Under a Winter Sky

by Jeffe Kennedy

  Two of her friends, whom he recognized from their days in school, waited for her a few steps away. She sauntered toward them, looking back at him saucily, while his arm burned. Logic told him a trace of blood couldn’t possibly sear his skin, but such was the nature of his affliction. It was not logical, and he could not control it. Neither could he control the shame it brought him.

  He stared at his arm, unsure of what to do. Beside him, someone cleared their throat.

  When he didn’t respond, they did it again. “Ember? You required my presence?” Mooriah sounded annoyed.

  He shook himself and wiped his forearm on his hip, transferring the stain to the side of his waistcloth. “Thank you for coming.”

  “I didn’t have much of a choice. Your summoning spell made me feel an all over itch until I complied.”

  His gaze shot to her, surprise lifting his brows. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t my spell. I ran into Glister and apparently made the mistake of telling her I was looking for you.”

  Mooriah snorted. “Well, that explains it. I’m not her favorite person.”

  “Is this one bothering you, sir?” the vendor asked, stepping out from his stall. His wares included boots and clothing made of some kind of animal hide, one of the small rodents that made the caves their home. Mooriah’s eyes narrowed, and she took a step away from Ember.

  “No, she’s not. Thank you for your concern.” He gazed around the nearby crowd to find many eyes upon them. “We should speak elsewhere,” he said in a low voice. “Will you come with me?”

  She sighed, looking resigned and not at all pleased about it. A weight settled upon his heart. On top of the burden of the peoples’ attitudes regarding the unclanned, he was adding an additional load, something he hadn’t considered.

  He led her away from the market and onto a wide avenue. “Were you busy? I didn’t even ask Glister to do the summoning. I definitely wouldn’t have if I knew it would be so forceful.”

  “Not busy, not really. Just studying. Practicing. That’s mostly all I do.” Her voice was matter of fact, but the statement was sad. Ember could relate. Fight training, strategy, and history lessons took up almost all of his day. If he became chieftain, he wanted to be a better one than his father. And even if he didn’t, he would become an advisor to Rumble—not that he expected his brother to take any of his advice.

  They headed to one of the upper tiers of the city, crossing a series of angled bridges, which took them higher into the domain of the upper classes of the clan. However, some levels were entirely abandoned as more and more had left the mountain for the Outside.

  One of Ember’s suggestions to his father had been to consolidate living quarters so that everyone was closer together and more defensible. Crimson had taken umbrage to the suggestion, seeing little cause to live so near to those he felt were beneath him.

  After a few minutes of silent walking, they arrived at an empty chamber, one he knew quite well as it had once belonged to his nanny. The woman had passed on to become one with the Mother, but he had never found more comfort than he had between these walls. He kept the place clean and stocked with food since he often came to clear his head or just to be alone. The chambers all around were also vacant, so there was little fear of being overheard or discovered.

  He invited Mooriah to sit on the mat while he stoked a small fire in the pit. The upper caves were cooler, especially now that winter was upon them. Smoke disappeared into the vent in the ceiling once the fire caught hold.

  “Can I offer you some tea? I have jerky.”

  “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”

  She was patient as he settled himself and ordered the words in his mind. “I wanted to thank you for your help the other day at the ceremony. I… I don’t know what I would have done without it.”

  Mooriah swallowed. “Of course. It was the first time for you, and the ancient rituals are a bit unusual. I understand the nerves, I felt them too.”

  He smiled sadly, both touched and shamed by her kindness. “We both know it wasn’t nerves. I… I have never been able to, that is…” He took a deep breath. “I hate the blood.”

  She tilted her head in surprise.

  “I’ve never been able to stand the sight of it. It makes me queasy. And the idea of cutting myself on purpose.” He shivered. “I can’t bring myself to do it.”

  Mooriah frowned. He could practically see the wheels turning in her head. “But how?”

  He shrugged. “The chieftain’s son has servants. They do the spells, charge the firerocks, put protection wards on everything.”

  “But your own personal protection.” She looked at him wide-eyed. “Against danger. Against the sorcerers. Against me.” She spoke the last words in a hush.

  From the time they reached adolescence, all the Folk set yearly wards on their person against magic and curses. Parents did so for their smaller children. The wards also protected against the natural magic so many of the Outsiders were born with.

  “You know what I am, right? Why my father brought me to be raised here?” she asked.

  “The Outsider sorcerers’ magic is called Earthsong—it’s fueled by life energy. Your magic is different, right? You control death.”

  She nodded, her expression grave. “My father is a powerful Earthsinger. Apparently, my mother was too. But I was born different. I can’t turn a seed into a plant in an instant, I can’t control the weather or heal with a thought, the way they do, but I can kill with one. It’s only safe for me to live in Night Snow because of the wards in place to protect the Folk.”

  Ember firmed his lips. He had not been warded since he was a youth. His shoulders sagged under her scrutiny.

  “Does no one know about your… problem?”

  He shook his head. “What do you think my father would do? Or my brother?” He snorted. “I’ve hidden my affliction for my entire life. Mother knew, and she told me I would grow out of it. But I’m grown now, and it’s still here. It’s paralyzing—I’ve tried so many things to get over it. In battle or in a match, blood is often drawn. It bothers me, but I can hide my reaction to it. However, my body shuts down when I try to spill my own blood.”

  She leaned forward. “What if you become chief? How will you…?”

  Their eyes met. So much of Cavefolk society and culture revolved around blood magic. While the shamans were true mages, all the Folk used the magic for a variety of everyday tasks: a snick here to call a child back home for dinner, a scratch there to ensure a fair price at the market. But the chief used the blood for more important tasks—rituals to protect the harvest, for the health of the people, for their security and welfare.

  “I need your help, Mooriah. Everyone knows how skilled a blood mage you are. Glister got her apprenticeship through favors and family ties, but you earned yours—unheard of for the unclanned. You can teach me, find some way to help me get over this disability. If I succeed my father as chieftain, the future of the clan will be in my hands.”

  Mooriah ran her hands over her face. “Forgive me for saying this, but perhaps you should not be chief then, given this… issue.”

  He stood and began to pace. “Believe me, I’ve thought of that. But what do you think life under Rumble’s leadership would be like? He is more bellicose than even Father. The only way for the Folk to survive is to eventually combine the clans. Otherwise we will continue losing more and more each year to the Outside until we are too weak to go on. But all Crimson and Rumble are concerned with are war and supremacy. Our people have fought enough. Another war would decimate us. We need peace. We need to get the people on board with the idea of uniting the clans under one banner, in one city. Share resources and survive for as long as possible.”

  She sat back, staring up at him. He stopped his pacing and stood straighter under her perusal. “It is your desire to become clan?” he asked.

  She nodded. “This is my home. For all its flaws, I love it here. I want to be shaman, and I want to be clan.”

  Her earnestness and
straightforwardness were endearing. “And do I speak false?”

  Her eyes were heavy. She shook her head. “We lose craftsmen and farmers year after year. And soldiers, too. Another war would be devastating. Uniting the Folk is sensible.” She stood and crossed over to him. “Very well, I will try my best to help you overcome this difficulty. I suspect you will have to work very hard.”

  “I am no stranger to hard work,” he replied gruffly.

  “No, you are not. I am not certain that you will succeed, but I vow to try. For the sake of the clan.”

  “For Night Snow,” he replied, thumping his chest.

  Mooriah bowed respectfully. “We can start tomorrow after my studies. Would you like to meet here?”

  “Yes. This place is safe from prying eyes.”

  Her eyes roamed him up and down, an assessing gaze so different from Glister’s possessive one which had left him feeling like a slab of meat. Mooriah’s held worry. For her or him, he wasn’t sure. But he was drawn to her face over and over again. Her cheeks were round and her eyes slightly slanted. They were so dark, the color of shadows and mystery. He felt that he could disappear in their depths and never be found again.

  She blinked and looked away. “All right. We will meet here tomorrow after the dinner hour.”

  “Thank you, Mooriah.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t thank me yet.”

  ~ 4 ~

  Binding of the Wretched: A protection to those who have sought their fortunes beyond the reach of the Mountain Mother.

  Half a handful each of featherblade and bitterleaf. When seeking to strengthen, add no more than a bead of the blood of the chieftain and his or her heir, else participants may be struck with a cold plague.

  —WISDOM OF THE FOLK

  Mooriah sat in the cave that had been assigned to her for practice, far away from the business of the city. It was not located on the upper levels, like Ember’s hidden place, but in the depths, muggy and warm where no one would want to go. Here, none could unintentionally stumble upon her while she trained with her unique ability.

  Though the Folk were warded against her, and she would not be able to kill any of them accidentally, she could still cause harm. The power she wielded was mighty and required a tight rein. Which was why, when she wasn’t attending to her apprentice duties or studying, she was here practicing. Learning the fine-tuned control she needed to keep the others safe.

  Often Murmur helped her, for while the Cavefolk had no inborn magic, they had long ago mastered the magic of the blood. Nethersong was death and spirit combined, and as such, shared properties with blood. She’d often wondered if she’d taken to wielding blood magic so easily because of her Nethersong abilities. Death was the power Mooriah controlled, one she was born with and would die with, but was determined not to kill others with.

  On the Outside, she would have been murdered at birth, even a baby Nethersinger was deadly. But her father had sought to spare her and so had brought her here, to be raised under the watchful eye of the shamans who could control her if needed, and the prophet who would guide her in how to use her birthright.

  Her thoughts turned to Ember, to his unique problem. She did not know if one could ward another adult—children were easy and pliable, but someone of his mental strength would be difficult. There was a reason why adolescents had to learn how to protect themselves. She would have to research the matter when she was done here.

  She released thoughts of the chieftain’s son to focus on the task at hand. Allowing her gaze to go soft, she relaxed enough to accept the embrace of the Mother. Her sense of her own body left her, freeing her consciousness. Her power awakened inside her, and she found herself in the heart of the Mother—another plane of existence where she could practice her deadly skills without fear.

  She stood in a dark place where she was lit from within. An obstacle course of sorts manifested before her. Focusing her will and intention, she felt for the death energy all around. She sensed the decay from insects and organisms and life-forms too tiny to ever see—things that lived and died in the blink of an eye.

  Her inner Song unfurled with a dancer’s agility and grace. She controlled it tightly as it always seemed like it wanted to escape her grip, to fly free like a bird soaring overhead.

  She stretched her senses through the mountain, seeking death energy farther and farther away. Her awareness traveled through the veins of stone. To the freshly dead bodies in the morgue—elders who’d passed on in their sleep, to the blood flowing from a butcher’s kill.

  Echoes resonated from the ancient blood of the Folk from generations past, ones who had performed the human sacrifices that were far rarer now. Blood had coated the walls to create protection spells from Outsiders—from people like Mooriah’s parents. But she was of the Folk now. She knew nothing of Outside and had dedicated herself to the future of the clan. She would be one of them.

  A curious sensation reached for her, something new and different—not quite definable. She was just beginning to investigate it when a message reached her. This spell was a summons, not nearly as harsh as the one Glister had used the day before. A simple message from Oval to meet him at the detention chambers.

  Her mind and spirit left the liminal space and returned to her body, then she hurried to follow the Exemplar’s instructions. When she arrived at the prison area, she found Oval speaking with the guards.

  They quickly left, and he turned to her. “An Outsider was found trespassing. He tried to steal a piece of the Mother and suffered Her wrath.”

  Mooriah gasped and peeked into the darkened cave behind him. On the ground lay a prone man, but all she could see of him was that he was covered in blood. “What happened to him?”

  “The Mother has safeguards in place. An avalanche of rocks kept him from escaping. It took some time for our patrol to find him and dig him out. It seems he’d been there for several days.”

  She shook her head in disbelief and reached into her satchel. “I’ll gather the healing supplies.” But Oval held out a hand to stop her.

  “This is part of his punishment.”

  She peered back at the prisoner whose head was turned away from her. His chest rose and fell with labored breath. It certainly appeared as though some of his bones were crushed, and he must be bleeding internally. Everything she could see was battered and bloody. He was gravely injured.

  Still attuned to Nethersong, she felt it pulling at her. His death energy was potent. Without healing, this man would surely die.

  “He will be interrogated shortly,” Oval said. “Prepare the necessary elements for the Binding of Truth.” She nodded obediently.

  Oval went to confer with the guards again, and Mooriah knelt and dug through her satchel, organizing its contents so that she had easy access to everything she needed. As she did so, keeping Oval in view in the corner of her eye, she mentally scanned the death energy ravaging the prisoner’s body.

  Certainly he had committed a crime, but he was an Outsider and had no knowledge of the Mother’s rules. Whatever he’d done, he could be punished for, but not like this. Not with a slow, agonizing death. With her Song, she pulled Nethersong from the man’s body, taking the energy into herself. It invigorated her, filling her with vitality and staving off the man’s death.

  But it put him into a kind of limbo; he was not dead, but neither would he get better. She could not heal the way her father and the other Earthsingers could. Her Song could prevent death or give it. That was all.

  However, she was also blood mage. Once Oval and the guards moved off down the hall, she crept into the darkened cave, approaching the prisoner’s body. Since so much of his blood was present, she could use it for the spell. Softly, so no one would hear, she began the incantation that would set his bones.

  It was a difficult working, forbidden for use by all but the shaman. If done incorrectly, it would do more harm than good. But having done little else but study and practice for years, she was confident in her abilities and f
ocused all her will and intent on saving the man’s life.

  The blood allowed her to knit his bones back together and inflate his collapsed lung. It stopped the bleeding inside of him. She could not afford to heal him too much, else she would be discovered, but at least now he was no longer on the cusp. He would live—at least until his interrogation.

  She sat back on her haunches and took a closer look at him. He shifted, his head rolling toward her, giving her a good look at his face. High cheekbones and skin a shade somewhere between the coloring of the Cavefolk and her own hue. His hair was coiled in thick, dark locks, and his eyes fluttered and slowly opened.

  She sucked in a shocked breath. Gold and copper swirls moved inside his irises. She’d never seen eyes like that. They transfixed her so that she couldn’t look away.

  “Who are you?” he asked, his voice a rich honey. He spoke the language of her father, not the tongue of the Folk.

  “My name is Mooriah, who are you?”

  “I am Fenix.” He looked around, then tried to sit up only to groan in pain and lay back down. “Where am I?”

  “You trespassed in the mountain and disturbed a stone from the sacred Mother. Our guards found you and brought you here to await sentence by the chieftain.”

  A strange look crossed his face. “Another prison.” He huffed a humorless laugh. “You are one of them? You don’t look like the others.”

  Her back straightened. As if she hadn’t heard that enough. “I was not born of the Folk, but they are my people. I have lived here my entire life.” She stood and prepared to leave.

  “Wait—I, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  She froze at the sincerity in his voice. She was being oversensitive. He wasn’t from here, and it was a perfectly reasonable question.

  Vibrations shook the floor. “Someone’s coming. Please don’t tell anyone I helped you.”

  He frowned. “You weren’t supposed to. Why did you then?”