Winter, White and Wicked - Shannon Dittemore Page 0,110
Sylvi! You’re doing it!”
I lower my voice and whisper the bridge lower, keeping the incline gentle so the Dragon’s bucket doesn’t sheer off the charmed ice. When at last the ice road meets the ground, the rig rattles onto cobbled stones, rain-splattered and roughly placed, but solid beneath the Dragon’s tank tread.
We did it.
We made it to the rebel camp.
And for the first time since she blew the windows out of Mistress Quine’s cabin, Winter’s got very little to say.
CHAPTER 29
I collapse into the cab. Into a crumpled heap between the seats. I’m sobbing. I can feel the tug in Kyn’s chest, the same victorious exhaustion. When I open my eyes, he’s there, arms draped over the wheel, his face turned to mine.
“How in fluxing Blys did we get here?” he asks.
I slide my hand across the dash. “In the belly of a Dragon, of course.”
“Is that why it smells?” Mars asks.
My shoulders shake, and then Kyn’s. “It does smell.” We’re laughing, all of us. Like children trapped inside too long. Mars takes a look around the cab, then reaches up and runs a finger over the ledge of the open hatch.
“And Hyla?” he asks.
Kyn shakes his head.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
A simple nod. And then, “Miss Quine.” With some effort, he pulls the crusted square of cloth from his pocket. He offers it to me, and then thinks better of it. “I suppose it’s time for a new one.”
Kyn nods at the mirror. “Your lips, Sylvi.”
But I can feel them, the blisters. I tilt the mirror anyway, taking in the damage. It’s nothing to what Mars suffered when he froze the Abaki and electrified the road, but Winter’s taken a bite out of me. My mouth is peeling, blue blisters lining my bottom lip and cutting in at the corners, kol dust smeared down my chin. But it’s the sight of my eyes that holds me captive.
The kol dust has multiplied. It’s stayed confined to the whites, but the flecks have more than doubled. They’re more black than white now, my sylver irises shining brightly.
“The kol won’t be such a problem for you now, Miss Quine.”
“Neither will Winter,” Kyn says. “You should have seen her, Mars.”
“I saw,” he says, his grin careful. “The bridge was magnificently constructed, Miss Quine. Brandle would be proud, but let’s tread carefully where Winter’s concerned.”
“You can’t be serious,” I say.
“Deadly.” He shifts, trying to get comfortable. “There are things that must be done and you’ve forced her hand with conviction for the first time. She won’t be happy about it. Like you said, she’ll obey, but she’ll do everything in her power to fight you.”
It’s not the response I expected from Mars, but he’s like Winter in that way. Predictable in his unpredictability.
“Look,” Kyn says.
I turn toward the patched window. The rain has slowed, falling in big heavy drops that play like a drum against the Dragon’s hood.
The camp is smaller than I expected. And closer to the sea. I can hear waves crashing against the rocks even now, but the mountains between here and there dull the sound, keep the wind from carrying kol directly into the settlement. Ten or fifteen simple dwellings have been constructed on either side of the road. Stone walls and roofs with chimneys that jut up into the sky.
Past the structures, farther down the lane, there’s a square with a larger building at its head—a gathering hall, maybe—and a few small rigs parked against it. There’s a large fire pit there, turning those gathered around it into growing shadows.
But no, they’re running toward us. Toward the Dragon. Kyn turns off the headlamps and kills the engine. We can see them now, men and women and even a few children rush toward the rig, their hoods flipped up against the rain.
One man stands head and shoulders above the others. His hood has fallen away and his arms are raised high over his head. His brown hair is windblown and long, longer than the men wear it here on Layce. His beard, on the other hand, is cropped short, shorter than I’m used to seeing.
“They are here!” he cries, his voice booming. “They have come!”
“Flux,” Kyn says. “I was hoping we’d beat him here.”
“Another Paradyian?” I ask.
“Commodore Dakk Reyclan,” Mars says, his voice quiet. “Hyla’s husband.”
“Her husband?” I ask, the man’s smile turning me heartsick. “He’s here? On Layce?”