Winter, White and Wicked - Shannon Dittemore Page 0,35
smaller bowl from the snow now, dips a thin finger into the liquid. Satisfied, she turns back toward the old man. But Shyne is in her way.
“Excuse me, Father,” she says.
It’s painful for Shyne to move, to give the child room to pass—I can see it in the lines of his face, in the rigid set of his bones, in the burden he carries on his aging shoulders. But he steps aside and allows her to slide between him and the bed of furs.
Crysel lifts the vessel and closes her eyes. She begins to speak—a prayer maybe. The other Shiv join in—their words jagged and rough and entirely Shiv—their supplication bouncing off the walls, pummeling my ears. Thank Winter, it’s short. The voices fall away and Crysel offers the vessel to the man they call Great Father.
He drinks.
And he changes.
CHAPTER 9
The collective gasp is so loud the cave shudders; rock shards break free from the walls and tumble to the ground. The old man is sitting up, his gray face brightening, his sylver eyes—so like mine—shining with emotion.
“Begynd,” he says, his deep voice lower still. “He heals.”
Crysel drops the bowl of snow and scampers up onto the bed, wrapping her arms around the old man, around shoulders that grow thicker and stronger by the moment. My teeth rattle as I shake my head back and forth, unbelieving. Always unbelieving. What am I seeing? The melted ice of the Desolation healing a dying man? No. Surely not.
And yet.
The elder drops the empty cup and wraps his own arms around the girl, strokes her hair with steady hands. “Thank you,” he says. “For the drink that may save us all.”
Shyne has gone gray. His mouth gaping, his eyes wet. “I am sorry, Great Father. Sorry I didn’t believe.”
“But you will now,” the elder says, gently pushing the girl away. “You will believe, all of you, that Begynd lives beneath the ice. That the only lasting healing in this wretched world comes from his waters. And that we, the Shiv, must see it restored.”
“We have always believed that, Great Father,” Shyne says. “Always.”
Assent echoes all around—shock and relief and something else mingled with it.
The elder throws off his coverings and swings his legs to the floor. He’s clothed in a simple shift that hangs from his waist to his knees. He stretches his limbs, muscles rippling where, moments ago, there had been only soft, weak flesh. The stone on his body shimmers like polished gems and his sylver eyes shine bright.
“Winter’s magic is nothing to the power of the pool.”
“Forgive me,” Shyne says, bowing, stepping back, making room. “I thought Winter’s magic and kol together would be too much for—”
“For Begynd? Never.”
“Forgive me.”
“Forgiveness is easy, and I offer it to you freely.” He spreads his strengthened arms wide. “But what comes next will require—” His words are silenced by a gag that shakes his entire body.
He staggers.
“Great Father?”
His arms fold in, hands wrapping around his own throat. His mouth moves, forming words but voicing nothing.
Winter laughs. A tremor that ripples through the walls of the cave.
Shyne and Crysel, the women nearest the bed—all of them rush forward, reaching, asking, offering help in their own tongue.
The elder’s face drains of color—even in the firelight it’s ashen. He stumbles backward into the bed, his long fingers scratching at his chest, his throat.
“He can’t breathe!” the girl cries.
“Lay him back,” Shyne says, taking control, finding his own voice. “Let me—” But the elder lurches forward, stumbling, scrabbling until he’s directly in front of me. I want to run from this place. To climb into my rig and disappear into the folds of Winter. The wall of people at my back keeps me where I am.
The elder’s hand wraps around my arm and he pulls himself upright, stiff and tall. I try to yank my hand away, cursing and fighting against him, but the strength in his hands is merciless. Desperate.
Kyn lifts the walking stick and swings it at the old man—it strikes him once on the stone of his chest before Shyne is there, his arm raised, staying the attack.
“Don’t!” he cries, grappling with Kyn for the stick.
The elder’s chin, which had been resting on his chest, tips up, and as his mouth continues to search for air, his eyes change. The transformation renders me completely still. All around, the gasps turn to whispers, to cries.
“The kol,” Shyne says, fighting to pry the elder’s hands off me. “Begynd on High.”