Page 2 of The Cradle of Ice

A massive shadow swept low over the balloon and out in the sky before her. As the Mýr bat’s wings cleaved across the starscape, he angled over on a tip and spun back around. With that turn, the tingling warmth grew into a soft keening, less heard than felt, a slight vibration of the bones in her ears.

She danced back from his approach. As he dove, his wings spread and cupped the air, slowing him. She retreated farther to make room. Luckily, she did. When he ducked under the gasbag, his claws released a massive haunch of some large beast. The chunk of carcass—easily a hundred stone in weight—bounced and slid across the deck, leaving behind a steaming trail of blood.

Bashaliia then landed himself. His claws skittered across the planks, digging for purchase, before finally coming to a stop.

Nyx sidestepped the gore and rushed up to her friend.

His wings folded around her, enveloping her. Velvety nostrils found her cheek. His warm breath panted over her. His body was a flaming hearth in the cold. She nestled into that warmth. Her fingers rubbed the dense fur behind one of his tall ears. Her other palm rested on his chest, feeling the thump of his heart. The beat was already slowing from the exertion of his hunt.

“Bashaliia, you mustn’t be gone so long,” she scolded softly. “You had me worried.”

He hummed back his reassurance.

As he did, her fingers dug into his pelt. She appreciated how thick it had grown. His body had quickly adjusted to the cold—amazingly so. She was not the only one to notice. Krysh—the alchymist assigned by Frell to accompany them—had noted the changes: the extra layer of fat, his shaggier fur, even the thickening of Bashaliia’s nasal flaps. It was as if the bat were mimicking the baffles of the ship’s forges, narrowing all openings to keep heat inside. The alchymist had also leeched blood from her friend and reported changes there: an increasing volume of red cyllilar matter, accompanied by an ever-protracted time for his blood to freeze. Krysh attributed the latter to the appearance of ice-resistant chymicals, agents that still stymied identification. His conclusion: It’s as if the creature’s entire form is rapidly changing to fit his new circumstance.

Nyx wished the same were true for her.

Even encased in Bashaliia’s warmth, she shivered. They needed to retreat below. She lifted her chin and softly sang, letting threads of bridle-song slip from her to him, sharing her desire to return to the warmth of the ship.

He briefly drew her tighter, using his long tail to reach around and scoop her closer. His heavy musk enveloped her. Despite his bodily changes, his scent remained a constant. She drew that musk into her lungs, letting it become part of her. It smelled of briny salt and damp fur, underlaid by a sulfurous hint of brimstan. Despite the passage of time, he still carried the scent of the swamplands with him. It reminded Nyx of her own home in those drowned lands, and all she had lost.

Her dah, her brothers, Bastan and Ablen …

All dead.

She drew in a deep draught of Bashaliia’s musk, using that scent to stoke her memory. And not just that past shared with her family, but one that lay further back, nearly forgotten. She could picture little of it. It was a time made up of smells, tastes, touches. As a babe, she had been abandoned in the swamps after the death of her mother. She would not have survived that harsh landscape, but a she-bat discovered her and took her in. Nyx was nursed and sustained by the massive creature.

And not just me.

Nestled under those same wings, a small furry brother had shared those milky teats.

Her finger dug deeper.

Bashaliia …

His scent, the warmth of his body, served as a reminder that she had not lost all of her family during that horrible summer. She wanted to keep him close, to stay here longer, but she knew they both needed to retreat below.

She placed her palms against his chest and pushed out of the blanket of his wings. The cold struck her immediately. Frost already crusted the outer edges of Bashaliia’s tall ears.

“Let’s find us a warm stove and hope its coals have been freshly stoked.”

She turned toward the raised aft deck and the doors that led down into the lower hold. Before she could step in that direction, the doors to the forecastle banged open behind her. She spun around, startled. The flare of lamplight momentarily blinded her.

Bashaliia’s wings snapped wider, defensively, as he responded to her distress.

She lifted a calming hand to him, recognizing the intruder through the glare.

“Jace?” She struggled to understand his arrival. “What are you doing here?”

She knew her friend and former tutor despised the cold. Still, he headed toward her, huddled under a thick blanket, his breath huffing streams of white. He kept a wary eye on his footing as he crossed the frosty planks of the deck.

“There’s something I wanted to talk to you about in private,” he said. “Something curious, maybe important. Then Graylin caught me as I headed up here. He’s ordering everyone to the wheelhouse. Darant spotted something ahead. Something worrisome from Graylin’s grim tones.”

“He always sounds grim,” she reminded him.

“Mayhap, but we’d better hurry. Especially since he doesn’t know you’re up here alone.”

“I’m hardly alone.” She patted Bashaliia, who had tucked his wings in again.