awaited me in the parlor. She hadn’t spoken to me since the day Reyker was caught. I’d been naive to hope she’d not judge me without hearing my side. I didn’t blame her, but it still stung.

  “Good morrow.” I spoke as if she were a stranger.

  Ishleen hesitated before returning the stiff greeting. “You’re journeying with Lord Torin and the others?”

  “I am.”

  “Well.” Ishleen fidgeted. “Safe travels.”

  “Is that all you came to say?” I couldn’t hide the hurt I felt. “Why are you here? I thought you were mad at me.”

  “Bloody right I’m mad at you!” she shouted, making me jump. “What were you thinking? You protected one of those things. You lied to me, and you made me complicit, healing an invader with potions I made for you. Don’t you know what could’ve happened, what that beast could’ve done to you?”

  “I’m sorry I lied, but Reyker wouldn’t hurt me. You don’t even know him.”

  “Reyker? ” Her eyes threatened to pop out of her head. “You gave the beast a name?”

  “He had a name before he came here. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. He’s just a warrior, not so different from us—”

  “Don’t compare me to an invader.” Ishleen’s shock turned to revulsion. “You know what the villagers call you? Traitor. Beast-whore. I’ve stood up for you, told them they’re wrong. But here you are, talking about a beast like he’s innocent. You’re making it hard to defend you.”

  “Then don’t. Think whatever you wish. I’ve nothing left to say to you.” I started back up the stairs.

  “Wait,” she said. “I came to warn you, to tell you … do you remember the dream I told you about, with the birds? I still have it each night, only now it’s changed. The lammergeiers swarm around us, but your hand has slipped from mine. I can’t see you. All I see is feathers. But I hear a voice calling to us. ‘Arise, daughter,’ he says.” Her eyes were damp, her voice trembling. “Oh, Lira, I’m so frightened of what it could mean.”

  “Ishleen. Everything will be all right.” I tried to sound convincing, but her dreams frightened me as well. They could be omens, as she suspected. If they were, it meant Ishleen was also a Daughter of Aillira. Two in the same clan. It wasn’t supposed to be possible, according to the Immortal Scriptures, but I no longer trusted the scriptures’ assertions.

  Sloane called my name.

  Impulsively, I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around Ishleen. “I have to go. We’ll talk more when I return?”

  We’ll heal the rift between us, I told her silently. We’ll be as sisters once more. Together we’ll discover the meaning of your dreams and defend ourselves against whatever may come.

  After a moment, Ishleen hugged me back. “I hope so,” she replied.

  Warriors milled about the stables, awaiting our departure. Torin was overseeing the organization of mounts and supplies. Madoc came to see us off, attached to Torin’s ear as usual. Something in my uncle’s gaze unsettled me. He gloated, as if he’d already achieved victory and was awaiting his prize.

  Another figure stepped into the bright day’s warmth. Sunlight sparked Reyker’s hair to spun gold, thawed the frozen pools of his eyes into crystal springs. He glanced up, his eyes snagging mine before we both looked away.

  A stable boy brought our mounts, and I was overjoyed when he handed me Wraith’s reins. I had Rhys’s belt buckle affixed to my knife’s sheath, and now I had Garreth’s horse. These small remnants of my brothers strengthened me. I stared into the distance, taking in the rolling hills and the cliffs, the cottages and the sanctuary. A small fear nagged at me, the feeling that I might not see my village again, or that if I did, everything would be different.

  “Mount up and move out,” Torin called.

  Thus, our journey began.

  Selkie’s Quay was roughly thirty leagues from Stony Harbor.
We traveled through the Tangled Forest, into the meadows beyond, and along the pass between the Silverspire Mountains. As we rode, I studied the men around me. There were thirteen of us in all—me riding in the center, flanked by guards. Torin was in the lead with Reyker close behind, his wrists manacled and a metal collar around his neck, its long chain fastened to Torin’s saddle. A leash, meant to restrain a wild beast. That’s all Reyker was to them.

  That night, we made a simple camp. The guards took turns keeping watch in pairs, making escape near impossible and dashing any hopes I’d had of helping Reyker get free.

  We spent the next day crossing the rim of the sprawling moorlands known as the Green Desert. If the Tangled Forest was the head of Glasnith, the Green Desert was the island’s broad shoulders, stretching from one coast to the other. The desert was hilly and wild, unsheltered from storms, too barren to plant crops, too rugged to raise cattle. There were no clans in the desert, only pockets of nomads—exiles, fugitives, and undesirables, forced to abandon their lives and reside in the wasteland, outside of clan rule. They were skittish folk, and many people referred to them as ghosts. True to form, when our procession happened upon a few of their tents, the nomads scattered and vanished.

  I searched for Garreth among them, before realizing he’d never resort to hiding under rocks with lepers and thieves. But where was he? My brother wouldn’t leave me alone in Stony Harbor, I was certain of it. If he hadn’t found help after his exile, he might have succumbed to his wound. Had Gwylor taken him, as the god of death had taken Rhys?

  It was a possibility I wasn’t ready to face yet.

  We reached a rustic inn that night, the only one for many leagues. I slept on a cot in a room I shared with Torin, while the rest of the men camped outside.

  Just before nightfall on the third day, we reached Selkie’s Quay. We turned our horses over to the stable hands, heading for the pier. The conclave would take place at the village stronghold, built on the black rocks rising out of a notorious patch of the Shattered Sea.