Fire and Ice Read online

  She turned. Time wasn’t really slowed. Wrapped in Jhi’s peace, her perception of the moment was so intense the world just seemed slow.

  Rollan smiled at her. “What?” he asked.

  He couldn’t see. Jarack was running at Rollan’s back, and he was holding a long, curved knife.

  “Rollan!” Meilin shouted.

  The calm from Jhi still surrounded her. Before Rollan even had a chance to turn and look, Meilin noticed a rock by her foot, kicked it into her hand, and threw, striking Jarack in the shoulder.

  Startled, Rollan took a step back, inches from Jarack’s knife. By then Meilin was already in motion, running forward. She slid the rest of the way, knocking her feet into Jarack’s legs, sending him off balance. She could see from the way he moved that he had no martial training — but he had plenty of rage and a very large knife. He wasn’t going to give up.

  He swiped. Meilin seemed to see the arc of the knife’s trajectory as if it were drawn in the air, slowly nearing her neck. She dodged easily, leaning to deliver a kidney punch. Jarack doubled over and then swiped again. This time she punched his sternum, knocking the wind from him, then made a sharp cut with the edge of her hand against his arm. He dropped the knife. Holding his wrist, he looked at her, eyes afraid. He turned and ran away.

  Rollan was staring at her with absolute surprise. The wave of calm emanating from Jhi dissipated, and time seemed to click forward again at its natural pace.

  “You were moving so fast,” he said. “How did you do that?”

  “I didn’t feel fast,” she said. “Everything else just seemed slow.”

  Rollan frowned.

  “I’m sorry, Rollan,” said Meilin. “You probably think I’m bossy and pushy, and you could have handled him yourself, and I shouldn’t interfere all the time and —”

  “Meilin!” he said. She realized he’d been saying her name over and over. “Meilin, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said and started to turn.

  “No, I mean it.” Rollan hesitated. “I . . . on the streets, I was always part of a crew, but if one of my crew had to choose between me and a hot meal, well, I knew which way he’d go. But here with you . . . you guys, for the first time . . . I guess what I’m trying to say is, I trust you. And for me, that’s a big deal.”

  He smiled that Rollan smile that she was coming to know so well. At first he’d just been some orphan boy to her. And now here she was standing before him, an orphan herself — mother dead birthing her, father killed by the Devourer — homeless, nowhere to return to, just trying to survive. More like him than she’d ever imagined possible. His brown eyes were warm, his brown skin speckled with dirt from the road, his broad face comfortingly familiar. Inside the great void of despair that had filled her since her father’s death, she felt a pinprick of hope.

  And then Rollan reached out and took her hand. His fingers were warm.

  Meilin had never been so aware of the beating of her heart.

  THE ROAD TO SAMIS BEGAN TO LOSE ITS ROADNESS. GRASSES and brambles reclaimed the hard dirt, and Conor was confident they were actually headed somewhere only because Tarik had a map to follow.

  Before he saw any sign of the village, Conor spotted a herd of caribou. The gray-coated, big-antlered animals grazed a green countryside, watched over by two —

  “Shepherds!” said Conor. “Or caribou herders anyway. I’d like to go talk to them.”

  “Sure,” said Rollan. “Have at it. Just, you know, don’t give them the Slate Elephant or Granite Ram. I mean, if you can help it.”

  “Rollan,” Tarik said quietly.

  Rollan shrugged, unconcerned at the rebuke.

  Conor felt sick. He’d been foolish to hope that the others had forgotten how he’d given the Iron Boar Talisman over to the enemy in exchange for the safety of his family. Not forgotten or forgiven.

  Conor pretended not to hear and just walked on.

  Two young men were sitting on the grass, chatting in the shade of a lone tree in a patch of pink and lavender lupines.

  Conor carried a shepherd’s crook with him on this journey back in Eura. He knew it would likely serve little purpose beyond a walking stick, as there had been precious few sheep to herd on their quests. But the thick wood staff felt right in his fist, its heft as familiar as the smell of woodsmoke in the hearth at home, the pinesap crackling, his mother’s bread baking. After the frightening battle in Zhong and the whole Iron Boar business, a crook in his fist was comforting, even if it meant never using the crook for its intended purpose.

  Now, though, he raised the staff high as he approached, hoping to greet the herders as colleagues. He expected a wave in return, maybe a hello. Perhaps an invitation to join their shade. Instead, they jumped to their feet, looking cautious. Both were blond and fair and looked to be twenty years old or nearly so. Their dark blue jackets and brown trousers seemed clean and unworn, perfectly fitting their broad, athletic builds. No herders Conor knew wore clothes so fine.

  “Hello!” said Conor. “My name is Conor, and I’m a shepherd myself. Or I was until I joined up with my Greencloak companions there. My family kept sheep in central Eura. You’re watching caribou? I’ve never seen a herd of domestic caribou before.”

  “We don’t see visitors to Samis,” said one.

  “Never,” said the other.

  “We won’t be staying long,” said Conor. “Do you ever keep sheep, or just caribou?”

  The herders glanced at each other but didn’t answer.

  Conor was aware of his teammates behind him, waiting for him to form some kind of herder bond with these strangers. He sighed at himself and kept at it. Though the herders rarely spoke a word, Conor went on about sheep, the different breeds, asking in-depth questions about caribou eating and sleeping habits.

  While he was talking, Conor’s practiced eye caught motion in the forest of firs that bordered the meadow. Shadow sliding over shadow, a glint of eyes.

  “Is that . . .” Conor began, pointing.

  The herders turned, squinting.

  “Oh, no, they’re back,” said one.

  The boys whistled, frantically calling to their herd. The caribou started and began to run away from the woods. The shadows emerged from the fir forest. Five brown wolves. The shaggy, lean beasts ran at the nearest caribou, splitting as if to meet it from all sides.

  “Briggan!” said Conor, pulling up his sleeve. Pain briefly seared the back of his forearm, and the great gray wolf left passive state and leaped to the ground. “A pack over there. They’ll hunt these people’s caribou.”

  Briggan howled.

  The wolf pack cut short. One howled back. Briggan responded. The wolves seemed to consider, then with a yip, the pack leader renewed the hunt, the rest following.

  Briggan growled and ran. His speed both alarmed and thrilled Conor, as his wolf cut off the wolf pack before they reached the fleeing caribou. He launched himself at the pack leader, seizing him by the neck, the two rolling through the grass. They separated, both hunched low and growling, all teeth showing.

  The rest of the pack was surrounding Briggan now — five to one. Conor began to run closer, his speed enhanced with Briggan in active state. His legs felt strong and long, the grass whipping by as he sped forward, clenching his crook. His heart pounded.

  But before he reached them, the pack leader stopped growling. He circled as if chasing his tail, head down, nose nearly touching the ground. The submissive posture surprised Conor, coming from the leader of a pack facing just a lone wolf. Then again, that lone wolf was Briggan, one of the Four Fallen.

  The pack leader howled and retreated to the forest, the pack following.

  Briggan trotted over to Conor and accepted a hearty neck scratch and much petting.

  “Good boy, Briggan,” said Conor. “Thank you.”

  The herders appr
oached, eyes wide.

  “A wolf with blue eyes,” said one. “He’s Briggan, isn’t he? The Briggan.”

  Conor nodded. And at last he wasn’t the one doing all the talking. The herders had to recount to each other all the Briggan legends they knew. One took Conor by the arm and said, “Come on, Old Henner will want to hear about this.”

  Leaving the other with the herd, the young man ran with Conor toward the small gate in the village fence.

  “Henner, you’ll never guess!” the herder shouted at a man standing just inside the gate. “Briggan saved our caribou. The Briggan!”

  And then he was retelling the whole incident, embellishing the more exciting bits.

  Henner smiled through the gate’s little window. “Briggan! You don’t say? But what are you young folks doing up here?”

  “We need to meet with your lord, or —” Conor looked over the village, considering it too small to have a lord like the duke in Trunswick. “Do you have a mayor? It’s really important.”

  Tarik and the others came up behind him then. Henner looked them all over.

  “Pia doesn’t meet with visitors,” he said.

  “We have some gifts for Pia and your village,” said Abeke, pulling two metal pots and three metal knives from her pack.

  Henner’s eyes widened again.

  Conor noticed the buttons on the herder’s jacket were cut from antler, as were the knife in his belt and the buckle itself. Even the hinges on the gate were made of leather. Cut off from traders, this town had a metal shortage.

  “We also carry news,” said Meilin. “We wish to warn your mayor and trade information. I think we can be of some help to you, and we will of course be at your service and depart the moment you ask.”

  Henner considered Meilin, the metal gifts in Abeke’s hands, and Briggan beside Conor.

  “Well . . .” Henner began.

  “Oh, just let them in for a bit,” said the herder. “We never have visitors, and you should have seen what Briggan did! The Briggan!”

  Henner smiled and opened the gate. “I guess it couldn’t hurt this once. Follow me.”

  “Well done,” Tarik whispered just loud enough for Conor to hear.

  “We don’t trade much,” Henner said, leading them up a narrow path. “Our villagers like to keep to themselves. A quiet people.”

  Loud laughter startled Conor.

  “Not that quiet,” Rollan muttered.

  They were passing a small park area, abundant with lupines, tulips, and buttercups. On a bench built from wood slats and antlers, three young women sat, talking and laughing. They were as blond, tall, and athletic-looking as the herders had been. For that matter, so was Henner. For all his talk of “young folks,” Old Henner couldn’t have been more than a few years older than the herders. Conor wondered if they were all siblings.

  A huge, ancient weeping willow bowed over a tiny cemetery.

  “Look,” Meilin whispered. “The stones have names — but not dates.”

  Conor nodded, though he didn’t understand what Meilin meant. He’d never seen a cemetery before and didn’t know why the absence of dates might be strange.

  The dozens of houses looked nearly identical — long and narrow; gray stones cemented together for the foundation, the rest built from wood and painted red. The roofs were shingled with rough-cut bark, and the chimneys were built from fat and irregular stones. From house to house the only obvious variations were in the shutters and the doors on their leather hinges, each carved and intricately painted with unique designs of flowers, trees, woodlands, and often, a great white polar bear.

  No road cut through the village, no sign of horses or wagon ruts. Paths were evenly spaced and marked with fine gravel, winding between houses and small parks. The village square was large and open, with a bright green lawn surrounded by stone paths and tulip beds.

  Conor slowed, walking with the other three and letting Tarik and Maya keep pace with Henner.

  “Those carvings are pretty,” said Conor, indicating the shutters. “I can’t imagine shepherds and farmers having time to sit and carve. Back home we kept busy just to stay fed.”

  “These folks seem to have all the time in the world,” said Abeke, watching a couple strolling down a lane, holding hands.

  “Could this be the lost city of chiseling artists?” asked Conor.

  “Lost what?” said Rollan. “Chiseling who?”

  “You know, from that song,” said Conor, and he began to sing. “‘Hidden from the ruinous wind, they chiseled a city from snow. . . .’ ”

  “It’s just a song,” said Meilin. “You think all songs are real? In that case, I am excited to finally meet ‘the jolly giraffalump what slurps pigs through its nose.’ ”

  “Or remember this one? ‘The giant tooted one horn with his mouth,’ ” sang Rollan, “‘a second with his other end. And with both blasts, he amassed a crowd of admiring friends.’ ”

  “I am unfamiliar with that particular song, Rollan,” said Abeke. “Could you perhaps explain the ‘other end’ bit? I find it confusing.”

  “Well, it’s . . .” Rollan paused, eyes scanning Abeke’s face as if to determine how serious she was. She gave him a faint smile.

  “Anyway, it does look like a village for dolls,” Meilin interjected. “The emperor’s daughter had such toys. Tiny, perfect painted houses she set up for her tiny, perfect dolls.”

  “Exactly.” Rollan looked around and began to whisper, “Even the people look . . . well, they look like dolls.”

  Apparently all the children and elderly were indoors, because everyone Conor had seen ranged in age from teenager to early adulthood. The men and women were all tall, with broad shoulders, strong arms, and lovely, perfect faces. Their hair color ranged from pale brown to gold, and everyone was smiling.

  Conor shivered, remembering Trunswick — the darkness, the guards with mastiffs, the fear in the streets. Here everything was just the opposite — bright and perfect. And yet Samis too felt just a little bit off.

  Briggan sniffed the air and sneezed.

  ABEKE TRIED TO IMAGINE WHAT LIFE WOULD HAVE BEEN LIKE growing up in a place like Samis. So green! Leisure to plant gardens, stroll through parks, carve shutters. Even as a small child, Abeke had felt the crushing weight of need — need for rain, for meat, for crops to grow. Need to survive. No time for games or parks.

  And beneath it all, the need to make her father and sister proud. That part still hadn’t diminished. She gripped her bow and walked faster.

  “Can we meet with your local Greencloak?” Tarik was asking Henner.

  “Uh, well, we don’t have one,” said Henner. “Never really needed one.”

  Never needed one? Even in Abeke’s small village, they’d had a Greencloak — someone with the Nectar, someone to conduct the bonding ceremony with the children when they turned eleven. It didn’t matter if a child was in Eura or Nilo or anywhere — if that child was destined to bond with a spirit animal, it would happen with or without the Nectar. But without, the child could get the bonding sickness and risk madness or even death.

  Abeke thought it unforgivably stupid of these villagers to risk their children by refusing to allow a Greencloak in the village.

  Then again, where were all the children?

  Henner stopped at a house where a woman was weeding a garden around peas and lettuce.

  “Pia, we have some visitors,” said Henner.

  Pia stood up slowly. She appeared to be older than everyone else Abeke had seen in Samis, though her fair skin was unwrinkled, her dark blond hair free of gray. She wore a dark blue dress with a full skirt that stopped just below the knee. It was trimmed with bands of red and topped with a fringed yellow collar. The other villagers wore similar outfits cut from the same blue and red clothes, the same felt boots with curled-up toes, but only Pia wore the yellow collar.
Abeke guessed it was some sign of her rank — like the epaulets on the shoulders of military leaders, or even her own green cloak.

  “I see you’ve come a long way,” said Pia. “But I’m sorry, Samis doesn’t entertain visitors.”

  “That boy there has bonded with Briggan,” said Henner. “He drove off the wolf pack that’s been harassing the herd. And the Nilo girl brought us metal.”

  Abeke handed Pia the pots and knives. Pia looked over them as if at all the gold of Zhong, hefting them in her hands.

  “This is . . . this is very kind. Thank you.” Pia smiled. And with that simple gesture, Abeke didn’t feel worried anymore. The strangeness of the town, the long journey, and the strained welcome all faded for her in the power of one genuine smile. Something in Abeke warned that she shouldn’t be quite so trusting, but she just didn’t believe bright smiles could hide dark hearts.

  “If we could just speak with you a moment,” said Tarik.

  Pia pressed her lips together, but the smile returned and she gestured them inside.

  The little parlor of her house was neat and clean — wood benches were topped with leather cushions, a carved table showed tiny animals whittled from bone. Several sets of caribou antlers hung on the walls, their tips filed down and fit with candles. Under their feet was a rug of woven fir roots.

  They sat, and Meilin spoke first, as if she’d been holding in words she couldn’t bear to keep quiet any longer.

  “Zhong has fallen,” she said.

  Pia inhaled sharply.

  “A new Devourer has risen, calling vast armies to his terrible cause,” said Tarik. “If Zhong has fallen to the Conquerors, Eura won’t be far behind. If Eura falls, Samis will fall with it.”

  “You came all this way to warn us? There are no soldiers here to help in your war,” said Pia. “We are too small to —”