The cradle of ice, p.13
The Cradle of Ice, page 13
part #2 of Moonfall Series
But is that true?
She faced the young man, who looked aghast. She didn’t know how well these people knew those bats who haunted the ice, but she ran her fingers along Bashaliia’s ears, extending them to their full height. Her other palm ran down the sleek fur of his chest.
She fixed her gaze on the man. “Not raash’ke.”
He finally lowered his dagger, looking more confused than relieved. The small girl tried to round his hip and come forward, drawn with the bright curiosity that only the youngest possessed. The man held her back.
“Nyan, Henna.”
Nyx left Bashaliia to draw nearer again. She placed a palm on her chest once more. “I am Nyx,” she repeated.
The man licked his lips and rested a hand to his own. “Daal. I be Daal.”
Krysh stepped closer, too. “I think he comprehends some rudimentary version of our language.”
Daal scowled at the alchymist. “Mother teach us. Makes us learn. To be”—he frowned for the words, then discovered them—“proud of our blood.”
Nyx struggled to understand. How could this be?
The answer came from the girl, Henna, likely the young man’s sister. She shifted clear enough of her brother to lift the long locks of her dark hair, which had strands of green woven through them. She picked out the darkest sections and pointed at Nyx’s black hair.
“You Noor. Like me.”
Jace stiffened with a gasp.
Nyx looked at him. “What?”
“These two.” His eyes grew even wider. “They have Noor’s blood.”
She still did not understand, frowning at him.
Jace tried again. “Rega sy Noor. The knight who captained a ship out here over two centuries ago—and vanished.” He pointed to the brother and sister. “I think these are his descendants.”
* * *
NYX KEPT CLOSE to Daal as his sister crept toward Bashaliia. The young man had sought to stop her, but Henna had kicked him soundly in the shin. As the girl extended her arm, her eyes glowed with childish longing, full of curiosity and wonder.
“Car’ada,” Daal warned her, shifting closer, one hand on his sheathed dagger.
Nyx touched his arm. “She’s safe. He won’t hurt her. I promise.”
Daal kept his place but didn’t lower his palm from the dagger’s hilt.
Steps away, Bashaliia bobbled back and forth on his legs, which drew a small smile from Nyx. Back when he was no larger than a goose—before he died and was resurrected into this larger form—he would prance like that whenever excited. It was a reminder that despite his large size, he was still her little brother at heart.
Henna reached a palm up to touch his chest. “Gree ly resh!”
Nyx glanced to Daal, who looked a year or two older than her and stood half a head taller. This close, he smelled of salt and a sweaty musk. “What did she say?”
Daal glanced over to her and translated. “He very warm.”
Nyx was momentarily captured by the ice of his eyes, so blue they were nearly silver. She realized she was staring and glanced aside. “He’s still probably overheated from his battle. Making him extra warm.”
Earlier, while they had tended to Bashaliia’s wounds, using a salve that Krysh had in a healer’s satchel, Nyx had offered Daal a sliver of their tale, of their encounter with the raash’ke. She wasn’t sure how much he had followed. She had also introduced the others, though she sensed him growing overwhelmed—not that she could blame him. Jace had practically peppered him with questions, trying to understand everything at once, his history, what life was like down here, and on and on.
Finally, Nyx had drawn Daal aside to give him a moment to collect himself. It also let the others attend to the sailraft and assess what to do next.
Though Graylin seldom let his gaze drift too far from her.
Still, it had seemed to work. Daal had grown more relaxed, even curious, asking questions about Bashaliia, about where they had come from. Again, she kept it as simple as possible. Longer conversations would have to wait.
Henna giggled brightly, drawing back her attention.
Towering over the girl, Bashaliia had bent down his whiskered muzzle and snuffled the crown of her head, then both cheeks. He whistled and nickered at her, taking in her scent, inspecting her with bridle-song.
Henna squirmed all the while, wearing a huge smile. “Gree heelee!”
Daal grinned himself, for the first time, like the sun piercing storm clouds. He squinted one eye, clearly trying to think how to explain. Then he lifted his hand from his dagger and wiggled his fingers along his bare rib cage.
Nyx understood. “Tickles. He’s tickling her.”
“Yee.” Daal nodded. “Tickles.”
Graylin waved to her, indicating it was time to regroup.
Nyx held up a palm, asking for a moment more. She turned to Daal. “Would you like to meet Bashaliia yourself?”
He considered it, took a breath, then nodded. “Henna not scared. Bad for me to be.”
His sister heard him and waved insistently. “Yee! Da mist.”
Nyx went with Daal, guiding him to Bashaliia. Henna backed away, her eyes still huge with excitement and awe. Once close enough, Daal lifted an arm. Bashaliia leaned forward to sniff at his hand, then bowed his head and pushed his crown into the man’s palm. The bat’s ears folded back, flat to his skull.
Nyx’s brows pinched. She had never seen Bashaliia grace a stranger like that.
A soft warbling nicker flowed from the bat’s throat.
For a breath, Daal matched it, only more melodic, likely without realizing it. His hand glided over Bashaliia’s head, his fingers combing the fur between those ears. The man’s eyes drifted half-closed.
“Gree resh,” he murmured, confirming his sister’s appraisal of the bat’s warmth. He let his arm drop and backed a step, his melody going silent like a snuffed candle. He stared back at Bashaliia. “Gree prel…”
Nyx pressed him. “Gree prel?”
He looked at her, his eyes brighter. He struggled for a breath, then pointed at the arc of ice that glowed through the steamy mists.
“Shines,” he said, translating. “He shines.”
Nyx studied Daal as he gazed at the distant glimmering. Had he noted the aura of bridle-song that rose when the two had touched? Did he carry the gift?
She hummed deep in her chest, casting out glowing tendrils toward the mystery standing in the sand. She tried to read him as she had Jace back in the Sparrowhawk’s hold, when she had inadvertently brushed strands through her friend, exposing his private heart. Back then, it had felt like a violation, but she could not stop herself now. There was something different about Daal, more than just some nascent bridle-song in his blood.
But what?
She sang her strands toward him—but once near, they dissipated into a misty cloud and wisped away. She shivered in shock.
Daal glanced at her, his expression unchanged. He didn’t seem to be aware of what had happened. His gaze flicked to Bashaliia. He stared a long moment. His next words were strained, edged with apprehension.
“Gree nef oshkapi, hee miss’n Oshkapeers,” he whispered, turning his attention to her. He swallowed, clearly trying to explain. “He … oshkapi … dreams … deeper than all, like the Dreamers of the undersea.”
She shook her head. “What do you mean by—”
He grabbed her hand, looking haunted. “No go there. Ever.”
She tugged herself free, struggling to understand.
Graylin noted their brief tussle and strode toward them. “Are you all right?” he called to her.
“We’re fine,” she assured him, knowing Daal was only expressing concern.
But about what?
Graylin waved to her. “We should be going.”
She wanted to argue, but from the distress in Daal’s eyes, she simply nodded, dropping this mystery for now. “Will you still take us to your village?”
“Yee,” he agreed.
Nyx knew the plan was to reach his home. Daal was not the only mystery they had to solve. Their group had waited on the beach, keeping close to the sailraft, off-loading essentials, all the while hoping that there might be some sign of the other escaping sailraft and its occupants. Not to mention the Sparrowhawk, which was last seen fleeing into the mists, drawing off the pack of raash’ke.
As she joined the others, she gazed up at the mists, shimmering under the glow of the encrusted ice.
Where are you all?
22
RHAIF CIRCLED THE beached sailraft for the sixth time, but nothing had miraculously changed since the fifth time.
He stared at the stretch of sand, dotted by thorny bushes with crimson berries that were surely poisonous in this landscape that only the undergod, Nethyn, could appreciate. Everywhere he looked, the strand extended to lapping green waters.
“Why did you have to land us on an island?” Rhaif complained, turning back to the raft. “We’re trapped here.”
The pirate’s snowy-locked daughter, Glace, stalked atop the sailraft, wading through the ruins of their shredded gasbag. Its remains draped and hung over the raft, like a god’s dispirited cock.
She glowered down at Rhaif, her almond skin darkening with anger. “Be thankful you’re in one piece.”
Hyck, the Sparrowhawk’s engineer, crouched up there, too, inspecting the wreckage. The scrawny man had stripped off his shirt in the humid heat, showing all his ribs. He fingered a ragged rent in the balloon’s fabric, then tossed it aside. “No sewing this back together.”
“Don’t matter,” Glace said with a hard scowl. “We have no way to inflate it. And we only have dregs of flashburn left in the raft’s forge. We’re not going anywhere.”
“Then we’re stuck,” Rhaif groused, swiping the sweaty strands of ruddy bangs from his brow. “And with nothing but salty water all around, we’ll be sucking on pebbles before long.”
The twin pirate brothers, Perde and Herl, hauled out the last of their supplies, stacking crates and barrels in the sand. It hadn’t taken long. In the rush to flee the Sparrowhawk, they hadn’t had time to stock their provisions. The pair had also shed their roughspun shirts, showing wide chests and a splay of tattoos over their backs, depicting various scenes of carnage and debauchery, likely preserving the histories of their respective exploits. It was the only distinguishing feature between the two, that and Herl’s crooked nose from an old break. The two Gyn-sized behemoths both hailed—or rather escaped—from the closed and walled-off Hegemony of Harpe. They certainly had the typical Harpic jaundiced complexion and pinched eyes.
Herl had noted Rhaif’s complaint. “Aye, the thief is right about sucking on pebbles. We have only one barrel of water.”
Perde shrugged. “But two of ale.”
“Well, at least you all prioritized correctly,” Rhaif conceded. “We can get drunk before we sweat to death on this god-fekked island.”
He scanned the mists.
The fog hung thicker on one side, where the waters boiled and spat, giving rise to heavier steam. Far overhead, the world was roofed by ice, the underside of the mighty Shield above. Through the hot mists, the surfaces glowed in hues of crimson, blues, and emerald, shining from crusts and drapes of moldy growths.
Rhaif only knew the source of illumination because their raft had gotten too close to that jagged roof. Earlier, while descending into the massive rift in the Shield, Glace had guided their craft away from a cliff of ice that rose on one side. She feared colliding with it, especially when near blinded by the fog. That avoidance sent their vessel gliding into the mouth of a vast cavern hidden below the Shield. Apparently, it must have melted into existence countless millennia ago, creating the mineral-rich, salty sea below.
They hadn’t even been aware they had swept into that cavernous space until one of the roof’s fangs of ice ripped into their gasbag, sending them into a wild, spiraling dive.
Even now, Rhaif hadn’t completely caught his breath. His heart continued to pound in his chest.
Still, despite his grousing, Glace had saved them all. She had staved off their plummet long enough to spot the sea under them—only it had been bubbling and belching with steam. The heat had come close to boiling them alive, like crabs in a stewpot. Glace fought the raft away from the danger, spotted a beach ahead, and aimed for it, believing it was a shoreline. They crashed here, gouging a deep groove in the sand and rock, cracking a gaping rent in the keel.
Only after bailing out did they recognize their error.
It wasn’t a shoreline, but the crest of a sickle-shaped island. The sandbar stretched half a league in length and a fraction as wide. Except for the scraggly bushes, it appeared barren.
“How are we getting off here?” Rhaif asked.
Hyck clambered down from his perch and offered an option. But from the engineer’s sour expression, he wasn’t confident in his plan. “We have two axes. Maybe we can hack free a section of hull and create a raft. Make oars out of other planks and row free from here.”
Rhaif scowled, pointing out the largest flaw in this endeavor. “And go where exactly?”
Glace looked equally unconvinced. “We don’t know if those boiling waters encircle us. We could cast off and be overwhelmed by the heat or fumes.”
Rhaif wiped his brow again. The air reeked of sulfur and bale-breath. It already stung his eyes and burned his nostrils.
“But worse,” Glace added, “we don’t have enough rope to rig a stout enough raft. Especially not one that could carry all of us.”
She looked toward the one member of their group who weighed as much as Herl and Perde put together. Rhaif turned to where Shiya had stopped along a curve of the island. The bronze woman stared out to sea.
Shiya must have overheard their discussion. “I detect firelight in the distance.”
Rhaif crossed to her, drawing the others with him; even Glace leaped deftly to the sand. He searched the dense fog but saw no flicker of flames.
“Where?” he asked.
Shiya pointed out into the mists.
Rhaif squinted but still failed to see anything different in that fogbank compared to the rest. He glanced at the others. “Are my eyes too old? I see nothing out there.”
They all shrugged, equally confused.
“It’s there,” Shiya insisted. “Flickering flames. Many of them.”
Rhaif trusted Shiya. Her glassy eyes were sharper and capable of seeing the world with a perceptivity far beyond any of them.
“How far off?” Glace asked.
Shiya turned to the woman. “I cannot properly discern.”
“Could it be the others trying to signal us?” Rhaif asked. He pictured both the sailraft that carried Nyx’s group and the Sparrowhawk.
Hope surged through him.
“I do not know,” Shiya admitted. “But you are correct about these waters. They’re dangerous. I can hear other regions bubbling and spewing hotly out there.”
“Then what do we do?” Hyck asked.
She faced him. “I will walk there.”
Rhaif took hold of her arm. “Shiya…”
She turned her glassy blue eyes upon him. “I have no need of air. My weight will keep me to the seabed, allowing me to cross. Though it may take time. I suspect some of the magma vents could damage me, so I will have to keep clear of the worst of them.”
Rhaif swallowed, struggling how to convince her otherwise, but he also knew she was right. With this heat and foul air, they couldn’t risk staying on this island for more than a day or two.
“I will do my best to fetch help here,” she said.
She stared at the group, awaiting their agreement.
They all shared worried looks, but no one objected.
Rhaif let out a strained sigh. “Just be careful.”
Shiya’s eyes glowed softly upon him. She lifted a hand to his cheek. Her palm felt like the warm flesh of any woman. The curling strands of her hair, a dark bronze, wafted gently about her brow. Her skin swirled in hues of rich coppers, from pinkish to a darker red, especially her lips.
Rhaif lifted his arm and covered her hand with his palm. He remembered when he had first set eyes upon her, deep in the mines of Chalk. Seeing her ensconced in her glass bed, he had thought her a statue come to life by some god’s miracle.
But no longer …
They had spent months aboard the Sparrowhawk in each other’s company. He already knew she was far more than simply the masterwork of some skilled artisan working in bronze. After so long together, he recognized her unique intelligence, her true compassion, even the humor infused into her form. While she might not have been born of womb and blood, she was as much a woman as any other—only more so.
Rhaif swallowed hard, hating to see her leave. After so long together, he could not dismiss his heart. He had grown fond of her, as he would any woman of flesh and bone. He even desired her. She was beautiful beyond words, his dreams given form.
Sadly, he knew she couldn’t return his base cravings, but that did not lessen his tenderness for her. She recognized his affections, even returned them in her own fashion. She would often sing in his cabin, stirring the bridling gift in his own blood, a heritage from his mother. In those moments, shared together, it felt as intimate as an embrace.
She lowered her hand. “I will be back,” she promised him, easily reading his apprehension.
He stepped away, letting her go. He struggled to clear his throat, then called before she turned away. “Bring back ice.”
She grinned at him. “Or course. I know how you hate warm ale.”
He smiled in turn.
How well she understands me.
With a wave, Shiya waded into the sea. He stared as her form slowly sank into the waves—then was gone.
* * *
RHAIF SAT IN the sand, dreaming of a long cool bath. He’d kicked off his boots and soaked his feet in the lapping water. At least the sea was cooler than the air. A single tin cup rested next to him, pushed into the wet sand.
Maybe I can learn to appreciate warm ale.
