Beasts of the Frozen Sun

by Jill Criswell

  Mago patted his spear. “Try anything, Westlander, and I’ll kill you where you stand.”

  “You are lucky,” Zabelle said. “The nomad code allows everyone a chance to prove their worth. Ride with your yeetozurri, Lira of Stone. Ensure your friend behaves.” She cut one of the extra horses free. Then Zabelle whistled and Wraith took off, Mago following with the other horses.

  “Wait. Did she call me …” I glanced at Reyker, but he only shrugged. Maybe Zabelle recognized the symbol of the Sons of Stone branded on the horses, though the way she’d glanced at Mago when I gave her my name made me suspect there was something she wasn’t telling us.

  We climbed onto the horse’s back and I leaned against Reyker, passing him the reins. One of his arms circled my waist. He nudged the horse’s flanks, and it raced after the nomads.

  “Where are we going?” I asked Zabelle when we caught up.

  She grinned. “To my palace in the sky.”

  As the first hints of dawn burnished the sky, Zabelle stopped by a gorge cutting through the center of the moorlands—narrow enough to hurl a stone from one side to the other, but deep, with a fast-flowing river at its core far below. “We are here,” she said.

  The nomads dismounted, so Reyker and I did too. “What do you mean?” I asked. “There’s no palace here, no settlement of any kind.”

  “You cannot see?” There was a challenge in her tone. She gestured at the gorge. “It is there.”

  “This is a joke?” Reyker asked.

  “No, it’s a test,” Mago said, taking hold of the horses’ reins and stepping off the edge of the gorge. The nomad and all five horses disappeared.

  “A spell.” I saw it now, a glimmer in the air—something suspended above the gorge. I’d seen something like it before; the same sort of veil hid the entrance to Aillira’s Temple. “What dark power did this?”

  “Not dark,” Zabelle said. “Gifted.”

  “You mean god-gifted? Are there Daughters of Aillira here?”

  Rather than answer, Zabelle leaped into the gorge and was gone.

  Standing at the gorge’s rim, I held my arm out as far as it would go. My fingers met resistance, and as I pushed against it, my whole hand vanished. I yanked it back with a gasp.

  Reyker and I looked at each other. There was such trust in his gaze—if I believed, he would follow. I took his hand, and we stood together on the edge. “Ready?”

  He squeezed my hand.

  My heart pounded as I stretched my foot out, leaning forward. Reyker stepped with me. The air was thick, like walking through a heavy curtain, but we forced our way through it.

  Our feet touched ground.

  There was no gorge. We stood at the gated entrance of a tent-filled village, bustling with a strange array of people. Men and women of all ages, dark and light skin, hair of varying colors and lengths, familiar and unfamiliar accents, warrior-marks and odd clothing. All of them, here, together. Pausing to gape at us.

  We gaped back.

  Even through my shock, I was enamored with this place. It was so alive. There were people here from all over the world, all those different far-off lands I’d always wished to visit. I wanted them to teach me their native languages, tell me their countries’ legends.

  One of the nomads drew a sword. “Invader!” he shouted. Other nomads reached for their weapons. I raised my short sword, and Reyker grabbed his axe.

  “All is well, my friends. They are guests,” Zabelle said, appearing at the village gates. She waved for us to enter.

  The nomads stared a moment longer before lowering their blades and going about their business. That was all it took.

  I turned to Zabelle. “Are you their chieftain?”

  “There are no chieftains in Ghost Village. I am their ally. Their sister. Their queen, and their equal. Now, I must insist you hand over your weapons.”

  “No,” Reyker and I answered at the same time.

  “They’ll be returned when you leave, or if we deem it appropriate. Until then, you are quite safe.”

  “Is he?” I nodded at Reyker.

  “The penalty for killing a guest in Ghost Village is death. But if it pleases you, I will have Mago guard him. We have much to offer—food and drink, baths and beds. Healers.”

  I glanced down at myself, then at Reyker. We were dirty, injured, exhausted.

  I handed over my sword. My knife, I kept strapped to my thigh. Reyker had knives hidden in his boots as well. Zabelle wasn’t stupid; she eyed our ankles but didn’t ask. “May your gods curse you, should you prove false,” I added.

  She slung our weapons over her shoulder. “You are quite spirited. You will fit in well here.”

  Zabelle led us through the village. There must have been fifty tents made of animal hides, large enough to house families. Children squealed, chasing each other. Dogs, goats, and sheep wandered freely, and horses roamed the hills beyond. People tended fires, cooking and conversing. Some smiled at us, while others glared. All of them seemed curious.

  There was a long tent near the center of the village, and Zabelle ushered us inside, where Mago sat with several other men and women on the rug-covered floor. They looked up as we entered. “These are some of the elders of our village,” Zabelle said. “Sit, both of you. Let us share our tales.”

  One by one, we did.

  Mago was a mercenary exile from the Boglands. Zabelle was an escaped slave from Sanddune. The others’ names I forgot, but they were all refugees who’d fled or been forced to leave their homes. They were not lepers and thieves, as I’d mistakenly believed. They were victims of circumstance. Outcasts.

  So were Reyker and I. That much was clear as we took turns telling our own stories.

  “For many years,” Zabelle said, “nomads were scattered across the desert. The clans of Glasnith bring iron fists down on those they think weak and unworthy. The exiled come to us, and we embrace them. Now the yeetozurris—the pretty giants—invade, bringing death and ruin.” She looked at Reyker, who returned her gaze evenly. “It was the prince who finally brought the nomads together, showing us how to use our gifts to protect each other. We have cooks and hunters, blacksmiths and warriors, seers and magi. Our settlements grow large and strong. Let the other clans and yeetozurris war and die. Nomads will thrive. The prince will lead us.”

  I leaned forward. “The prince?”

  “The Prince of Ghosts,” Mago said. “His coming was foretold in the Forbidden Scriptures. A scion of the blood of Aillira and Veronis. An outcast, traveling into the desert when he was needed most, defying death to rise from the ashes. He came to us three moons ago, a warrior half dead from a festering wound. But he lived. He united us.”

  “Three moons?” I murmured, thinking. “You’re telling me the Forbidden Scriptures contain prophesies about nomads?”

  “The Forbidden Scriptures contain prophesies about many things,” Zabelle said.

  So she believed in them too, despite being a foreigner to Glasnith.

  “You’ve come to us on the final night of the Birth of Summer festival. Stay and rejoice with us. We will show you what it means to be nomad. For now, you are in need of baths. Mago will show your pretty giant where to go. Lira, you will come with me.”

  My fingers were still clasped in Reyker’s. I was reluctant to let go.

  “You are both safe here,” Zabelle said. “My people will not harm you. None would dare break the prince’s law.”

  Reyker kissed my hand and released it.

  Zabelle led me across the village, to the women’s baths, which consisted of three large tubs inside a medium-sized tent. At a word from Zabelle, several nomad women brought in pails of fire-warmed water, filling one of the tubs. I stripped and sank into it with a sigh.

  “You called me Lira of Stone, but I never told you what clan I was from. You trusted me enough to bring us to you
r hidden village though you don’t even know me.”

  Zabelle’s eyes were brown with hints of orange, like topaz, and they displayed shrewd intelligence. She sat on a bench in the corner, arms crossed, regarding me silently.

  “You know, I lost something I treasured three moons ago. Perhaps it found its way into the desert.” I lathered my skin with tallow. “Tell me, is your prince all Mago claims him to be?”

  “More.” Her guarded expression slipped. Adoration flickered across her face. “Stay and you may meet him. He is south of here, guiding the dispossessed seeking sanctuary, but I will send word of your arrival. If he’s intrigued, he will come.”

  I ducked under the water, afraid to hope, afraid not to. “Why would he care?”

  “Perhaps you are someone’s lost treasure as well.”

  Let it be him, I prayed. An enigmatic prince, cobbling together his own clan of outcasts in the desert. Please tell me, at long last, I’ve found my brother.

  Once I was clean, Zabelle showed me to a spare tent, empty but for a fur-covered pallet. Tossing my dress aside, I crawled onto the pallet in only my shift.

  I fell asleep and dreamed.

  I stand in a green, rock-strewn field. I can’t see him, but I feel him: He is near and far, both at once. Waiting. He won’t come unless I call him. I shouldn’t call him. But I have to know.

  “Draki.”

  His laughter is soft, sensual. I follow it until I find him. He stands on the frozen loch, in a realm of blue ice. “Where have you gone, little warrior?”

  “Beyond your reach.” Between us, the earth is cracked, separating his world from mine. Mist billows up from the fissure, swirling around us.

  “Nowhere is beyond my reach.”

  “I’m one girl. My gift won’t help you defeat armies. So what do you want from me? Why can’t you leave us alone?”

  “Us.” He cocks his head. “Who is with you? Someone who thinks to keep you from me? Someone who believes he can take what is mine? Maybe if you give yourself up, I will spare him. Maybe I will spare those who are hiding you. But only if you tell me where you are.”

  “How bloody stupid do you think I am?”

  “Stupid enough to believe this is only about you.”

  No. Not me. Reyker helped me escape Draki the first time he came after me. Reyker gave me his skoldar. For Draki, stealing me is about hurting Reyker—the traitorous Dragonman he thinks of as a son.

  “I will find you,” Draki says. “And him. I always do.”

  Distance makes me feel safe. Without Draki’s hands on me, my thoughts are clear, seething with rage. “Not this time, Savage.”

  Draki smiles. “We shall see.”

  Sometime later, I woke. I rolled over and found Reyker sitting beside the pallet, hand on his dagger. “Did something happen?”

  “No.” His hair was damp, his face clean. “I worry.”

  “About the nomads?”

  He shook his head. “The Dragon.”

  “Draki invaded my mind, Reyker. I felt him inside my thoughts.” And not for the first time.

  Reyker opened his arms and I crawled into them. He rested his chin on top of my head. “It is the power Ildja gave him.” He circled his thumb over the scar of flame on my wrist. “You wear my skoldar. He sees it as a challenge. A game, to figure out what it takes to overcome it.”

  I touched my fingers to the scar behind my ear. The Star of the Dragon. “This is how he finds me. How he tries to control me. His mark.” I moved my hair aside, pulling out my knife and putting it in Reyker’s hand. “Cut it off me.”

  Reyker stared at the blade, all the color draining from his cheeks.

  “Without the mark, he can’t find me. If Draki takes control of my mind again …” Would I be able to resist him next time? “Please, Reyker.”

  “I can’t.” His hand shook. He dropped the knife. “Draki’s mark goes deeper than skin. It’s in your blood. It’s part of you.” He ran his fingertip along the veins in my neck, just beneath the scar. “If I remove the mark, you will die.”

  “But—”

  “Stop, Lira. I know what I speak of. I’ve seen it happen. Do not ask me for this.” He picked up my knife, slipping it back into the sheath on my thigh.

  “What of my skoldar? Is it part of me too?”

  He nodded. “Draki’s power is vast, so he can mark anyone. My power is limited, so I can only mark another magiska, and only once. You’re the only one who’ll ever bear my skoldar.”

  If Draki was in my blood, then so was Reyker. And I was in his—the only one who ever would be. “Good,” I said, surprised at the sharpness in my voice.

  Reyker’s mouth twitched, like he wanted to smile. He blinked heavily. There were bruise-colored shadows beneath his eyes, weariness weighing him down like an anchor. I remembered something from Reyker’s memories: how he’d refused to sleep, telling his mother, He finds me there. “Draki’s done this to you too. Gotten inside your head. Inside your dreams. That’s why you don’t like to sleep.”

  “Sleep leaves the mind weak.” He touched my temple. “Draki can sneak inside, like a rat.”

  “Whatever magic conceals Ghost Village shields us from Draki. He can’t find us. We’re safe here. Our dreams are safe too.”

  Reyker eyed me doubtfully.

  “Come here. Lie down.”

  When he didn’t move, I tugged his boots off, then his tunic, drawing him onto the pallet. A healer had stitched up the wound on his biceps where I’d stabbed him, when I mistook him for Draki. I ran my finger along the sutures. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “I know. You fought well. Like a fierce deer.”

  I had to smile. “We’re not leaving this bed until you do something for me.” I pushed him onto his back. His brow arched suggestively, his gaze wandering over my thin shift. “Sleep. At least a few hours.” I closed his eyelids with my fingertips. “Let me guard your dreams.”

  “Or fierce deer will stab me more?”

  “Never.” I laid down beside him, propped on my elbow. “I’ll just drug you again.”

  “What?”

  “Hush. Sleep, my wolf.”

  It didn’t take long. As I stroked his hair, the tension seeped from his muscles. His face transformed from fearsome warrior to vulnerable young man. I rested my head next to his, watching him for signs of nightmares, but he slept peacefully. “You see?” I whispered, my own eyes drifting shut. “We’re safe.”

  Blessedly. Finally. Safe.

  I woke to the warmth of Reyker’s arms. When I stirred, his lips touched my ear. My neck. My shoulder. I yawned and smiled, turning to face him. “You seem well rested.”

  “Good dreams.” His eyes shone like crystals of sea ice, roaming over me. His fingers slipped along my jaw, brushing my hair back. They stroked the skin of my collarbones, then lower, following the sweeping neckline of my shift.

  Dazed with desire, I let my worries slip free. “Is this real, Reyker? You and me?”

  He drew back. “You are afraid?”

  “Not of you.” I brushed my thumb across his warrior-mark. “Of this. Us, together. Is this a passing affection, or something more?”

  “It’s real for me.” He pressed my hand to his chest. “Look in my soul. You will see.”

  His heart, beating beneath my palm. Solid. True.

  Ours was not a patient world—there wasn’t time to learn each other gradually, to give part of ourselves until we were sure of things. I could trust Reyker, or not trust him. I could give all of myself, or none. There could be no half measures for us. Not when we risked so much just by caring for each other.

  “I don’t need to look. I trust you. But everything in our world wants to tear us apart.”

  “We must fight our world. We let nothing come between us.”

  “Nothing,�
� I agreed, my hands gliding beneath his tunic. “Is this place beautiful?”

  He laughed, a rich rumble filling my ears. “Beautiful enough.” His lips brushed the skin left bare by my shift, and I dug my fingers into his hair.

  Zabelle chose that moment to barge in unannounced, carrying a stack of clothes, which she threw at us unceremoniously. “There is plenty of time for love later, yeetozurri.” She waved a dismissive hand at Reyker. “Go to your tent. Mago and the others will ready you for the festival. Soon we dance, drink, and feast to honor the season.”

  Reyker growled in frustration.

  “Later, yeetozurri,” I promised as he pulled away.

  When he was gone, Zabelle helped me with the gown she’d brought. “An odd match, you and that one,” she said. “Like fire and water. Yet somehow you fit.”

  “We do.” Being with Reyker felt natural—like rain feeding rivers, sunlight reeling life from the earth. “Speaking of fitting, why am I wearing this?” It was a simple gown of bright green, the same color as my eyes, with tiny flowers embroidered along the hem. The gown was snug, the bodice cut low. Zabelle was dressed in boyish garb, a gray tunic and brown trousers, and I envied her.

  “I will let Eathalin explain. Ah, here she is.”

  A slender girl of thirteen or so with stick-straight apricot hair entered the tent with a pouch slung over her arm and offered me a shy smile. “The gown is perfect on you. It’s meant to look like a summer garden. But your hair … Well, may I?” She gestured at my unruly locks.

  I nodded and sat on the pallet as Eathalin combed my hair, winding it with silver ribbons and taming it into braids. She gushed about the Birth of Summer festival. “It’s an old tradition, welcoming the season when the world is warm and every creature seeks a mate. It honors the first summer, when Aillira met Veronis. It’s custom to reenact their first kiss, and I thought because you’re here, and she’s your namesake, you should play blessed Aillira.”

  “I’ve never celebrated the Birth of Summer. My clan outlaws the rituals of the Forbidden Scriptures. Our priests declared any veneration of the Great Betrayer blasphemous.”