Winter, White and Wicked - Shannon Dittemore Page 0,42

Mars says, but he’s amused and I imagine that’s why he lets it be. There’s little to entertain us just now. But the calm won’t last. Once we clear the pass, we’ll turn north and the Shiv Road will be waiting.

“What is that?” I ask Hyla, feeling kindly toward her after she scrounged up my knives. “The song you’re humming?”

“It’s the anthem of the Paradyian king,” she says. “Do you like it?”

“I do.”

“Don’t encourage her, Miss Quine.”

“There’s so little music here,” I say, enjoying Mars’s discomfort.

“Miss Quine, she will try to teach you.”

“I could teach you,” Hyla says, clearly thrilled at the suggestion. “Would you like that, Sessa?”

Mars rolls his head sideways, scowls.

“Another time, maybe,” I say, chewing my lip. “Did you sing at court? In Paradyia.”

“Not often. My other talents were of greater use.”

“Other talents?”

She flexes, nearly knocking Kyn in the face with her elbow.

I laugh. “I see.”

“We all see,” Kyn says, jabbing Hyla in the ribs with the stock of the shotgun. “Put that thing down. It smells bad enough in here.”

He’s right. With all the damp clothing—leathers and fur and woven fabric—the sweat cooled to our skin, and the heat pumping away just to keep the cab above freezing, the stench inside the cab is unpleasant and worsening by the mile.

Hyla gives her underarm a sniff and shrugs. “Sweat is honorable. A gift from Sola.”

I find her face in the mirror. “The Paradyian goddess gives what we can earn ourselves then?”

I meant it as a joke, something lighthearted. But Hyla’s face turns serious again.

“Can you?” she asks. “Without strength to do the work, can you earn a good day’s sweat? Nothing is accomplished without the strength of Sola.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

The thought eats at me, salt on snow, and I find I have all sorts of problems with the idea.

“So, it was Sola’s strength that brought you all to Whistletop? Helped Mars coerce Lenore into joining his little rebel band? That’s good to know.”

“You’ve a curious view of your friend, Miss Quine. I wonder if you know her at all.”

“I’m not talking to you,” I say. “I’m talking to Hyla.”

“By all means,” he says, waving his hand.

I find Hyla’s golden eyes in the swinging mirror. “Was it Sola’s strength that brought down the mountain on hundreds of Shiv? Sola’s strength that loaded this trailer with whatever illegal wares we’re delivering? Does she empower criminal deeds as well?”

“Unpleasant though it may be to hear,” Hyla says, “yes, Sylvi of Whistletop. She has given us strength for this task and she will give us strength enough to keep you safe.”

My laugh is rough, angry. “And what of Bristol Mapes?”

“What of Bristol Mapes?” Mars asks.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say, rolling my head on tired neck muscles. “Forget it.”

“Miss Quine, Bristol has been useful to me since I arrived in Whistletop but I confess I have not known him long. Miss Trestman wanted to join the rebels and I wasn’t in a position to offer her a seat—I had my haul to think of and a rig to hire. Had you agreed to this job a week ago, your friend would likely be sitting next to you now.”

My face burns and I twist the steering wheel in my hands.

“As it is, the rebels are not in the habit of turning down help. Bristol had run afoul of the Majority and he needed to leave at once. When he offered Lenore a seat in his plow, I had no reason to dissuade her. If there is something about the man I should know—”

But I won’t be baited. It’s a story I should have told Lenore; Mars has no right to it.

“And the Majority?” I ask, turning the conversation back to Hyla.

“I do not understand your question,” she says.

“If nothing can be accomplished without the strength of Sola, are we to blame her for the actions of the Majority? Any god who empowers—”

“I did not say—”

“—the persecution of others is not a god worth serving.”

“You misunderstand me, my lady.”

“It’s a line of logic that cannot be framed in any way that makes it palatable,” I say, thinking of the kol miners lined up on the road at Hex Landing. “Not to those who suffer.”

“Is there no good that can come from suffering?” Hyla asks, her voice gentle.

It’s a question I have no answer to, so I do what I always did when Mystra Dyfan left me confounded. I raise my chin and avert my eyes.

“Good answer, Miss Quine. Good answer. It’s a point upon which Hyla