Winter, White and Wicked - Shannon Dittemore Page 0,34
date of your birth?”
“We lived differently in the days of Begynd, on the shores of the great pool. I had many mothers. Many fathers. Begynd provided for us all.”
“What say you, Great Father?” Shyne says. “Will you give me time with this reluctant royal? If she can send Winter fleeing from Shiv Island, the fount will flow freely again, ridding itself of the kol and magic that have long tainted Begynd’s Pool. A little patience and you can bathe in its healing waters. A little patience and the living souls buried beneath it can sit at your feet and hear you tell of all that’s happened while they slept.”
The elder’s eyes haven’t left my face. He’s searching it, searching me, for something. Something I know he will not find.
“She doesn’t believe,” the elder says.
Shyne clicks his tongue at me. “She will.”
“I won’t. It’s ridiculous. Your stories are myths. Legends. Every people has them.”
The snapping teeth around me, the looks on their faces. I’ve offended them. Something I cannot afford to do.
“They are histories,” the elder says.
My hands fly up in defense. “You’ve lived a long time. There’s no arguing that. You’re wise, I am sure of it. But you weren’t born in the Pool of Begynd hundreds and hundreds of years ago. And neither was I. I won’t believe such an impossible thing.”
A gasp ripples around the cave.
“Then we’ve something in common,” the elder says. “I look at you and I hear Shyne’s story and it is I who does not believe. You will not save our people. You cannot. Even if you are everything Shyne believes, you do not hate what Winter has done. You do not hate her.” He reaches out and grabs at my open coat, his brittle nails scraping my skin. “And you should.”
I’m so tired of being told what I should and should not do. Who and what I should hate.
“It is not Winter’s fault your histories cast her as the villain. If you think I’d ever banish a spirit that’s only ever watched out for me, you’re wrong.” I point at Shyne. “He’s wrong.”
“He’s been wrong before.” The elder lets his head fall back onto the pelts. “Bring it to me, Shyne. The water of Begynd. I will not wait on this one.”
“Great Father, I beg of you. Winter has worked hard to befriend her. If I had some time—”
“It is I who need time! The life in my blood is freezing solid. I cannot wait any longer.” He reaches a shaking hand up and cups Crysel’s cheek. “Once again you’ll have to do for me what your father will not. Bring me the water, child. Quickly.”
She avoids Shyne’s gaze and pushes toward the fire where the vessel bubbles fiercely. She grabs a scrap of fur from the end of the bed and wraps both her hands before lifting the bowl and removing it from the heating stone.
Another bowl is brought, this one larger and full of snow. Crysel sets her vessel into the snow and then takes both bowls in her tiny hands. The cave has gone quiet, quieter than should be possible for so many people. I feel their eyes on me, wandering my back, and I realize how out of place I am here.
Whatever this moment is, I should not be part of it. I am an intruder. An imposter. Though it was not by choice, I find my own presence a shameful thing and I back into the crowd. They let me go. No one is watching me now. I don’t realize I’m shaking until Kyn takes my hand and wraps it around the walking stick.
“He’s insane,” I whisper, mostly to say it out loud. “To believe I’m the child of some ancient queen.”
I expect a mocking reply from Kyn. A joke. A laugh. Something. I turn to see if he’s still there, if he’s heard me, and find I’m surprised at how well he blends in to those around him. Not just the stone on his skin, but the look on his face as he watches the scene unfold before us. The irritation my own presence seems to cause him.
“He’s insane,” I repeat again, louder, needing him to see me.
“Maybe,” Kyn says. But he shifts to look past me, and I decide it’s not so big a thing to let him down. To let any of them down. They are nothing to me. Shyne and Crysel. Kyn and Hyla and Mars. Kidnappers and criminals, all of them.