Page 1 of The Bone Doll (The Ruthenian Chronicle #1)

Constellations

Syra traced the constellations in the sky.

The Glacier, the Sled, the Earth Deer… A crease formed between her brows as she followed the stars which formed a straight line to the Unmoving Man, who sat at the sky’s apex and winked strangely.

Her gaze trailed along that line of stars again – a perfect line and a blinking star. A star that was usually steady.

A chilly evening wind played with loose strands of her hair, and she pressed her lips into a line. She knew that perfect line meant something, but no matter how much she opened herself up to her magic, she found no meaning.

“A line,” she whispered. “What is a line with a blinking end?”

Perhaps a more creative woman would have been able to interpret the omen on its own. But Syra wanted her magic to work, just like her grandfather had told her it would. Her scowl deepening, she concentrated harder, willing visions to appear.

Nothing.

Her magic was weak, and even a simple search for omens eluded her.

Syra sighed. She might be a vidutana – a sky shaman amongst her people, the Sarnoks – but the sky spirits had not blessed her with skill or power.

And though her grandfather had tried to teach her, there was only so much a sculptor could do with dull tools.

When her grandfather had passed last year, none of the other vidutana thought Syra’s powers warranted honing.

So, she came out here at least twice a week in hopes that she could learn on her own, if she continued to practice what her grandfather had taught her – how to read omens, how to seek visions and prophesies, and how to draw magical power.

Alas, it had been more than a year, and Syra noticed no improvements.

Some nights, she spent worrying that her grandfather should have offered his time to a more worthy vidutana.

Other nights, she put those thoughts from her head and kept trying, hoping that she would grow more powerful eventually.

Rising to her feet, she dusted the mud and dead grass off her clothes and headed southward across the tundra, which was patchy with snow and spring lichen.

Her clan’s camp lay a mile away beneath the arrow of the Sirtian Hunter constellation, enveloped by trees through which her clan’s reindeer herds foraged and dogs scavenged,.

She held the image in her mind’s eye as she walked.

She crossed a still-frozen brook, silver and cracked with spring’s incoming warmth. And then her gloved hand closed around the hilt of her belt knife as she caught sight of someone moving in the dark.

This stranger didn’t care about stealth or subterfuge, striding towards her with his head held high.

As he neared, the starlight illuminated his features.

Her gaze glued to him – and not because he was an unfamiliar man approaching at night.

And not because he was a Ruthenian. She had seen pale-skinned Ruthenians before, even if they preferred to stick to their trading posts at the western edges of the tundra.

She stared because she had never seen anyone with hair like orangebush lichen, which he left uncovered despite the cold.

He was like a fire spirit walking the earth, just without the flame.

“Do you glare at everyone you meet?” he said in accented but clear Sarnok.

Syra stiffened. “Only men who wander in the dark.”

“I didn’t mean to be out here this late,” he replied. “But I got turned around and haven’t been able to find what I was looking for.”

She stepped backwards. This one spoke in riddles and half-truths, just like a trickster spirit. Maybe he was a ghost. But even if he was just a man, he certainly wasn’t one a lone woman wanted to deal with in the middle of the night.

“Can you help me?” the Ruthenian continued. “I’m looking for the Lame Wolf clan.”

She fidgeted with her knife’s handle. What could this orange-haired Ruthenian want with her clan? Certainly, it was nothing good. Gingerly, she shifted to the right, trying to make her way around him. “No clan wants a Ruthenian visitor in the middle of the night.”

“I–” He looked like he was actually considering that. “I can wait until morning to enter their camp. But I don’t know where they are. You’re the first person I’ve seen in two days, and I was hoping you could point me in their direction so I’m not wandering around aimlessly for another two days.”

“I don’t know where they are,” she lied, finally stepping clear of him and striding purposefully away.

The Ruthenian jogged after her. “If you don’t know– If you wouldn’t mind– I could use some company and somewhere to rest.”

Company? She shot him a dirty look over her shoulder.

Company? What did Ruthenian women do when they met strange men in the middle of the night?

If they shared their company, Syra would eat her own foot.

Pivoting on her heel, she drew her belt knife.

“Get back,” she warned. “You’re lucky I haven’t gutted you. ”

“Wait, wait.” He held up both hands, faltering. “You’re just the only person out here, and I thought you might share a campfire and conversation.”

Her face heated. The more he said, the worse it sounded. Her fingers tightened on her knife. “Come any closer – or follow me – and you’ll have this knife in your throat.”

He licked his lips, rubbing his palms on the front of his coat – black patterned with interlocking blue circles.

His knife gleamed at his side, its handle freshly wrapped in new leather.

Either it was new or he never used it. He wasn’t a warrior, a fact that might just save her skin.

He still held up his hands. “All right,” he acquiesced.

“I won’t follow. And I’ll stay right here.

But can you just tell me which direction–”

Syra wasn’t waiting around. She darted around him and then ran, leaving the Ruthenian man flustered and gaping like a dead fish.