by Matthew Cook
Lia frowns but quiets her sobs. Tears roll down her pale cheeks, but for the moment she has mastered her fear.
I see with my enchanted eyes that Lia's hands are warming. There is damage, at the tips and in the joints, but it is minor. As I watch, I see the torn flesh mending, slowly and no doubt painfully, but mending nonetheless.
"Kirin! I ... it is stopping. The pain is going away,” she says, her eyes widening in wonder. The flesh that was but minutes before pale and mottled is pink now, the color of health.
"I'm sorry, but I'm not done yet,” I say, turning my attention lower. Sweat rolls down my face, stinging my eyes and dripping from the point of my nose. It takes all of my concentration, all of my flagging will, to force the blood magic down, past her heart and lights, through the arteries running like mighty tunnels down her thighs, then lower still, into the chilled feet.
Lia moans once more as the tingling resumes, borne on a flood tide of blood. I see her fighting to remain still, to quell the sobs that tear at her. She is so brave. So brave.
Soon her feet are suffused with the same rosy glow as her hands. The damage is worse there, particularly in her toes, but I can see the tissues mending. With luck, I was quick enough to spare her the agony of gangrene.
I grip the threads of my magic and pull them, gently, back into myself. It resists, screaming defiance. It yearns to hook into the very fibers of her life, to pull it bodily forth, through nose and mouth, through eyes and other tender places.
We struggle, the blood magic and I, a silent battle held within my mind. For a heartbeat, I fear it will slip loose, will rampage through Lia's body, but an unexpected surge of fresh strength washes across me, ennobling me.
I grasp the tendrils with renewed vigor, bearing down with all of my remaining might, and pull. Slowly, so very slowly, it relents. They release their barbs, withdrawing from where they have tried to root. It keens its silent frustration, crying out with thwarted hunger, but it relents nonetheless. Defeated, it slips from Lia's body.
I slump to the chill stone, every muscle trembling. Well done, my sister's spirit whispers inside my head. For a moment there, I feared you would fail.
"You ... helped me,” I whisper, remembering the unexpected strength which bolstered me.
As I always do. So long as you do the right thing, I will always assist you. Always give you what I can.
Then Lia is there, beside me, lifting me from the cold, unyielding floor. Her hands are healthy and pink, spotted with tiny, inconsequential chilblains. I close my eyes and let my body relax, drinking in the fire's warmth.
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CHAPTER TWO
We shelter in the safety of the cave as the storm rages outside. The tortured wind howls across the cliffs, spending its fury on the impervious rock, lashing it with icy whips. The storm dims the sky, turning day into twilight. After a time, the feeble light dims further, into night.
I husband our supply of wood; the cave is well provisioned, but I do not know how long it will need to last. Fortunately, the cave is set deep into the sheltering stone, and a small blaze is sufficient to keep us snug and warm.
"I have never heard of M'ash-vos,” Lia says, looking up at the simple six-armed cross adorning the cave wall. It is the same shape as the half-buried marker outside.
"That's because you grew up in the City,” I reply, stirring the cook pot. A barrel in the corner of the cave has yielded a scant harvest of dried apples and other vegetables, which now soften in melted snow. “M'ash-vos is a rural god, the patron of byways and travelers."
"And there are places like this all over the north?"
"Aye. They are his places of worship; his only church. The god's followers are called upon to provide whatever succor they can to those who walk the roads."
I sit back, sighing with contentment. The radiant heat from the fire soaks through my woolen hose, warming my toes. Delicious steam rises from the pot, curling in the air. We have shed our outer garments. They are spread beneath us, insulating us from the chill stone.
"Don't feel bad,” I say. “My own childhood was spent in a small community, farmers mainly, as well as those who did business with them, and I never heard his name spoken either. It was Rory who first told me about the god of wanderers."
Lia cocks her head. “Rory was your teacher, yes? The man who taught you to track and to hunt?"
I nod. “Aye. He walked these roads for nearly two decades, and knew them better than I know the lines on the palm of my hand. He showed me many such sanctuaries, scattered all along the northern range. I knew if we could just reach the cliffs, it would only be a matter of time until I spotted one of M'ash-Vos's markers."
"Thank the gods you did,” Lia says softly. “And ... thank you for—"
I interrupt her, holding up my hand. “It was nothing. Please do not speak of it."
"But, Kirin, if not for you, I might have lost my fingers, or toes. What you did—"
"Is not worth mentioning,” I almost shout, harsher than I intended. Lia frowns at my reaction, and I force the scowl off my face. She means well; she always means well, but this time her gratitude sickens me. I do not deserve it. If I had faltered for even a moment, and let go of my grip on the blood magic...
A shiver crawls down my spine at the thought. “Please, Lia, do not speak of it,” I beg her. “I should not have even made the attempt. Warm water would have been safer."
Lia nods, understanding blossoming in her eyes. She was with me on the night that my son ... on the night that he died. She knows all too well the circumstances of his death.
"I understand,” she says simply, “but I still cannot help but be grateful that you tried, and succeeded."
She moves around the fire and sits beside me. Her hip presses against mine. Even through the layers of leather and cloth between us, I can feel her body's heat. She reaches out and cups my chin, lifts my face to hers.
For a moment, I refuse to look at her. The memory of the blood magic, flowing across my gaze, unnerves me.
You are in control, never forget that. The magic will obey, if you are strong, my sister whispers softly. What happened before ... with the child ... was a tragedy, but it was also an accident. You did not mean to do harm.
"Is she talking to you?” she asks, her eyes searching my face. Lia knows about my sister, and can recognize the signs when I am listening to her.
I look up, into her eyes. There is no slick uncoiling of power, no crimson thirst. For now, the blood magic is quiet, sleeping. Lia's eyes are wide, and clear, shining with the color of cloudless summertime skies.
I nod. “She says the blood magic will obey me. That it ... that it won't ... hurt you.” The words snag in my chest with tiny hooks.
"I know you would never do that,” Lia says. “I trust you."
She slides her hands up my arms, resting them on my shoulders. She is trembling, ever so slightly, the sensation traveling down her limbs and into my own flesh. She strokes my neck, hesitantly, soft as the touch of a feather. I feel my face flush.
"Lia, what are you—” I whisper, even as my body responds, knowing full well what she intends. She shushes me, placing two fingertips on my lips, then trails them, delicately, across my cheek.
"I know what I am doing, and what I want,” she says, tucking a lock of my pale hair behind my ear. She leans towards me. There are no more words that need to be said.
* * * *
I lie on our simple bed of piled blankets, close beside the fire. Tiny flames lick at glowing coals; it needs to be tended. I should get up and take care of it, but I do not wish to move.
Lia lies nestled against me, her head on my breast. I feel her, skin to skin, stretched along the length of my body, warm and supple and soft. I breathe in the smell of her hair, allowing my eyes to slowly close as sensation washes over me.
I hang, suspended in the moment, languid and pleasantly tired. The taste of her still lingers on my lips. For once, my mind is quiet, at peace. Th
en the moment passes and worry returns, gnawing like a rat at the fringes of my contentment.
It is not that she is a woman; I do not care about that. Nor do I care about the differences in our age or upbringing. All such concerns are trivial compared to the shared peril which unites us.
No, I know perfectly well the source of my concern. I scoff at falling prey to such a base superstition, even as the rats redouble their efforts, gnawing with their sharp, sharp teeth.
You are frightened because everyone you have loved, or who you gave your body to, has ended up dead, my sister whispers.
She is right, of course. She dwells in my mind; I cannot keep secrets from her, even if I would try to keep them from myself. Tears sting my eyes.
In the cave's darkness, I can almost see my sister's ghost, sitting next to me beside the fire, her pale hair and heart-shaped face, identical to mine in every detail. Kirin, my twin, the woman whose name I took for my own, the soul I called back from the lands of the dead and brought into my own body, so many years ago. One name for two joined souls.
"Yes,” I whisper back. “All are dead. Some by my own hand. All save Urik and he...” A fist seems to squeeze my heart. I cannot say it.
He is still out there. Somewhere. And he has sworn to kill you when he finds you, she finishes for me. Tears roll down my face. Urik, my husband, the man who beat and humiliated me, a lifetime ago. The man who has already tried once to end my life.
Given my unlucky past, I suppose I can be forgiven a small measure of distrust. I have not had many lovers, but what my sister says is true. Marcus, my sister's husband and murderer. Rory, my mentor, who never lay with me but who would have, had I not used the blood magic to rebuke him. Even Jazen Tor—oh, gods, poor Jazen—the dead father of my dead son. All who have loved me, or lusted after me, are gone or, like Urik, are irrevocably broken.
I do not want that to happen to Lia. I will not allow it. I should not have let her kiss me. Let her touch me like she did, or responded with my own ardent caresses. Should not have surrendered to the sweet temptation.
Gently, I move from beneath her, slipping out of our warm nest to stand in the chill darkness. Fresh wood blooms into flames when placed on the dying coals. Soon the fire is flickering merrily once more in its ring of stones.
I sit in the flickering light and listen to Lia's gentle, ladylike snores. Outside, the wind howls and tries once more to tear down the walls of our sanctuary. I do not sleep.
The storm breaks the next morning. The cave seems smaller somehow, without the ever-present gale rumbling outside. I put on my leathers and my heavy cloak and move to the entrance. The screen is almost completely blocked; only the top foot is unburied. Lia and I take turns in the cramped passage, pushing it out until we can slip past.
The rising sun, unseen for days, draws tears from my dazzled eyes. It is shockingly cold outside, a bone-deep chill that freezes my lashes and the tender flesh inside my nose. I pull my scarf higher and adjust my mittens.
Everywhere the world is white. Snow is piled in mammoth drifts against the stone cliff, the rounded hills sparkling like diamonds beneath a sky of flawless azure. The path is invisible, buried beneath feet of snow. Far below, two or three days walk, at least, the smooth white gives way to the mottled blacks and browns of stone and bare ground.
"I thought we had time to get through the passes before the snows began,” Lia says. She hugs herself. Her winter gear is a collection of ill-fitting hand-me-downs, not as thick as mine.
"As did I. Winter will be arriving early this year, it seems. We should take advantage of this and make a break for the low country before the gods decide to throw more storms our way."
I speak the words lightly, as if in jest, but I immediately regret them. I wonder if the early snow is indeed some punishment sent by the higher powers to hinder us. I curse myself silently for a fool; best to nip that poisonous flower at the bud before it can fully bloom. Lia shoots me a backwards glance, and I can tell she wonders, too.
"Come on,” I say, wading through the thigh-high snow, back towards the cave mouth. “The day's not getting any younger and we've miles to go before nightfall."
Lia has been a good student; it takes her just a few minutes to pack her things and roll her blanket. I fill my cook pot with snow and pour it onto the coals. Burnt-smelling steam fills our sanctuary. Before I take my leave, I pull half a loaf of trail bread from my pack and lay it on the stones beneath the six-limbed cross.
"What is that for?” Lia asks.
I stare at the symbol of M'ash-Voss for a moment, silently thanking the god for his hospitality. I turn away, adjusting my pack straps. “Because we can use all the help that comes our way,” I say. “And only a fool intentionally spurns the goodwill of the gods."
We make good time, despite the clinging snow. Though the air is well below freezing, the sun buoys our spirits and warms our bodies. We walk single file, more often than not with Lia following in my tracks. When I cannot breast the snow any longer, we trade places, but such rests do not last long. As strong as the trail has made the young elementalist, she still lacks the strength and fortitude that my years on the road have given me.
I look back, along our trail. It is a marker I would erase, if I could. It stretches behind us like an arrow, aimed straight at our backs, screaming our presence to any unwelcome eye.
Always, I look for movement. My eyes never rest. I know the Mor might be nearby; before the snow forced us from the road, I saw many of their tracks in the damp earth. Some were very fresh, a day or two old, at most. They are inhuman and powerful, masters of rock and fire, strong beyond mortal understanding. The storm would not have driven them away; it would only have slowed them.
I call a stop when the sun is still hours above the horizon. The lowlands are nearer now, the snow line tantalizingly close, but I know we cannot reach it before nightfall. With the dark will come its mistress, the gnawing cold. I do not wish to be out in that again.
We sleep in a snow cave, dug with our own hands into the side of a drift. Our packs block the outer entrance, sealed with more snow. I light a candle. After a time, our bodies and the small flame warm the tiny shelter. Lia presses against me, our shared body warmth keeping us comfortable until dawn.
The next day dawns gray and damp. I smell snow on the air. I rouse Lia and drag her, grumbling, into the rising light. We are still too high for my comfort. All morning, fat, white flakes drift down, threatening, but never quite managing, to become a storm.
I finally relax when the black backs of stones begin to jut up through their covering of white. Soon I hear the crunch of gravel beneath my boots. After days of wind and the constant crackle of ice, the sound is as sweet as music. I spy the wayward trail in the distance, farther away than I thought it would be, and turn towards it.
"I am so tired,” Lia grumbles, stopping to drink from her water skin. “How do you do it?"
"Do what?"
"March like that. You are so ... I mean to say..."
I grin, and hold out my hand for the water. “So old, you mean?” I tease, throwing my head back and taking a long swallow.
Lia laughs. “Not so old as all that,” she says. “But still, I should be keeping up. It is not as if I am a weakling. When I was a girl, I hiked often along the trails surrounding my father's summer home."
"That, I suspect, was tamer country. Groomed and wrestled into civilized submission. This is a wilder place, unforgiving and cruel. You're doing quite well, trust me."
She grins at my praise, pleasure lighting her face like a lantern. Careful now, my sister says. Even as learned as she is, and after the terrible things she has experienced, Lia is, in many ways, still a girl. Trust is one thing, but adoration is quite a different matter.
I think about our night in the cave, bodies pressed together, hungry mouths drinking in deep kisses. Think about Lia kneeling before me, no blushing, tentative virgin but rather a skilled and confident lover, giving and receiving pleasure without
shame or hesitation, and wonder if my sister has the right of it. The memory evokes a tingling deep inside, a primal, animal passion I have not felt for a long, long time.
I hand Lia her water skin, holding onto it for a moment to prolong the contact of our gloved hands. She smiles at me, and I can tell she feels it, too.
Somewhere below, a ringing note sounds out. I recognize the sound: an army signal, blown on an Imperial brass horn. It calls out in distress, summoning help.
Lia and I look at each other, then turn and hurry along the trail. The sound is close, perhaps little more than a mile; less than two, certainly. Before long, we hear the ghostly sound of men yelling, mixed with the chime of steel weapons. The incongruous smell of something burning reaches us, carried on the freezing wind.
Burning. The Mor.
No sooner do I think of them than I hear their weird, piping battle cries. Even though the smallest of the Mor stands a full three heads taller than a man, with chests deeper than wine barrels, their voices are reedy and thin, more like bird song played on a panpipe than proper language.
I fumble my bow from its place under my cloak and whip the string from beneath my shirt. It is dry and pliant, warm from the heat of my breast. A moment later the big horn and ash bow, Marcus's hunting bow, is strung and ready. I pull a broad-head arrow from my quiver and set it to the string.
I look at Lia; there is lightning flashing in her eyes. It is a small thing now, the barest hint of movement and light, but I know such appearances can be misleading.
We round a bend in the trail and see a column of smoke, rising from behind the next curve. Mor tracks are thick upon the ground, the wide, four-toed marks pressed inches deep into the frozen mud. There are many; too many.
Without a sound, Lia and I hurry towards the sounds of the melee.
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CHAPTER THREE
Lia and I run the last quarter of a mile, down the muddy, twisting track and around piles of tumbled boulders, towards the smoke and the ringing clash of weapons. The wind shifts into our faces, bringing with it the stench of charred meat. As we approach, the smell intensifies.