Page 93

“No, you do not,” says Hector, not bothering to look back at the old man. Instead, he levels his gaze with Esra’s. “You did not live constantly fighting for warmth as we did. You lived beneath the sun, and you have no wisdom to give in matters of the cold.” Hector stands, nodding at Dawsyn. “I will see about finding some bollybark,” he says, then leaves, taking long strides past Salem and out in the open wind.

There is a tense silence. Esra, whose eyes have not left the place where Hector disappeared, clears his throat. “What is bollybark?”

“A pain suppressor. It tastes like shit. But if you can stand to chew it, it numbs the senses for a little while.”

Abertha whimpers in her sleep, and Dawsyn gently rests her bandaged foot on the cavern floor. “She will live,” Dawsyn says firmly. “And that is what matters.”

Salem shifts uncomfortably from side to side. His lips part as though he wishes to say something more, but then they close again.

“Perhaps I seem callous to you,” Dawsyn says quietly. She has never denied as such. “That is quite well, but Abertha will awaken. She will walk again soon. I will heal the wounds once I am restored enough to do so and–”

“We do not think you callous, love,” Salem interrupts. His features have turned softer, apologetic.

“It was…” Esra hesitates. “Just quite a shock, is all.” And indeed, he appears rattled to the core.

Dawsyn sighs. She feels suddenly uneasy in her own skin. The knife at her side glints accusingly at her.

“Dawsyn,” Salem begins, finally meeting her eye. “I – I’m sorry. It ain’t my place to cast judgments. I’m older, but I don’t reckon I’ve seen half the life yeh had up there on that ice shelf. This mountain,” Salem looks out to the slopes. “Well, I can’t imagine how anyone survives it long.”

Dawsyn nods and stands. She spies Esra shaking his head, as though he can’t rid the butchery from his mind. “I may seem cold to you,” she tells him. “But you should not tarnish Hector with the same opinion. He is far kinder than I, and had you been made to live as he lived, you might appreciate the oddity he is.” Dawsyn’s heart tightens, remembering the skinny boy on the Ledge. “Hector merely understands what needs to be done. Rest assured he will berate himself. He will not need your assistance.”

Dawsyn makes to follow Hector out into the wind. “I’ll go help him.”

“No,” Esra calls, gathering his feet beneath him. “Let me.” He crouches as he makes his way toward her, his head in danger of glancing off the rocky ceiling. As he passes Dawsyn, he takes her hand, squeezes it. “I do not think either of you unkind. Just far stronger than anyone ought to be.” He smiles in his lopsided way, then departs, pulling his furs tightly around his torso as the squalls lash at him.

Another whimper sounds and Dawsyn turns to see Abertha’s eyes open. Tears well in the corners and her lips shake. She utters small noises that she clearly tries to absorb. She breathes heavily through her nose.

Dawsyn ducks by her head, crouching on her haunches. “I’m sorry, Bertie,” she says quietly, her voice oddly choked. She finds she can barely look at the girl. Instead, she looks at her own hands, clasped together and stained red.

“Th-thank you,” Abertha whispers, the words hitching. One hand reaches up and clasps tightly around Dawsyn’s wrist. “Thank you f-for doing it swiftly.”

“I will heal you come morning,” Dawsyn vows, clasping her own hand atop Abertha’s. “At first light.”

“Promise?”

Dawsyn sees her watery eyes, the wildness of her hair, and thinks of another girl she once made promises to, who looked up at her with that same shrewd insight.

“I promise,” Dawsyn says.

And though she is not one to offer comfort, she seeks her own. An inexplicable starvation urges her to lie in the place beside Abertha, feeling the girl’s arm aligned against hers. Their shoulders press together, side-by-side. Dawsyn closes her eyes, and she is in her den of girls, the wind beating its mighty gale beyond their walls. But she is not afraid. She is not alone.

They survive a fretful night.

The mountain blizzards with impressive intensity and the fire struggles to endure. Hector and Esra find enough bollybark to subdue Abertha’s pain for a couple of hours, but she spends the remainder of the night restless, unable to find relief from the throbbing in her foot. Dawsyn tends to the fire before Hector takes over, bidding her to find her sleep so that she can be of use come morning. He ensures Abertha’s feet stay close to the flames – her exposed toes are still in danger of frostbite if they cannot not bring warmth to them.

By morning, Hector’s face is drawn and weary, but not defeated. He smiles wanly as Dawsyn sits upright, giving up on the pretence of rest. The sky outside has finally begun to lighten, and the wind has breathed its last. The mountain is now a sleeping beast – eerily silent and still after having rampaged and wreaked havoc in the dark.

Esra and Salem are curled in on themselves on the other side of the fire and they likely found no more sleep than she. Their eyes move behind their eyelids with the chaos of the restless.

But Abertha is wide awake. Sweat dampens her hair. “Is it morning?” she breathes toward Dawsyn, eyes pleading.

Dawsyn nods. Without further preamble, she pulls her gloves away from her hands and gently lifts the leg of Abertha’s pants. Dawsyn places her hand on the part of her foot that is not wrapped in bandages, then closes her eyes.

The iskra is sluggish, but responsive. It moves to coalesce with the dim light of her mind. Together they flow from her palms and into Abertha.

It only takes a moment. It is all she can expend before the magic retreats again. But Abertha breathes a sigh of deep relief. She lets her head fall back and closes her eyes, the tension lines in her forehead and around her mouth now gone. “Thank you,” she mouths.

Dawsyn unwraps the bandaging gently. It is heavy with congealed blood, but the flesh beneath bears no wound. Only the fresh, angry pink of new skin in the absence of two toes.