Winter, White and Wicked - Shannon Dittemore Page 0,28
to wash away history correlates so completely with the Shiv and Kerce need to pass theirs down. Threats of punishment have not stopped the telling.
“But the fount was stoppered hundreds of years ago, I thought. Frozen solid.”
“What stories have you heard?” Shyne asks.
“Rumors,” Kyn says. “Nonsense. Magic and ice and a prince bent on revenge.”
“None of it is nonsense,” Shyne says, turning, starting up a rough-cut trail on the mountainside. He moves slowly without his walking stick.
“A queen,” I whisper to Kyn.
“What?”
“It was the queen who wanted revenge.”
Kyn shakes his head slowly, the reflection off the snow brightening his dark eyes.
“Half of the stories can’t be true,” he says, “but there’s enough evidence on Layce to prove the island wasn’t always covered in ice. Something happened. Something stoppered Begynd.”
A smile creeps into my voice. “You believe in Begynd?”
“You don’t?”
“The creator of the Shiv? The great god who cut a people from the rock and took up his throne in the valley?”
“I know it sounds . . .” Kyn stops, looks me in the eye. “I’m not a zealot, but I can read the mountain as well as anyone. Winter came after centuries of light and heat. If it wasn’t Begynd . . . what do you think happened?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, taking another step, pulling him with me. “We survived. We move forward.”
“Not everyone survived.” Shyne whips around, his voice calling down to us. “Shiv families are buried beneath that ice. Because they tried to help the Kerce. All of them, buried because of the selfish ambitions of a queen.”
“I told you it was the queen,” I mutter.
“History matters. What happened here matters. It mattered then,” Shyne continues, his hand clutching the gold medallion hanging around his neck. “It matters now.”
“Why?” I shout, my voice ringing off the ice. “All the past does is keep your people hiding in the mountain, staring at a mass grave.”
“We hide because our gifts are exploited by those who took our land. We stare at the grave to remember. We remember because those buried beneath the ice belong to us.”
Shyne turns and continues up the incline, rage still fogging the air where his words seared the cold. He doesn’t stop until he reaches the cave opening above.
It takes considerable effort for Kyn and me to make the climb. Shyne lingers, staring out over the Desolation, exhaustion in the slope of his shoulders, the sway of his back. This is what’s killing the Shiv. Their refusal to let the past be the past. With their knowledge of the mountains and their resistance to Winter’s chill, they have considerable advantage over the Majority. They’ll never wield it though—not while they dedicate their lives to watching the dead.
“Look,” Shyne says.
“Why?” I ask, his exhaustion the catching kind.
“Because it happened. Because looking the past in the eye is the respectful thing to do.”
“Look at it, Sylvi,” Kyn says, his voice all awe and childish fealty. “How can you not believe in Begynd?”
Despite the pain he’s in, the sight of the Desolation smooths the creases in his brow, brightens the shadows under his eyes. Shaking the tension from my own shoulders, I turn and look, half wishing I could see what he sees.
There’s no denying the power of the Desolation. I’ve driven past it dozens of times, but from up here, there’s a sad sort of gloom that lingers over the site.
“How could I not believe in a creator powerful enough to carve a people out of stone?” I ask. “Perhaps I’m not the one who needs to look. The Desolation itself proves Begynd is not who you claim he is. If he exists, he’s frozen solid. Defeated by Winter. How many gods would allow a winter spirit to best them?”
I turn to meet Kyn’s gaze, but he’s looking over my head to Shyne. “How long has the fount flowed beneath the ice?” he whispers.
Shyne and I answer at the same time.
“Always,” I say.
“Seventeen Rymes,” Shyne says, his voice stronger than mine. “What is it they teach the Shiv traitors in Dris Mora?”
“They don’t know about the fount,” Kyn answers, and then with conviction: “I didn’t know it was flowing again.”
“Strange, don’t you think? Considering the company you keep.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The smuggler has known about the flow for some time.”
Kyn swallows.
“And you,” Shyne asks, tilting that furious chin toward me. “What does the kol smuggler want from you?”
“I’m just the driver,” I say, trying to order my thoughts.
“Mars Dresden is a smuggler,” Shyne says. “He trades