Page 43 of The Cradle of Ice

Henna giggled brightly, drawing back her attention.

Towering over the girl, Bashaliia had bent down his whiskered muzzle and snuffled the crown of her head, then both cheeks. He whistled and nickered at her, taking in her scent, inspecting her with bridle-song.

Henna squirmed all the while, wearing a huge smile. “Gree heelee!”

Daal grinned himself, for the first time, like the sun piercing storm clouds. He squinted one eye, clearly trying to think how to explain. Then he lifted his hand from his dagger and wiggled his fingers along his bare rib cage.

Nyx understood. “Tickles. He’s tickling her.”

“Yee.” Daal nodded. “Tickles.”

Graylin waved to her, indicating it was time to regroup.

Nyx held up a palm, asking for a moment more. She turned to Daal. “Would you like to meet Bashaliia yourself?”

He considered it, took a breath, then nodded. “Henna not scared. Bad for me to be.”

His sister heard him and waved insistently. “Yee! Da mist.”

Nyx went with Daal, guiding him to Bashaliia. Henna backed away, her eyes still huge with excitement and awe. Once close enough, Daal lifted an arm. Bashaliia leaned forward to sniff at his hand, then bowed his head and pushed his crown into the man’s palm. The bat’s ears folded back, flat to his skull.

Nyx’s brows pinched. She had never seen Bashaliia grace a stranger like that.

A soft warbling nicker flowed from the bat’s throat.

For a breath, Daal matched it, only more melodic, likely without realizing it. His hand glided over Bashaliia’s head, his fingers combing the fur between those ears. The man’s eyes drifted half-closed.

“Gree resh,” he murmured, confirming his sister’s appraisal of the bat’s warmth. He let his arm drop and backed a step, his melody going silent like a snuffed candle. He stared back at Bashaliia. “Gree prel…”

Nyx pressed him. “Gree prel?”

He looked at her, his eyes brighter. He struggled for a breath, then pointed at the arc of ice that glowed through the steamy mists.

“Shines,” he said, translating. “He shines.”

Nyx studied Daal as he gazed at the distant glimmering. Had he noted the aura of bridle-song that rose when the two had touched? Did he carry the gift?

She hummed deep in her chest, casting out glowing tendrils toward the mystery standing in the sand. She tried to read him as she had Jace back in the Sparrowhawk’s hold, when she had inadvertently brushed strands through her friend, exposing his private heart. Back then, it had felt like a violation, but she could not stop herself now. There was something different about Daal, more than just some nascent bridle-song in his blood.

But what?

She sang her strands toward him—but once near, they dissipated into a misty cloud and wisped away. She shivered in shock.

Daal glanced at her, his expression unchanged. He didn’t seem to be aware of what had happened. His gaze flicked to Bashaliia. He stared a long moment. His next words were strained, edged with apprehension.

“Gree nef oshkapi, hee miss’n Oshkapeers,” he whispered, turning his attention to her. He swallowed, clearly trying to explain. “He … oshkapi … dreams … deeper than all, like the Dreamers of the undersea.”

She shook her head. “What do you mean by—”

He grabbed her hand, looking haunted. “No go there. Ever.”

She tugged herself free, struggling to understand.

Graylin noted their brief tussle and strode toward them. “Are you all right?” he called to her.

“We’re fine,” she assured him, knowing Daal was only expressing concern.

But about what?