Winter, White and Wicked - Shannon Dittemore Page 0,32
into a small round circle. She climbs off the bed and scampers across the cave toward me.
I try to step back, but I meet only elbows and knees. And then she’s there, her hand in mine. The little brat’s pulling me. I grip the walking stick fiercely with one hand and fight to tug the other from hers. I could do it, I realize. Her child fingers are strong, but I’m stronger. I could free myself and make a run for it. I wonder how far I could get before—
Crysel yanks my wrist and I jerk forward, taking Kyn and the walking stick with me. Kyn cries out in pain and crashes against my back. I curse and help him stand, pressing the stick into his hands.
“You got it?” I ask. “You got it?”
He nods, his eyes pinched shut. And then the crowd closes over him and Crysel’s dragging me toward Shyne, something like fear building in my chest.
We’re just steps from the pelt bed now, Winter falling slowly through the crevice overhead. I breathe her in, let her cold wake my aching body.
“Seventeen white winters have passed,” Shyne says, “since the Desolation shook. Do you remember, Great Father?”
“Three hundred and twenty-five white winters I’ve survived, young Shyne. I forget nothing.”
“The mountain skittered. It was the first time you’d known it to do such a thing. Remember how shaken you were. How shaken we all were.” The cave buzzes. They know the story. “Our own stone remembrances toppled. We had to rebuild. So you sent me, Great Father. You sent me to the Desolation. You sent me to investigate. A flow of light had broken free, deep beneath the surface. Dove foxes, a pair of them, were huddled on the ice. As curious about the change as we were. Or so I thought.”
He sees me now, the elder. “Who are you?”
I look to Shyne.
“Answer him.”
“My name is Sylvi.”
“She is called Sylver Quine,” Shyne says, my answer somehow lacking.
The elder’s face puckers. “Quine? The whore of Hex Landing had a daughter?”
“It happens,” I say.
“Come closer.”
I’m reluctant, but Crysel’s behind me now, pushing on my back—little rodent—and I’m shoved up to the bed. The elder’s wrinkled hand closes around my wrist, papery and cold.
“Your eyes,” he says, squinting at me. “How?”
“How did you get yours?” I ask.
His head sways and then steadies, his gaze never leaving mine. “I was born into the waters of Begynd, Sylver Quine. It is his light you see.”
A chill races my scalp, my spine. Asking about the past is dangerous, a knife to your most vulnerable parts, and I knew better.
HE’S MAD, Winter whispers. HIS MIND GONE WITH HIS YOUTH.
“You were born in the Desolation?” I ask the old man. “And is that what you think of me?”
He glares from beneath stone brows. “I do not know what to think of you.”
Shyne turns to the crowd with a flourish, lifting his arms and raising his voice. “The Kerce queen had two children,” he says. There’s something of victory in his tone now and it scares me. “The youngest was born here, on Shiv Island after the Kerce ship was lost at sea. In the healing waters of Begynd the queen labored and gave birth. But she had already struck a bargain with Winter and when she plunged the island into a deep freeze, the babe and her Shiv nurse were among those swallowed by the ice. It’s the story we all know. The story we tell our children. The young prince had a sister.”
“You’re a fool, Shyne,” the elder says, shaking his head. “Beneath the ice, the child is dead, like all the others.”
“Begynd’s magic is strong. It was his magic that cut our people from the mountain. His magic that filled a desolate valley with life. His magic that still stirs our blood hot and vibrant within us. It is how we know he will one day shake off the bondage of the ice and dwell with his people once again.” He’s breathless, gasping. “Begynd’s magic is the magic of new beginnings. If the souls buried beneath the ice are living souls—as you’ve taught us these many, many years—it is not impossible to think Begynd would answer our prayers by shaking the ice and giving us a savior from among them. And if that savior were Kerce, would that not be very like Begynd? That such a salvation would repay the goodwill we once offered their queen and her people.”