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“We went out to check the wagons and—”
“He must’ve walked down from—”
“He couldn’t’ve made it out of the Spine—”
Lythos, with an innkeeper’s calm, brushed crockery away from a table, made space for a body, suggested, “Do we have a physician?”
Other patrons gathered, swept in by the spectacle of a man half turned to ice. Someone said, “Do we know who he is?”
The man groaned, feeble, eyes held shut by ice. His fingers were—Aric almost couldn’t look, though he’d seen worse. The man’s clothing had been sensible—ready for the mountains, the weather—professional, Aric thought, those boots and that coat and that—
That gold hilt. That sword. And the long dark hair, and dark good looks, and the scar on one hand that Aric remembered because he’d been there for that tavern brawl, which hadn’t been a heroic ogre-battle no matter how one reinvented the story—
He ran. “Theo?”
Theo did not answer. Did not even see him. Ice everyplace. Skin like the shock of a frozen lake.
Lythos demanded, “You know him?” They had an audience. People had moved for Aric’s shoulders and command, but hadn’t gone far.
“Not well—we’ve worked together—Theo, what in the name of all the gods, you fucking idiot—”
Nothing. Theo’s next breath rattled. Ominous. Aric remembered him laughing, a large boisterous river-dog of a man, helpless with money and excellent with that ridiculous gaudy sword, deceptively skilled behind the affable jokes and tendency to lose at dice.
Warmth, the fire—but that wasn’t enough, clearly, as Theo’s chest rose weakly and fell one more time—
Emrys, at Aric’s elbow, said, “Catch me, in a minute,” and tugged Theo’s coat and shirt open, and slapped a hand right across Theo’s chest, over his heart.
For an instant nothing happened.
And then Theo breathed, in and out. Ice cracked, splintered. Frost melted, falling from eyelashes, from beard, from bruised skin.
Aric spun from staring at Theo to staring at Em. Her eyes were closed; her skin had grown cool, even through her shirt, when he touched her shoulder. She did not react.
Aric whispered, “Em.”
And she blinked, breathed—a gulp of air—and staggered, losing superhuman grace. Aric caught her, frantic. “Emrys—”
Around them, the circle of observers backed up a few steps. Magic. Witchcraft. Not in a story. Here under their noses.
Emrys blinked again, shook her head, managed to come back from wherever she’d gone. “I’m all right. Your friend—”
“Sit down. Look at me.” He caught Em’s chin with a finger, checking; she focused on him with reassuring promptness. In the background some murmurs ran around the room, about the Shadow and magic and power; Aric ignored them. “Blankets—”
Lythos handed one over. On the table, Theo made a noise like a tree cracking in two, and pushed himself up on an elbow. His eyes were open, dark brown, long-lashed; his face was scuffed from the cold, but nothing he wouldn’t recover from. He said, “Aric?”
Chapter 4
“Ghosts.” Theo’s hands shook too hard to hold the mug of hot cider; Aric steadied it. A few glares from the Storm-Wielder had given them some privacy; Aric wanted to know what Theo had to say, and wanted to give Em some space.
Theo gulped down more warmth, huddled in place, sitting up now. “Ghosts, in the pass. Screaming. Angry.” His handsome face was drawn tight, seeing them in memory. “Aric—that pass is haunted.”
“Ghosts.” Aric sat down on the bench, hand unobtrusively at Em’s back, support if necessary. “Real ones.”
“I swear.” Theo glanced at Em. “Everything okay?”
Em waved a hand, under crimson wool. “Marvelous. Tell us about ghosts.” She meant it; she wasn’t leaning into Aric’s hand much.
Some. But not much.
