Beasts of the Frozen Sun

by Jill Criswell

  Someone wrenched me up, forcing me to walk. Reyker and I were pulled in opposite directions. He was alive at least, and so was I.

  But for how long?

  The room was a sparse cube. There was a bed in the corner, and a tiny window over it, too small for me to fit through, but it was otherwise empty. I was given a pitcher of water and a chamber pot by a sour-faced guard who refused to acknowledge me. After he left, I wasted an hour shouting myself hoarse, pounding on the door.

  In the afternoon, the door opened. A woman entered—Ishleen’s mother, Olwen. Our clan’s midwife. Olwen was accompanied by a sentry, who stood in the corner with arms crossed and eyes averted as she explained that she needed to examine me for signs of violation.

  “You mean Torin wants to know if the Westlander’s been up my skirts? He hasn’t.”

  “Good. Let me prove it.” Olwen motioned patiently for me to lie back.

  Swallowing tears and curses, I obeyed.

  When it was over, Olwen patted my hand and nodded to the sentry in approval. After they left, I resumed my fuming and pacing.

  Later, I sat down and promptly drifted off, unaware I’d fallen asleep until I jerked awake, sore from my slumped position. I put my ear to the door, hearing only silence. I went back to beating on the door and hollering for someone to tell me what was happening.

  No one responded. I sat again, slept again. The cycle continued all day, all night, into the next morning. My voice was nearly gone when the door finally opened.

  Four guards stood on the other side. They marched me down the stairs, across the clearing, into the great hall. The Sons of Stone watched me enter, expressions clouded with contempt. I was no longer just the soul-reader who damned men with a touch, the girl our priest said brought a curse upon our village. I was also a traitor, the girl who’d aided the enemy.

  Torin brooded next to the crackling fireplace. Madoc hovered beside him, stoking the blaze with an iron rod. They observed me with casual disgust, as if I was too abhorrent to ignore, but too pathetic to garner more than fleeting attention.

  Our chieftain strode forward to address his men.

  “In regard to the recent acts of deception, a decision has been made.” Torin didn’t look at me; I was merely a prop on his stage. “Since the invader seems to trust my daughter, Lira will visit him in his cell under the guise of teaching him our language. She will beguile the beast into letting her search his soul so we can glean all information he has of our enemy. Should Lira fail in her task, we will resort to torture. Either way, we will get as much out of the invader as we can, and when he is of no further use, his life will be forfeit.”

  Imprisonment. Torture. Execution.

  I hadn’t saved Reyker; I’d only delayed the inevitable.

  Torin spoke so only I could hear. “You have until the conclave to get the invader to let you into his soul and show you all he knows. If he cooperates, I’ll allow him to die with honor. If he doesn’t, he’ll be slaughtered like the beast he is. You can bear witness, as you did with the herdsman.”

  The conclave—a yearly event where the leaders of the most powerful clans in Glasnith met to discuss the most pressing issues facing our country. It was three moons from now. Three moons until I had to watch Reyker die.

  “Bring the beast,” Torin called.

  Four sentries entered the great hall with Reyker between them, his wrists and ankles chained. Reyker glared at anyone who looked at him, his lips twisted into a snarl. The sentries shoved him to his knees at Torin’s feet.

  Madoc retrieved the iron rod he’d set in the fireplace, and I saw the design on the end, glowing with heat: a triangle of swords, our clan’s warrior-mark. A rod used to brand cattle.

  Torin took the rod as Madoc pinned Reyker down. “Never forget,” the chieftain said, “that I am your master.” He pressed the red-hot metal into the side of Reyker’s neck.

  Reyker’s skin sizzled. He gasped, his pain-filled gaze finding me. In it, I saw confusion, anger, betrayal. As if I was the one burning him. Did he truly think I’d turned against him to save myself?

  I clenched my fists.

  I couldn’t go to him. I could never let Torin know I cared for Reyker. If he found out, things would get much worse for us both.

  Torin stood back to admire his handiwork. The triad of swords blackened Reyker’s skin, stretching across one side of his neck. I choked on the smell of seared flesh permeating the room.

  “If you escape,” Torin told Reyker, “you’ll find no shelter. Our allies will return you to us. Our enemies will kill you to spite us. Your life belongs to the Sons of Stone.”

  Reyker growled, but Torin had already turned away, dismissing the Westlander to speak to his men once more. “As a maiden and only daughter of her chieftain, Lira is valuable. I’ll pursue a marriage for her that will strengthen our alliances.”

  Marriage. He would give me to a stranger who would take me far from my village, force me to lie with him and produce heirs—a thing Father had promised never to do. But this man wasn’t my father. “I prefer death, my lord,” I said coolly.

  “Do not tempt me!” Torin’s hand slid to his dirk.

  The men in the hall glanced at one another. I wondered what they would do if Torin ordered my execution. Would anyone stand against him?

  Regaining control of himself, Torin continued. “Lira has proven herself foolish and weak. I believe her treachery was misguided, the result of the fragile state she’s been in since the loss of her brothers. To remedy this, I’ve chosen a fitting punishment.”

  He nodded to my escorts. They ushered me after Torin as he left the hall and headed across the village. I didn’t let myself look back at Reyker as I was led away.

  When I saw the plumes of black smoke, I understood.

  The cottage came into view. My cottage, containing every last trace of my brothers and our old life. All I had left were the clothes I wore and my mother’s medallion around my neck. Everything else I’d ever owned was on fire. Orange waves shivered across the roof and lapped up the walls. My home, the only one I’d ever known, fell beneath the flames.

  “You will not leave this spot,” Torin said. “You will watch until the fire burns out. Henceforth, you’ll reside in the manor and be accompanied by an escort at all times.”

  “This was your home too. They were your sons. Or have you forgotten?” I searched his face for a sign of regret. I saw it, like peeking beneath a shawl. His expression shifted, revealing the deep sorrow known only to a parent who’d lost a child.

  To my surprise, he answered. “Do you know how hard it was to send Rhys into battle, ill-suited as he was? But how can I ask other men to sacrifice their sons if I’m unwilling to sacrifice mine?” These questions weren’t for me. Torin spoke as if interrogating himself. “How could I let Garreth defy me in front of my men and do nothing? The clan comes first. The clan must be strong, or we all die.”

  He turned to me, and the grief etched in the lines of his features seemed heavier than any man could bear. “You think I don’t feel the loss of them in every part of my being? That I don’t blame myself every moment of every day?”

  “Father?” I laid a hand on his arm.

  At my touch, he gritted his teeth, muscles twitching up and down his body in a silent struggle. The grief vanished. My father was quickly buried beneath the impenetrable facade of Torin—our powerful, heartless chieftain.

  I’d lost him once more.

  “You’ll not lie or keep secrets from me again,” Torin said. “You’ll do nothing to bring shame upon me. Because if you do …”

  He let the warning hang there, unfinished, filled in by my worst fears.

  An armed guard unlocked my bedroom door when I knocked the next morning—Sloane, who I used to play with when we were children. He’d grown up to be short and stocky, with a thick beard that made him look far old
er than his years. Sloane gave a curt nod and followed me to the washroom, standing outside. He stood nearby as I ate. Not only had Torin burned down every shred of my old life, he’d taken my privacy, and with it my dignity. His spies would never allow me a moment of solitude.

  Sloane shadowed me as I crossed the village. I saw Ishleen walking on the path, a basket of herbs slung over her arm.

  “Ishleen!” I called, chasing after her. Ishleen didn’t turn or stop to wait. She walked faster, disappearing into her cottage. When I knocked on the door, her mother opened it. “I need to speak with Ishleen,” I told her.

  “Ishleen isn’t here,” Olwen said.

  “Bollocks. I just saw her go inside.”

  Olwen peered down her nose at me. “She isn’t feeling well.”

  “Which lie is it—is she not here, or is she not feeling well?” I’d known Ishleen was angry that I’d helped a Westlander, but I’d hoped she would let me explain. We were as close as sisters. With my brothers gone and my father mad, she was the only family I had left. I needed her to hear me out, even if she had every reason to turn her back on me.

  “Both.” Olwen shut the door in my face. I slapped my palm against the wood, cursing. When I stepped back, I saw Ishleen peeking out through the shutters over her bedroom window. They snapped shut as soon as she caught me looking.

  “Ishleen!”

  The shutters stayed closed.

  Sloane grunted. “I don’t think she wants to talk to you.”

  “I don’t remember asking your opinion.” I spun on my heel and headed to the cells as Sloane followed. A single sentry was stationed at the entrance, and he slid the heavy door open at my approach.

  “Commander Madoc told us to let you enter alone,” Sloane said. “But I’ll come with you if you’re afraid.”

  I was afraid of many things, but Reyker wasn’t one of them. “The Westlander is locked up. No harm can come to me.”

  I entered the cells and shut the door behind me.

  The smell hit me instantly—musty, rank. There was only one narrow, barred window in the whole structure, letting in slatted shards of light that touched the open space on the right side of the room, where I stood. None of the light made it into the two cells on the left. The cells themselves were made of stone walls and an iron grate. The floor was hard-packed dirt, the thatched ceiling reinforced with wood to prevent escape.

  The first cell was empty. In the second cell, Reyker lay on his side, facing the back wall. His hair was clumped with dried blood. One hand pressed on his neck, covering the slave brand. The only sound was his breath, scraping in and out of him—the sound of a man trying to breathe through bruised lungs.

  I sat in front of the cell, fingers curling around the cold bars. “Reyker,” I called, my voice splintering. His spine stiffened, but otherwise he didn’t acknowledge me.

  What was left to say? I had no excuses, no promises, no hope to offer.

  “Are you all right?”

  A bark of bitter laughter.

  “Reyker. Look at me.” I needed to see his face. He felt so far away. “Please.”

  Sighing, he pushed himself up, moving awkwardly, breathing sharply. He shifted into the corner, head hung low, matted hair hiding his features.

  “I brought food. It’s fresh, better than that rubbish the sentries give you.” I lifted the parcel in my lap, nudging it toward him through the bars.

  He ignored it.

  “You have to eat.”

  Another burst of humorless laughter. Reyker pulled the parcel closer with his foot, unfolding the cloth. A hunk of bread sailed between the bars, over my head, bouncing off the wall behind me. He threw the cheese and meat next, and they splattered against the stones.

  “Why are you doing this?” I glanced at the smears.

  When I turned back, he was in front of me, hand shooting through the bars, gripping my throat. His fingers squeezed tight enough to hold me in place, not quite tight enough to hurt.

  Our faces were so close they nearly touched, giving me a clear view of his ruined beauty. Blood crusting in his nostrils, the corners of his mouth. Gashes cracked the skin of his brow and jaw. Bottom lip split open. One eye purple and swollen. Bruises speckled his cheeks and forehead. The conspicuous black burn on his neck, raw and inflamed.

  He stared into me, snarling. This was not the Reyker who’d shared his life with me by letting me touch his soul. This was the feral beast my uncle had bound and beaten, that my father had branded like a steer, that my clan had crowded around and shouted and spit at, cheering over his spilled blood.

  I met his rage with my own. “Did you really expect me to keep my mouth shut and let Torin kill you? I’m no coward. I didn’t think you were one either.”

  I watched him read my expressions the way he always did. He blinked a few times, as if awakening from a heavy sleep. His violent glare wavered, receded, dissolved into bewilderment. The fingers on my throat loosened. His hand strayed to my cheek, fingertips skimming the ugly patchwork of discolored skin where Madoc had struck me.

  I closed my eyes, leaning in to his touch, suddenly overwhelmed by how much I’d missed him these past days, how I’d missed the strange hours we spent together, connecting in ways that went far beyond words. I knew more than just his soul—I knew the cadence of his voice, the pattern of his breath. I knew the curl of his lips when he smiled, the angle of his brow when he was confused. Our bodies absorbed and translated the unspoken messages.

  I felt it now, with my face cupped in his hand, his fingertips expressing all the things he couldn’t say, sharing all the pain and anger and fear bearing down on him. I put my hand over his, opened my eyes, took a shuddering breath—silently telling him the truth I’d not accepted until I’d been forced to watch as he was beaten, his life hanging precariously beneath the tip of my father’s sword. I need you to live, not just for the gods. For me.

  He pulled away. “Go, Lira.” Don’t waste your anguish on a dead man.

  “You didn’t make it this far just to give up.” My fingers tapped the lock on his cell door. “I’ll find a way to get you out.” No matter the cost.

  “No!” he shouted, banging his fist against the grate. “They will hurt you. Maybe kill you.” He wasn’t wrong. If I set Reyker free, would Torin execute me?

  The door to the cells creaked open. “I’m fine, Sloane,” I called. “Wait outside.”

  My uncle’s mocking voice responded. “How is our beast faring in his new cage?”

  Icicles formed along my spine at Madoc’s approach. I didn’t want Madoc near Reyker, no more than I wanted him near me, especially in the dark privacy of the cells. But it did present an opportunity. He’d been too calm since the Culling, too quick to accept Torin’s leadership. I wanted to know what he was up to.

  “Well enough, my lord.” I rose and stepped toward him, pretended to trip. Reaching out to steady myself, one palm aiming for his chest.

  His hands clamped down on my wrist. “Did you really think that would work?”

  “No.” My free hand had already slipped past his guard while he focused on the hand he’d grabbed. My other palm hit his chest.

  I saw the great hall. The Culling. The trial. Gwylor stood before Madoc, handing him the flaming heart. Madoc held it, and Gwylor whispered into Madoc’s mind: i see you, son of stone. you are chaos. you are destruction. you are no chieftain. On the outside, Madoc screamed, but on the inside, he smiled—the joyful, evil smile of a man about to be given the things he’d always wanted. Things he would kill for. The heart in his hands changed form, spongy tissue molding into a hardened circle of gold.

  I fell from Madoc’s soul as he shook me, both my wrists now locked in his grip.

  “You’ll pay for that,” he said.

  “Let go of me. My father—”

  “Your father no longer cares what happens to you. Do
you know why Torin was culled? Because he was the only one foolish enough to let Gwylor get his hooks into him. You, me, your brother—we chose self-preservation over power. Torin wanted so badly to be chieftain that he invited the god of death into his body and gave up his soul.”

  Was that what I’d felt slithering over me when I’d held the heart—some part of the god, trying to implant itself in my mind? Was that what slithered behind Torin’s eyes now?

  “That’s the price Torin paid,” Madoc said. “He’s Gwylor’s puppet. So if a dreadful fate befell his wayward daughter, I doubt he’d spare a second thought.”

  I kneed him in the groin and groped for my knife.

  Before I could stab him, he wrenched my arms behind my back. “You’re an unruly whelp, just like your brothers,” he said. “Another mark of Torin’s failures. If you were my child, I’d have beaten the willfulness out of you ages ago.”

  My cheek was pressed to cold stone, facing the grate, my limbs locked in Madoc’s grip. Reyker prowled back and forth inside his cell, a stalking predator whipped into a frenzy, growling and punching the bars.

  “Look at that, dear niece. Torin might be blind, but I saw right through you. You have feelings for this beast, as he does for you.” Madoc twisted my arms, sending jolts of agony from my wrists to my shoulders.

  Reyker reached between the bars, straining to grab him. To rip Madoc’s head off, judging by the Westlander’s expression.

  “Stop, or I’ll break her wrist.”

  Reyker stopped. He stood still, his hands resting tensely at his sides. Only his snarling lips and the fire in his eyes revealed his wrath.

  “Clever beast,” Madoc chuckled.

  Without warning, Madoc released his hold on my arms and shoved me toward the cell. I snatched up my knife and whirled to meet his next attack, my spine pressed against the grate. I felt Reyker’s hand, resting lightly on the small of my back, lending me strength.

  “I should expose your perversion and watch the villagers burn you both at the stake,” Madoc said. “However, it may prove more interesting to watch you burn yourselves.”