Winter, White and Wicked - Shannon Dittemore Page 0,119
lifts it, runs his thumb over the etchings.
“She was so sick,” Mars says, his voice thawing, warming. “Thin, even, for a woman so close to her time. When she knelt to say goodbye . . .” He shakes his head, his eyes wet.
“To her son?”
He swallows, forces a smile. “Yes, to her son. When she said goodbye, she used the ancient Kerce gesture employed when choosing a successor. She grazed her cheek softly with her knuckles, opening her palm to him, giving the boy all that she had left to give: her throne, and her duty to the Kerce.” His hand raises and he mimics the gesture I’ve seen used so crudely, used myself even, throwing it at Lenore just moments before. “She knew she was going to die, you see? She knew how little strength she had left.”
It sets my hands shaking. “And the boy?”
“He knew. When the young prince returned the gesture, he understood what it meant. He didn’t expect all that came after, but as his mother turned and started down the mountainside, he knew it was the last he’d see of her.”
Mars takes a great, shuddering breath and I find myself doing the same.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He dips his head, doesn’t ask me what I’m sorry for.
“Winter accompanied the queen as far as she could. When the heat of Begynd would allow her to go no farther, the queen proceeded alone. She’d only just made it to the shores of Begynd when she went into labor.”
“With me,” I say.
“Yes. With you.”
He waits. Maybe he expects me to argue, I don’t know. But I tuck my hands deep in my pockets and wait for him to continue. When he does, his voice is steady and sure. Practiced, even.
“It took me many years to gather accounts about what happened next, and even then, there are variations. What I know is this: After the queen gave birth in the great pool, she slept one night in a Shiv dwelling, a Shiv woman in attendance despite the rift between the two peoples. When the nurse woke, the queen was gone and the child was crying. She gathered the young princess in her arms and set off looking for the mother. But it was too late. The worshipers on the shore pointed to the waters, to the queen swimming out toward the fount. They tried to stop her, the Shiv, but she was powered by a magic incalculable and untold. With a strength that was not her own, she dove low, plunging the medallion into Begynd’s fount.”
“And Winter took the island.”
A dip of his chin. “The Pool of Begynd froze solid and Winter stretched her legs once again.”
I lift my eyes to the Seacliff Road beyond Mars’s shoulder, remember what the Desolation looked like from up there. It’s strange to look back at the road that caused such misery when you’re safely past it, hard to appreciate just how painful it was to travel.
“And still, I don’t know why you worked so hard to get me here. To a rebel camp on the far side of Layce.”
“The Paradyian queen is dying,” he says.
“And?”
“And the king and I have struck our own bargain. A bargain only a few of the rebels know anything about. We were already in the process of securing Rayna’s release so we could get our hands on the letters when Miss Trestman contacted me through Mystra Dyfan.”
“You know Mystra Dyfan?”
“There are very few Kerce left, Miss Quine, and I’m not nearly as young as I look. I likely know them all. The king of Paradyia is a collector of history. He had heard the Shiv accounts of their powerful creator, he’d read every book detailing the Kerce persecution, and he has long believed that it’s only in the Pool of Begynd that his beloved can find healing.”
And now I understand.
“So instead of offering up the treasonous letters, you offer me. I send Winter away and the fount of Begynd flows freely.”
“The Paradyian queen bathes in the pool,” he continues, “and is healed. In return, her king sends an army to snuff out the Majority.”
“And like that, the people of Layce are free of both Winter and their overlords.”
“Yes,” he says. “Just so.”
“But how will they feed themselves? How will they earn a living? Winter is their livelihood. It’s all they know. Their homes will become a battlefield. Paradyian war machines driving their roads and soldiers tearing through their villages. Through Whistletop.”
“They’re suffering, Miss Quine. The people on Shiv