I SHALL RETURN WITH WINTER

by CF WELBURN

  For the first time the woman at Seringil’s side stirred. She stood, descended the dais and halted before Oben, extending her hand. Recalling Grinchell’s earlier demonstration, he kissed it, feeling a skin as cold as stone. She caught his chin and turned his head upwards so that their eyes met. After a moment she turned to look at Grinchell.

  “There’s more than just the mark, here.” she said in a voice that chimed like dripping ice in a crystallised cavern.

  “How so, Bria?” Grinchell asked.

  “You’ve forgotten the scriptures?”

  “It’s been a while...”

  “That will not do. You will make time during your stay.”

  “Of course,” the clan chief said with a dip of his head. Oben might have found Grinchell’s sheepishness amusing had the circumstances been less dire. “Please, enlighten me.”

  She nodded.

  “‘By nature’s means, shalt wield rival’s arms.’”

  Grinchell frowned.

  “Tell me, clan chief of the Kazra, did he have Mascal’s weapon?”

  “Yes. We have it now.”

  “Then he bears the mark and a rival’s arms. We have two reasons to suffer him. But he has much more to prove. He will be tested at Sundered Peak.”

  Grinchell nodded and seemed satisfied.

  “You are ever wise, Seri. The mountain will decide.”

  Oben chose to gamble. If his fate was to be decided by a mountain, they could hardly kill him here.

  “I’m not familiar with your customs, yet I did take Mascal’s weapon, and I have been marked. I saw Ishral. She came to me in a storm.”

  He heard Rak exhale and knew he had crossed a line.

  Seri went still, but it was Seringil that rose stiffly from his throne and descended the dais with the aid of a long staff. He slapped Oben with such force that his head snapped sideways. There, for the briefest of moments he caught Blin’s eyes. She seemed both amused and incredulous.

  “You’ll address my wife as Bria.” Seringil told him. "If you return from the mountain, we will talk. But be aware, farmer, that none will weep if you do not. We will rejoice. It will be over and proven you are not the Conduit.”

  Oben tasted blood and he liked it.

  No one spoke until Seringil and Seri had retaken their positions on the dais.

  “Clan chief,” the Bearn said, “tell me of these others.”

  Grinchell nodded and began to list the prisoners’ crimes, but Oben was distracted and did not listen long. Surely whatever test they set him would see them vindicated, and him dead. Ishral did not exist; the prophecy was a joke. He was astounded that they'd let him live this long.

  “Rak, of Iron Hills.” Mention of his cellmate snapped Oben back to Grinchell's voice. “Formally of Bael Clan. Crimes: desertion, insubordination, blood-weakening, conspiracy.

  “Blin of Eld. Formally of Tanda Clan. Crimes: theft, arson, murder, patricide, fratricide and adultery.” Blin had the audacity to smile, and Oben was not sure which of her myriad crimes she was most proud.

  “Ortho of Grey Vale, formerly of the Deyma Clan. Crimes: adultery against a clan chief. And that is the lot.”

  “Good work,” Seringil said. “They will be sacrificed at the Shriving. Take them to the cells.”

  “As you wish, Bearn. And… this one?” Grinchell asked, shaking his boot towards Oben.

  “Put him with them. He’ll leave tomorrow.”

  “Very well. Brigal!”

  Brigal hurried over, bowed to the dais and began leading the prisoners away.

  “Well done, clan chief.” Seri said, smiling. “You’ll find wine and meat at the table, I trust you have an appetite?”

  Oben’s mouth watered at the words, but they were already being herded out, through the snowy streets like cattle.

  * * *

  In the cold gaol, even his cell mates shunned him.

  “I didn’t ask to come here.” he said, angrily.

  “Then you should have done what I told you back in Lanoc,” Rak growled. “Died a clean death. You’d have saved yourself all that rowing at least, and me my lashes.”

  “It was Brigal who whipped you; Grinchell who ordered it. Not I.”

  “You’re trouble to be around, boy. Between my missing tooth and scarred back, I owe you plenty in return. I’m going to die, nowt to be done. I can make my peace with that and go to Valareth proud. I will not risk my place amongst my forebears. We’re done.”

  “So, that’s it?”

  Rak, nodded, and turned away. That simple act stung more than Seringil’s slap. Although he would hesitate to label the Taliskan a friend, they had spent months together in the cell. But this was a man who had already abandoned his own people to live in the south. He should hardly be surprised.

  “And you, Blin?” he asked. Her undercut hair had grown back, but her painted eyes and lips still gave her an air of the underworld.

  “Probably wouldn’t hurt to lie with the Conduit before the Shriving. Might go in my favour.”

  He couldn’t tell if she joked, but at least she was not refusing to talk to him.

  “Ortho?” he asked.

  “Don’t look at me. I need to stay pure before the Shriving. Things are bad enough as they are without mixing words with a liar and infidel.”

  And there it was. They didn’t believe him. None of them. He couldn’t blame them for that. The whole thing was ridiculous. And yet Seringil and Seri were giving him a chance, if only to avoid insulting Ishral. The word infidel struck him as rich coming from a heathen, but now wasn’t the time to argue.

  He dropped his voice to a whisper. “I don’t believe this either. But I’m getting out, aren’t I? What if I could help you escape?”

  “No one escapes Eisalhelm.” Ortho said, bluntly.

  “We’ve known all along we were coming to die,” the heavy-set Bartol growled. “Valareth awaits. There’s no place there for you. Go and die in the snow.”

  The sickly-looking Gad, who Oben had yet to hear speak, grunted in agreement.

  “You call us Edalians cowards, yet I’m the only one here ready to fight.”

  “You’re going to Sundered Peak,” Ortho said, as if that ended the conversation.

  “I’ll make it back,” Oben said to no-one, to anyone, to the rats and spiders that skulked in the corners.

  Blin laughed. “You’ve got big stones, for a small man. I’ll give you that,” she said. “But you’ll not make it halfway. I’d take bets if I had more to wager than which corner to piss in.”

  “Done. I’ll take that corner there.”

  “Ha! You’ve changed my opinion of southerners. You’re mad as a Tanda.”

  “So, it had best be dry when I get back,” he said.

  “Then you’d best hurry.” she said, sinking down. “The Shriving is in three nights. Nothing short of Ishral herself will save us beyond that.”

  “Three nights. And this Sundered Peak, is it far?”

  Blin smirked, but it was Rak who finally spoke.

  “Might as well be on the other side of the world, boy,” he said. “Now, get some sleep.”

  9

  INTO THE WHITE

  They came for him at dawn. Despite his sudden fame he was spared no niceties. They kicked him when he tried to bid farewell to his cellmates and dragged him roughly away.

  A large crowd had already gathered in the snowy street. Cries of “Die rabbit!” and “Fuck off farmer!” whipped him along as effectively as Brigal’s flail had.

  They pushed through a small crack in the cliff. He found himself in a well-lit cave. Seri stood with her back to him, looking into a glowing firepit. There was a table in the corner with a steaming bowl of something that smelt like mutton.

  “What shall I call you, southerner?” she said, turning. She looked older here, her white skin creased around her eyes and mouth.

  “Oben.” he told her. Until now he had only been treated with disdain or disgust, and her cold curiosity made him suspici
ous.

  He looked around, half expecting to see Grinchell waiting in the shadows.

  “I’m Bria of Eisalhelm. Whilst you remain a candidate, you shall have my protection.”

  “Candidate? You mean, the Conduit?”

  “Just so. What do you know of it?”

  “Little. Nothing. Just what I heard yesterday in your hall.”

  “Then this is no connivance?”

  “No. I’d rather be on my way. Ishral means nothing to me.”

  “I see,” she said, levelly. “And yet, here you are. You know, it’s only I who stand between you and the mob out there. Grinchell made a grand appeal for your head. You’d do well to show me the appropriate respect.”

  “I understand…Seri.”

  “You’ll refer to me as Bria and dip your head when you speak.”

  “Bria,” he said and followed her instruction. “I meant no disrespect, but I’m out of place here. This is all a misunderstanding. If you’ll allow it, I’d return to Skaligar and be on my way.”

  “But one destination remains for you.”

  Oben’s shoulders sagged. It had been worth a try.

  “Please tell me, what will I find at the Sundered Peak? Why must I go?”

  “You go because it is written. If you are the one, then you could not fight it. A twig drawn towards a waterfall cannot choose its tributary.”

  “But what is expected of me?”

  “Prove yourself. Fulfil the augury.”

  “Augury?” Oben didn’t know what the hell an augury was, so he decided to ask.

  “The coming of the Conduit. The scriptures of the Black Swan. There are many interpretations, many disputes, but Sundered Peak is almost universally accepted as the start of a long path. Tell me, how many toes do you have?”

  “Toes?” It seemed like an odd question, but they certainly couldn’t kill everyone with ten toes. “Ten.”

  “Ah,” she said, with a hint of a smile. “Just checking. There’s a verse that has always confounded me. The conduit walks on nine. The augury is seldom so plain. That, or more likely you are not he. Anyway, the scriptures tell of a weapon at the summit of the peak, most commonly translated as the Thunder-Blade. The Conduit will return with it.”

  The way she explained it, it seemed too easy. That’s it?

  “Do not make light of it. For centuries warriors convinced by dreams, delusions, mela trances, pride, have attempted it. None have returned.”

  “Then why send me? I know nothing of this prophecy, nor your beliefs.”

  “Nobody believes you are the Conduit. Most would see you dead before you insult the sacred mountain with your feet. Nevertheless, you have the mark and Mascal’s blade. We must not challenge Ishral’s designs. Your fate will be decided on the mountain. I admit I am curious about the mark. Many who’ve been burned or scarred in battle have striven to find patterns, and yours is likely some such fluke.”

  “Why tell me this? Why not just put me on the path if you are so desperate to see me dead?”

  She shrugged.

  “I’m older than I look, but I’ve never met an Edalian and never thought I would. I see now why your land should belong to us. You are weak.”

  “The Persuasion has killed many Taliskans who have crossed our border. We are not as weak as you believe.”

  “The time will come when that will change, though I fear I will not live to see it. Now, I’ve done as much as I can for you. Your fate might be in the hands of the goddess, but there are others who would gladly do her work. You must make haste.”

  “Thank you,” he said, knowing this meeting was the closest to an act of kindness he would ever receive.

  “But do not mistake me, Oben. I grieve at the notion that you may have been chosen. It curdles my blood that so many braver, better men have failed. But who am I, at the end of it all? I follow signs and await proof. Once you’re beyond Eisalhelm’s borders, I doubt we’ll meet again.”

  “And how will I find the peak?”

  “I’ll set you upon the path.”

  Oben nodded. He was as good as dead if he refused.

  “Do I get provisions?”

  “No. The mountain must provide.”

  “It’s covered with snow.” Could he eat snow?

  “Precisely. Only by overcoming great adversity will your claim be believed. No-one expects you to return.”

  “I haven’t eaten in two days.”

  “You’ll find broth and bread over there,” she said, gesturing towards the table. “But be swift, the first horn is imminent, and with it you will leave.”

  Oben ate as much as he could. He was still chewing when a great horn sounded, and two guards appeared at the cave mouth.

  “It’s time.” Seri said, following him out into the snow.

  * * *

  The crowd had tripled in size and intensity. They scoffed and spat at him as he was led to the north of the city and through an immense stone arch with stalactites that hung like fangs. Seringil stood waiting, and he noticed Grinchell in the background. There the crowd stopped and only he and Seri continued, up a rocky path slick with frozen water. At a tumbled boulder worn smooth by a roaring white river, they paused.

  “This is where I leave you.” she said.

  “I’m guessing I go… up.” Oben said.

  Seri regarded him flatly.

  “Return with the Thunder-Blade, or not at all.” Then she turned and left.

  He watched her for several moments, thinking she might turn and offer some helpful insight or a shred of encouragement. She didn’t. Cursing, he pulled his cloak tight and turned to the ascending path. As soon as he was sure no one could see him, he looked for a way back down, but it was nothing but icy rocks and cliffs, leading down to a wide choppy sea. He had nowhere to go but up. It occurred to him that it might be a cruel ruse, but he discounted it. They were not happy about him setting foot on the mountain, and he didn’t think they would joke where Ishral was concerned.

  * * *

  The snowy trail alternated between gradual inclines and stretches so steep he had to claw the ice with his hands. The wind drove the snow sideways, stinging his skin and numbing the left side of his face. He bowed and continued, listening to the rhythmic crunch of his worn boots, the patter of wet snow, and the whistle of the wind. When his feet began to lose feeling, he stamped them; when he slipped and fell, he crawled back up; and when he struggled for breath, he paused to look around. Nothing but whiteness above, and below. When the racing clouds cleared, he could make out Eisalhelm on the shores of the black sea. He’d already climbed over a small peak and on to a range of taller peaks, but devoid of visibility, he had no idea how far he had still to go.

  When he despaired, he tried to convince himself that it had been Ishral he had seen that night. That he was marked, and that he would come out of this alive. Then he would beg the Trinity for forgiveness for having entertained such nonsense and recite the old scriptures.

  But it was neither Ishral nor the Trinity that truly drove him, but defiance. He’d broken his promise to Delia that he’d be back by winter, but there would be more winters. This mountain was the first step. If he survived, he might get a chance to escape. Mascal’s blood would have to suffice. It was beyond time he headed home.

  * * *

  The sun sank behind a ridge and the temperature dropped. This godless place was wearing on him. Where were the Trinity when he needed them most? He would not doubt them now. Not here. Without them, he was truly alone.

  The cold had chilled his marrow, and his chattering jaw threatened to shatter his teeth. The crunching snow had become frozen and treacherous. He slipped and skidded, grasped a course shrub and barely managed to halt his slide a foot from where the ledge dropped away into nothingness. He clung there, heart pounding. The shrub held and, inch by inch, he hauled himself up.

  It was utterly dark when he made out the trail again. He reached for a stone but the it came loose and tumbled down with him over ice and rocks.
He screamed and plummeted into the abyss.

  * * *

  When he opened his eyes, he was surrounded by blue. For a moment he believed he had passed into some frozen netherworld, a purgatory for having abandoned his gods at the last. But surely being dead shouldn’t feel so uncomfortable. So achingly cold. Looking around, he deduced that he’d had the fortune to land in a deep snowdrift. It was illuminated by the new day’s light. He clawed his way out with black finger-tipped hands and squinted at the dazzling landscape. The snow was blinding, the sun a blazing yellow. He had not fallen far, perhaps thirty feet. Enough to kill a man, certainly. He wanted to think that his luck had turned, but glancing towards the distant peak, he knew it was fleeting.

  * * *

  The day wore on. His drifting thoughts made little sense. At one point he argued with himself in a shrill voice. On another occasion he caught himself singing, and towards mid-afternoon he lay on his back and laughed at his black fingers.

  At times he would stop and watch the snowflakes swirl on the breeze. Nevertheless, he dug deep and carried on, counting his paces, losing himself in the rhythm: Gulmorgon, Grinchell, Mascal, Kai.

  * * *

  Just before dusk, he glanced up and saw the peak up ahead, perhaps a mile off, tall and ice-cloaked. Despite the snow, its sheer face jutted up like two black horns, as though it had been split by a giant’s axe. Sundered Peak. He increased his pace. He needed to get there before dark, if only to shelter against its cliffs.

  * * *

  He wasn’t sure what he had hoped to find. Certainly, he was not yet deranged enough to imagine there would be some wayfarer hut with a glowing fire and bubbling pot. Yet he had hoped for some sign that he had arrived at the correct place.

  The sun was dipping into the sea behind him when he reached the base of the jutting horns. He circled the cleft rock, clinging to the icy stones looking for the blade Seri had spoken of, but there was nothing. Just more rock and more snow. Had he really expected to find it just lying here? Sticking out of the snow, like a signpost? He continued to scramble around the peak, looking for an entrance, for a cave, for anything; yet each black stone facet was as rough and cold as the last. The only difference was how the snow began to shift and sink under his feet. He scraped some ice and snow away. Frozen corpses lay beneath the crust, pale and preserved by the cold. Was this his fate? To make the mountain a little bit taller by adding his corpse to its summit? He lay back, the snow seemed to burn. He had reached the limits of coldness where it comes full circle in the spectrum of heat. He had made it here; yet he had still failed.