Winter, White and Wicked - Shannon Dittemore Page 0,109
the doorway of the sleeper, holding the velvet drape for support. He looks bad, but the blisters have faded, replaced by soft pink skin. The kol in his eyes has yet to return.
It’s strong, the wave of emotion that strikes me. So strong it nearly knocks me over.
“I’m glad you’re alive,” I say.
ARE YOU? Winter whispers. SHALL I TELL YOU HIS GREATEST LIE?
I ignore her and lean closer to Mars so I can hear him over the noise.
“I’m not much for fairy stories,” he’s saying. “I prefer the old histories, but did your tutor ever tell you the one about the goblin thief who lost his wings to an ogre?”
Winter laughs. A low, deep growl and I think maybe Mars is still asleep, dream talking like Lenore did as a child. But he dips his head and starts again. “Brandle the Winged Thief. My mother used to tell it to me. Poor Brandle lost his wings in a fight with an ogre, and in order to collect the treasure he’d buried across the great sea, he had to—”
“Build a bridge,” I say, remembering the firelight on Mystra Dyfan’s face, the glee on Lenore’s.
“Liatha ee frenth,” he says, lifting his eyes to the windshield, to the Abaki growing large. “Make me a bridge.”
“Liatha ee frenth,” I repeat, the words clumsy on my tongue.
“She’ll listen, Miss Quine. She has to.”
I WILL NOT BE COMPELLED, Winter snaps.
“She has to,” Mars repeats, his jaw set.
My fist tightens around the utility blade and I hold his gaze, waiting for the unbelief, waiting for the indecision. Waiting for the need to run to swallow me whole. But, in this moment, with Mars’s green eyes holding mine, all I feel is ready.
YOU’RE NOT WHO YOU THINK YOU ARE, Winter says. YOU’RE NOTHING WITHOUT ME.
But there’s only one way to find out.
I stand and drag the blade around the edges of the plastic covering the hatch. The wind pulls it up, flapping loudly against it. One last cut and it flies away.
Kyn squeezes my boot. “She took Hyla,” he calls over the wind. “She set her wolves on us. You can do this!”
But Kyn hasn’t even scratched the surface. If Shyne’s right, and Mars too—if the stories they’re telling are true—then Winter took my mother, Maree Vale, queen of the Kerce. She took almost an entire generation of the Shiv and she buried them beneath her rage. If the stories are true, she’s lied to me, kept me close all these years so I wouldn’t send her away, so she wouldn’t have to pay for her crimes.
If the stories are true—
I put one foot on the arm of the driver’s seat and one foot on the arm of the passenger’s seat and I step up, rising like a lightning rod into the storm. Winter’s squalling now, rain pummeling my face, forcing its way into my mouth.
FOOL, she says. I BROKE YOUR MOTHER. I CAN BREAK YOU.
The bald violence of the admission staggers me, steals my breath. But there’s a tremor in her voice. Mars is right. Winter’s scared.
“Maybe,” I say. “But first you’re going to build me a bridge.” Feeling reckless, I whisper into the wind, “Liatha ee frenth.” The words on my tongue are loose and clumsy. My inflection is wrong, but Winter understands. I feel her buck at the command, attempt to refuse it.
But out in front of the Dragon a road is forming atop the broken rock. An ice road, one that lifts when the road drops.
“Faster, Sylvi,” Kyn yells. “Faster!”
He’s right. Winter’s obeying but she’s doing it in her own time.
I fling my arms wide like I’ve seen Mars do, and I scream into the storm, “Liatha ee frenth!”
It’s fast. Her power is breathtaking as she takes the falling rain and freezes it into a road that takes the Dragon up and over the army of Abaki. The monsters don’t look around as we rise above them, they don’t move at all. Winter’s too busy to give them marching orders.
She’s building us a bridge, screaming all the while.
It soars up and over the rout of dead limbs and swirling magic. I keep talking, the Kerce words easier now to voice, easier now to remember. I could have her descend, drop the Dragon gently onto the Desolation, but I decide there’s no reason.
My words keep Winter building high into the sky, Kyn’s string of curse words turning to triumphant whoops as firelight and shadows flicker into view far below. It’s the rebel camp.