Winter, White and Wicked - Shannon Dittemore Page 0,19

the Kerce and Shiv doing their best to explain things they weren’t meant to understand. Some days I see the wisdom in the Majority’s laws.

There is no yesterday, they say, only a thousand tomorrows.

It’s a maxim they teach every child, a message they scrawl on their buildings.

And while I’m no fan of the Majority, I know this: We have to keep moving forward. Sifting through myth and legend looking for actual history requires too much stationary contemplation. In these mountains, only an impervious monument could afford such a thing. We’d freeze to death if we stood still long enough to figure out where we’ve been.

Mars stands beneath the monument now, a thin shadow against the whiteness. His head is bowed low, his hands stitched together behind his back. Despite Winter’s flailing winds, not a hair on his head moves. Snowflakes hover in the small circle around the rock tower. They don’t fall; they don’t bluster.

It would be easy to attribute the stillness around him to the kol racing through his veins, to the words sitting so lightly on his tongue, but I’ve been here before.

High Pass is just different.

Hyla and Kyn stand some distance away, giving Mars a bit of privacy, but they’ve forfeited their comfort in doing so. Hyla flips up the hood on her red parka, holds it in place with both hands, her goggles frosting over. Holstered to each thigh is a handgun, flashing gold in the dimming light.

Kyn stands next to her, his legs shoulder-width apart, fighting to keep himself upright. The wind is ferocious, tugging at the strap of the shotgun draped around his neck. He’s wearing a coat now—his own, not the one I offered—pulled from an oversize duffle they’ve stowed beneath the bench seat.

Kyn’s coat is a dark green utilitarian thing, lots of pockets, very little down. The hood is lined with brown fur—maybe mink—and it billows in the wind. Snow collects in his tight curls as he squints at the storm.

Watching him and Hyla struggle against Winter thaws a smile on my face, but it’s a fleeting pleasure. Winter’s ready for us to move on.

THERE ARE SECRETS HERE! MY SECRETS!

Her words ramble about on the wind, gusting up and down.

THEY CLIMB THROUGH MY HOME, she screams, DESECRATE MY THRONE. PULL IT APART WITH THEIR STONE HANDS AND HIDE LIKE THIEVES.

She howls about trickery and lairs. About mysteries and invaders. It’s hard to follow her logic, but one thing is clear: She doesn’t like sharing this place. Not with us. And not with the Shiv who’ve burrowed into her walls.

There’s a cave cut into the cliff face about twenty feet above Kyn and Hyla. It catches at my peripheral, but the shadows within are still.

Mars hasn’t moved in ages except to drag his finger over the kol marbled into the stones. I’m tempted to lay on the horn, but before I can lift a hand, Hyla moves toward Mars. With a quick twitch, she shoves him to the ground. Kyn lifts a gun, sighting something high on the cliff behind the trailer.

Behind me.

And then a jolt as something lands atop the cab. The distinct shuffle of bare feet overhead and I know: It’s not a thing on the Dragon’s back, it’s a person. A Shiv. Has to be.

Despite my caution about not using guns in the pass, instinct has me reaching for the gun rack. It’s empty. Flux. Kyn took Drypp’s shotgun.

I scrabble into the passenger seat, reaching beneath it for his rifle, praying I won’t have to fire it here. My fingers find the strap and I yank until it’s in my hands. Peering over the dash, I fight to swallow down my hammering heart. It tastes like blood and bile and it tastes like the magic I refuse to use. If Mars dies, if the Shiv kill him, I’ll never find Lenore.

Then Mars is on his feet again, white powder on his knees, his hands extended, frostbitten lips moving. He presses his wrists together, fingers curling around an invisible ball as he strides forward, Hyla in his wake, two golden guns taking aim.

It takes me a minute to find Kyn, who is hidden by the angle of the Dragon’s hood. He’s in front of Mars, a step or two closer to the rig. I can make out only his raised hands. He yells something in Shiv, and the scraping feet atop the cab still. A man’s voice responds.

Kyn repeats himself but I have no idea what he’s saying. Much to Mystra