dinner hour had long ended and Mooriah had still not arrived. He had so much to tell her and beyond that, he just wanted to see her again.
Something about how she’d looked outside the walls of the Mother had made his heart stutter. Her hair blowing in the raw wind, her skin glowing in the light of the overhead sun, it made him wonder if she would ever return to the Folk at all, when she could take her place Outside where she had been born.
The prisoner had also given him pause. Ember had not thought the man’s life should be forfeit for the mistake he had made. Yet on that ledge he had gazed upon Mooriah in a proprietary way. He was also a powerful sorcerer like her father. Though his skin and eyes were strange, perhaps they were more alike than they were different. Perhaps she would not come back at all.
Ember shivered and knelt to stoke the fire in the pit. His thoughts had grown maudlin and worse: fearful. But he had so much pent up energy within, he didn’t know what to do with it.
He didn’t hear any soft footsteps but all the same he became aware of her presence just as she slipped through the entrance. She looked tired.
He rose, worried. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Just wanted to make sure no one saw me.”
He winced, although he knew what she did was appropriate. “I made food, I wasn’t sure if you would have eaten.”
Her stomach growled then, and she smiled ruefully. “Thank you, I haven’t.”
He opened the pot of stew warming over the fire pit and she moaned at the aroma wafting from it. Turning away from her to hide his suddenly flushed face, he scooped some of the steaming vegetables into a bowl and handed it to her. Their fingers brushed; hers were cold. She still wore the voluminous, fur-lined cloak her father had given her, but shrugged it off seating herself on the cushion before the fire.
“This should warm you,” he said, grateful as she dug into the meal.
He could not tear his eyes away from her as she wolfed down her food. When her bowl was empty, he gave her some more.
“Sorry to eat like such a beast,” she said, grimacing. “The work my father has me doing, it triggers my appetite.”
“The mage work?”
She nodded. “For some reason working a blood spell affects me more than it does Oval or Murmur or even Glister. I think it’s because of my…” she waved a hand around, “…differences.”
It seemed she was uncomfortable talking about her sorcery. Which made sense. The Folk hated sorcerers of any kind. Most here had probably forgotten that she held strange natural magic, since she was so adept with the blood.
“Anyway,” she said, putting her bowl down at last. “I’ve been thinking about where we should begin.”
“Before we start, I should tell you that something has happened.”
She looked at him warily, her brow lowered. Ember took a deep breath. “Crimson has made it official. The victor in the match at the Frost Festival will be the heir to the chieftaincy.”
Her frown deepened. “That’s ridiculous. How can he base such a decision on the outcome of a game? What about leadership? Honor? Good sense?”
He smiled, pleased by her disgust. “For him, it is only the strongest who matters. Brute force is weighed far more heavily on his scales than any other quality. Only one who embodies the quality of victory may lead Night Snow.”
“What a foolish man.” She looked up suddenly, chagrined. “I’m sorry. He’s your father and I shouldn’t have—”
“No, it’s fine. In this, we agree. He and I don’t see eye to eye on many things.” The apprehension which had filled his heart when Crimson had first shared the news came back full force. Ember was capable in the ring. He was more than a match for Rumble—if the fighting was fair.
“Well, the only good news is that Crimson’s choice won’t be based on you completing a ritual or ceremony.” Her hopeful expression slayed him.
“The bout will be to the short death.”
Her warm skin grew ashen, and her jaw dropped.
“We are to use wards to protect against a killing strike. But to win, we must land a death blow. Rumble is already warded against death by knife blade and strangulation. I must do so as well to survive.”
His stomach had turned into a bottomless pit. Warding against danger, curses, and sorcery was part of Cavefolk life. Generations