Snowtear

by S. B. Davidson

  Riken shrugged.

  “Do you love her?”

  “Nay,” Riken said.

  “But you could, given time?”

  “Given time, I could learn to fly maybe, but I don’t see that happening any time soon.”

  “Do you always jest when uncomfortable?”

  “Not just,” he said.

  “When we get back to Winter Moon,” Sage said, turning from the window to face him, “I’d be honored if you came to live with us. The house is much too big for just me and Jillian, and I wager it has need of a man to sit on the couch in front of the hearth and smoke those expensive cigars. And the shelves of wine in the cellar, they surely can’t drink themselves.”

  “I’m eternally grateful that you’re well, Sage. It means more to me than you know,” Riken said, “but I’m tired, and I need to rest.”

  “Of course,” she said. She took the bowls from the table and headed for the exit, balancing one in each hand. She stopped just shy of the fluttering curtain. “Think on it is all I ask.”

  Riken laid back in the bed, pulled the bed sheet snug.

  “My thanks to you, Riken Snowtear,” Sage said as she left him with only the sounds of the genteel wind drifting through the grass hut and crashing waves beating against the shore.

  A month he’d now been in the cozy little docking village of Harrenport, and still Riken hadn’t been able to leave the confines of his hut. The grass walls were beginning to feel even more constricting than normal, a spectacular feat considering their already intimate footage. Never one for deep water, he was nevertheless aching to take a walk on the beach, feeling the heat of sand beneath his toes, while gazing out into the vast, blue ocean he heard every day from his sickbed.

  The ache in his bones had subsided for the most part. His leg still vexed him, but it was more of a dull, irritating pain than the full-blown torment it had been a week past when they’d decided to cease prescribing Illter’s ointments. His jaw had healed enough that it no longer barked every time he opened his mouth, and all his cuts and bruises were naught but faded pink memories.

  He was ready to get out of this Father-forsaken bed.

  Uther had brought him a piece of petrified driftwood the other day. His friend had smiled and said it reminded him of Riken. Uther had dubbed it Twig. It was about three and a half feet long, with a crooked head. Perfect for a cane. It currently lay leaning against the wall next to the head of his bed, taunting him.

  Riken threw the bed sheet back, sat up with a groan, and eased his legs off the bed. The act produced an addled tremor in his afflicted leg. He winced and gripped Twig’s gnarly head. Tentatively, he applied weight to his legs, heavily favoring the good one, allocating most of the left’s burden to Twig.

  He rose to his full height, groaning again as his back gave a loud crack. The wood floor was cool on his bare feet. He took a timid step. And another. He almost faltered once, but Twig held him sure, and he made it to the curtained doorway without calamity.

  The direct sunlight burned his eyes, but he welcomed it as he made his way down a grassy path toward the short beach.

  He wore only a light pair of hempen pants with the drawstrings undone. It mattered little. This side of the Sanctuous mountain range wasn’t afflicted by the cold known to its northern cousin. The day was cool, but comfortably so. The salty air drifting off the waters of the Tanuu teased his freshly-scrubbed hair. Abby had washed it just last evening.

  In fact, Abby had been doing everything for him during his remedial stay abed. Before he’d had enough strength, she’d even fed him. She’d stayed up at night with him during that first taxing week of consciousness, when he’d spiked an alarming fever and broken out in bouts of shivering, sweating, and other more unseemly things. She’d read to him from a withered book of fishing tales as he slipped in and out of coherence. Her sweet, frothy voice had made even the banal tales of the local fisherman/writer interesting. Like she had on rare occasions in the past, she’d seen to his bathing a number of times, though Riken had to admit, it was hardly the sensuous affair it had been back then in the cozy tub of their little cottage.

  And they would talk. Not of old times; she wouldn’t allow that. But they talked of plays they’d seen and books they’d read, of jobs they’d been on separately in the times since they’d parted ways professionally, of Winter Moon politics. Nonsensical things, unimportant, but breezy and comfortable.

  One night Abby had talked well past midnight of her sister Rachel’s new baby daughter. It was the happiest he’d seen her. Rachel was the only member of her well-to-do family that she still had any contact with after leaving that affluent life behind at the young age of seventeen cycles. Abby had said she adored spending time with the baby, Dawn, and that the little infant had a laugh that could melt ice and hard men alike.

  Conversation came easy to them, just like old times.

  How much like old times it all was scared him. But more, how fluently the two of them had slipped into those old roles, like there had been but a sinewy wall between them all this time, easy crumbled and forgotten.

  At least he’d thought so originally.

  In the last few days, Abby had been visiting less frequently. And when she did, she was distant, perfunctorily going about required tasks, speaking to him in a voice that each day seemed further away, evermore guarded. Never had she let the sun set without peeking in to check on him, but she’d ceased lingering and sitting on the edge of his bed to chat.

  That should’ve been a relief to him. A nagging piece of his head had been growing uncomfortable with the newfound kinship budding between them. He liked her company, liked having her near, but he’d been afraid of what it might mean, what more she might want. He hadn’t known if he could give that to her, or even if he wanted to.

  When she’d stopped being there every day, though, that nagging piece had fallen silent, replaced threefold by another that longed for her companionship, cried for her soft touch and the melancholy twinkle of her deep, amber eyes. It had certainly taken him by surprise, to have rekindled old feeling he’d thought long dead, but he couldn’t deny their reemergence.

  Now how to tell Abby, that was the prickly part.

  He found her near the docks.

  She wore a pretty, lavender sundress. Its lack of sleeves had caused the pale skin on her slender arms to sunburn a little. The garment hung nicely on her body, open and flowing while still revealing her pleasant contours – curves he’d once been able to recognize with his eyes closed, using only his hands. She was wading just west of the long dock, the frilled, white hem of the sundress floating in the water around her legs.

  Riken watched her silently, until finally her relaxed spinning turned her in his direction, and she observed his spying.

  “You’re up,” she said.

  “Aye,” he said, limping further onto the beach. He had to stop when his feet started sinking in the wet sand. Twig kept getting stuck.

  “I wondered when you’d grow tired enough of that hut to take your bony ass out.”

  “It outgrew its welcome a week ago. Been a good while since I’ve seen you in a dress. It’s nice.”

  “My thanks,” Abby said, flicking at the thin fabric as if being seen in it was cause for embarrassment. “I don’t care for it, but it’s all the maids of this village had to offer.”

  Riken smiled. She was even cuter when uncomfortable.

  “I wanted to speak with you,” he said, hesitant to begin. “I…”

  She raised her hand in a tired gesture, cutting him off. “I’m glad you’re well now.”

  “Me too.”

  She stared at her rippling reflection in the water. “But…I meant what I said, Riken.”

  “About the dress?”

  “You know what I mean,” she said.

  He did. “Abby, I thought…”

  “Faultily,” she finished.

  “Not exactly the word I was searching for. Why?”

  “For all the reasons I�
��ve already laid out. You forget our conversation back on the plains of Black Earth?”

  “It’s different now though, nay? The stale air between us has changed.”

  “Not hardly enough to mend old wounds.”

  “If I could go back and change things…”

  She twirled her leg lazily in the current. “But you can’t,” she said sadly, “unless you’ve acquired some lofty, new fibra I never knew of. Have you? Can the great Riken Snowtear now spin the seasons on their tail and make winter fade into autumn?”

  “I could try,” Riken said, shifting more weight to his cane.

  “And fail.”

  “This can’t be how you want things to end between us.”

  “Want? Nay, “Abby said. “Need? Must? Truly, it is. I swore to myself I’d never be that way again, not with you. Maybe not with anyone. That fool-hearted girl is gone. She won’t come back.”

  Riken felt a swelling in his chest that he didn’t care for. He tried to stay it, mash it back down to the unwelcome place it was coming from, but he couldn’t.

  “I…don’t want to lose you,” he said.

  Abby laughed softly. The sound was so sad it hurt. “That happened long ago.”

  The finality of her casually uttered words careened into him as if one of the stubby waves brushing his feet had just developed tidal-wave strength. This couldn’t have been going further south of his original plan. Looking into her mournful eyes, he flailed for words that would calm this storm and make her see him anew.

  “Hit me,” he said, unsure why.

  That finally made her look at him, at least. “What?”

  “Hit me,” he repeated. “If it will make you feel better, do it. I don’t care. Kick this bastard cane out from my hand, shove me down to the ground, and mash my face into the sand.”

  “Riken.”

  “But hold it there,” he said. “Hold it until either you’ve forgiven my despicable shame, or I cease drawing breath.”

  “Tempting,” Abby said.

  “I jest not. Do it if that’s what it will take to make you see my sincerity. Then one way or another, this fucking burning lump in my chest will finally depart from me.”

  Riken exhaled a ratty breath, and awaited her response. He didn’t wait long.

  “Nay,” she said, returning her eyes to the ocean.

  “In the name of the Father, why?” Riken demanded.

  “Just…nay,” Abby said, and turned away from him.

  Riken started to protest, then stopped. She’d said her peace. He’d said his.

  There was nothing left.

  After four months of living a simple existence surely only bearable to dimwits wanting no more from life than a warm plate of fish every night and a cool walk along the beach of an evening, Riken stood on the far end of the long dock – where he’d stood sentinel every day for a full week. And finally, the great, floating city of Crystalline once again sidled up to Harrenport’s dock.

  After two days of trading and bartering, unpacking loads of clothing, spices, meats, jewelry, and other niceties foreign to this side of the world, and boarding the fruits of the local citizens’ labors, the mammoth dream of Toliver Creet’s great mind shoved off once again in route to the corner city of Winter Moon.

  Under the ceiling of one of its grandest homes, it took with it Riken Snowtear, his homesick crew, and five little girls that had been miraculously rescued from the jaws of death.

  As a troubled, depressed youth, Riken had fled his home city of Burden. At the time, trailing the dark memories of that wretched place behind his feet, he’d known he’d never be more thankful to leave a place in his wake.

  From the stained-glass window of the home Sage had rented for their time aboard, he watched the quaint village of Harrenport become nothing more than a faint speckle on the ocean tide, and he realized he’d been gravely wrong.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Crystalline was one of the most glorious, most ingenious sights Riken had ever laid eyes on.

  Over six thousand citizens lived within its nearly five hundred floating acres. The majority of the homes were modest of size by necessity, constructed of resilient stone and brick to insure the comfort and safety of their inhabitants in even the harshest climates the maritime city transported them. Their modesty of size did not, however, strain their affluent owners’ proclivity for opulence. The rich, it seemed, were the rich, and all that entailed, no matter where they laid their premium roots. The homes of Crystalline’s wealthy and powerful were cousins to their Saffrom Row brethren in every way – vaulted ceilings, marble floors, hand-etched doors, stained-glass windows, furnishings dating back cents, looming pitched roofs – save at a miniature, more manageable proportion. They enjoyed a singular benefit though, and that, by Riken’s way of thinking, eclipsed any nuisance. On any given day, Crystalline’s citizens, rich and poor alike, could drift to their windows, peel open the curtains, and set eyes upon fresh, new scenery. What a wondrous blessing.

  A few structures were spared the requisite curtailing. Each of the five religions was allowed a single house apiece befitting their grandeur. Any need of worship space they had beyond that was relegated to quaint chapels peppered throughout the city. Riken had heard they were nice. The grandest edifice was Khwitaz Ring, a terrific colosseum at the heart of the city. It offered seating for two thousand within the rounded confines of its towering, pure white, stone walls. Therein, the people were daily treated – weather permitting – to plays of drama and comedy, circus acts, feats of acrobatics, illusionist exhibitions, and a score of other enchanting festivities. The only blood ever shed on the colosseum’s stage was tomato paste employed by actors. Unlike the preferred entertainment at Winter Moon’s Arena, there were never combats. Such barbarous activities were prohibited by Crystalline’s engineer, Toliver Creet.

  Mothers all over Cryshal spent considerable energy – and oftentimes muscle –teaching their children the dangers of playing in the streets. Crystalline’s matrons, though, probably had an easier time getting their tykes to come round to their way of thinking. The reason being that fully half of the floating city’s streets were not streets at all, but waterways. From what Riken had ascertained through conversations with locals, it had something to do with weight distribution and buoyancy. Citizens made leisurely passage along the waterways in canoes, small rafts stacked with crates and baskets, and gondolas with awnings to shade their passengers.

  Life aboard, it seemed to Riken, was simpler. There was crime to be sure, but less so than most cities. Turns out, threat of being pitched over the side in the middle of a hard, blue ocean was quite the deterrent to ill manners.

  If the place didn’t now harbor such painful memories, Riken might’ve been able to see himself spending out the rest of his life on its drifting streets. Maybe someday, he still would. A score of the wealthy and affluent lived within its spacious breast. Surely even the denizens of a floating city had need of a man who knew how to handle what needed handling.

  Still, as they now came into view, he was grateful to the sight of Winter Moon’s docks. Gripping the railing, all he could see of his home were the three huge warehouses, the smoking fishhouse, the multitude of little shanties hugging the ice to the north, and the very tip of Kara Alazel’s magnificent castle protruding over the crest of the eastern mountain. But he knew what lay just beyond, nestled in the valley. Over the potent redolence of salt water, he could smell the wonderfully intermingled aromas of Winter Moon on the breeze. The scents played like pictures in his mind. A simple whiff of yeast, whether real or invented by his lonesome mind, ushered forth a portrait of Mon Rath’s bakery, which in turn, manifested pleasant memories of his quaint rent room above. Sniffing in the odor of sweet ale, he recalled all the taverns he’d spent so many jovial nights in, and of all the fair maids he’d entertained within those walls. He saw it all, from the lofty mansions of Saffrom Row to the charming shacks and booths jammed together along Artisan.

  He was home.


  As he’d figured, Abby lingered back at the house they’d just spent two months living and ignoring each other in. He’d known she wouldn’t come out until after he’d departed the docks, but her coldness still tinged.

  “Good to be home,” Uther said, walking down Crystalline’s lengthy platform, no doubt giving its durability more of a challenge than it had faced in some time from a single passenger. Under one arm, he toted a case of fine Freedom red that he’d won in a card game the night previous.

  “Aye,” Dexter said, sniffing the air. “Ingrid’s probably been mighty heartsick in my absence, not to mention of few other fine maids.” Riding on his shoulder, Renna giggled, staring bug-eyed at a home she probably thought she’d never see again. “Got some visits need to be paid, and fast. Probably keep me engaged for the better part of a month.”

  Uther and Riken exchanged a humored look, the same thought on both their minds. Dexter Greentree talked a good game, but the crass, loud-mouthed man had taken an extreme liking to the girls they’d rescued, especially the little one on his shoulder. Riken thought his nights of prowling the brothels were numbered.

  “Be good to get a few pints of stout Winter Moon homebrew down my gullet,” Uther said.

  “After you check in with Mumma, you mean,” Riken said. “And those mooching sisters of yours.”

  “Hold your wagging tongue, cripple,” Uther said, grinning, “You’re twice as easy to throttle now that you can’t run away.”

  Riken smiled, but looking down at the cane supporting him caused it to wither. He’d been seen to by the finest meliorater Crystalline had to offer – on the new proprietor of the Ullimar estate’s coin, of course – and the wispy-haired, old man had told him that even though he’d been able to heal most of the coarse, ugly skin, Riken would never have full use of his leg again. Twig, it seemed, would forever be a part of his life.

  Least I won’t look like I’ve got a strip of bacon for a leg from now on, he thought as they reached the end of the platform.