She noticed the shivering then, the violent shivering, and panic consumed her, racked her dull mind awake. The child must not sicken now, not now that they were so close to safety. She reached back and grabbed Bitterblue’s boots.
She screamed her name. But then she heard Bitterblue’s voice, crying something in her ear; and she felt the girl’s arms snake around her front and hold her tight. The line below her breasts where Bitterblue’s arms encircled her felt different suddenly. Warm, oddly warm. Katsa heard her own teeth chattering. She realized that it was not the girl who shivered. It was herself.
She found herself laughing, though nothing was funny. If she couldn’t even keep herself alive, there was no hope for the child. She shouldn’t have let this happen; she’d been mad to bring them into Sunder this way. She thought of her hands and held them up to her face. She opened her fingers, forced them to open, and cursed herself when she saw her white fingertips. She shoved her fists into her armpits. She willed her mind to think clearly, lucidly. She was cold, too cold. She must get them to the place where the trees started, so that they could have firewood, and protection from the wind. She must start a fire. Get to that place, and start a fire. And keep the child alive. Those were her needs, those were her ends, and she would keep those thoughts in her head as she ran.
———
By the time they reached the trees, Bitterblue was whimpering from numbness and cold. But when Katsa collapsed to her knees, the girl unwound herself from the halter. She fumbled to remove the wolf furs from her own back and wrapped them around Katsa’s body. Then she knelt before Katsa and tugged at the straps of the snowshoes with her chapped, bleeding fingers. Katsa roused herself and helped with the straps. She crawled out of the snowshoes and flung off the bags, the quiver, the halter, and the bow.
“Firewood,” Katsa said. “Firewood.”
The girl sniffled and nodded and stumbled around under the trees, collecting what she could find. The wood she brought back to Katsa was damp with snow. Katsa’s fingers were slow and clumsy with her dagger, unsteady with the shivering that racked her body. She had never in her life had difficulty starting a fire before, never once in her life. She concentrated fiercely, and on her tenth or eleventh try, a flame sparked and caught a dry corner of wood. Katsa fed pine needles to the flame and nursed it, directed it, and willed it not to die, until it licked at the edges of the branches she’d assembled. It grew and smoked and crackled. They had fire.
Katsa crouched, shivering, and watched the flames, ignoring fiercely the stabbings of pain they brought to her fingers and the throbbing in her feet. “No,” she whispered, when Bitterblue stood and moved away to find more firewood. “Warm yourself first. Stay here and warm yourself first.”
Katsa built up the fire, slowly, and as she leaned over it, and as it grew, her shivering quieted. She looked at the girl, who sat on the ground, her arms wrapped around her legs. Her eyes closed, her face resting on her knees. Her cheeks streaked with tears. Alive.
“What a fool I am,” Katsa whispered. “What a fool I am.” She forced herself to her feet and pushed herself from tree to tree to collect more wood. Her bones ached, her hands and feet screamed with pain. Maybe it was for the best that she’d been so foolish, for if she’d known how hard this would be, perhaps she wouldn’t have done it.
She returned to their campsite and built the fire up more. Tonight the fire would be enormous; tonight they would have a fire all of Sunder could see. She shuffled over to the child and took her hands. She inspected the girl’s fingers.
“You can feel them?” she asked. “You can move them?”
Bitterblue nodded. Katsa yanked at the bags, and groped inside them until she found the medicines. She massaged Raffin’s healing ointment into the girl’s cracked, bleeding hands. “Let me see your feet now, Princess.” She rubbed warmth into the girl’s toes and buttoned her back into her boots.
“You’ve made it across Grella’s Pass,” she said to Bitterblue, “all in one piece. You’re a strong girl.”
Bitterblue wrapped her arms around Katsa. She kissed Katsa’s cheek and held on to her tightly. If Katsa had had enough energy for astonishment, she would have been astonished. Instead, she hugged the girl back numbly.
Katsa and Bitterblue held on to each other, and their bodies crawled their ways back to warmth. When Katsa lay down that night before the roaring fire, the child curled in her arms, not even the pain in her hands and feet could have kept her awake.
PART THREE:
The Shifting World
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The inn sat in what passed for a clearing here in the south of Sunder, but would have been called a forest anywhere else. There was space between oaks and maples for the inn, a stable, a barn, and a patch of garden; and enough open sky to allow sunlight to flicker down and reflect the surrounding trees in the windows of the buildings.
The inn wasn’t busy, though neither was it empty. Traffic through Sunder was always steady, even at winter’s outset, even at the edge of the mountains. Cart horses labored northward pulling barrels of Monsean cider, or the wood of Sunder’s fine forests, or the ice of Sunder’s eastern mountains. Merchants bore Lienid tomatoes, grapes, apricots; Lienid jewelry and ornaments; and fish found only in Lienid’s seas, north from the Sunderan port cities, up into the Middluns, to Wester, Nander, and Estill. And southward from those same kingdoms came freshwater fish, grains and hay, corn, potatoes, carrots – all the things a people who live in the forests want – and herbs and apples and pears, and horses, to be loaded onto ships and transported to Lienid and Monsea.
A merchant stood now in the yard of the inn, beside a cart stacked high with barrels. He stamped his feet and blew into his hands. The barrels were unmarked and the merchant nondescript, his coat and boots plain, none of his six horses bearing a brand or ornamentation indicating from which kingdom they came. The innkeeper burst into the yard with his sons, gesturing to them and to the horses. He yelled something to the merchant and his breath froze in the air.
The merchant called back, but not loudly enough to carry to the thick stand of trees outside the clearing, where Katsa and Bitterblue crouched, watching.
“He’s likely to be Monsean,” Bitterblue whispered, “come up from the ports and making his way through Sunder.
His cart is very full. If he’d come from one of the other kingdoms, wouldn’t he have sold more of whatever he’s carrying by now? Excepting Lienid, of course – but he doesn’t have the look of a Lienid, does he?”
Katsa rifled through her maps. “It hardly matters. Even if we determine he’s from Nander or Wester, we don’t know who else is at the inn, or who else is likely to arrive. We can’t risk it, not until we know whether one of your father’s stories has spread into Sunder. We were weeks in the mountains, child. We’ve no idea what these people have heard.”
“The story may not have reached this far. We’re some distance from the ports and the mountain pass, and this place is isolated.”
“True,” Katsa said, “but we don’t want to provide them with a story, either, to spread up to the mountain pass or down to the ports. The less Leck knows about where we’ve been, the better.”
“But in that case, no inn will be safe. We’ll have to get ourselves from here to Lienid without anyone seeing us.”
Katsa examined her maps and didn’t answer.
“Unless you’re planning to kill everyone we see,” Bitterblue grumbled. “Oh, Katsa, look – that girl is carrying eggs.
Oh, I would kill for an egg.”