Page 108 of The Cradle of Ice

Meryk joined them.

Berent held up a hand. “We anchor,” he said haltingly. “Sail again aree.”

“I understand,” Graylin said, appreciating the Reef Farer’s attempt to speak their language. “Is there anything we can do?”

The Reef Farer motioned to his side. “Ularia. Curious. About…” Berent frowned and waved brusquely at Shiya. He leaned toward Meryk. “Sree nix faryn?”

Meryk nodded. “The Reef Farer wants to know if Shiya is a true woman.”

Graylin knew such a conversation was long overdue. He had tried to keep Shiya away from the villagers. From a distance, she looked like a woman. Her molten bronze could be mistaken for darkly tanned skin. She moved with exceptional grace. Even the soft plait of her hair streamed and curled like those of any other woman. It was only her glassy eyes that gave her away, softly glowing with the energy inside her.

“She’s a woman,” he answered as truthfully as he could. “Just not one born of seed and flesh.”

“How that be?” Berent asked after Meryk shared Graylin’s answer.

Graylin took a breath. Honesty was usually the best course, but sometimes a lie served one better. “As you know, we Noorish have considerable talents with metal and sophisticated alchymy. Over the two centuries since the Fyredragon crashed here, my people have made great achievements.”

Graylin motioned to Shiya.

For their own safety, it had been decided to maintain this conceit. Best to let the villagers believe their group had hidden talents, to engender a respectful fear of their abilities to stave off any violence.

Ularia showed none of that hesitation. She stepped around Berent and eyed Shiya up and down. “I assume she can speak for herself. Is that not so?”

Graylin blinked, surprised at the smooth fluency of this inquiry. Even Meryk’s eyes widened. Apparently, Ularia had her own talents that she guarded.

“Of course,” Graylin stammered out.

Ularia faced Shiya. “Where are you from? When were you crafted?”

Shiya could lie, but most often she did not. “I would prefer not to tell you,” she answered honestly.

“Is that so?” Ularia’s eyes narrowed.

“We do protect our knowledge,” Graylin interjected. “Maybe with time and trust, that will change.”

“Hmm…” She cast a discerning glance over their group. “Like the tides, trust must flow both ways.”

Graylin kept his face stoic. She gave him a penetrating stare, as if she could peer down to his bones. When she finally turned away, he stifled a sigh of relief.

But she was not done. She glanced back, turning those eyes on Shiya. “Nenta nell ta’wyn nee nich va?”

Graylin looked to Meryk for a translation, but Daal’s father gave a small shake of his head, his eyes pinched with confusion.

Ularia’s gaze stayed on Shiya, whose features remained fixed and unreadable. Still, Graylin noted her bronze fingers curling ever so slightly before relaxing again.

Ularia sniffed, then finally turned away, drawing Berent with her.

Graylin waited until the pair were accosted by others and drawn into new conversations. Only then did he sit down.

Nyx leaned toward Meryk. “What did Ularia say at the end?”

The Panthean shook his head. “It is not in our tongue. It sounded like…” He struggled for the word, then found it. “Gibberish.”

Graylin turned to Shiya. He didn’t have to ask the question.

“I do not know either,” she admitted. “But I recognize the tongue. If I hadn’t lost so much of my knowledge—of myself—I might understand it fully.”

Nyx reached to take her hand, clearly responding to the pain and frustration in Shiya’s expression. “It will come,” Nyx assured her. “Maybe when we reach the site out in the Frozen Wastes. The city of winged protectors.”