I would never be safe in Tempesia. There was nowhere I could hide that someone wouldn’t turn me in to the nearest garrison for that reward. I had hoped to get to the coast and stow away on a ship, but if that was what the soldiers expected me to do, they would be watching every road, checking every berth.
The real problem was my conscience. It wouldn’t stay quiet anymore. As long as the king lived, there would always be another captain, another raid, until my people were extinguished, and maybe not even then. When Arcus and Brother Thistle had come to the prison, they had offered me a chance to strike at the king. I hadn’t known whether to believe them, but had agreed because it was better than dying a slow death.
But what if Arcus and Brother Thistle had a real plan to overthrow or kill the king… and I was part of it? I had been too scared and weak to feel that I could be of any help. But after seeing the suffering that followed in the wake of my escape—the burned villages, the misplaced people, the little girl gasping for every breath, her medicine burned along with her home—wasn’t I obligated to try?
I wasn’t being noble. There was nothing noble about a thirst for revenge. It was about getting what I wanted, a chance to kill the king. And no one else would have to suffer because of me.
I looked at the stars for guidance, then turned Butter back toward the abbey.
After some wrong turns and backtracking over the next few days, we entered the massive stretch of forest only a day’s ride from the abbey, weaving through trees with weathered gray bark that matched the sky. At midday, clouds began dropping fat flakes that wheeled in the breeze like tiny doilies crocheted from silk thread. In the afternoon, the wind changed, beating sideways from the north. The snow became heavy, wet, and laced with sleet. It hissed when it first touched my face. Soon, my skin cooled and I could no longer feel my cheeks.
Everything was violent white. The wind hit my eyes like invisible needles, making them water. I could barely see a few feet in front of Butter’s ears. We could walk right off the edge of the mountain and I wouldn’t know it until we were halfway down.
There had been a depression in the cliff face forming a sort of cave somewhere behind us, back when the breeze was light and playful. I should have stopped. I should have known better than to underestimate a winter storm in the mountains.
Cursing myself, I pulled back on the reins. I was fairly sure I could survive the night. My heat should keep my insides from freezing. But not Butter. She had no defense against the cold. The temperature had dropped sharply. For her sake more than mine, we needed to go back and find that bit of shelter.
Then again, we could be hours from the abbey. I didn’t know how long we’d been in the woods or how far we’d come.
“We’ll keep going,” I told her. “The snow is too thick to go back. You’ll find your home, won’t you, girl?”
I urged her forward and she trudged on. Whether she knew her way or not, the mare’s pace slowed steadily over the next hour or two until she finally stopped.
“Just a little farther,” I told her, rubbing her ice-crusted neck. But the truth was, there was no way to get my bearings in this endless wash of white. I slid off Butter’s back into a thick drift and put my hands on her side.
“A bit of heat for you,” I said, pushing some out carefully the way I had with Kaitryn. It seemed to revive her, though it left me shaky and weak. We hobbled side by side for another eternity through the rising snow.
I could no longer feel my feet. The wind had calmed, but the snow kept falling. It looked like a flurry of feathers to me now. I wanted to reach up and grab some and rub them against my face. I felt strange. And so tired. It would be nice to sit and rest, just for a little while.
No sooner had the thought crossed my mind than I sank down, my back against the trunk of a tree.
“Just for a moment,” I said, realizing that I could barely feel my lips. Perhaps I had been wrong. Perhaps a Fireblood could die in the snow, if she were cold and tired enough and without food for fuel. The thought was distant, though, and was more curious than alarming. I closed my eyes.
Dimly, I heard Butter nicker and felt her nudge my cheek with her cold, cold nose.
A golden-haired woman was staring at me with an urgent expression, a crease marring the gold-dusted skin between her brows, amber eyes sparking.
“Wake,” she said. “Your time hasn’t come yet.” She looked behind her fearfully. A shadow fell over her face. “You must save yourself.”
“Fors tried to kill me,” I whispered. “He sent a storm to freeze me.”
“Get up, child. He needs you.”
“Fors?” I asked, my brain muddled by a strange lethargy. “Why would the Frostblood god need me?”
My muscles twitched as if trying to pull me up in spite of myself. I moaned as I became aware of the wicked cold biting at me like gnawing teeth.
A sinuous black shape took the golden woman’s place, hovering over me. I had a sense of malevolent eyes fixed on me, though the shape was faceless. My skin seemed to grow painfully tight. A dark tendril reached out, and I knew in some deep part of my soul that if it touched me, I would never be the same again.