“I am.”
“Good. I will take you the rest of the way. Please, follow me closely. Very few have taken this road; it can be somewhat dangerous.”
“Who are you taking me to?”
“To another friend. There are still many questions you have—I could see it in you. I know someone who might be able to answer some of them.” She turns and leads Shara into the forest.
Spokes of moonlight slide over the monk’s shoulders as they walk. “Can you tell me anything more?”
“I could tell you much more,” says the monk. “But it would do you no good.”
Shara, irritated, contents herself to follow.
The road bends and winds and turns. She questions the wisdom of meeting outside the governor’s quarters; then she notes that she never noticed the forest here was quite so large. …
The terrain slopes up. Shara and the monk make a careful passage across rocky trenches, white stone creek beds, through copses of pines.
Shara thinks, When did they plant pines out here?
Her labored breath creates huge clouds of frost. They crest a stony hill, and she looks out on a snow-laden, ivory landscape. But I thought it was getting warmer. … “What is this place?”
The monk gestures forward without looking back. Her bare feet make tiny tracks in the snow.
They tread down over the frozen hills, across a frozen river. The world is alabaster, colorless, curls and slashes of moonlight and ice on a background of black. But ahead, a bright red fire flickers in a copse of pine trees.
I know this, Shara thinks. I’ve read about this.
They enter the copse of trees. Logs are laid by the bonfire to serve as seats, and a stone shelf leans against the trunk of a tree, bearing small stone cups and a crude tin kettle. Shara expects someone to greet them, perhaps stepping out from behind a tree, but there is no one.
“Where are they?” asks Shara. “Where is the friend you brought me to meet?”
The monk walks to the stone shelf and pours two cups.
“Are they not here yet?” asks Shara.
“They are here,” says the monk. She takes off her robe. Her back is naked: below her robe she wears nothing but a skirt of furs.
She turns and hands Shara one of the cups: it is warm, as if it has been sitting on an open flame. But it was only ever held in her hand, thinks Shara.
“Drink,” says the monk. “Warm yourself.”
Shara does not. She stares at the woman suspiciously.
“Do you not trust me?” asks the monk.
“I don’t know you.”
The monk smiles. “Are you so sure?” The firelight catches her eyes, which glint like bright orange jewels. Even when she steps away from the fire, her face appears lit by a warm, fluttering light.
A light in the dark.
No, thinks Shara. No. No, it can’t be.
“Olvos?” she whispers.
“Such a wise girl,” the monk says, and sits.
*
“How … ?” says Shara. “How … ?”
“You still have not drunk,” says Olvos. “You should try it. It’s good.”
Shara, mystified, drinks from the stone cup and finds the Divinity is correct: the concoction is warm and spicy and feels like it puts a small, soft ember in her belly. Then she realizes it’s familiar: “Wait. … Is this tea?”
“Yes. Sirlang, from Saypur. I’ve come to be rather fond of it, myself. Though it can be an utter bitch to get the good stuff.”
Shara gapes at her, the cup, the fire, the woods behind her. She manages, “But I … I thought you were gone.”
“I am gone,” says Olvos. “Look behind you again, around you. Do you see Bulikov? No. I am gone, and happy to be gone. It’s pretty pleasant to be here, alone with my thoughts, away from all that noise.”
Shara is silent as she thinks, After all this, have I walked right into a trap?
“You’re now wondering,” says Olvos, “if I have brought you here to exact revenge on you.”
Shara cannot hide her alarm.