great freeze. Many of them will be lucky to survive the night, let alone the entire winter. And their animals have no prayer at all.
A sick feeling climbs up my throat as I turn a slow circle. Families huddle around pathetic dung fires, blue-faced and shivering. Some men go from camp to camp, begging for extra blankets, extra food, anything that can be spared. Others are not so meek. Two women tumble through a clearing, brawling over a dried flank of lamb. While I look on, horrified, an old man hobbles up beside me on a crutch made of rotting river wood. He points into the crowd, and when I look, he kicks my ankles and nabs my staff, laughing as he scuttles away.
I land in a freezing puddle of mud and curse as it soaks my tunic. Before I can peel myself from the dreck, the clouds open up and release a torrent of stinging sleet.
Cold takes on a whole new meaning.
I blink through the icy rivulets and hunker deeper into my cloak. The stench of wet fur and bodies is so foul, I nearly gag.
Orbai abandons me for the shelter of the old Gesper Temple—a black marble sanctuary that was once the center of Miigrath’s court. Back then, it was a wonder of construction, with its vaulted prayer hall and fine black columns, marbled with golden veins. But it fell to ruin long ago, when the Sky Palace was constructed. Now the pillars are cracked and entire walls have collapsed. Yet trembling refugees still occupy every inch of it. There isn’t room for even one more, and I would never be able to climb to the bell tower where Orbai rests, warm and dry. I finger Ghoa’s carved bracelet, cursing each feather. Worthless stone wings. “And worthless friend who abandons me!” I shout at my bird.
After throwing myself at the mercy of a dozen different tents and being shooed away from each, I stumble upon a few warped boards leaning against a tree, far upstream, where the river twists into the forest. Most people have given the woods a large berth—they are known hunting grounds for snow bears and wolves—but I’m out of options. And perhaps it’s safer if I’m apart from the others.
The ground is too wet to start a fire, but I duck beneath the boards and make a nest of leaves to cover my legs and feet. “This isn’t so bad,” I say as the glacial wind skims across the river and wisps of night buzz around my face like gnats.
I want to cry. I would cry if my eyes weren’t too frozen to form tears.
Why couldn’t I have been a Sun Stoker? Their gift is so much more practical than night spinning. A sweep of my arm, and I could warm the shivering masses. Or, if not a Sun Stoker, I would even prefer to be an Ice Herald, like Ghoa. The subzero temperature would give her no trouble. She could stretch out on the frozen ground and use the snow as a blanket.
Ghoa.
The thought of her makes my stomach flip. She commands the Kalima, which means she and the king must have sanctioned withholding the Sun Stokers. They had to know this would happen as a result. But perhaps they don’t know the extent of the shepherds’ suffering? Or maybe the situation isn’t as dire as it appears? I am undoubtedly in shock—unused to life beyond the monastery walls. And the dark and cold could make conditions appear worse than they truly are. Or the refugees could have grown in number since last Ghoa checked?
Or you could be making excuses for her, says a voice in my head that sounds eerily similar to Serik’s.
I swat it away like a fly.
There’s a logical explanation. I must have a little faith. Give Ghoa the benefit of the doubt, as she’s always done for me.
I watch the chunks of ice floating down the iron river until my eyes burn. Then I squeeze them shut and conjure images of a bonfire. Of drilling in full armor in the dead of summer. Of the sun-scorched sand in Verdenet burning through the soles of my sandals. And of Serik’s arms around me. How warm and solid he felt when he picked me up and spun me around at Qusbegi.
My cheeks flare with heat, and I shake my head. The cold is clearly warping my brain. But since he isn’t here to mock me, I indulge a little longer. I