Page 16 of The Cradle of Ice

Kanthe went to Rami’s aid. He helped get the Chaaen up and moving, while Rami unchained his sister from the dead. They hurried to the wagon, where soldiers hauled them inside.

Kanthe offered his hand to help Aalia up.

She slapped his arm away, looking past his shoulder as if he were not even worthy of her gaze. “Do not touch me,” she spat in Hálendiian, plainly able to speak his language all this time.

Kanthe balked at the heat of her rejection.

Rami winced and assisted his sister into the wagon. He offered an apologetic shrug to Kanthe as he passed. “She’s frightened.”

Kanthe caught a glare from Aalia before she turned away. It wasn’t fear shining on her face. He easily recognized what it was.

Hatred.

He sighed and followed her, accepting his fate as best he could.

As he did, a stray crossbow bolt sliced past his ear, close enough to shave off a few strands of hair. He ducked to the side and searched in the direction of the attack. A figure appeared down the street. The man lowered his weapon and stood tall, fearless, his dark face bared to the sunlight. His strong features—firm jaw, wide cheekbones—could be considered handsome, especially his bright violet eyes, rare and prized among the Klashean. The only blemish was a scar that ran from brow to cheek, crossing through the white paint over his left eye.

That gaze fixed on Kanthe.

The man’s expression was easy to read.

Hatred once again.

The figure lifted an arm and slashed it low. Upon this signal, the attack ended. The pinging of arrows and bolts went silent. Figures vanished in all directions, fading into the shadows. The man, clearly the leader, turned and followed.

“Hurry,” Rami warned, and held out an arm toward Kanthe.

He grabbed his friend’s hand and allowed himself to be pulled inside the wagon. Rami guided him to a bench. He dropped heavily, exhausted in every measure of the word.

He closed his eyes, picturing that figure on the street.

Only then did he remember one detail. As Aalia had slapped his hand away, she had been staring past Kanthe’s shoulder—in that same direction. He had thought her too disdainful of him to be worthy of her gaze. But maybe she had also spotted the leader out in the street.

He shook his head, too addled to contemplate it all. He only knew one thing for certain. He pictured the expressions shared by Aalia and the attacker on the street and accepted the truth of this day.

I seem to be doing what I do best.

He sighed loudly.

Creating more enemies.

THREE

DAGGERS IN THE WIND

Know this! The strum of a bard’s lyre can awaken memoris, stir the blode, give rise to teyrs. It moves a listener in gentle ways. But bridle-song—which soundeth as sweete to the ear—cuts through blode & bone. It does not move; it grabs! To be bridled is a fist in the skull, leavyng no roum for thought, will, or dremes. Best to put a knife to one’s ear than heed that Sirenes song.

—Taken from the sermon of the Hapric cleric Clea ja Raan III, whose followers cut out the tongues of hundreds of bridle-singers; some claim he was gifted himself, using his song to sway those to carry out his bloody will.

9

NYX SAT CROSS-LEGGED in the gloom of the Sparrowhawk’s lower hold. She kept her eyes closed, not that there was much to see. Lamp oil was as precious as flashburn aboard the swyftship. Only a pair of lanterns lit the cavernous space, and one had been commandeered by Jace.

Her friend knelt nearby. He hunched over the tome on his lap, a text secured from the cabin he shared with the alchymist. He mumbled as he read, something she always found endearing, as if he were arguing with the long-dead writer. He sought further knowledge about what might await them beyond the Dragoncryst, but she suspected he also needed to distract himself from the more immediate danger.

She appreciated that.

A moment ago, word had echoed to them from the ship’s highhorn, the metal tubing and baffling that ran throughout the wyndship. In less than a bell, they would reach the mountains. Darant ordered every crewman to their posts. All others were to secure themselves in their cabins, less to protect them than to get them out from underfoot.