Winter, White and Wicked - Shannon Dittemore Page 0,97

the contact. I can’t tell if the sensation is mine or Kyn’s. Our eyes catch and there’s no doubt he’s thinking the same thing. He withdraws to the bench seat and I turn my attention to the road.

It’s eerie up here. The mountains were to our left for much of the Shiv Road and now, there’s just the wide expanse of the Kol Sea churning and churning.

It reminds me of Mystra Dyfan. Once, while escaping the promise of a test on Kerce grammar, I stole into her room, just down the hall from Lenore’s and mine. I was in a cabinet there along with some interesting treasures I’d never seen before. Candlesticks and a square of lace. A stack of parchment held together with twine, each page full of charcoal sketches.

I’d never thought Whistletop anything special until I saw those sketches. The tavern and the village square, the chicken coop out back, the grumpy man at the corner shop shoveling snow, twyl growing wild through a fence I’d climbed over for years. There was a book there too, so old that the pages were yellow and brittle. The ink was faded and the cabinet dark, so I tucked it into my coat and took it out back, behind the planter boxes and the chickens, to the edge of the forest. There, on a frozen log, I read my first snippet of Kerce poetry.

The letters meant nothing to me then—reading didn’t come easy for me early on. When I tried to sound the words on my tongue, they were too light, spun sugar that dissolved and left me wondering if I’d said anything at all. They sounded nothing like the whispers of Winter, so I abandoned the effort and turned my attention to the illustrations.

Meticulously drawn ships and castles with towering spires. Menacing lizards ridden bareback by dancers with watercolor wings. Flowers with simpering faces wielding swords. Trees that were also men.

But as I look out over the angst of the Kol Sea, I’m reminded of the illustration on the final page of the book. Below a poem I couldn’t be bothered to read, the picture was of a bright blue ocean, curls of water topped with soft white foam. There were waves traveling one after the other, all in the same direction, like soldiers off to war. They were reaching for the shore, for the soft rolling lines of sand, but there was a tranquility to the drawing, a constancy of motion.

The Kol Sea is nothing like the ocean on that page. It bucks and fights and the white foam that crests the top of the waves spits and sloshes and, if you stare long enough—something a rig driver should never do—you see wisps of kol gather themselves together and rise into the sky.

Kyn passes a twyl blossom forward.

“We’re to chew this?” Hyla asks, turning it in her hands. “I’ve only had the gum cut from twyl blocks.”

“That stuff is boiled and full of preservatives to extend the potency of the gum. This won’t last nearly as long,” I say.

“The stem is useless. It’s the blossom you want.” Kyn uses his flint striker to burn away the petals, leaving the sticky innards in Hyla’s hand and that burnt-honey smell lingering in the air. “Tuck it into your cheek,” he says. “The sap will stave off the effects of the kol that’s bound to slip into the cab.”

Gingerly Hyla tucks the sap into her mouth. Kyn burns away two more blossoms, gum for me and gum for him. I let him drop it in my hand this time and try not to let my stomach swoop when I think about his fingers pushing the twyl into my mouth just yesterday.

“No worries, Sylvi,” he says, settling back. “No worries.”

“Don’t chew it,” I tell Hyla. She’s taken to moving the twyl around her mouth. “Just keep it tucked in your cheek.”

“How long is one blossom supposed to last?” she asks, adjusting her goggles to keep the hair out of her face.

“Not long,” Mars says.

“And what happens if we run out?” Hyla asks.

“First things first, my friend.” Mars leans forward between the seats and Kyn’s fingers tangle in my hair as he pulls himself upright.

An Abaki stands in the center of the road.

CHAPTER 25

The monster’s arms are mismatched. One is dark and muscled, so like Kyn’s that I press my shoulder into his to assure myself he’s still there. The other is pale and hairy with purple, puckered brands covering the bicep. Despite their