He was on the ground in his yard now, the snow cold, exhilarating.
Me trying to get up.
On his knees in the courtyard, pushing to stand.
An explosion in the back of my head.
Dropping back into the snow.
Waking, pain, turning, standing.
He re-enacted it all, just as he remembered and saw it in his mind’s eye.
The blow to my head? What was it? Not the bear – its claws would have carved me like a melon. And besides, it came from the wrong direction.
He spun on his feet, looking accusingly about his yard for the hidden culprit, but only one of his goats looked back at him, chewing.
A branch, maybe, sent flying through the air by the bear’s attack.
He moved on to the last moments when he held his da, spoke to him. First the sword. Then . . .
I was wrong.
The goats bleated, the second one there too now. Both of them watching him.
He felt frustrated because he was still not understanding. His hand rose up to the bear claw about his neck, the bloodstains still upon his shirt from where his da had gripped it.
I was wrong.
And then Drem was breaking into a run, past the barn and stables and into the paddock, crunching, almost wading through the deep snow until he was standing before his da’s cairn. He stopped then, breathed in deep, long breaths, as if he’d been running half a day, the thought of what he intended to do stopping him, holding him in a grip of iron.
I can’t do it.
You have to. It’s the only way to know.
Another deep-tremored breath.
I can’t.
You must. Da would want you to, if it leads to the truth. To an answer.
With an act of will he reached out and grabbed one of the stones upon the cairn, covered in a thick skin of snow and ice, and pulled it off. It resisted a moment, its mortar of rime binding it, but then with a crack it was free. He turned and placed the stone carefully upon the ground. Then another, and another. Soon sweat drenched him as he laboured, removing rock after rock, until he saw a hint of wool and a gleam of pallid flesh. He stopped then, a groan escaping his lips. But he was committed to the act, now, and must see it through.
Until, finally, his da’s body was exposed to the light. A faint smell of damp and rot drifted up to him, though thankfully the snow and ice had made that far better than it otherwise would have been. His hand shaking, Drem reached out and pulled back the cloak, revealing his da’s head and torso. He let out a strangled sob, took another handful of moments to catch his breath and hold his courage. He had cleaned his da as best he could, that night in the forest. His da’s face was a bloodless grey, now, pale as winter’s morning. Drem ripped his eyes away, looking to his task, and gazed at the wounds raked across his da’s chest. He lifted his right hand, fingers curled like a claw, and in slow motion followed the path of the wounds upon his da. One terrible claw swipe, from right to left, high to low, starting at his da’s left shoulder, ending at his right hip, destroying everything in between. Drem paused, thinking, tried the same motion in reverse, up from the hip to shoulder.
No. Not that. It couldn’t have been that. The flesh is tattered and torn in the other direction. It must have been its right paw, slashing down, from right to left.
He stared at it.
And then he lifted a hand to the claw about his own neck, gripping it tight and he swayed a little as the truth hit him.
Because the wound upon his da’s chest was given by a bear with five claws, and the white bear only had four.
Drem reined in his horse before Asger’s house. It was on the outskirts of Kergard, a sturdy cottage of wattle and daub with a grass-sod roof, a side gate and track running between house and barn. Drem heard the creak and roll of wheels and saw Asger emerge from the barn, sitting upon the bench of a heavily loaded wain, reins in hand, his wife and bairns snuggled up close to him. There could have been a dozen more of them wrapped beneath the folds of blankets and furs they were buried beneath, guarding them against the dawn cold.
Asger smiled when he saw him, reining in the two sturdy ponies that were pulling the wain.
‘I’m glad to see you,’ Asger said. ‘You’re coming with us, then?’
‘No,’ Drem said, dismounting from his pony. ‘But I wanted to give you my thanks, for your offer. It was a kind thing you did.’
‘Ach, lad, it was more to save my failing back!’ Asger grunted, though Drem saw his wife dig him with an elbow and heard the giggle of bairns somewhere beneath all the furs.
‘And maybe a hint of kindness,’ Asger admitted.
‘More than a hint,’ Drem said. ‘And I’ll not be forgetting it. Ever. When you came to see me yesterday, I thought I had nothing left to live for, and now I have two. You have a friend in me, Asger. For life.’ He looked the trader in the eye, as his da had often told him to do when you mean what you say, and Asger nodded.
‘Sure you want to stay?’ Asger said. ‘Kergard’s not what it was, and I think it’s only going to get worse.’
‘I’m sure you’re right, but I have some things to do. Have to do,’ Drem said. ‘But, there is one favour you could do for me. I’d be grateful.’
‘I’ll tell you when I know what this favour is,’ Asger said, a suspicious twist of his eyebrow.
Drem reached into a saddle bag and pulled out a package. It was about the size of a plate, wrapped tight in a cloak of black wool, tied with twine. Drem held it out, but Asger didn’t take it, just stared at it.
‘And where would you like me to be delivering this package of yours?’ Asger asked.
‘If you’re travelling south, you’ll most likely be passing their door,’ Drem said, his eyes earnest and hopeful.
‘Where?’ Asger repeated.
‘To Dun Seren. It is to be given into the hands of a warrior of their order. She goes by the name of Sig.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
RIV
Riv felt a jolt of fear and excitement with every marched step along the eastern road. She’d gone on plenty of patrols with Aphra’s hundred before, protecting a merchant convoy here, escorting state ambassadors there, even to restore peace where some dispute or other had turned bloody between villages or towns, like the incident between Bleda’s Clan and Jin’s. But this . . .
Kadoshim!
They might be fighting them, and soon. It was everything she’d trained for. Her whole purpose in becoming a White-Wing. It felt like some kind of lifetime fulfilment.