by Spurrier, Jo
Sierra slipped her other hand out and explored the blindfold with her fingertips. It was a band of cloth folded over several times and without even a knot to hold it in place. She slipped it off and, as it unfolded, she identified it at last — her cowl, the soft knitted tube that could be worn loose around the neck or pulled up and over the head for another layer of warmth.
Her eyelids felt hot and tight. With great effort she could open them, but all she could see was a blur of grey. Snow blindness. Everyone who lived in the north experienced it at some point. It would heal within a few days, but she would be highly sensitive to light for weeks. Sierra mouthed a silent curse. It was a complication she could do without.
Her face felt tight and swollen. She’d got herself frosted, either while she’d been freezing to death during the night or in the days before, she wasn’t sure. None of it had the icy-hot burning sensation of true frostbite, so she counted herself lucky.
Whoever had brought her here had stripped her to her underwear, a sleeveless vest and knee-length britches of soft yaka-hair cloth, tucked into socks knitted of the same. That seemed a good sign. In Kell’s dungeons, prisoners were kept naked. Perhaps she was clutching at straws, but right now she’d take any reassurance she could get.
Her wrists were neatly bandaged and, as she felt her way over them, Sierra realised the punishment bands were gone. For a moment, she was shocked to stillness, but then she had to bite back quickly on a giggle of hysterical relief. The last thing that bound her, gone! Her powers had grown since Kell had first captured her, grown more than she ever dreamed they could. She was no longer a terrified girl of sixteen, hoping that something could be salvaged from this disaster. When they came for her again, she would give them no quarter. This time, she had nothing to hold her back, nothing to lose.
Sierra sat up and something soft yet firm brushed against her head and cheek. She flinched away violently with a small cry of surprise. She caught herself on her right hand and it was then that she realised the ache in her arm was not truly hers. Beneath the relentless throb a soft, spreading warmth was seeping into her body, a steady trickle of energy feeding into the store of power that coursed along her spine.
Nearby, someone sighed and shifted beneath their furs. Sierra froze, waiting until they settled again. After a moment’s thought she knew what she’d brushed against — the shaggy fur of a reindeer-hide tent, spread taut between the poles. The air was full of the smell of smoke and spruce. She forced her eyes open again, but it was no good, she couldn’t see a thing between the darkness and the snow blindness. Everything was silent and still.
‘Are you awake?’ a hoarse voice whispered. Taken by surprise, Sierra gasped aloud.
It was a man’s voice, dark and rasping, and speaking in Ricalani. The sound of it almost made her weep — Ricalani had been forbidden in Kell’s dungeon; for the last two years she’d spoken only Mesentreian, the language of the invaders.
There was a rustle of furs as the one who had spoken sat up. As he moved, the throb in Sierra’s arm became a ripple of fire and the stream of power swelled to a river. There was something horribly familiar about it, something she’d felt before. No, it can’t be. He died, surely he died.
‘I know you’re awake,’ the man whispered. ‘There’s nothing to fear here. We know you escaped from the Mesentreians; we won’t try to send you back.’
Sierra pressed herself against the wall of the tent, her fingers digging into the shaggy fur. ‘How do you know where I came from? Who are you?’
There was a pause and then he explained patiently, as though speaking to a child. ‘You were wearing a Mesentreian uniform, carrying Mesentreian swords and wearing Mesentreian jewellery.’
She twisted the coarse fur once more and then let it go. ‘Oh.’ Stupid girl.
‘And as for us … well, we have our own reasons for staying out of the army’s way. Do you have a name?’
Sierra was a common name, but that was no protection. Rasten would seize upon any clue that might lead him to her. ‘Kasimi,’ she said, picking the name of her next-youngest sister. She’d been a wretched little brat, always stealing and breaking and losing things she ought never to have got her hands on. Sierra would have given almost anything to know if she still lived.
‘Kasimi,’ the man repeated. Sierra bit her lip. She’d hesitated a moment too long, but if there was any doubt in his voice he’d hidden it well. If you’re going to have any chance of surviving you’re going to have to learn to lie better than that, she told herself. She could still feel the fiery ripples in her arm and the part of her that stored the power was soaking it up like a hearthstone absorbs heat. That could become a problem. The warding-stones kept her power in check. Without them she would have to rely on her own meagre skills to keep it under control. If they found out just what she was …
‘Well, Kasimi, I’m Isidro.’
Isidro …
She remembered him. Most of the faces and voices from the dungeons blended together, but he had been different. Making a man spill secrets wasn’t hard, nor was making him confess to something he hadn’t done. After an hour with Rasten they would say whatever Kell wanted. But to make a man give up a loved one — a wife, a child, a brother — under an ordinary torturer, a strong man could take such secrets to the grave.
Kell was a Blood-Mage, though, and that made all the difference. A Blood-Mage gave his victim no respite. Kell could keep a man conscious through pain that would make anyone faint and keep a man’s heart beating once he lost all will to survive. A Blood-Mage trapped his victims and then slowly tore them to shreds, until they were so delirious with exhaustion and pain they would do anything to make it stop. Oh yes, she remembered this one. The arm had been Kell’s idea, but Rasten’s precision in carrying it out had been a pinnacle of cruelty.
‘Kasimi?’ he whispered again; she felt a faint motion of air, as though he was reaching out for her in the darkness. Sierra recoiled, shrinking back against the wall of the tent. She was already drawing more power from him than she could easily contain. Rasten had warned her not to touch any of the prisoners — she was too powerful, he said, too uncontrolled. Her touch would drain a man of the strength that kept his heart beating — that was why they always kept her chained during the rituals, because her touch would destroy the victim and turn all their preparation to waste. Sierra wasn’t sure if she believed it, but it was better not to take the chance and find out.
There was another rustle of movement and she thought she felt his proffered hand withdraw. What was he thinking? She was clearly shaken — her panicked and rapid breath was enough to tell him that. He probably thought her a fugitive like him, panicked to find herself helpless among strangers. Well, that was good enough. She could work with that.
‘Where … where are we?’ she said, her voice hoarse in her dry throat.
‘Where? That I can’t say. I don’t exactly know.’
‘But the soldiers! The armies must be close …’ she couldn’t have travelled far with short rations, no map and a mind muddled from cold.
‘I’m told we’re safe, for the moment,’ he said. ‘Are you hungry? Rhia is asleep, but she left food and water in case you woke.’
‘I … I am a little thirsty.’
He knew the darkness far better than she, but the movement sent ripples of fire through his arm again. When she heard the water slosh, she groped blindly for it, keeping her hands low so that they wouldn’t touch his. She found it by the base, a water-skin nestled in a pouch of fur to keep it from freezing. There was a leather stopper in the horn spout, and Sierra pulled it free and drank thirstily in the dark.
Her hands shook as she remembered how he had screamed.
Once she’d had her fill, the stopper eluded her, but finally she found it swinging on its cord and fumbled it back into the spout. She went to set the still-bulging skin down, but it knocked against something unseen in the gloom. There was a rattle of pottery and wood, and both she and Isidro reached out to cat
ch it. Before she could stop herself, Sierra felt her fingers brush against his.
A spark of energy jumped between them, a glowing thread like a miniature lightning bolt, casting an eerie light over this tiny corner of the tent. With one blurred glimpse through watering eyes, Sierra saw the worn blanket that screened them, the rumpled furs and the wooden camp-stool she’d upset. She saw his face, pale and gaunt with hollow cheeks and dark eyes — just one glimpse and then the light blinded her, sparking a fierce pain behind her eyes and an almighty thump within her skull. Within moments, the great pulse of power that flowed into her from that touch washed all that discomfort away.
All at once, she was within him, wearing his skin and feeling the bones of his arm grinding beneath the splints. She felt the healing burns itching on his back, the thumping of his own head and the flush of fever in his cheeks, and the weary ache of his lungs as the pneumonia still battled within him. He was exhausted by it all, utterly worn down by pain that would not let him rest and would not let him heal. The lingering infection was still there: as he neared the end of his reserves it would rise up again to finish him. She could feel it festering away, a mindless enemy lurking within his flesh.
For one moment, she was aware of every inch of him, then the rising tide of power flooded her with warmth. His pain was ebbing away, coming to her in a rush of power. His muscles went lax and she felt him slowly collapse even though he fought it, struggling to hold himself up and resist the outgoing tide that would leave him empty and dry.
Sierra felt him struggle, but with the power shimmering in her mind it seemed only a curiosity, something pretty to see, like sunlight on water. Of course it would fade as the sun set, the light dwindling to a few pale flecks.
But the power was coming so fast she couldn’t drink it in quickly enough and it spilled over in a flood of light as multiple strands of energy burst from her hands, minute bolts of lightning that flickered and rippled ceaselessly, questing for some anchor. The light stabbed at her blinded eyes and with a yelp of pain Sierra broke the contact and quenched the light, pulling it back beneath her skin with a wrench of effort.
The tent was still and quiet once again, except for the pounding in her head. By the Black Sun herself, what just happened? ‘Isidro?’ she whispered.
There was only silence — silence from him, and silence beyond the curtain that screened them. The flood of energy had lasted only a moment and the burst of light even less, not long enough to wake the people who slept beyond the barrier.
‘Isidro!’ she hissed again, groping her way across the floor of trodden spruce. She found him sprawled face down, just as she realised that the echoed throb in her arm was gone. Her stomach lurched within her as she remembered how he’d fought against that tide of power, and in a near panic she rolled him over and pressed her ear to his chest. Black Sun help me. After a long agonising moment, she found the slow thump of his heart — too slow, but at least the beat was steady. Sierra wept with relief, a few stinging tears. Quickly, she gulped them back, listening for any sign of stirring from the rest of the tent. Once she was certain that no one had woken, she carefully dragged him back to the warmth of his furs.
He was far lighter than a man of his size should be. Sierra remembered when the guards had brought him in and stripped him — he’d been a warrior then, a man to be reckoned with, but in the weeks since all his flesh had melted away. With her fingertips she could count every one of the ribs standing out through his skin.
Once she had his blankets wrapped around him once more, Sierra felt her way down to the foot of his bed, where the kitbag was usually kept. Kell had dispatched Isidro to Lathayan with a set of enchantments to keep the wounds from sickening during the journey. The people who had cared for him must have taken them off. Most folks were suspicious of enchantments, but Sierra could only hope they hadn’t been thrown away. She had stopped herself before draining all his strength, but the power she had taken had left him even weaker than before.
She could sense the enchantments in there somewhere, sending minute ripples of power through the air, but hampered by the need for silence, it took her some minutes to find them. Each one consisted of a few lumpy stone beads, threaded onto a bit of leather that had been tied around his wrists. They were most effective worn next to the skin but even at the foot of his bed they had probably done him some good. After weeks without wear their power had run right down but the enchantments themselves were still intact. All she needed to do was recharge them.
Sierra felt her way back to her bed and buried herself beneath one of the furs, trusting it to hide the light she made. She charged each of the stones in turn, clenching it within her fist as she trickled the finest stream of power she could manage into the stone. Too much would overwhelm the enchantment and corrupt it, or even destroy it entirely.
By the time she was done, Sierra’s head was pounding so badly that she felt ill. It was all she could do to crawl back to his bedside and tuck the renewed enchantments inside his shirt next to his skin on either side of his chest, where they wouldn’t be found until he woke and noticed them himself. Then, all she could do was hope he wouldn’t remember what had happened here in the dark.
Chapter 4
Days were short in a Ricalani winter. Everyone awoke while it was still full night, and when Cam and Garzen went out to check on the horses all the stars were out and there wasn’t even a hint of dawn in the sky. They lacked the numbers to keep a proper watch, so first thing every morning and often several times during the night as well, either Cam or Garzen would leave the tent to check on their little herd. That morning, Garzen opened the water-hole with the ice chisel while Cam led the horses down to drink. He met Eloba there when she came down to fetch water for the tent.
‘Cam, are you sure there’s no sign of danger?’ she said, glancing to the west. ‘The cursed Mesentreians are so close and the Slavers must be drawing near …’
‘There’s neither hide nor hair of them, Eloba, I swear. Charzic and those other wretches have made themselves scarce and the only tracks I saw belonged to the woman I found. Besides, you’ve heard the tales of what Lord Kell and his cursed apprentice can do in battle. We’d hear it and see the storm long before it comes upon us. We’re safe for now.’
‘But for how long?’
Thinking of it made him frown and echo her westward glance. It made little sense to think the Akharians would focus on the harsh and unforgiving north. It was a hard place to live for those not born to it. They would have an easier time of it if they concentrated their efforts on the settled lands to the south. Sometimes, when he lay awake at night worrying about what would come, Cam tried to convince himself that the Akharians would destroy Lord Kell, and the king, and destroy the foreign lords who held such a strangle-hold on Ricalan. It was a pleasant thing to consider, but he more wished than believed it could be true.
Cam shook his head. ‘I don’t know. We need to give Isidro as much time as we can, but if I see any sign of soldiers heading this way, we’ll pack up and run, I promise. I didn’t go to so much trouble to get Isidro back to let the king’s men get their hands on him again.’ They would retreat to the east and hope the Wolf Clan would shelter them.
Eloba bit her lip as she rested the full bucket on the tips of her snowshoes while she filled the other. ‘I’ll pray you’re right. Well, the girl is up and about. Calls herself Kasimi. By the Black Sun, I hope no one comes out here looking for her …’
‘Calls herself?’ Cam said. ‘You think it’s a false name?’
Eloba shrugged. ‘Well, if I were some Mesentreian lord’s concubine escaped with a king’s ransom of his jewels on my wrists, you can bet I’d not be using the name he knew me by. That’s all I’m saying.’ With both buckets full, she started up the slope towards the tent.
‘Is breakfast ready?’ Cam called after her.
‘Yes, but don’t rush. It’s nothing worth hurrying for.’
A light scatter of snow began to fall as Cam led the ho
rses back up the hill and returned to the tent. Inside, Lakua was stirring the pot of barley porridge that had been soaking overnight. Behind her, Brekan was peering into Kasimi’s satchel. Cam began to say something, but changed his mind and turned away with a shake of his head. Every one of them was weary of their arguments. Better to just let it pass.
Cam turned towards the section of the tent screened off for Isidro’s sickbed. ‘Rhia? Can I come in?’ he said, just as the curtains twitched aside and Rhia guided Kasimi out. She wore Eloba’s spare jacket and her face was still masked by her folded cowl. As Rhia guided her past the curtain, Kasimi stumbled and Cam reached out to steady her. ‘Careful! The last thing you need is another burn from falling into the stove. I’m Cam, by the way. It was me who found you.’
‘Cam,’ she said, with a tremor in her voice. ‘Yes, Rhia told me. Look, I want to apologise for taking your hare.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Cam said, and he turned to Rhia. ‘Is Isidro up?’
Rhia shook her head. ‘No. He sleeps. Look in on him, but do not wake him.’
Cam waited while she guided the newcomer away and then ducked under the curtain. Isidro lay calm and still beneath his blankets and Cam knelt beside the bed to watch him. In weeks past such stillness had terrified him. More than once, he had sat up with Rhia through the night, certain that it meant the end was coming.
Cam sat back on his heels to watch the slow rise and fall of Isidro’s chest. Isidro was the elder by a few months — enough that he’d had seven summers to Cam’s six in the year Cam had been sent to Isidro’s clan for fostering. He’d been looking out for Cam since they were boys.
Cam had spent his early years spoiled and cossetted by his nursemaids and ignored by his mother, Valeria, a minor southern princess brought north to marry Queen Leandra’s brother. That sheltered and isolated life had come to an end — a fact for which he would be forever grateful — when Queen Leandra suffered another miscarriage and accepted she would never bear a living heir.