Someone was in labor without a midwife. Fox could hear the screaming, and the father’s soothing words. A child in the outskirt farms had already been claimed by the cold, and Fox heard the little boy’s mother discover the body in the early dawn. He smelled everything cooking in every house for a brief moment, and then could smell nothing the next. Borric was keeping himself busy rearranging the store rooms, while Lai kept a very miserable Rose company. The young bride’s pregnancy was beginning to truly take its toll, and Fox could hear snatches of worried talk between Picck and Lai. And somewhere, in one of the homes in the main square, a fairly annoying little girl would not stop singing the same song, over and over again.
Fox squeezed his eyes shut and breathed deep, trying to calm himself. Trying to focus, as he’d been learning to do all summer. Every thought and smell and sound that didn’t belong to him, he forced into the back of his mind like a wild animal, wrestling them into a cage and slamming it shut. Then he carefully tucked himself into his bed and lay perfectly still, desperately hoping that sleep would claim him before the shivers could break free again.
This morning, for once, he was lucky. He drifted uneasily into a fitful sleep, but any rest was something these days. Nightmares and half-formed dreams that he was sure weren’t his kept Fox tossing and turning, but he refused to let himself wake up. And then, suddenly, a silence fell over the cabin and he sat bolt upright, listening hard.
The storm was over. A calm, simple little breeze was all that remained of the winds that had tortured Fox for five straight days. The only sounds he heard were the dying embers of the kitchen fire and Mother’s soft footsteps in the hallway. He smiled and sank back into his furs. His stomach was pinched with hunger and his head was pounding, but there was plenty of time for food later. For now, all he needed was a long, untroubled sleep.
✽ ✽ ✽
Fox slept for almost a solid day, waking only once to shovel down a week’s worth of food. He crammed corn cakes and sausages into his mouth until he could hardly breathe, gnawed on a hearty slab of smoked venison and chased the whole thing down with a miner’s helping of piping hot stew. And then he collapsed, letting the warmth of food and fire carry him off to sleep again.
It was never truly daytime during Deep Winter. The Thiccans took to bed when their bodies told them to, regardless of the hour, and nights were measured by when it felt the coldest.
When Fox finally woke for good, he sensed that it might have been sometime around midafternoon, but he had no way of being sure. He helped himself to a slice of cold bread and a chunk of roasted goose that Mother had left on the counter. There was a note beside his simple meal, scrawled hastily in trader shorthand, the only thing Mother knew how to read or write. Fox glanced at it and smiled. Then he dressed quickly in his warmest gear and left the cabin behind him, heading down to the Five Sides. Mother was waiting, and the valley would be, too.
The tavern windows were the only thing lit in the whole square. They shone with flickering firelight like a beacon, promising song and dance and laughter. Fox could hear it as he hurried through the snow, his arms crossed over his chest and his scarf pulled up to cover most of his face. There wasn’t another living soul out and about, and the whole valley was crystalline, shimmering white and silver-grey in the frozen starlight. Every so often, a breeze would shake snow from a tree branch or rooftop, sending the flakes shuddering through the sky with the softest hiss. And then, Fox could smell the mouth-watering scent of roasting boar and spiced apples.
For a moment, he stood outside the front door to the Five Sides, watching the warped shadows of tavern guests through the rippled glass windows. A year ago, he’d been standing right here. As he had every year during Deep Winter. Father had just left, and Fox had been heading inside to pass the first of many frozen nights with his friends, and the valley that he considered his family. There was no talk of magic, or Blessings. There were no Shavid, no Desolata. No worries, other than if Father might take him on the caravan next year, or if the storms would hold out long enough to get some decent trapping done.
He’d been a boy back then. And it had been easy. But now? He took a deep breath, his lungs shuddering at the bite of the cold air. By the time he’d breathed out, Fox had made his decision. This would be his last winter in Thicca Valley. Whether the Shavid came for him or not, Fox would be leaving with the spring thaw. He needed to learn, from someone who knew exactly what it was to have a Blessing. And he wouldn’t find it here.
“What made you so certain?” asked a smooth voice from the shadows.
Fox had given up wondering how Farran knew things, or how he decided when to show up. Instead, he simply answered. “I think I’ve known since Radda first told me,” said Fox quietly. As he spoke, the god’s figure came into clear view, leaning against the stone wall of the tavern, gazing sidelong through the window. “I knew I couldn’t stay here. But that storm... I felt things. I heard things that I never want to hear again. People in pain, people dying...”
“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice, my boy,” said Farran. And for once, Fox heard true regret in the god’s voice. “You’ve been chosen for a life of hearing what others can’t.”
“But I can control it,” said Fox, tearing his own eyes from the door and looking directly into Farran’s. “I can learn. You said so.”
They stared at each other for a long moment. And then Farran smiled. “I knew I chose right with you.”
“There’s still time for me to prove you wrong,” jibed Fox dryly.
Farran was gone by the time Fox pulled open the door and was welcomed in by a rush of warmth and light. Fox let himself be pulled into a group of young men playing dice, and helped himself to a heaping plate of food. He even got up on a table with Picck and sang a raucous and horrendously inappropriate chantey about barmaids and sailors. He fell asleep with his elbow in his soup, and repeated the whole process the next night. If this was to be his last Deep Winter, he was going to make it the one most worth remembering.
Chapter Seventeen
Adella
Fox weathered the next storm at the Five Sides, along with what seemed like half the valley. Borric had enough food stored away to feed a small army for months, and valley folk brought their own supplies to help supplement the stock. Deep Winter brought people together, as everyone fought the same dangers. The deadly threat of frostbite and the winter fever were both lurking in the shadows like rats, waiting to bite at unsuspecting ankles.
Not everyone could make it to the tavern. Mothers with small children and brand new babies. Farmers with livestock to care for, and the sick or elderly. For them, the journey to and from the Five Sides would have been impractical, and sleeping sprawled on the tavern floor completely impossible. But for the miners, this was their winter home. The stone paths into the mountains and mines were nothing but treacherous ice now. Work was brought to a complete standstill, and so they happily camped out at the Five Sides, some even filling their time by helping out in the kitchen or cleaning tables, simply desperate for ways to pass the hours.
As the storm rattled the tavern windows, Fox sat with the Blackroots at a table nestled up against one of the support beams. Fires were crackling in both the center pit and the great fireplace, and Armac Flint was singing a slow, mournful ballad. For such a rough and arrogant man, Fox thought he had a shockingly gentle singing voice. It was soothing and deep, and hummed through the wood and stone of the common room.
As he sang, a handful of miners hummed a quiet harmony, and one of them piped out a matching tune on a wooden flute that sounded like an owl’s crooning
.
In the deep
A pounding like a drum
I heard it call
And echo through my soul
A shimmer shine
Deep in the mine
Something forgotten
And left an age ago
It was one of Fox’s favorite tragedies. A song about a young miner who falls in love with a woman
eternally frozen in a block of solid ice. Every day the miner goes to see her, deep in her mountain cave, and he waits for her to melt. But every time he thinks she’ll someday be free, winter sets in again and her icy prison grows stronger. In the end, the miner freezes to death as he waits, and eventually only his voice remains in the empty cavern, singing the story of his love.
She spoke soft
She whispered like a wind
I heard her song
And frozen wind did blow
A lady fair
With silver hair
She left me dreaming
I couldn’t let her go
Rose and Picck were sitting across the table, Rose resting her head on her husband’s shoulder. Their backs were turned to Fox as they watched Armac’s performance, but Fox could see Picck gently kiss Rose’s forehead every so often. And Rose in turn would snuggle in closer, or whisper something in his ear. Their baby was due any day now, and Rose wasn’t often well enough to emerge from their rooms. But tonight, she’d managed to join in the festivities, even lending her sweet voice to the occasional song.
Lai and Borric sat on either side of Fox, Borric whittling away at a chip of stone. As the song wound though the air, Lai scooted closer to Fox, until their shoulders were pressed together. For a moment, Fox shifted uncomfortably, his arm pinched by her weight. Then he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, as he’d seen Borric do in his fatherly way a hundred times over. And, as he’d seen Picck do every day to his wife. He glanced over at Lai, but she was staring fixedly at Armac. It was nice, holding her as they listened to the song. Comfortable. His arm relaxed into place, and suddenly he wondered why they hadn’t always been sitting like this.
In the deep
We lost our weary way
The days went by
And no one came to see
Two lonely souls
From long ago
But love untouched
Was waiting there for me
When the song ended, nobody spoke. It wasn’t the sort of song you clapped to. Instead, the shrieking of the storm outside echoed through the room alongside the bold crackling of the fires. And then somebody started up a beat, and people sprang to dancing. It was a newer dance, a fancy and complicated jig that one of the foreign husbands brought over from his town. It had quickly become a valley favorite, and within moments men and women from all through the common room were on their feet.
With a sigh, Borric hauled his own bulk upright and stretched. “Ah well, I suppose it’s the second-best cure for the love-song gloom,” he said with a chortle. Then he held out his hand to Lai and pulled her to her feet with a wink. As he whisked his daughter off to dance, Fox slid quietly away from the table and went to play cards in the back of the room. Far away from the Blackroots. And far away from Lai. For the rest of the storm, though he sat with them often, Fox was careful not to put his arm around her again.
✽ ✽ ✽
In years past, Fox would spend the calmer winter days playing in the snow with the rest of the valley children. Even the older youth would join in, building forts and having long and vicious snowball fights. They would skate on the frozen river and slide down the icy embankments like otters. They would all stay out until the wind grew too harsh, or until the nighttime festivities started up again at the tavern. Then they would amble inside for hot soup and to dry off by the fire.
Now, Fox spent his free days much differently. He journeyed out into Father’s trapping territory, even weathering a handful of storms in the hunting cabin. Mother wasn’t terribly happy about it, but she grudgingly admitted she was proud of how much he’d grown up recently. And when he was home in Thicca Valley, Fox had a steady trade going at the Five Sides. He’d dedicated several pages in his journal to the task of bookkeeping, using them as a temporary ledger for his trade records until he could purchase one. He’d sketched out lines and columns to keep everything straight, just as he’d seen Bartrum Bookmonger do. And, unknown to all, he began squirreling away his earnings, tucking them deep into the bottom of his trunk in a beaver pelt satchel. He had no idea how much it cost to live on the road, but he was certain he’d need all the help he could get.
And then, there were the days when he let it all go. Days when he allowed himself to join in the adventures of the valley youth, and came in at night half frozen and breathless from laughter. Those were the nights he slept best, whether it was home in his own bed or propped up on a bench at the Five Sides. He felt entirely alive, and free of the looming shadow of responsibility hanging over the horizon of the spring. As Deep Winter wore on, Thicca Valley wrapped itself around Fox like a frozen blanket, quietly begging him to stay. And, on the days when he wasn’t hunting, he found himself wishing he could.
“Maybe you should take one of them with you,” said Farran one day. The two were far on the outskirts of the territory, a good two days from home. Fox was re-setting a particularly finicky bear trap and trying to concentrate. The god had taken to appearing whenever Fox was on his solo hunting journeys, keeping him company as if they were nothing but old friends.
Fox sat back on his heels and looked up at Farran. “Take one of who?”
“A sweet young Thicca girl, from your valley. Take her as a wife, get a little company on the road.” Farran plopped down lazily in the snow and laid back, staring at the black-green canopy above them.
Fox smirked viciously. “Why would I need company, when I’m so lucky to have the likes of you around?” He would never admit it out loud, but he found Farran to be excellent companionship. Though rather cocky and altogether infuriating, the god always kept Fox on his toes.
“Oh I’m flattered, my boy, but there’s a kind of company that I can’t keep. With you, in any case. There’s a little problem with you being a man, is all.”
Fox snorted and turned his attention back to his trap. Ever so carefully, he blew on the snow around the base, where he’d been kneeling and moving parts around. The snow swirled up in little eddies and resettled with no sign of Fox’s hand imprints. He made sure to puff the snow unevenly, so it settled more to one side than another. It looked more natural that way, and one of the simplest tricks to hide a human presence.
That done, Fox stood and dusted himself off, adjusting his scarf and cloak. Farran’s comment wasn’t truly worth acknowledging. After all, there was only one woman he could see himself ever spending time on the road with, and she –
“There now, stop that!” said Farran, rolling up onto one elbow and pointing an accusatory finger at Fox. “I know what you’re thinking, and that’s enough of it.”
“How often do you do that?” asked Fox irritably. “Read my thoughts?”
“I’m not reading them, I’m feeling them,” said Farran sardonically. “And it’s only when they’re directly related to me. Or, in this case, my progeny.” He sprang to his feet. Though he was dressed in a thin silk shirt and simple, though radically colorful, breeches, Farran didn’t seem at all bothered by the cold. Or by the snow now piled in his shirt collar. “You’re not allowed to think of her like that, I told you before. Lai is off-limits to you, I don’t want her mixed up in your messy little future.”
“I wasn’t thinking of her like anything,” spat Fox, shoving his hands into his gloves and setting off. As Farran followed, Fox tried very hard to think of anything but Lai, simply so Farran wouldn’t be able to sense his thoughts. But the more he tried not to think of her, the more she sprang to mind. Finally, Fox glared at Farran and said, “Don’t you have anything better to do than follow me around, Sir-High-and-Godly?”
“What, better than watching you squirm? Not on your life,” said Farran, chuckling.
Fox forced his attention forward, to the ground and the tracks of an elk, and the promise of a hearty dinner. He let himself be drawn into the hunter’s mindset, successfully drowning all other thoughts. They hunted in silence, and it took him some time to realize that Farran had disappeared again, and he was alone once more.
Well, as alone as he ever was in the woods anymore. He’d noticed it at the start of winter. Though they stayed out of sight and didn’t interfere with his prey, he knew the wolves were there, his ever-watchful shadows. And with each kill, he left them an offering. A gift of thanks, and of trust. Many nights he fell asleep to the comfortable sounds of their voices, singing into the frozen woods. It was a song many feared, but Fox looked forward to. He lay in his bedroll in the cabin some nights, trying to mimic the rise and fall of their howling. There were times when he could even anticipate their warbling notes, and he hummed along quietly to himself.
He wondered if there were wolves wherever the Shavid went, and if they could sing along, too.
✽ ✽ ✽
The storms began to last longer, and the days of relief between them shortened. It became much riskier for Fox to venture away from the valley, but he relied more and more on his instincts to tell him how far out the blizzards were. There were times when he made it back to his cabin or the Five Sides just as hail began to pelt his face, or else just before the snow thickened to the point of blindness. But he always made it.
“You’re being awfully stupid, you know,” said Lai one night in the tavern. Fox was at Father’s old trading table in the corner, marking tallies in his makeshift ledger. At the front of the room, Borric himself was leading a massive round of “Can’t Say,” a storytelling game in which certain words or letters could never be said, and everyone went round offering one phrase of story at a time. “You’ll get yourself killed, staying out like that!” She kept her voice low so as not to draw attention to them, but even her whispers were shaking with anger. “It’s bad enough your father might not make it though this winter, but you have to put your own neck on the line as well?”
Windswept (The Mapweaver Chronicles Book 1) Page 25