They wasted no time on relief or celebration. The witch tilted her head back, resting it against his shoulder as he drove forward, inch by miserable inch, each wave pulling them back, as if the sea was unwilling to relinquish its hold. At last, their feet touched bottom, and they were half swimming, half crawling to shore. They broke apart, and Matthias’ body flooded with misery as he dragged himself over the black rocks to the dead and frozen land.
Walking was impossible at first. Both of them moved in fits and starts, trying to get their limbs to obey, shuddering with cold. Finally he made it to his feet. He thought about just walking off, finding shelter without her. She was on her hands and knees, head bent, her hair a wet and tangled mess covering her face. He had the distinct sense that she was going to lie down and simply not get back up.
He took one step, then another. Then he turned back. Whatever her reasons, she’d saved his life last night, not once, but again and again. That was a blood debt.
He staggered back to her and offered his hand.
When she looked up at him, the expression on her face was a bleak map of loathing and fatigue. In it, he saw the shame that came with gratitude, and he knew that in this brief moment, she was his mirror. She didn’t want to owe him anything, either.
He could make the decision for her. He owed her that much. He reached down and yanked her to
her feet, and they limped together off the beach.
They headed what Matthias hoped was west. The sun could play tricks on your senses this far north and they had no compass with which to navigate. It was almost dark, and Matthias had begun to feel the stirrings of real panic when they finally spotted the first of the whaling camps. It was deserted –
the outposts were only active in the spring – and little more than a round lodge made of bone, sod, and animal skins. But shelter meant they might at least survive the night.
The door had no lock. They practically fell through it.
“Thank you,” she groaned as she collapsed beside the circular hearth.
He said nothing. Finding the camp had been mere luck. If they’d washed up even a few miles further up the coast they would have been done for.
The whalers had left peat and dry kindling in the hearth. Matthias laboured over the fire, trying to get it to do more than smoke. He was clumsy and tired and hungry enough that he would have gladly gnawed the leather off his boot. When he heard a rustling behind him, he turned and almost dropped the piece of driftwood he’d been using to coax the little flames.
“What are you doing?” he barked.
She had glanced over her shoulder – her very bare shoulder – and said, “Is there something I’m supposed to be doing?”
“Put your clothes back on!”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m not going to freeze to death to preserve your sense of modesty.”
He gave the fire a stern jab, but she ignored him and stripped off the rest of her clothes – tunic, trousers, even her underthings – then wrapped herself in one of the grimy reindeer skins that had been piled near the door.
“Saints, this smells,” she grumbled, shuffling over and assembling a nest of the few other pelts and blankets beside the fire. Every time she moved, the reindeer cloak parted, revealing a flash of round calf, white skin, the shadow between her breasts. It was deliberate. He knew it. She was trying to rattle him. He needed to focus on the fire. He’d almost died, and if he didn’t get a fire started, he still might.
If only she would stop making so much damn noise. The driftwood snapped in his hands.
Nina snorted and lay down in the nest of pelts, propping herself on one elbow. “For Saint’s sake, drüskelle, what’s wrong with you? I just wanted to be warm. I promise not to ravish you in your sleep.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” he said irritably.
Her grin was vicious. “Then you’re as stupid as you look.”
He stayed crouching beside the fire. He knew he was meant to lie down next to her. The sun had set, and the temperature was dropping. He was struggling to keep his teeth from chattering, and they would need each other ’s warmth to get through the night. It shouldn’t have concerned him, but he didn’t want to be near her. Because she’s a killer, he told himself. That’s why. She’s a killer and a witch.
He forced himself to rise and stride towards the blankets. But Nina held out a hand to stop him.
“Don’t even think about getting near me in those clothes. You’re soaked through.”
“You can keep our blood flowing.”
“I’m exhausted,” she said angrily. “And once I fall asleep, all we’ll have is that fire to keep us warm. I can see you shaking from here. Are all Fjerdans this prudish?”
No. Maybe. He didn’t really know. The drüskelle were a holy order. They were meant to live chastely until they took wives – good Fjerdan wives who didn’t run around yelling at people and taking their clothes off.
“Are all Grisha so immodest?” he asked defensively.
“Boys and girls train side by side together in the First and Second Armies. There isn’t a lot of room for maidenly blushing.”
“It’s not natural for women to fight.”
“It’s not natural for someone to be as stupid as he is tall, and yet there you stand. Did you really swim all those miles just to die in this hut?”