Page 49 of The Cradle of Ice

Daal swept an arm at the empty street. “All go to festival.”

Graylin suspected that wasn’t the full explanation for the lack of people in this corner of Iskar, but he didn’t press the matter. He didn’t want to slow Daal with questions.

The same could not be said of Jace. The former student ran his fingertips along one of those sculpted walls, clearly appreciating its sinuous curves. “Astounding. How did they accomplish this?”

Graylin scowled at him.

“And look at this,” Jace said, slowing to peer into one of the waist-sized urns that held a single flame dancing atop what appeared to be a hollow reed full of holes. It sat imbedded in a pool of oil that floated atop a jellylike substance. “It must be some type of fat or melted wax.”

Daal nodded back. “Whelyn flitch.”

“It smells sweet enough,” Fenn said, sniffing deeply as they passed. “Like mulled wine.”

Only Henna seemed to understand the urgency of the situation, though from a different perspective. She tugged on Nyx’s arm to keep her new friend moving. “Kee won!”

Graylin agreed, motioning to all. “Keep going.”

They finally reached a modest home that looked well-kept, with windows brightened by clusters of candles. Two small fire-bowls flanked the woven-reed drape that served as a door. The flames danced cheerfully, as if welcoming all.

The firelight highlighted an arc of stones that set off a patch of sand. The grains had been combed into an intricate pattern of triangles surrounding a five-pointed star with a crossed set of arrows atop it.

Jace stumbled a step as they approached, then hurried forward. “That sigil…” He stared back at them. “It’s the family crest of Rega sy Noor.”

Nyx drew closer, awe in her voice. “Then you were right earlier, Jace.” She stared at Henna, then over to Daal. “They’re his descendants.”

Daal made an exasperated noise and urged Jace and Nyx back. He held up a palm. “I go first. Better to…” He squinted, struggling for the words.

Nyx filled those in. “To prepare your elders for our unexpected arrival.”

Daal’s features pinched, clearly not understanding.

Graylin just waved. “Go on, then.”

Daal nodded and crossed to the door. With a final worried glance back, he ducked through the drape.

Graylin waited with the others—then the shouting began.

* * *

DAAL WINCED, WEATHERING the storm, praying for it to end. His father stood before him, red-faced, furious, saliva flecking his lips.

A finger stabbed at Daal’s chest. “It’s well past eventide,” his father scolded hotly. “Did you not hear the bells? Krystnell has started. We should be there. With all the village. Yet, we wait and wait and wait, not knowing where you and your sister were. Your mother was about to rouse searchers. On Krystnell of all besotted days.”

“Da, listen—”

“No more excuses, Daal! You’ve been fretting about Krystnell for months. I know that’s why you’re so late, hoping to skirt the festival dance, to put it off another year.”

“That’s not why I’m late,” he said, growing angry himself. Though, in truth, his father wasn’t entirely wrong. Daal had tarried down the beach for that very reason. If he had left promptly, he might’ve never met the others.

And maybe that would’ve been for the best.

“Then why?” His father leaned close, his ameryl eyes shining with frustration.

His mother finally spared Daal, touching her mate’s arm. “Let him speak, Meryk.”

With just her touch, some of the fire snuffed out. His father sagged and waved dismissively. “What then, Daal? Why do you drag your hairy arse in here so late?”

His mother scowled. “Meryk, there’s no reason to be crude or to disparage your son’s Noorish nature. He can’t help it, any more than I can. Do you find me so distasteful for the blood I carry?”