by Tanya Huff
"More people are coming?"
She flushed again and changed the subject. "Vree and Ghyard, they offered me a place when I left my husband. He was, well, he was a violent ass and I walked out with nothing but the clothes on my back. I didn't have no other family and didn't know where to go or what to do and they said they had space and needed folk not afraid of working – although Gyhard also pointed out they needed people not afraid of cooking and Circle knows I can do that. I met Pjason here and hit it right off. Donal's his brother. They come from Ohrid. Eight and nine in a family what could give them nothing but good wishes. Merlyn, he killed a guy in a drunken brawl. He didn't meant to but the guy was still dead. He was chained to the road crew going into Janniton for five years then they let him go. No one else would give him a chance. Do you hear what I'm saying, Bard?"
That they took in the desperate and wrapped them in chains of obligation.
"I hear you."
"Good. This is your room. Stasya and Annice always use it so it's kind of the bard room. Room next to it is empty so don't worry much about noise."
It was a pleasant enough room. A bed, a chair, hooks on the wall opposite the window. Placing the lantern where the light wouldn't spill out into the night, Evicka pulled back the heavy blanket covering the shutters. There was no glass, not this far out and it looked like the shutters hadn't been opened since Third Quarter. She eased one a little way, heard it creak, and froze barely breathing.
After a moment, she heard the soft hum of voices.
Not the next room, but the room after. Mouth to the crack, she drew in a lungful of cold air and hummed the four notes to call a kigh. Not one strong enough to get all the way to Kovar, that would require volume, but one to help her turn the hum to words. With luck, the pounding of her heart wouldn't drown them out.
"It doesn't matter what she suspects, as long as she doesn't know." Gyhard's tone calmed, soothed, worked to keep his blade of Jiir sheathed.
"If she Sings up a kigh, they'll tell her."
"I'm not sure it works that way."
"I won't risk it."
"Vree, even if we stop her from calling a kigh while she's in the holding, she'll Sing one up as soon as she's out of sight."
"That doesn't matter. It'll take them too long to act on mere suspicion. We just need to keep her from finding out before she leaves."
"She's afraid of you." Gyhard sounded as if that upset him. If his plan required Vree to look like something other than what she was, it was doomed to fail. That was almost reassuring.
"I noticed." Vree, however, was stating a fact. People were afraid of her. It didn't bother her, it was just how it was. Evicka shivered.
Morning came only because morning always did. Even with the chair up against the door, even knowing she'd be back on her skis as soon as possible, Evicak had barely slept. Would've sworn she hadn't slept at all except she'd closed her eyes in darkness and opened them at dawn. She slipped downstairs, hoping she could get packed and away before anyone awoke, but Vree was already in the kitchen building up the fire.
A piece of kindling in her hand – a piece of kindling Evicka had no doubt could be used as a deadly weapon – the ex-assassin raised her head and locked eyes with the bard. Like she didn't care what a bard could do. "Leaving without saying goodbye?"
"No." Because sneaking out would be admitting she knew and if they thought she knew they'd stop her. "Of course not." Even to her own ears, Evicka's laugh sounded false. "Hanya hung my clothes to dry. I thought I should get them packed before they were even more in the way. Than they were. Last night."
Vree merely nodded and continued to watch, predator patient, as Evicka scooped trousers and sweaters and underwear off drying racks and rolled them into her pack. She could feel the other woman's gaze like a warm weight against the back of her neck.
By the time she slipped the strings on her harp and carefully stowed both it and her flute the others were up and there was tea on the table and it might have been any morning in any holding since she'd left the Citadel,except for the way Vree's attention never wavered. It reminded her of dogs guarding their territory and that was a horrible thing to think about another person, but once it was in her head, she couldn't shake it. Somehow she managed to eat two pieces of toast. Vree had very little more. Made sense, she wouldn't load herself down if she needed to kill someone.
"Are you sure you have to go so soon?" Gyhard asked an interminable time later as the two of them walked her across the stockade to the gate.
"Nothing's falling from the sky." Evicka waved at the arc of blue with one pole. "This time of the year, I need to take advantage of it."
It sounded so normal except under his words she could hear Get out! And under hers, nothing at all – all subtext deliberately erased.
Vree remained silent, her teeth clenched, a muscle jumping in her jaw.
"You're heading to Janniton next?"
"That's right." She bent to strap on her skies.
"If I were you, I'd follow the river. Ice'll be solid for a week or two yet but given the whole freeze/thaw we've been having, I wouldn't trust a more direct route."
"Good advice, thanks."
"Smooth roads, Evicka." He held out his fist.
He'd washed the blood off yesterday. She could still see it but she touched her fist to his. "Be safe."
Vree kept her hands to herself although Evicka saw they'd curled into fists anyway. She noticed things too.
*
The snow scraped against her skies, her weight barely cutting a visible track. There'd been a freeze in the night, but by the time the sun had been up for a few hours the surface would start to melt again. She needed to go as far as she could, as fast as she could before that happened. Approaching the far end of the valley, she whistled up a kigh. One still watched, it told her. It didn't know who. Maybe Gyhard. Maybe Dolan with his longbow. What was the range on a lowbow? Evicka had no idea so she concentrated on putting more distance between her and the holding. It wasn't until she went around the first bend of the river that the itch between her shoulder blades began to ease.
"Although he could hardly shoot through the pack, you idiot." If her laugh held a faint hint of hysteria, it was easy enough to ignore.
Without slowing, she scanned the right bank for a way up and on to a high point of land. Following the loops of the river would add a day, maybe two to the trip. She didn't know why Gyhard wanted to delay her – well, not the specifics anyway – but she'd always intended to strike out across country the moment she was out of sight of the holding.
Immediately after she let the Bardic Captain know he was right.
It'll take them too long to act on mere suspicion. They didn't know Kovar had only wanted confirmation of suspicions he already had. Vree might not be as much under Gyhard's control as the Bardic Captain had feared, but the two of them were definitely planning to act against the security of Shkoder.
A light rain began to fall and she'd begun to worry she'd have to remain on the river until Janniton when she finally spotted a slope gentle enough to climb in skis. At that, gentle enough was bardic in description. It wasn't a steep slope, but it seemed to go on forever. Her thighs were trembling, calves cramping when she reached the top and she paused for a moment, leaning on her poles before calling the kigh. Squinting back the way she'd come, she realized she'd climbed high enough to see back into the valley, although the mist made it hard to pick out details. She felt as though she were guarding the rest of Shkoder from Gyhard i'Stevana and the blade he wielded.
When her lungs finally stopped burning, she licked the rain off her lips, took a deep breath, and sang the four notes to call the kigh, allowing them to ring out pure and loud. She was too far from the holding to matter even if they could hear her; it was more important now to call a kigh strong enough to get back to the Bardic Captain as quickly as possible.
Strong enough appeared not to be a problem. She had to brace herself not to be blown backwards, the rain m
aking the kigh pissy and harder to control. Moving away from the edge, she added three notes for water. There was enough in the air that blending the call might help calm the kigh down long enough for her to sing the message.
You were right. Send reinforcements.
The kigh disappeared down over the edge of the bank as she Sang the first note that would send it to the Bardic Captain. She could still feel it though. It was just playing silly bugger. As she Sang the second, it came up through the snow at her feet.
That was diff...
A crack opened up under her right ski. The bank collapsed.
The world disappeared in a roar of white.
She hadn't known white could roar.
*
She'd been dreaming about flying but the blankets were wrapped around her so tightly they kept bringing her back to earth. She couldn't move anything but the fingers of her left hand no matter how much she struggled and something was tickling the right side of her neck. The tickling was annoying enough she forced herself to wake.
Wherever she was, it was dark.
Really dark.
Evicka wriggled the fingers of her left hand again.
Realized that's what was tickling her neck.
She had her head face down in the crock of her left elbow, left hand cupped awkwardly back around her jaw. Her right arm was stretched out to the side, extended to the point where her shoulder ached. She could hear nothing but the pounding of her heart.
The rasp of air moving in and out of her throat.
What the dream had told her was the edge of blankets pressed against her throat was harder than cloth. More painful. She tried to move back, easing the pressure, and her head pressed against a familiar shape. The edge of her harp case.
Her pack had twisted around and pressed down against her head and right shoulder.
The bank had collapsed.
She was buried in the snow, face down in an air pocket created by the angle of her arm and protected by her pack.
Stretching out her tongue, she touched snow.
And not a very big air pocket.
It wouldn't last long. She'd suffocate before she froze to death...
...although she hadn't been cold until that thought.
She'd counted two hundred and seventeen breaths, each dragged past the ridge pressed painfully into her throat, counting because it was better than just waiting, when she realized the air hadn't changed. It still tasted of snow and water and earth.
Either her pack hadn't been completely covered or the snow was porous enough air could get through. And if air could get through...
With breath number two hundred and eighteen, she called the kigh.
Tried to call the kigh.
Breath enough to keep her alive wasn't breath enough to whistle.
Or Sing.
Or panic.
When she woke again, the snow had melted beneath her cheek and she sucked up the water. The pain of swallowing put the pain of breathing into perspective. It might be better not to drink, to die faster rather than slower, but she drank anyway.
She was twenty-two.
Who died at twenty-two?
Her body had been bent at the waist, her legs up above her. She tried to wriggle her feet in case they were sticking up out of the snow, but she couldn't move them. She couldn't move anything but the fingers of her left hand and her face.
If she could work her flute case out of her pack, she could purse her lips. She might have enough air to play.
Her fingernails scraped against the oiled canvas.
Shit. She'd lost her mitten.
They'd have to find it when they dug her out. She loved those mittens.
Five hundred and twelve breaths.
Another drink.
Had Gyhard trapped the banks? Told her not to leave the river knowing she would? Set this up to stop her from telling everyone what he was planning?
She didn't know what he was planning.
Something.
They knew she was suspicious. Therefore, there was something for her to be suspicious of.
Three hundred in. Three hundred out. It was good the numbers came out even.
Would the air kigh notice she'd died? Could they get close enough? Would anyone ever know?
Still not enough breath to whistle.
Four notes hummed. Nothing. Maybe because she had to breathe six times to do it.
Another drink.
She had to pee.
Pee was warmer than snow. Could she melt her way out?
Breath enough to keep her alive wasn't enough to laugh...
...hysterically.
She was thirsty when she opened her eyes again. Thirsty enough she had to have been out for a while. Her cheek was numb, but enough snow had melted under it she could inch her head around and bite at the snow.
There was always the chance she could eat her way out. It hurt to swallow. Hurt more? Ice an impact to keep it from swelling. Well, she'd certainly done that. She giggled. Choked. Coughed. Whatever dripped out her nose was too warm to be water.
Was it darker?
A sound she didn't make. Three sounds. Crack. Slither. Thud. Temperatures dropped at night. Water froze. Ice expanded. Broke off.
If there was water in the snow...
Snow was water.
She was stronger in water than air.
Breath in three times. Hum.
Again.
Again.
Nothing changed.
Twenty breaths.
Was it lighter? Her eyes were dry. Harder to get them open.
She could hear hissing. Snakes? Thousands of tiny snakes?
Rain.
Water under her cheek. Hurt too much to swallow. Except for her throat, the sharp lines of pain had dulled to aches. Not good, she suspected.
Suspicious.
Gyhard i'Stevana is a multiple murderer who was pardoned against my advice.
I only know what the songs say.
I knew him before. Not well but I met him once. They say he's changed.
It doesn't matter what she suspects, as long as she doesn't know.
A sigh. Not from her. From the snow.
A sudden jerk and the sharp lines of pain came back the fingers of her right hand twitched. Moved. Not in air. In water. The slide had broken through the ice. The river had washed away the bottom of the slide.
Breathe in three times.
Hum through her nose. Higher pitched but better for water to hear.
Again.
Again.
Who died at twenty-two? Tragic heroes.
There'd be a song. It'd be sad. Of course it'd be sad. She was dead. Who'd write it? Tadeus? She'd like that. But Tadeus was so busy she'd better write it herself.
Alone. Alone. So far from home. Songs crushed....
What rhymed with crushed? Mushed? Rushed? Pushed?
Same letters. Wrong sound. That was stupid. Who decided how things were spelled?
If she'd gotten the notes of Kovars name out she'd be a conquering hero. Still dead though.
Thirty-one, thirty-two, twenty-seven... she kept losing count. She'd have to start over. Maybe she'd just leave her eyes closed. Her fingers wouldn't move anymore. Hardly surprising given the temperature of the water.
She could Sing fire. Not now. But she could. Fire was warm.
She wasn't actually cold.
That probably wasn't good.
Sixteen. Seventeen. Seventeen. What came after seventeen?
"Because it was a slaughtering water kigh! Faster to start in the river and work our way up."
Not that.
Something warm closed around her hand.
"I've got her! Right arm. There's a pulse! She's alive!"
Good to know.
"Okay, the angle... her shoulder has to be here. Head's here then! Vree!"
What was he planning out here in the wild?
"I'm the lightest."
"But..."
"We don't want to
compact the snow any further."
"What do you know about snow?"
Good question. The assassin and her brother were from the southern province.
"More than I want to."
Good answer.
She could hear scrabbling. Scrambling. Scribbling. No, that wasn't right...
Lots of light. Good thing she had her eyes closed.
"Doesn't look good." Sounded like the older man. Started with an em. If it was important she'd remember it later.
"Evicka? Can you hear me?"
Warmth against her cheek, then pressing gently against the back of her neck. Then what felt like a hundred tiny fingers going through her hair.
"Why is her hair moving?" Hanya. She remembered Hanya.
"Kigh. They couldn't get to her."
"Shouldn't they have gone for help?"
"As near as I can figure, they don't do much without being told. Get her legs uncovered while I move the pole off her throat."
"If she loses her voice..."
That would be bad but breathing was good too. An ethereal touch against her lips. Between her lips. Air that tasted of spring...
She opened her eyes to see Vree bending over her holding a long knife. "Don't talk. You haven't broken your neck so I'm cutting the pack free. We can ease you back at a better angle."
"Not... healer."
"No, but killing people teaches you a lot about what works and what doesn't. And what part of don't talk don't you understand?" She muttered, "Bards."
Evika felt a sudden easing of pressure and a relief of specific pain amid the general. Then different pain. Lots of it.
"Dy...ing."
Vree nodded. "Maybe. But I'll say this for bards, you're in great physical condition. You might make it."
"Tell... me."
"What?"
Another sip of air. "What... can't they... know?"
This time when Vree said bards it sounded like profanity.
"Dy...ing."
"Fine. I'm with child. His child. Gyhard's child," she added, although Evicka had assumed as much. "If the bards find out they'll tell Bannon before I can and you don't want that."
"You don't want that," Gyhard said from somewhere near.
"Neither do you," Vree told him shortly.
"That's... all?"