Followed by Frost

by Charlie N. Holmberg

  I considered all these things and made confessions and apologies I could only utter to myself. I traced the empty words in ice and sculpted my old home, the turnery, and poor renditions of my loved ones’ faces in the snow. Then I left my sad artwork behind to be buried by the next storm, always moving forward on cold and bare—but determined—feet.

  When spring settled, I followed the runoff past the mountains and soon found myself on the northeastern border of Iyoden, which I recognized only from school maps and my own speculation. I spent a day determining whether or not to cross, and at the following dawn I did, dragging my storm with me. Less than one week into my travels I discovered what appeared to be an army camped in the distance: clean, uniformed rows of beige tents and fires, men whose livery I dared not get close enough to identify. I thought of circumventing them, but I decided not to chance it and turned back.

  I had crossed to the other side of the first mountains, perhaps six days outside Euwan and Heaven’s Tear Lake, when I stumbled upon a black-cloaked figure with a broad hat, garbed in maroon, his long tresses stirring calmly in the cool breeze.

  I paused and adjusted the schoolbag on my shoulder, its handle held together only by knots.

  “I didn’t think I’d see you again,” I said. Thoughts of our last meeting would have flushed my skin had such a thing been possible.

  Sadriel laughed heartily, his broad hat almost falling from his head. He seemed taller, or perhaps I had grown smaller in his absence. “You interest me, Smitha,” he said once he had controlled himself. “You amuse me. And I can hardly stay away from good amusement for long.”

  I pinched my collar and tugged it up—all my dresses were near rags, hardly able to pass for modesty. “I didn’t mean to . . . When I saw you last, I—”

  He appeared before me in an instant, a blur solidified. His long fingers grabbed my hair and jerked my head back, forcing me to look at him. His amber eyes blazed, and his mouth curled into a sneer.

  “What will you say to me, Smitha?” he asked, and I winced in his grip. “Do you think you broke my heart?”

  He tugged my hair back further until I was sure my neck would snap. His lips almost touching my ear, he whispered, “I am Death. I don’t have a heart to break.”

  I peered into his face, forcing myself to look into those fire-hot eyes. “I’m sorry,” I murmured, choked. As loud as I could say it, throat bent as it was.

  He released me and stepped back. I coughed and rubbed my frozen neck.

  “I am part of you, Smitha,” Sadriel said, his slender brows knit tightly together. “I have waited longer than a few years for men to fall to me.”

  He vanished. I shivered at his words. Indeed it had been a few years; I had already entered my third since leaving Euwan. I did not know the exact day, but I imagined my twentieth birthday would be upon me soon enough.

  CHAPTER 9

  They came in the spring.

  If Sadriel knew, he chose not to warn me. I had finished my breakfast of wrinkled apples and was sculpting a fox out of snow when I saw them, a band of about thirty riding along the overgrown trail in the valley below—an uninhabited valley, narrow, with young trees, a crisscrossing of brooks, and dark soil that made me believe a fire had passed through some time ago. They rode in a snakelike formation, pushing their horses. With nothing but nature around us for miles, the only thing they could be looking for was me.

  I ran.

  I had the advantage of higher ground, and I knew horses did not handle steep inclines easily, but as I had learned when the hunting party from the eastern beach was pursuing me, the clouds that followed me would not allow me to hide. I climbed the steepest paths of the mountains and ran across rocks and roots to hide my prints, hoping the remnants of my frost would melt before they could be used to track me. I avoided streams and other runoff, which flowed at their fullest, for if I lingered too long in the water, it would freeze and snare me like a deer in a trap.

  I ran until my frozen throat could barely pull in enough air to keep me breathing. I stopped only to pull burrs from my aching feet. Switching my schoolbag to the other shoulder, I continued on, a little slower but no less determined.

  I wandered up and down the slopes, winding around the mountain until the narrow valley disappeared behind me, my storm trailing me all the while. I needed to forage for food, and soon, but I’d rather be hungry than dead. I ate my last apple and tuber as I walked, my jaw aching as it worked the frozen bites.

  I walked until the sun had sunk so far below the mountains I could barely see two paces in front of me. I could have lit a torch—if I wrapped my hand before touching the wood, the far end would not grow too cold to burn, and if I kept moving, the winds would not whip too strongly—but I feared being seen. Instead, I settled down at the base of a pine tree, winter-hardened needles poking through my tattered clothes. I stayed awake for a long time, listening and shivering, too aware of my own burning cold. Hours passed before I fell asleep, and I doubt I remained unconscious for even an hour. Snow fell around me. The moment the first blue lights of dawn illuminated the mountainside, I hurried down the slope and into the next, narrow valley. I pushed myself when the earth flattened, desperately trying to gain some distance on my pursuers. I walked through the entire day, carefully picking a path through the forest and hills.

  But the third day I saw the riders again, still in formation, and close enough that I could make out each individual person. Clad in indigo, they looked exotic and far different from anyone I had ever encountered. Some had large feathers protruding from their shoulders, while others were wearing strange, lizard-like armor. Their horses were large, dark, and sleek—larger than any plow horse or pony back home.

  Warhorses.

  My heart hammered. I ran, urging my frozen limbs faster, willing my cold blood to warm up enough to fuel my escape. My feet throbbed first, then my thighs, my chest, my shins. My throat ached with a fierce chill, dry and raw. I wove through a forest of white-trunked aspens, the cliffs above the tree line too steep for me to scale. I heard the thunder of hooves in the distance and stifled a cry. A thick root tripped me and I fell hard, a web of frost shooting out from where my hands planted themselves in the moist earth. I forced myself to my feet and ran, gasping for air. Praying to anyone or anything that could help me.

  The cacophony of hooves grew louder. I heard shouting. My muscles seized and my head lightened.

  Run! I urged myself, my weary, frozen limbs slacking. I have to run!

  A blur of black sped past my left—a dark rider on a dark horse. He passed me, expertly weaving through the trees. He turned suddenly, wheeling his warhorse into my path.

  I tried to evade him, bolt to the right, but my heavy limbs slid in the dirt. I toppled hard on my side, the impact flinging my flint and one of my books from my schoolbag. My ankle blazed with a new pain, pounded with an old chill.

  I looked up, hair in my face, my chest heaving with every sparse breath. The warhorse danced uneasily in my presence, as most animals did. Its rider was a tall man in loose clothing, deep indigo sleeves and a strange black vest that crossed over his chest, lined with some sort of ringed mail. He wore dark leather riding gloves and loose beige slacks that bowed where they tucked into tall black boots. A helmet, ridged on either side to look like horns, covered most of his head, but dark, almost black eyes peered out from beneath it. Dark eyes set in dark skin on an expressionless face.

  I would have stopped breathing had my body not been so desperate for air.

  Southlanders.

  As a child, I had often heard stories of Zareedian mercenaries who stormed towns in the night searching for disobedient children. Only stories, but it was still common knowledge that the Southlanders—men who lived in the scorching deserts beyond the Unclaimed Lands—were merciless warriors.

  The thunder of hooves behind me slowed. I turned and watched as the band of warriors approached me from behind, led by a man dressed similarly to the one who had felled me, albeit in sh
ades of deep scarlet and copper, the body of a large spider carved into his helmet, which revealed the entirety of his face. He held out an arm, urging his men to slow.

  I grabbed my bag—willing to leave the flint and books behind if only I could escape—and leapt to my feet. My ankle cried out in protest, but I ran best I could. I did not get five paces before the first man in indigo charged my path, once more cutting me off.

  “Please, Svara Idyah, do not run!”

  I whirled around and nearly tripped myself. The words, spoken in my own northern tongue, carried a heavy accent that elongated the vowels and softened the consonants. But Svara Idyah—those were Hraric words, and ones I recognized from my studies. They meant bearer of cold.

  The man in the spider helmet had spoken them.

  Panting, I said in my own tongue, “I have meant no harm! Please forgive any trespasses I have caused and let me go. Please!”

  The man rode closer without the rest of his entourage. I pulled up the collar of my dress, feeling exposed beneath the eyes of so many.

  The man dismounted and removed his helmet. I sensed the indigo-clad rider behind me tense.

  He was young, perhaps only a few years older than myself, with deep brown skin and bright gray eyes, a startling contrast. His black hair was cut short, save for two thin braids woven close to the skin over and behind each ear. A golden rod was pierced through the center of the cartilage of his right ear, and two small gold loops curved through the lobe of his left. He was a handsome man, narrow at the waist and broad shouldered, his face smooth and clean shaven, his nose straight. About Mordan’s height, though perhaps a little shorter.

  I stepped back as he neared, and he immediately halted his approach, leaving five paces between us. He raised empty hands.

  “My name is Imad,” he said, his accent smooth as cream. Close enough that his breath clouded beneath his nose. “I have sought you for a long time. When my men were unsuccessful in locating you last year, I could not accept defeat. I came myself, and now I have found you. Please, I mean no harm. Be at peace.”

  I shivered and hugged my bag close to myself.

  “Forgive me for scaring you. I need your help,” he continued. For a moment, I didn’t think I had heard right. He requested my help? Me, who had caused so much devastation, who could kill with a touch? “I come from Zareed, far south of here. My land and my people are suffering from a long drought; the mountains no longer give us water. Our food is low. Many people and animals have died.

  “But I heard tales of you, Svara Idyah, from a merchant. A woman in the Northlands followed by the cold. A woman who is followed by snow.” He glanced up, ready for snow to fall from the opaque clouds overhead. Our chase had been fast paced, so they remained dry. “This snow can save my country. If you will only come back with me, I will offer anything you wish. Only for a time, on my honor.”

  I stared, wide-eyed, my thoughts as frozen as the ground beneath my feet.

  “Anything, anything,” he repeated, enunciating each syllable as though I had not understood. He clasped his hands together and went down on one knee. Many of the riders behind him murmured. “Please. We have traveled long and hard to ask you this.”

  I swallowed, no moisture on my tongue. I asked, “Your country?” The words came out raspy. “Y-You are a king?” My mind searched its memory of my Hraric book. “A sheikh?”

  The latter term surprised him, but he answered, “My full name is Prince Imad Al’Hraith of the Fourth Generation.”

  I felt faint and not solely from my exhausting run. For years I had only inspired fear and hatred in those who learned of me, and I had not spoken to a soul outside of Sadriel for so long my throat felt unaccustomed to speech. Now a prince of Zareed knew the truth about who and what I was and he knelt before me, unalarmed by my curse. Inspired by it!

  I felt something spark inside my chest that felt distantly familiar.

  Imad stood again, bits of decomposed leaves clinging to his knee. He made no effort to brush them away. He stepped forward. I held my ground.

  “We are down to the last water in the well,” the prince said, stifling a shiver. “Please accompany us. We have brought a horse, and we will provide you with whatever comforts you need.”

  I shook my head no, and his face fell. I quickly explained. “I cannot ride. I . . . Whatever I touch freezes.” I stepped back and gestured to the frostbitten ground where my feet had been and the new tendrils of ice that snaked from my feet even as I spoke. “I will hurt your animal.”

  Imad smiled, a grin far different from the one Sadriel so often bore. His seemed hopeful, and it lit his entire face. “We have blankets, many blankets, for it is cold for us in the Northlands.” He glanced at the indigo rider behind me—I had forgotten he was there, barring my exit. “And we can switch horses as necessary. Please, you will consider?”

  It seemed unreal, standing there in the sloping aspen forest at the base of a mountain I had no name for, surrounded by Zareedian soldiers garbed in terrifying armor. It was like something out of one of my books. Their dark eyes watched my every movement, some hopeful, others skeptical, many wary. These men had chased me for three days, causing the utmost terror to course through my frozen veins, but they wanted me. A prince—a prince!—was begging for my aid, presenting me with a way to use my deathly curse for good.

  I loathed to leave Iyoden and the safety of its mountains. Despite my adoration for their plays, I had heard terrifying tales of the Southlands and of Zareed. Yet Prince Imad had addressed me civilly, and if he did not fear my curse, I knew I should not fear him. Had he wanted me dead, I would not have been standing there debating his offer. How long I stood, studying him, I do not know, but he waited patiently.

  I nodded.

  Imad raised both his hands and turned toward his soldiers, who cheered, a cluster of low and high noises that echoed among the trees.

  To me, he said, “Come, come,” and motioned for me to follow him. Uncertainty still rooted me to the ground, and I did not budge. After rummaging through his own saddlebags, Imad pulled free a folded piece of cloth—a yellow weave that looked almost gold. When he unfurled it, I saw it was a shirt similar to the one he wore, with thick seams and long, baggy sleeves.

  The soldier who stood sentry behind me as I spoke with Imad finally rode his gelding forward. I flinched away from him. His dark eyes disregarded me, and in Hraric he said, “She can wear one of the soldiers’ extra uniforms.”

  I admit I impressed myself by understanding his words.

  Imad shook his head and replied, again in Hraric. I did not catch every word, but I understood enough. “A woman who will save our country deserves finer. Relax, Lo. What damage can this do?”

  Lo was one of the words I did not recognize, but from context, I assumed it to be the soldier’s name. He cast a dark glare at me, as if to blame me for the disposal of this finery, and I looked away, shivering.

  Imad offered me the shirt. I refused at first, but he insisted. “I will not have you ride with us in rags. Please.” He smiled.

  I took the shirt from him, and though he wore long sleeves and gloves, I was careful not to touch him. I pulled the smooth fabric over my own dress and tied it around my waist. Big enough that it billowed around me, it was nevertheless the finest thing I had worn in three years, perhaps longer. It seemed to be made of cotton, but I had never touched cotton so soft.

  To Lo, Imad said, “See her to one of the spares and give her our best rations. She is terribly thin; after a Northland winter, she must be famished.”

  “I’m not hungry,” I said in my own tongue. In truth, I did not think I could keep anything down; my stomach twisted in cold, tight knots. “But thank you.”

  Imad stared at me, blinking, before a grin warmed his face. “You speak Hraric,” he said in Hraric.

  “Very little,” I answered in Northlander, though I spoke more than that. Actually hearing the words, though, had made me realize I had gotten several pronunciations wrong. I did
not try to speak it for fear of butchering it.

  Imad nodded and gestured to Lo, who still sat tall and overbearing on his black warhorse, uncaring for this added shred of my intelligence. “This is Lo, captain of my guard. He will take you to a horse, and we will set out immediately unless you object, Svara Idyah.”

  “My name is Smitha,” I said. I managed a smile—it was hard not to smile in the presence of one who exuded so much sincerity. “And now is fine. Thank you, for your kindness.”

  “Smitha,” Imad repeated, though in his heavy accent it sounded like “Smeesa.” “My never-ending thanks goes to you, Smeesa.”

  He clapped his hands, and the guards at his back straightened and retook their formation. Lo strode up beside me as Imad returned to his horse.

  The captain of the guard said nothing; he only glanced at me with those dark eyes before walking his mount forward. I quickly retrieved my flint and books from the ground and followed him at a safe distance. The man scared me, to be frank, and I had no desire to linger near him. He paused by a brown dun mare in the middle of the company. The animal had already been heavily blanketed from rump to ears. But while Lo intimidated me, I seemed to have the same effect on the animal. The horse shied away from me, blowing out a breath through her nostrils that fogged in the chilly air. I hesitated.

  Turning his mount around, Lo grabbed the mare’s reins to hold her still. She whinnied, but did not shift too much as I approached her. Lo did not offer me a hand in mounting, but I could hardly blame him. Fortunately, I knew how to ride, and though gripping the reins proved an effort with my chilly fingers, I managed to seat myself and turn the mare about. Lo left without a word, and the other soldiers hesitantly gathered around me, unabashed with their stares.

  I heard the word devil behind me and frowned. More whispers followed, most of which I couldn’t hear or couldn’t understand. I slumped my shoulders, wishing to be smaller, invisible.