Winter, White and Wicked - Shannon Dittemore Page 0,64

worst, I th—Back up, Miss Quine.”

Embarrassed, I roll back on my heels.

“We’re desperately short on twyl and you’ll need your mind clear if we’re to traverse the final two cages in short order.”

I didn’t realize I’d gotten so close. It’s not that I’ve never seen kol before, but it’s expensive, even on the black market, and it’s a cost I’ve only ever paid once—just after Drypp’s attack. The kol we bought then wasn’t raw, but refined, the side-effects tempered by the processing it goes through at the Stack.

I see now the appeal of the raw mineral. The magic in its appearance. And I wonder, for the first time, what it would be like to rub it on my gums, on my teeth. I wonder what it would be like to simply not care for a while. To not need food or drink. To need nothing but the kol.

“Miss Quine—”

I roll back again. I can’t remember inching forward, but clearly—

“Come on,” Kyn whispers. He’s behind me now, turning me toward the rig. “Let’s give the Dragon a quick look.”

“The Dragon is fine,” I say, a statement far from true.

He steers me around the rig and I listen to his observations about the damage the wolves and their masters have wrought. The hurt inflicted by the trees. I offer a few words, but mostly I’m fighting to see through the black haze that has clouded my vision. It’s alive, the fog: kol-dusted rabbits bouncing through it; foxes digging through the crust for fish hiding below; monsters stomping toward me, their heads in their hands.

I bat them away.

“Sylvi,” Kyn says. My eyes focus on his. Slowly, like binoculars when they’re being twisted into position. “You in there?”

I nod. “I’m here.”

His hands are on either side of my face. I’m not sure when that happened, but they’re warm. Hot, even, against my chilled skin. “I’m here,” I say, nestling into his palm.

He looks from one of my eyes to the other, and I fight the urge to lean into him, to let him hold me up. Sleep sounds so lovely. Singing sounds so lovely. Before I know it, a tune pushes its way through my lips, vibrating on my tongue, making me laugh.

“No, you’re not,” he says. “Here.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a mangled twyl blossom. I see it all through a sheet of glittering black—Kyn twisting the blossom so that the stem falls away and then pulling a flint striker from the pocket of his coat. He strikes a spark onto the blue flower. It lights and in one puff of fire, the blue is an orange flame. Kyn opens his fingers and the blossom falls, spinning to the snow where it hisses into ash. He stoops and picks up the melted innards of the flower. A wad of warm, soft sap.

He offers it to me, the white gum harsh against his dark fingers. Velvet, I think, reaching out. He makes to hand me the gum, but I reach past the pale wad and stroke his hand. Yes, velvet. Like the drapes Drypp pulled tight around the bed Lenore and I slept in when tallying the tavern’s coin kept the lamp burning late into the night. Velvet like the curtain separating the sleeper from the cab.

“The twyl, Sylvi.” I hear a reprimand in his voice. Faint but disconcerting, like Mystra Dyfan’s constant disappointment. I shake my head trying to make sense of it. What have I done now?

“What does it mean?” I ask, running my fingernail through the thin lines of the etched stone on his index finger. “The carving.”

And then the twyl is in my mouth, pressed against my teeth. It’s sweet and smoky. He forces my mouth open and pushes it onto my tongue.

“There,” he says. “Chew.”

I do, the warm gum hardening with every bite. There’s very little magic in a single blossom, and even less when it isn’t prepared properly, but it’s strong. The twyl eats away at the black haze that’s swallowed me whole, the gum leaving pocks in the veil until, at last, my vision is entirely restored and I’m left with nothing but the shame of my kol-induced actions.

Heat climbs my neck and face.

“I did tell you to back up,” Mars says, swaggering over. He makes no attempt to hide his amusement while he leans lazily against the trailer, arms crossed.

“I thought the Kerce had some measure of protection against the kol,” Kyn says, tipping my chin up, checking my eyes. My face