A Touch of Stone and Snow Read online

  “It is not for sale.”

  Though she should sell it. The hide had once promised everything but now meant nothing. Lizzan should abandon it as easily as a bastard prince had abandoned her. But Lizzan could not.

  Which did not make her entirely a fool. Like her mail tunic, which had also once meant everything to her and now meant nothing, the hide was useful.

  The woman made a dismissive gesture, as if acquiring the valuable pelt had never been her intent. “You have spent time in the north?”

  The pounding in Lizzan’s head worsened. “I have.”

  “How far do you travel now?”

  “Only as far as my next job demands.”

  “Have you one?”

  “Not as yet.” Lizzan’s eyes narrowed with dry amusement. “Do you have need of another escort with a sword? It would be coin well spent. For certain, a Nyrae warrior with a god’s blood in her veins isn’t protection enough.”

  The woman gave a short laugh, and they both glanced toward the Krimathean, whose leather belt was studded with the eyeteeth of those who’d fallen before her blade. Fortunately it was a wide belt, or soon the warrior would need another one.

  “We only travel the same route as the Nyrae until Oana. There our paths diverge.”

  As the road did, continuing north or forking east toward the pass over the Fanged Mountains. “You intend to hire a guard in Oana?”

  “We have little coin.”

  Lizzan had already guessed as much. But their animals appeared well tended and each traveler appeared well fed . . . and an unmounted warrior could not always be picky. Far fewer jobs were available to those without a horse. Her gaze touched on the forward wagon, where two casks were nestled beside bulging bags of grain. A meal twice daily—washed down with whatever they kept in those casks—seemed at this moment a very fair price. “And which direction will you go: north or east?”

  “North,” the woman said. “We hope to reach Koth.”

  A rotten stone shifted in Lizzan’s stomach and threatened to expose a thousand crawling, squirming emotions lying beneath. Before they could wriggle up her throat and onto her tongue, she shook her head. “I can’t help you.”

  “Then we would ask of the situation in that realm. Recently we have heard rumors that Koth has fallen and the people have abandoned the island.”

  As had Lizzan. So she drank enough to forget most of what she heard.

  “I know nothing of how Koth fares,” she told them. The old woman’s hair seemed even whiter now, its wintry brightness driving a throbbing spike through Lizzan’s brain. Desperate to escape, she gained her feet, towering over the women—and the young man, too. “I must hunt my midday meal.”

  “We would happily share ours with you here beneath this fine shade,” the woman said, her voice steady and warm. “There is cheese and bread, and a bit of stewed boar.”

  But the sharing would not come without a cost. Lizzan would have to talk of Koth. So although her mouth watered, she shook her head. “There is no need—”

  “And palm wine,” the old woman said.

  Lizzan sat again.

  The younger woman’s lips curved with amusement. “Sweet or sour?”

  “Sour.” It was stronger.

  The woman turned to the young man. “Please fetch it for us, Bilyan.”

  “But first drag that pelt into the shade,” Lizzan said. “Your mother and hers will find sitting upon it more pleasant than the damp ground.”

  He did before loping off toward the wagons, all loose stride and lanky limbs. A boy who had not yet grown into his body. An awkward age for some men—and the finest age for others. Such as kind and generous young men who passed that awkward stage, only to become aloof, pig-swiving jackals.

  And she had not yet made sense of this caravan. By heading north, they traveled in a direction that usually only merchants and traders went. But hearing them speak told her where they’d come from.

  The goddess Vela had given everyone the same tongue so that all the realms might understand each other, but they did not all sound the same. Until Stranik’s Passage beneath the Flaming Mountains of Astal had opened three years past, the fiery peaks had prevented easy travel between the northern and southern realms. The speech of the southern realms just beyond the mountains had an old-fashioned cadence to Lizzan’s ear, as if she spoke to her mother’s mother, or watched a mummers’ play set in the near past. And those from the far south used heavy, ancient-flavored speech—and Lizzan had only heard it a few times, spoken by Parsathean mercenaries.

  These people spoke as those from the near south did. And they did not yet possess the hardened, weary look of travelers who’d spent more than a full turn of the moon upon the road. A few of the stragglers who’d joined the tail of the caravan did—and they had been welcomed into the larger group for the midday meal, she saw now.

  Sharing was a kindness woven into the fabric of the law of the road, yet one she rarely saw. Especially as travelers’ supplies dwindled. This caravan’s supplies had not yet.

  “I am Mevida,” said the brown-haired woman, taking her seat at Lizzan’s left. “My mother, Carinea.”

  Whose skin seemed as fragile and crinkly as a fallen autumn leaf, though nothing else about her seemed frail. Her gaze was as steady and direct as her daughter’s, though also sharper and brighter—as if the mind behind those dark eyes were an unsheathed blade.

  Or perhaps by Carinea’s age, whatever once covered the blade had simply worn away. Lizzan’s own blade had been scraped clean by anger and pain, and was kept honed by all the chafing that followed, but she did not think the sharpness shone through her eyes as this woman’s did. Instead every slice and incision was aimed at the foolish matter within Lizzan’s own skull, delivered by too many thoughts with razored edges. The only thing that dulled them was enough drink.

  Which the boy quickly brought in a clay mug with a rounded bottom that nestled comfortably in Lizzan’s hand. Generous he’d been, filling it nearly to the brim.

  Sheer relief lightened the urge to gulp the wine. Oh, and it was strong—as strong as palm wine could be without turning over to vinegar. The first sip Lizzan held against her tongue as long as she could, watching as the boy laid out the other provisions. Already the sun seemed not so bright, the air not so humid.

  The women sipped from their own cups—of the sweet and mild variety, Lizzan noted, and theirs only containing a few swallows. Truly they must believe that Lizzan knew more than she did.

  Though if they were from the south, they likely knew very little. “Why do you go north? Have you family in Koth?”

  Which was so unusual as to be almost unheard of. Before the passageway had opened, Lizzan had personally known not one person who had been south of the flaming mountains. Tales she had heard—of the monoliths of Par and of the Dragon Sands, of the Farian savages and of the Bone Fields and of the Boiling Sea—yet much like Anumith the Destroyer, that was all they were. Tales and legends, something that occurred elsewhere and to people wholly unrelated to anyone she knew.

  “No family.” Mevida’s smile tightened. “But surely you have heard that the Destroyer returns?”

  It seemed that was all Lizzan had heard of late. “But are you not from Blackmoor?”

  “Near to it.”

  “It was Blackmoor’s king and queen who slew the demon from Stranik’s Passage. You do not think that of all realms, Blackmoor is not the safest and their protection the strongest?” Most of those who traveled south seemed to believe so. “There is also word that a great alliance forms, and that the southern realms are uniting to stand against him.”

  Which sounded to Lizzan a marvelous idea. Especially if the realms in the north would create a similar alliance, but she could not imagine how that would happen. The smaller realms were in turmoil as everyone fled south. And the larger realms offered their protecti
on, but with no agreement between them. Koth believed the only safety would be found on its island. The monks of Radreh spoke of using dark magics to fight the Destroyer on his own terms—a tactic that Koth and Krimathe vehemently denounced—and Lith was lost to the battle between its warlords. But even if it had not been, no alliance would ever form between Lith and Krimathe. Not after Lith’s former king had invaded the broken realm and sought to finish what the Destroyer had begun.

  “It’s true that an alliance forms,” Mevida said. “But what of it? They all fell before the Destroyer before: Blackmoor, the riders of the Burning Plains, every realm between the Fallen Mountains and the Boiling Sea. And so did Krimathe.” Her voice lowered slightly, as if so the red-cloaked warrior would not be pained by her words, though that woman was too far away to hear. “But although he laid waste to these northern realms, neither he nor his warlords ever attacked Koth. Is that truth?”

  Lizzan sighed. “It is.”

  “So if the Destroyer will not go to Koth, that is where we will go,” Mevida claimed, determination ringing through her voice. “I was but a girl when the Destroyer’s army came through our village. My mother hid me away but I remember the screams. I remember how many . . . how many were . . .” Words faltering, she reached out for the older woman’s hand. “And how after the Destroyer’s army left, the road was muddied as if a storm had swept through, but the puddles were all of blood. I will not see it happen again to those I love.”

  “And I would like to see a place untouched by the Destroyer’s hand,” the older woman said, her gnarled fingers tightening on her daughter’s. “A realm that has not been wounded, and is not still a weeping scab.”

  Koth was wounded. But those who lived in the realm preferred to hide its scars.

  Or exile them.

  “You might also stay in Oana, then,” Lizzan told them. “Though the Destroyer burned all that stood, the trees are fed by Nemek’s healing baths. To look at them now, you would not know he’d ever been there.”

  “But he was there,” Mevida said quietly. “And might be again. So we go to Koth.”

  “It is said that the Destroyer fears the ice and cold,” Mevida’s son broke in. “Because he calls upon Enam’s strength for his own, and the sun god’s power is weaker in the north.”

  “That is said,” Lizzan agreed. It was said in Koth, too. But Lizzan was not so certain. The sun was not as warm in the north, true; but only someone who had never been blinded by the shine against ice would think Enam’s power weaker.

  Yet that thought Lizzan kept to herself. Mevida and her people had hope . . . which was more than most of those fleeing desperately through the realms did.

  The boy continued, “It is said that the crystal palace is the finest of all palaces ever built.”

  The finest of all palaces. So Kothans said of much that was built or created in their realm—that they were the finest of all things—because those who lived there never stopped improving themselves or their craft, never stopped working and learning. When she’d been young, Lizzan had also believed it. Yet after seeing how Kothans treated those whose names were not written in the books, the cracks in that claim had begun to show through.

  But she only agreed, “The palace is beautiful.”

  “It is also said Koth’s mountain bridge is too well defended for any army to cross.”

  It was as if a knife sliced through Lizzan’s chest. Heart bleeding, she replied, “That is also said.”

  “And it is said that, in Koth, a man might become anything he wishes to be. He might even become a king—or a god, as Varrin did.”

  “So it is said.” Though that particular rank was a bit harder to obtain. “And what would you be?”

  “I know not.” Again his excitement shone through his face, bright with hope. “But that is the wonder of Koth, is it not? That I could be anything. At home, I could only be an innkeeper.”

  The old woman swatted his leg. “And what is a king compared to an innkeeper, eh?”

  The boy grinned. “Richer.”

  Perhaps. But to Lizzan, there was no finer profession than to keep a place for those who had nowhere else to go. To the two women, she asked, “You are innkeepers?”

  “And will be again, if we can build a new inn in Koth. There will be many more like us hoping to escape the Destroyer,” Mevida said.

  So there would be. “When I was last there, the villages on the windward side often lacked for accommodations.”

  Sharp gaze steady on hers, the old woman asked, “What of the rumors that the island has been abandoned?”

  Chest tight, Lizzan shook her head. “I know not if they are true. Only that it seems impossible.” But also deemed impossible had been the creatures of ice that had killed her father and slaughtered her soldiers. “The other rumors are true—that terrors haunt the northern forests.”

  “Better to face terrors than the Destroyer’s army.”

  Perhaps. But Lizzan would not be in Koth to fight either monsters or the Destroyer. Deeply she drank, finishing the wine . . . already wishing for another.

  But nothing was free, and Lizzan had told them all that she could bear to tell. “I thank you for this,” she said, placing the cup down. “I regret that I had nothing to tell you.”

  “You told us more than we knew before,” said Mediva. “Perhaps at supper, you might tell us what supplies we will need for a winter on the windward side of the island.”

  The old woman gave the cup a sly glance. “Or perhaps you might stay with us through many suppers, and show us the windward side yourself.”

  Lizzan’s throat closed. No, she could not do that. She had been exiled and her name had been struck from the books. To merely speak it was against Kothan law. And if Lizzan returned to the island, she would be killed . . . and worse, she would bring more shame to her mother and brothers than they already knew.

  But more wine she would not refuse—though this time she would earn it. Gripping her sword, she rose to her feet.

  “What shall I hunt for our supper, then?”

  CHAPTER 2

  AERAX

  Many times since leaving Koth, Aerax’s eyes had tricked him into seeing Lizzan where she wasn’t. In the turn of a woman’s head, the shape of a smile, the sound of a laugh. Never had he seen her in a footprint.

  Or in two footprints—for it was the pairing that had made him stop to look again. The soft impression left by a leather-clad boot could belong to any number of women. But that stride was Lizzan’s.

  Aerax searched for more prints, but the Parsathean horses that passed down this road after the woman had obliterated most of them. He spotted a single print here and there. Not a full stride.

  “How intently you stare at the ground,” Lady Junica said as her periwag walked up alongside his mount. From her lounging couch atop the wide beast, she craned her head as if to examine the tracks—then winced and settled back on her cushions again, apparently thinking better of moving. “Does the rain make it harder to follow the Parsatheans’ trail?”

  Aerax shook his head. The rain made it easier. And better allowed him to judge how much time had passed since the caravan had come through, and then the Parsathean warriors.

  But rain or sun, this took no effort. He had spent his early years hunting through the northern wilds. Yet even in this unfamiliar jungle, he could follow the trail of a red-cloaked warrior who had drawn notice everywhere she went—as could anyone. Reading the tracks only meant they did not have to continually stop and ask for the direction she’d gone.

  “Our feral prince did not likely expect to be of much use on this journey.” Degg spoke to Lady Junica, who rode between them, but his bland smile was aimed at Aerax. “You must be glad to have a purpose again.”

  Aerax grunted. He had a purpose. One that the king would kill him for and these councilors would put a stop to, if they knew of it.
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  And despite the title he’d been given, Aerax was not truly a prince. His uncle had only acknowledged Aerax’s existence out of desperation after the red fever had torn through the realm, killing nearly every member of Koth’s royal family—including Aerax’s father, the king, and his legitimate heirs. But Aerax would never inherit Koth’s throne; he would only know the burden of it, and the ink that finally added Aerax’s name to the books had not yet dried when a sullen and resentful Degg had been assigned to act as Aerax’s guide through the palace and to teach court etiquette to a coarse huntsman.

  Aerax had never taken to those lessons, and Degg had never refrained from saying how badly he’d failed them.

  So no diplomat was he. Aerax had only been sent on this journey for appearances’ sake. The snow-white hair of Koth’s rulers was legendary—and so was the rarity of any Kothan royal leaving the realm. His uncle had believed that Aerax’s presence would communicate the urgency of their need to Krimathe better than any words could.

  Of the words that needed to be spoken, few would come from Aerax. Not when he might offend the High Daughter of Krimathe with his coarse manners and vulgar tongue.

  When they had arrived in Krimathe, however, there was no High Daughter there to speak with—instead it was her cousin, Mala, who looked after the realm while their future queen was on Vela’s quest.

  And it was not only Koth that sought an alliance with Krimathe. From south of the Flaming Mountains of Astal also arrived an ambassador guarded by Parsathean warriors, hoping to unite all the western realms to stand against Anumith the Destroyer.

  But the High Daughter’s cousin had claimed that her role was to defend Krimathe while their future queen was gone, not to send away part of its army or to make important alliances. So Mala had given them a choice to wait in Krimathe until her cousin returned from her quest—or to seek her out, as she had only recently left.

  As time could not be wasted, they had all chosen to follow. And since no one in Krimathe knew for certain where the goddess had sent the High Daughter on that quest, Mala had asked her Hanani companion, Shim, to lead them.