he had them—frowned at the woman who plucked at his arm.
“What is it?” he asked, unable to keep the irritation from his voice.
She turned so that her back was to the door and smoothed out the bedlinens. “Today is a holy day for the priests. They will hold a great feast tonight to celebrate. There will only be one guard, and with my help, you can escape—”
“Why would I do that?” he asked, his frown deepening.
The woman—he remembered her name was Mayam—looked momentarily startled, her dark eyes flashing confusion at him before her gaze dropped to the floor. “You must—you are a prisoner here.”
“So?”
Irritation flickered across her expression. “You are a great warrior. The priests say you defeated the Speaker and his Harborym. Such a man as you cannot wish to stay here, trapped in a small cell.”
Deo smiled a grim smile, one that he felt said it all. But just in case the maidservant didn’t appreciate the grimness of his gesture, he said, as he gently pushed her out the door, “You have no idea what sort of a man I really am.”
Chapter 4
“By Kiriah’s breath, will this blizzard never end?”
Israel Langton, lord of the Fireborn, slid a glance toward the man who rode next to him, one so covered in furs and thick woolen garments that if he didn’t know better, he’d assume it was a bear instead of his faithful Marston. He fervently hoped that the snow upon the steep cliffs that seemed to choke out the sullen white sky didn’t give way and collapse, because given the four layers of clothing that he’d donned in order to resist the bite of the cold, he doubted if he could even dismount from his horse, let alone flee an avalanche. “Ilam is not far ahead, old friend. We will have respite from the snow and winds there,” he answered, his voice muffled behind the thick woolen cloth wound around the lower part of his face.
His horse stumbled, the droop of the beast’s head showing just how hard the journey to the High Lands had been. Israel cursed the need to come at this time of year, when the pass between the home of the Tribe of Jalas and the rest of Aryia was beset by snow and high winds, but there was no help for it—the journey would be twice as long if he had come by sea. And he had little time to waste.
He needed to do what Hallow could not.
The horse stumbled again, almost going down on one knee. Israel raised his hand, pulling down the wool cloth to call out an order to halt. He dismounted awkwardly, looking back at the score of men who traveled with him. They all looked as numbly miserable as he felt. “We will rest as best we can,” he ordered, leading his horse over to a sharp overhang of rock. The narrow neck of land that connected Poronne to Aryia was infamous for its rock slides and avalanches, but at that moment, Israel cared little about its reputation. He had pushed his men and horses to the breaking point and knew he would lose both to the cold if he didn’t give them some respite.
There wasn’t much they could do other than kick drifts of snow and use hands numb and red despite many layers of leather and wool to carve out a spot for the horses to rest away from the wind. He covered his horse with his own blanket, strapping on a feed bag with fingers that felt as if they belonged to someone else.
There was not enough shelter to even start a fire, so the men huddled together, snow-covered effigies that pressed themselves to the black stone wall beneath the overhang. A few men slumped against the wall, all but their eyes hidden beneath layers of clothing.
“My lord…” Marston, Israel’s friend and lieutenant, approached, his eyelashes and eyebrows coated with ice and snow.
“I know,” Israel said, feeling more tired than he had in all the long centuries of his life. Part of him wanted to rouse the men and continue on, but another part, a deep, primal part, reacted to the insidious creeping fingers of cold that slowed his brain, and lured him into the desire to just sit down for a little bit, so he could rest…and sleep…
A vision rose in his mind’s eye, one that seemed to waver along with the flurries of snow. He had a presentiment of danger, of a dark, sliding threat coiled around something most dear to him, leaving it…her…at the risk of being destroyed…and then a fresh blast of frosty wind hit him dead in the face, and he was shocked back to reality.
“Dasa.” The word was out through his bloodless lips before the name had even formed in his mind. She was in danger. He knew that just as he knew that unless he did something, he and his men would die there. And what would happen to Dasa and Deo if he died so needlessly? He shook his head, pushing down the desire for the peace that sleep would bring. With an effort, he peeled off the protective layers of wool and fur covering his frozen hands and reached into the saddlebag for a small tapestry bag. He stroked a finger over the embroidery worked on the thick cloth, tracing out the star and moons of Bellias that Dasa had stitched as part of a present to him.
His lips were too stiff and frozen to smile at the memory of just how inappropriate she knew the gift was, since it was intended to store the tools he used to practice the grace of Kiriah.
It took him three tries before he was able to bring from the bag the two small shards of polished antler, a collection of dried herbs, and a piece of bark the size of a man’s hand which he had plucked from an obliging willow before setting out on the journey. He laid the items onto the bark and set it on the snow before him, which rose almost to his knees. His arms and hands pricked painfully in the wind, the bite of it sufficiently stinging to pull his attention from where it should be. It took a few moments of concentration before he could focus, but at last he did, casting wide his arms and tipping his head back to look up into the angry white sky, speaking the invocation to Kiriah that would bring him either her grace…or her rejection. If he was to die there, at least he would have done everything possible.
“Stone, earth, bone, and tree.
Sunbringer, shed your light upon me.
Your songs I have sung,
Your light I have shone,
Your grace I have shared,
But your children are cold and alone.”
The snow and wind whipped around him with a violence that almost toppled him, but that was nothing compared to the despair that gripped him with the painful knowledge that he had failed. He’d failed his son just as he’d failed Dasa, not to mention all the people of Aryia who looked to him for protection. But the vision he’d had of Dasa in dire peril drove him back onto his feet. He pulled on the dregs of his strength in order to conduct one last invocation.
As the last words were spoken, he held his breath, waiting to see if the goddess would hear his plea…or if she would doom him and the ones he loved the most. His shoulders slumped when there was no answering rush of power, no sense of the goddess blessing him…until he became aware of a dull sensation of warmth bathing his frozen head. The wind dropped suddenly, taking with it the snow. His skin tingled, chapped by the harsh weather, but Israel welcomed the pain as he looked upward. The dull whiteness that was the sky had started to change; hints of pale blue peeping between the dense clouds, as slowly, they began to tear apart and evaporate. He sent up a humble prayer of thanks to Kiriah for blessing the Fireborn with the grace of Alba, then turned to Marston. “Are there any spirits left?”
“Aye,”
