Winter, White and Wicked - Shannon Dittemore Page 0,55

how he gets his Paradyian wares onto Layce. And given the bounty on his head and his reputation as a smuggler, he’d never be allowed to dock alongside the Majority vessels in Glas. It’d have to be as far from there as possible. In a location the Majority would never risk investigating.

With the Kol Sea pushing violently against the cliffs, and those rife with its monsters—real and perceived—the rebels would have no fear of a surprise visit by a Majority vessel. If you had enough twyl and a way to keep the Abaki out, it might just be the perfect location for a hidden camp.

Suddenly the twyl loss isn’t just an inconvenience; it’s a desperate thing. If we’re going to truck the Seacliff Road, we need twyl. And a lot of it.

“We’ve passed the bulk of the Shiv crop,” Mars is saying, “but there’s a small patch beyond the tree line. I saw it from above. Hyla’s headed there now.”

Shyne wouldn’t like us helping ourselves to the twyl at High Pass, but as our relationship is already strained . . .

“I can go,” I say, dragging my eyes from Kyn’s face.

“Stay,” Mars says. “We’ll be back shortly.”

And then he’s gone and I’m left with the first bloodied boy Winter’s ever laid at my feet.

She’s killed before. Of course she has. She’s a force of nature. I’ve never blamed her for that. We’re on her island, not the other way around. When I stare at her mountains and her crystal trees, when I look into the vicious eye of a storm or stare into the gaze of a Frost White, it’s like looking into the spotted mirror dangling from the windshield of the Dragon.

I see myself in her. We disappoint people, hurt them sometimes. But we’re only being what we were created to be and there’s beauty in that. For the first time, I wonder if the beauty is there to shield the other.

The rage.

Kyn’s hand twitches, clenches. A word dribbles from his lips.

“It’s OK,” I say, reaching out, taking his hand in mine. “You’re OK.”

He grips my hand and his body stills, but as we sit here perched in the throne room of Winter’s glory, I know it’s a lie. And when Winter slinks into the cab, when she climbs up my calves and settles in my lap, when she whispers her apologies and coos about misunderstandings, my lip trembles.

How is it I’ve made friends with such a monster?

How have I garnered her affection?

What have I done?

“Leave,” I tell her. “Leave me alone.”

It’s not really a command is it? Not so much. Not one Mystra Dyfan ever heeded anyway. She never let me be when I just wanted to think.

No, it’s not a command, but I feel Winter’s absence nonetheless. And though I’m tired of her duplicity, I’m afraid of what happens if I truly offend her. If she leaves me for good. I can’t lose both her and Lenore.

I blink back a set of warm tears. Swipe them on the shoulders of my parka. My vision is still wet, but through the moisture I see the etching on Kyn’s index finger. On the stone flesh covering his knuckle. I can look at it properly now, without an audience. I lift his hand and run my own finger over the carving. It’s a Shiv symbol—a letter maybe—two half-moons facing each other, staggered, a line bisecting them. I don’t know what it means.

But I’ve lost track of the minutes since Mars left to track down twyl, and that tells me it’s been too long. I release Kyn’s hand again, intending to back out of the sleeper cab, when my thoughts snag on the three lines of crusty brown scab that have formed on his cheek.

Not scab. Surely not. It’s too soon for that. Even with the kol.

Winter’s white light is all I have in the sleeper—the windows in the cab let it in. It pushes weakly past the open curtain, long stretches of shadow painting the small alcove. I’m half off the bed, but I climb back up, kneel on the soft mattress, and lean over Kyn’s face.

I’ve never watched a man sleep before. Not unless you count Old Man Drypp. And I didn’t need to watch him to know he was good and tired. Snores rattled from his throat, filling his rooms and bullying their way into ours. But not Kyn. Kyn is quiet. If it weren’t for his warm breath on my lips, I’d be forced to search for