Page 51 of The Cradle of Ice

Fenn spoke around a mouthful. “After months of hardtack and salted meat, this is wonderful.”

Floraan smiled, her skin aglow in the firelight, her eyes bright. She used a palm to flatten the fall of a simple moss-green shift that reached her knees and was belted at the waist. Her short dark hair, oiled tight under a thin net, was adorned with small pink blossoms. She had clearly been dressed for the festival, which was well underway. The pound of drums and the strum of distant strings reached them, along with sharper bouts of laughter.

With a final nod to them, she returned to where Graylin stood beside a firepot with Meryk. Daal’s father proved to be nearly as fluent as his mother. Still, Floraan assisted with translation when needed.

Nyx and the others had left it to Graylin to offer a skeletal version of their story, leaving the meat of the matter for later, especially avoiding the subject of Bashaliia.

Daal’s father was currently admiring Heartsthorn, the knight’s sword. “Such craftsmanship,” he murmured, and handed the blade back. “We have mines to the north. Learned to smelt from the Noor who came. But it is rare, treasured.”

As their talk continued, Nyx stared about the table. Henna sat next to her, burying her bread under a thick slather of jam. Jace flanked Nyx’s other side, staring toward the ongoing discussion, trying his best to eavesdrop, clearly wanting to be part of it.

Across the table, Daal leaned on an elbow next to Fenn, attempting to explain to the navigator about the construction of their boats. “We weave kelp. Same as roof. Make layer and layer when wet. Then let dry in forms. Orksos pull. Or we ride them deep.”

“Orksos?” Fenn asked. “What are they?”

Nyx wondered the same, but before Daal could answer, Jace drew her attention. He nodded toward Meryk.

“These Pantheans,” he said, keeping his voice low. “They clearly have lived here for millennia on end before Rega crashed his ship into the Crèche. Did you note the webbing between Meryk’s fingers, rising to the first knuckles? And their smooth, wrinkleless skin. Even their ears are small and pointed and cleave tight their skulls, not unlike sealkins back home. And the color of their hair. The same as their neighboring sea. It’s as if their bodies were honed over time to match this harsh watery landscape.”

Nyx eyed Daal’s father. He wore skintight breeches and flat sandals. A loose shirt, silken and shimmering in hues of green, hung to his waist. Its deep-cut collar revealed much of his smooth chest. His dark green hair was pasted flat, carved around those small ears. On closer inspection, she noted his clothing looked finer than Floraan’s, made of a richer material. Still, his shirt appeared threadbare in spots and frayed at the edges, clearly from long use. Yet, to her eye, it still hinted at a wealthier past.

As if sensing Nyx’s attention, Meryk turned and led Graylin and his wife back to the table.

Floraan waved them all up. “If we hope to gain the village’s help to find your friends, we must be off. The Krystnell courtship dance starts soon. It will grow chaotic after that.”

“Also, too much wine will have flowed by then,” Meryk added. “Best to reach the Reef Farer before that happens.”

Daal let out a low groan at the mention of the dance, which raised a scowl on his father’s face. Still, they all stood up.

Graylin shifted next to Nyx. “Stay close to me.”

Nyx rankled at the terse command, but she recognized they had all better stick together.

We don’t know what sort of welcome to expect.

* * *

DESPITE GRAYLIN’S ORDER, Nyx found herself striding alongside Daal’s mother through the curving streets of Iskar. She was drawn by Floraan’s warmth and maternal love. The woman held her daughter’s hand, nearly swinging Henna high with every step.

Nyx studied the two from the corner of her eye. She had never known her mother, Marayn, an escaped pleasure serf. Graylin had shared stories, extolling on his beloved, often in melancholy tones, about her beauty, her compassion, her strong-willed nature. Nyx had pried everything she could out of him. Still, those stories had been Graylin’s history, not Nyx’s. As much as she wanted to, she could not draw any true warmth or connection from these accounts.

Orphaned and raised by a swamper and his two boys, she had never known a mother. While her dah had lavished her with love, she had still felt a hole in her life. She had thought it was from not knowing about her past, about the mother who had given birth to her. Yet, now that she had filled in those gaps, it still failed to squeeze that hole any tighter. If anything, that knowledge only made what she had lost hurt more acutely.

Next to Nyx, Henna giggled and gazed with glowing affection toward her mother. Floraan, in turn, leaned down and kissed the crown of her daughter’s head.

Nyx smiled sadly, mourning what had been stolen from her.

On her other side, Jace drew her attention, pointing up. She was grateful for the interruption.

“Over in the Crown,” he said, “alchymists believe it’s the Father Above—the sun—who grants life, that sets seeds to sprouting and leaves to spreading. But here, in this sunless world, I wonder if the glow above casts down some fraction of that sustaining essence. Or maybe all this life is fueled by those hot gasses expelled through the steam. Or some combination of both.”

He sighed loudly, longingly. “I could spend forever here.”

“Let’s hope that doesn’t happen,” Nyx warned. “We still have farther to go and more to accomplish.”

Floraan heard them. “Fear not. If need be, you could find a good home here in the Crèche. It might take some adjusting. Both for you and for us. Following Skyfall, the Noor—your people, my people—were not immediately taken to the Panthean bosom. Mishaps and misunderstanding took many lives until some semblance of peace was achieved. It took time for the Noor to accept that they would not be rescued by their own people and to learn to live in harmony with the Pantheans.”

“And that’s what brought about peace?” Nyx asked. “Abandoning the hope of rescue?”