by J. V. Jones
Ash made herself nod.
“Second, wardings protect you. The restraint you feel is part of the barrier I have erected. Your body is bound by cords of sorcery. They wrap around your heart, your liver, your brain, and your womb, shielding them from harm or interference. They are strong now, yet time will wear them. I pray they will last until you make it to the Cavern of Black Ice, but in truth I cannot be certain. You can help by making yourself strong. Eat well and often, sleep for as long as you can, do not drive yourself hard, and never put yourself in a position where fear might lead you to draw sorcery.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“As a Reach you were born for one thing: to make a rift in the Blindwall. The power is here”—he poked a finger at his chest—“inside you. And nothing of flesh and blood can stand against it when you draw it forth and reach.” Cant’s eyes were suddenly hard, green jewels in a face so pale it could have belonged to a corpse. “You think I mean to scare you, Asarhia March. Well, perhaps I do. Perhaps I myself am scared. This is an old land we live in, and old myths and old powers sustain it. Before the clans and the city men came here, before even the Sull settled in their cities of icewood and stone, there were others, not men, not as we would name them, yet they had eyes and mouths like men, and built great halls of earth and timber in the heart of the Want. I cannot tell you how many centuries they lived for, but I do know they died out within a hundred years, slaughtered or taken by the creatures in the Blind. The Sull call it Ben Horo, the Time Before. They hold the knowledge of these others close, pass it down from generation to generation, even though they share neither blood nor kinship with them. This they do to honor the memories of the Old Ones as they named them, and to keep fear of the Endlords alive.”
“Why tell me this now?”
“Because you must know what is at stake. Any magic user who is untrained is dangerous. Anger, terror, fear: Any strong emotion can concentrate power. You must guard yourself against such things. Lash out in anger, and sorcery may be released with the blow. You cannot afford to lose control of your emotions. More than your own life depends on it.”
Ash decided she would say nothing . . . and not be afraid.
“If there were more time, I could show you what the Sull call Saer Rahl, the Way of the Flame, which teaches men and women how to master their emotions and never act out of anger or fear.” Cant smiled thinly. “I never took to it myself, but then I was born on the slopes of the Shattered Mountains, and no flames I knew burned cold.”
Cant clicked his sticks against the floor. “So I must send you north with nothing but bloodwards to protect you. And perhaps we should both pray that next time we meet your Reach power will be gone and you’ll have no need of lessons in self-control from an old man such as me. Just know this: Any kind of sorcery you draw before you reach the cavern will blast through my constraints.” Spittle shot from Cant’s lips. “Is that clear?”
“Yes.”
“The wardings will not withstand Reach power.” A pause followed, and then he murmured, “Little can.”
Ash held herself tall. She would show no reaction to this man. Cant watched her for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, that’s all I mean to say.” He began the long process of rising to his feet, and Ash turned away to give him privacy to position his legs and sticks. His breaths sounded like discharged arrows at her back.
When finally he had moved himself close to the door, she turned and said, “How did my foster father know I was a Reach?”
“Do you really mean how or when?”
Surprised by his cleverness, Ash confessed the truth. “Yes, when?”
An expression looking much like sympathy charged the slack muscles of Cant’s face. “Prophecies that foretell the coming of the next Reach have been passed from mouth to mouth ever since the last Reach died ten centuries ago. I have read or heard many of them myself. Some are obvious fakes, written by the sort of men and women who take pleasure in hoaxes and tricks. Others are food for scholars, filled with so many archaic references and metaphors that no two people can agree on their meaning. Others still are written in dead languages that once translated lose their subtlety and sense. A few, just a few, have the ring of truth about them. One such prophecy is a child’s verse. It has been known and spoken in the North for many years.” Cant hesitated.
“Say it.”
Cant nodded. He adjusted his sticks to better bear his weight and then spoke in the soft voice of secrets and confessions.
First to breathe upon a mountain
First to gaze upon a barren gate
First to Reach in the hands of her captors
Last to learn her fate.
Silence filled the room like cold water. Ash breathed and thought and did not move. Cant waited. The air surrounding them was thick and dark, filled with the scent of old things. Ash met Cant’s gaze and held it until he looked away. She had no desire to discuss the verse with him. Its meaning was clear. She had been left on the north face of Mount Slain, five paces away from Vaingate, the barren gate, and Penthero Iss, Angus Lok, and this man standing before her had all known who she was before she had known herself.
Yes, Cant had answered her question, the real one she had not asked. Her foster father had known all along. Scores of children were abandoned each year in Spire Vanis, left in doorways of grand manses, on the steps of the Bone Temple, or at the foot of Theron Pengaron’s statue in the Square of Four Prayers. Hundreds of children must have passed through Iss’ hands, yet he’d chosen to keep just one. A baby girl left outside Vaingate to die.
Ash closed her eyes, told herself she must be strong. “Go now,” she said to Cant. “Tell Angus I am ready.”
Cant’s mouth worked upon a word but did not speak it. Like a servant obeying orders, he bowed his head and left.
Only when the door had closed behind him and she heard the click of the latch did she reach over and grab the table for support. She had thought her father loved her.
Minutes later when Angus entered the room, she was composed, her face cleared of all emotion. She was surprised at the wave of relief she felt upon seeing his big red face. He looked well and had taken the trouble to shave his beard and trim his hair.
“You look beautiful,” he said, his gaze missing no detail of her hair, clothes, or feet. “Blue suits you. I thought it might.”
She had forgotten about her new clothes, forgotten even that she was wearing them. She went to reply, but for some reason it was hard to speak. Smiling instead, she made a little twirl to show off her dress. As the wool skirt whipped against her ankles, it occurred to her that she had performed this little ceremony countless times for Penthero Iss.
Angus looked at her without smiling. Suddenly he didn’t seem much in the mood for talking, either.
“I want to thank you,” Ash began, “for all the lovely things—”
“Hush,” Angus said, not gently. “It was nothing. Nothing.” His voice had a roughness to it that she didn’t understand. “Well, we’d better be on our way. Raif’s waiting outside with the horses.” With that he scooped up the basket containing the remainder of her clothes and made his way from the room.
Ash put on her new cloak and gloves, then followed him. In the darkness of the hall she met gazes with Cloistress Gannet. The tiny black-clad woman gave no greeting, save to pinch her dry little mouth into an even drier line.
Angus held open the door against the wind. A storm was picking up, and snowflakes sailed through the doorway, coming to land on the red-and-cream rug that covered the floor. Cant won’t like that one bit, Ash thought, fastening her cloak ties in haste.
Her new boots sank deep into the snow as she walked across the courtyard toward Raif. He was standing by a black iron gate, holding Moose, the bay, and a full-grown pony with thick legs and a strong neck. The creature was gray, like Moose, but darker and more blotchy, not so elegantly turned, as Master Haysticks would say. She had a large head and three white socks and wasn’t a bit l
ike a grand horse at all.
Raif grinned as she approached. The storm suited him. He didn’t shiver or stamp his feet as most people did in foul weather. Tilting his head toward the pony, he said, “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”
“Yes.” Ash stopped short of the creature so as not to alarm her on their first meeting. “What’s her name?”
“Snowshoe.” Raif continued to grin.
Ash grinned madly back. “It’s a perfect name. Perfect.” Stripping off her new gloves, she moved wide of the pony so she could approach her from the side. “Snowshoe,” she said softly, to get her attention. Arms down at her side, Ash stepped closer, presenting herself for sniffing. Master Haysticks had always been particular about that. Let a new horse sniff you before you touch it, he’d said. Else it’s like a total stranger coming up to you and poking you in the neck. Ash very much wanted Snowshoe to like her. It was suddenly the most important thing.
Snowshoe sniffed and looked, then made a rolling motion with her head. Ash glanced at Raif, who nodded. Leaning in toward the pony, Ash raised her hand and stroked the bottom of the creature’s neck. Snowshoe’s huge brown eye watched her closely. By the time Ash had worked her hand down to the withers, Snowshoe was moving her chest forward to meet each stroke. Ash’s heart tightened with joy. When Raif held out his hand, presenting her with a small green apple to give to the pony, she thought she might cry.
“Take it,” he said. “The last owner said they were her favorites.”
The apple was offered and taken. Snowshoe allowed her mane and back to be stroked while she crunched it.
“Aye, you’ve made a friend there,” Angus said, approaching with the last of the packs. Ash smiled at him as he loaded the horses. The hound bites on the bay’s flanks were no longer bandaged, and she was relieved to see they were closed and dry. When she raised her gaze from the gelding’s flank, she noticed Heritas Cant standing in the doorway, watching her.
“Here, give me your wee footie.” Angus bent at the waist, ready to help her mount.
A little unnerved by Cant’s presence, Ash placed her left foot in Angus’ cupped hands and levered herself onto Snowshoe’s back. The saddle fit perfectly, and Raif moved quickly to adjust the stirrups to her leg. Snowshoe held herself steady all the while, as calm as if she met new riders every day in a storm.
When everyone was mounted and ready, Cant called out from the doorway. “The north road should be clear. Follow it until dark and then turn west when you pass the twin stormbarns of Clan’s Reach.”
Angus nodded. “Aye, Heritas. We’ll do just that. I thank you for the warmth of your hearth and the knowledge you have given. Gods willing, we’ll meet again afore winter’s end.”
Cant made no reply, save to click his sticks against the stone step.
“I owe you a debt, Heritas Cant,” Raif said, his voice rising to compete with the storm. “When we meet again I’ll repay it.”
Cant shook his head. “I will not add to your burdens, Clansman, by claiming a debt against you.”
Ash watched Raif’s face as he listened to the reply. A muscle high on his cheek pulsed, and then he bowed his head and looked away. Ash stroked Snowshoe’s neck, searching for warmth. Turning the pony into the street, she nodded her farewell to Heritas Cant.
Ille Glaive was differently made from Spire Vanis. As Ash trotted the pony down the street, past crumbling stonework, slate-roofed mansions, sealed-up sewers, and lead pipes venting steam, she began to see layers in the stone. The lower cellar levels that were only partially visible from the street were built from finely hewn stone that was black with soot and age. Ash saw moons and stars carved into the risers of cellar steps and the undersides of arches. Aboveground the stone was newer, lighter, the walls constructed from softer, more workable sandstone. Everything seemed to be heaped upon everything else, and buildings creaked and listed under the weight of added stories, ring towers, and timber bridges. In the distance the five lead-capped domes of the Lake Keep could clearly be seen rising high above the great curtain wall of ironstone that surrounded them. The Three Tears of Ille Glaive—the Black Tear of the Spill, the Red Tear of Sull blood, and the Steel Tear of Dunness Fey’s sword—flew on stiff white banners from their hoardings. Ash remembered her foster father telling her that the Lake Keep was built around a pool of black water known as the Eye of the Spill. The pool was said to be deeper than the lake itself, and strange blind fishes were said to swim there.
The nearer they drew to Ille Glaive’s north wall, the more squalid the city became. Many buildings were little more than occupied ruins. Ash studied the caved roofs, boarded windows, and iced-up drains with eyes that had seen such things before. She knew what it felt like to be out on the streets, cold and hungry and alone. A journey north along the Storm Margin was nothing compared with that.
Quickly, before her mind turned to the subject of Heritas Cant and all that he had said, Ash began patting Snowshoe’s neck and saying horsey things out loud. She couldn’t think about being a Reach. Not now. Not yet.
The storm darkened as they approached the Old Sull Gate. Mounds of brown snow had been piled to either side of the gateposts, and rows of icicles hung from the gate and its rigging, wet and dripping like monster’s teeth. Angus dismounted but indicated that Ash should keep her seat. He appeared calm, yet Ash saw the way his gaze flickered from the gate tower to the guards in white mail shirts to the bowmen walking the wall.
The north gate of Ille Glaive was old and beautifully carved from honey-colored stone. It matched neither the color nor the style of the wall in which it was set. Unlike the gates in Spire Vanis, it had not been designed to impress anyone with its size and grandeur and existed simply as a thing of a beauty, like an entrance to a holy place. A landscape of gently sloping hills, valleys, thick forests, and gorges alive with crashing water was carved across its posts and arch.
“The clanholds,” murmured Raif.
Ash turned to look at him. Snow swirled around his face, switching this way and that with every change of the wind. He held Moose’s reins at tension, and Ash was reminded of what he looked like when he was drawing a bow.
“Aye,” Angus said. “There’s parts of Dhoone and Blackhail and Bludd up there. The stone was cut and carved by Sull masons. All their gates tell stories of the lands that lie beyond.”
Raif did not acknowledge what he said. Ash watched him as they joined the thin line of people waiting to take leave of the city. His gaze never returned to the gate.
A woman farmer with a dog and cart and an old trapper dressed in rabbit furs that stank like all the hells stood ahead of them in line. Two guards wearing the Three Tears at their breasts gave them little trouble as they passed. Ash expected Angus to be relieved when they took the gate unchallenged, yet no part of his body relaxed. What is he afraid of? she wondered as she caught him looking over his shoulder one last time.
Beyond the city walls the storm raged. Ash’s eyes and mouth filled with snow the moment the pony cleared the gate, and she was forced to pull her fox hood so close that she looked at the world through a filter of gray fur. The north road stretched out ahead of her, straight as an arrow and wide as four carts. The cityhold of Ille Glaive, with its sprawling farms, stout outwalls, and tight little villages where every building shared walls with another, spread across the horizon like a land made of snow. Everything was white, even the sky. The only dark patches were chimney stacks and smoke holes on the roofs of a thousand farms.
Angus mounted and set a brisk pace north.
Snow drove into the horses’ faces all the way. Darkness came early, moving south through the cityhold like a second storm. The wind died along with the light, and the sudden drop in temperature bred frost. Ash huddled in her oilskins, aware of every gapehole, eyelet, and poorly stitched seam. Cold settled in her chest like a disease. Every breath she exhaled caught in her hood and turned to blue ice. Lights from roadside taverns began to look tempting, yet Angus showed little interest in stopping. Smoke
smelling of roast meat and onions burned black blew across the road, making Ash’s mouth fill with saliva and her stomach growl. Hours passed, yet Angus still refused to call a halt.
Ash sank into the misery of aching thighs, numb fingers, cracked lips, and a full bladder. She took to looking at the starless sky and wondering how long it would be before dawn. She had already decided that Angus meant to ride through the night.
Finally Raif spoke up, saying something to Angus that Ash couldn’t hear. Whispers passed between the two. Angus shook his head. Raif’s voice dropped dangerously low . . . Ash heard him speak her name. Angus’ shoulders stiffened for an instant, yet on his very next breath he relented. Glancing over at Ash, he said, “Aye. A short stop will do no harm.”
Ash tried not to let the relief show on her face.
They rode a while longer, until they were free from the light of nearby villages and Angus was satisfied with the density of trees along the road. Ash smelled the sharp vinegary scent of resin as they headed for a stand of blackstone pines. Snowshoe was delighted to be off the road and found much to sniff at beneath the snow. Ash looked over the tops of the pines as she waited for the pony to raise her head. The northern horizon was dominated by a row of jagged peaks, dark shadows against a nearly black sky.
“The Bitter Hills,” Angus said as his boots thudded into the snow. “The clanholds stand beyond them. Ganmiddich, Bannen, and Croser lie that way.”
Hearing Angus speak, Ash knew she had been watched. Did he always mind her so closely that he could tell where her eyes focused? She dismounted Snowshoe in silence, unwilling to draw Angus out on the subject of clans. Something inside her knew that Raif would not welcome it.