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Three bags were filled for Kalen to carry and one for me to hide, fastened to my waist underneath the jet black of my cloak. I pestered him about what I felt was a blatant show of distrust. Kalen only confirmed that he, in fact, didnottrust me with an amount of coin that would cover a year’s worth of rent for half of the tenants in Grovsney.
Soon, we would travel amongst beggars and thieves. Kalen wasn’t sure what would happen first if he’d handed over more of the money: me on my back, robbed, or me crouched over a vagrant, giving away the gold. Personally, I would have bet on the latter.
“Do we have all we need?” I asked, looking down at the additional two duffels of supplies that were to be strapped to our horses.
“About as much as I’m willing to risk taking,” Kalen sighed, hefting them over his shoulders.
“Remind me again, why can’t we just project?”
With a silent command from the Preserver, the entrance to the house opened as we neared the foyer. The black ooze from where Kalen had healed himself was now cemented into the rug and smelled vilely of sulfur.
“The place we are going is too far for me to project with Silverwood still in my body, and I am less desperate now to try than I was when I carried us from Leoth.”
I remembered just how desperate he had been. I could still feel the crushing way his arms pressed against my spine as we projected. Without his touch for days now, I felt so light I thought I might float away. But I was stronger than that, so I sheathed a spare dagger against the strap of my thigh and continued.
We both stepped around the mess and into the stinging affrontof the winter air. It whipped against my cheeks and every wet thing in my body began to frost. Crystals formed in my nose and crunched as I gave it a wiggle. I blinked my eyes rapidly, but they remained dry as ice. The feeling was uncomfortably crisp, but suddenly the world felt and looked incredibly clear. As if I’d taken a long-overdue breath.
All was quiet over the cliffside of Cypra, save for the rushing of wind and the stalwart chuffs of our horses. They whinnied and snorted from their hitches on a nearby tree. Where in the world they came from, I knew not. Not a barn or pen in sight, and the terrain surrounding us made the chance that they lived within these mountains quite slim. Kalen didn’t explain and didn’t seem to mind if it was impossible or not. He just slung a duffle over each hind, mounted the black-coated horse, and began a slow descent down the mountain.
I marched to the nose of my beast, a beautiful golden mare. Her coat had been brushed and was shimmering so brightly against the winter sun, she almost looked enchanted. A long white mane was braided into flat tufts here and there, iron circlets holding them in place. Stroking her muzzle, I laughed and thought back to how Rebekah had once disapproved of me for wearing mine in a similar style. Even still, I thought it had character.
After mounting the mare, I gave a swift kick to her flank and found myself thinking what a great pair the two of us made. Just two wild things, far from home and with no idea of what lay ahead.
There are two differentkinds of cold, I realized.
There is the cold that invigorates you, awakens your senses,and opens you up to the world’s many temperaments. It is not forever. Just a provisional freeze that encases what is precious to save for a more reasonably weathered day. It stills the trees and the streams, and it glitters so brightly, that you are convinced that you love its season all the more. You may even forget about the pretty flowers that used to grow in between stalks of lush, high green grasses or the fullness you felt from fat, warm fruits hanging on vines. This kind of cold will plant a kiss on your cheek in farewell and leave all of the things you love most dripping in a glorious wet—ready to be rediscovered.
Then, there is the kind of cold that is death. A cold that parries all sense of wonder and chilled delight. The sun does not penetrate its dense grey clouds and the wind spurs furiously, carrying the last remaining seeds of life from the dying ground so that they may live on very, very far away. The darkness of it becomes so obsolete that not a soul ventures beyond their doorstep for fear of becoming ash unto a blue flame. That is what traveling through Cypra is like at night: A growing awareness of cold, unavoidable death.
When I told Kalen this, he said I was being dramatic.
“If you won’t oblige my long metaphors, will you at least oblige my desire to keep my third and fourth toes? I think they are far into the process of freezing off.”
“There’s nothing wrong with walking with a wobble,” he shouted over the cull of a blizzard that had befallen us about half an hour ago.
Our horses didn’t show the slightest sign of displeasure, but even the power within their corded muscles was waning against the force of the Mother. I couldn’t make anything out through the whorl of white and blue-grey that blurred my vision, but I was sure that we hadn’t traveled more than a few thousand paces.
“Kalen,” I groaned, and he knew it was a plea for us to findsomewhere to stay for the night.
“Come on, Gwyn. We’re immortal, it isn’t like we will catch any sickness.” Kalen had slowed his horse and allowed mine to fall into place beside him. He looked miserable and his face had turned slightly blueish. It reminded me of the dead Shadowfader.
“I realize that, you big lout,” I said, each word clipped with anger. “But even glass must have a freezing point.”
Kalen studied me for a moment, and I held my chin slightly forward. In reply, he gave me an even shorter grunt and clicked the inside of his cheek. Slowly both of our horses started up again and I thought I would cry, but within a quarter-hour, the storm broke to the east of us and we ventured into a small village. The buildings were all built of conifer trunks laid gently on top of each other. Between the cracks of their curves and the small four-pane windows, the warm light of civilization poured.
We clacked our way onto cobble-laid streets from the forest into the heart of the small town, past a tailoring shop and a few homes. I worried the noisiness of our arrival may stir up a crowd of angry sleeping villagers, but nothing moved from anywhere to come to meet us. By the time we had finished tying off our mounts, I almost wished an angry crowd had gathered. At least torchlights were warm, and pitchforks would mean a quick death.
Kalen led us into the lobby of a small inn, carrying our bags at his sides and then tossing them into a big brown lump at the innkeeper’s feet. The stubby little man was a mortal, I realized. Not too old by our standards, but the grey in his beard suggested he had surpassed young as far as humans go.
“A room for the night, then?” he croaked, looking down his nose at the guest ledger as he wrote. Red and purple veins were broken out all over his skin, just another indication of his mortality.
“Two,” Kalen corrected.
Both the innkeeper and I looked up at him.
“Well, I apologize sir, but there is only one available. Surely you wouldn’t mind taking up with your beautiful lady friend here.” I would have been flattered, had the man not taken his time to rake yellow-stained eyes down to the curves of my chest. Kalen pushed back his shoulders and let his power flow out of him for but a second. He was glowing slightly, like he’d done at the ball. Combined with his unpleasant expression, even I grew nervous at the sight.
“I can see your ledger from where I stand and there are two rooms left. We will have them.”
