The Cradle of Ice (Moonfall #2)

Chapter 19

19

F RELL CRINGED IN horror at the ring of figures surrounding him.

It was from their lips that the chanting rose. Their singing grew louder. He fought to clap his hands over his ears, but his limbs still refused his command. He knew what he was hearing. He recognized the hum resonating behind the intonations. The sound ate at his skull, danced fire over his brain.

Frell’s senses swirled, making it hard to think, frazzling his focus. Still, he knew the truth about these mutilated men and women, the gift carried in their blood.

They’re bridle-singers…

Zeng came before him, bowing to each of the figures, then faced Frell. “The Venin welcomes you. Seeks your guidance.”

The Dresh’ri lifted a palm and blew an ashy powder into Frell’s face. Surprised, he could not stop himself from inhaling it. The dust burned into his sinuses. His lungs convulsed, as if trying to reject the poison.

He gasped and coughed, doubling over. He clawed at his face—only then realizing he had control again of his limbs. Still on his knees, he sat straighter, no longer propped up by his bearers. He lowered his hands and stared down at his palms, which still trembled and quaked.

A fine mist of the powder hung in the air.

Not poison but antidote.

Zeng touched his shoulder. “We know what you came to seek, Frell hy Mhlaghifor. Even what you keep secret.”

Frell tried to shake his head, to deny, but he could not. The singing, the alchymy in the smoke… it all ate at his will.

Zeng waved his staff. Two of the Dresh’ri crossed to the twin pyres. Each threw fistfuls of silvery powder into their respective fires. The flames burst higher, dancing toward the roof on either side of the altar.

“Behold!” Zeng sang out. “She who will end the world and start it anew!”

His staff pointed to the image revealed by the flames. It had been painted across the far wall behind the altar. The glowing emerald veins emanated outward from it. The depiction looked smudged out of soot and drawn with black oil, or perhaps even smeared from the shadows themselves.

Frell gasped at the sight.

A huge full moon rose high on the wall. Silhouetted against it, a black beast with outstretched wings dove toward the altar. Its wings turned to flames at the edges, dancing in the firelight cast by the two pyres. A dark rider sat astride the creature, as hunched as the beast itself, both staring toward those in the room. Only the rider’s eyes were pools of that vile emerald, which shone even brighter now, glowing with menace.

“Here is the Vyk dyre Rha !” Zeng intoned.

Before Frell could stop himself, he revealed that he knew that forbidden name. “The Shadow Queen…”

Zeng swung toward him. The man’s face was a mask of adulation, approaching madness in its intensity. “We know the Iflelen search for a girl who commands one of the great Myr bats, a beast of astounding size and malignancy. Someone you have communed with.”

Before Frell could respond, Zeng lifted his staff high.

The Venin around him responded, singing in unison, in ancient Klashean, carrying with it a frisson that set Frell’s heart to thundering in terror. He covered his ears, but he could still hear them.

“Vyk dyre Rha se shan benya! Vyk dyre Rha se shan benya! Vyk…”

Zeng pulled one of Frell’s hands down and leaned closer. “You cannot deny Her. You know it in your heart. We all can see it. Listen and know it to be true!”

The chanting continued. “Vyk dyre Rha se shan benya! Vyk dyre…”

Zeng’s eyes shone feverishly as he translated. “She is the Shadow Queen reborn!”

The Venin continued to sing, adding new words, infusing the weight of history and certainty. It rang with prophecy.

Zeng stayed close, reciting along with the singers. “She who would be reborn one day, in flesh and form. Burning away all that She possessed, leaving only darkness and savagery behind. A dread being who will spread fiery ruin in Her wake, until all the Urth is consumed.”

Frell leaned away, wincing. The bridle-song grew to a gale in his face, driving the conviction of their portent into his bones, rooting it deep.

Zeng did not let up. “Tell us who She is, where She hides!”

Frell knew they meant Nyx, but even in the storm of their faith, he could not believe it. Still, he remained dulled by the alchymies, seduced by the bridling. He fought to stop his tongue, to strangle his breath, but he could not.

“She… She is…”

Zeng pressed him. “Tell us.”

“Nyx…” he gasped out, the words tumbling unbidden from his tongue. “Daughter of a slave… bound by blood… molded by the bridling of a she-bat. She is like… like no other.” He spoke what was in his heart but what he had never dared speak aloud. It was a terror he held deep. Tears spilled down his cheeks. “She is an empty well… waiting to be filled. A vessel destined for a power like no other.”

He knew this to be true. Back at the Shrouds of Dalal ?e a, Shiya had claimed Frell carried some trace of bridle-song. The ancient Sleeper believed it was that gift, calling from his blood, that drove him to study the moon in the first place. He had wanted to dismiss such a statement, but he could not. When Nyx sang, he had sensed the untapped power inside her, a near bottomless well.

If it should ever be filled…

He shook his head, afraid even now to face that terror. It was one of the reasons he had agreed to accompany Kanthe and Pratik to these lands. Down deep, Nyx terrified him. He lifted his head and stared across the altar at those glowing eyes. Flames danced at the edges of his vision.

Certainty firmed inside him.

She will become that dark god.

His shoulders shook. A sob escaped him, knowing another truth.

But she is our only hope.

Bowing to this conviction, Frell fell to his hands and shared what he knew was true. “Only she can stop moonfall.”

Zeng was not satisfied and leaned to his ear. “ Where is She? Where is the Vyk dyre Rha ?”

Frell did not fight answering this question, satisfied it would do them no good. “Beyond your reach. Far out into the Frozen Wastes.”

“Where?” Zeng pressed him, nose to nose with Frell. “Tell us where. We will know if you lie.”

Frell sagged, his head hanging, sweat draining from his face, mixed with tears. He didn’t need to fabricate a story. He told him the truth. “Even I don’t know.”

Zeng straightened, his face gone purple, his fingers white-knuckled on his staff. He pointed its length at Frell. “Then you are of no further use to us.” He turned to one of his brethren. “Kill him.”

The Dresh’ri stepped forward, freeing a dagger, which flashed brightly in the firelight. As he approached, Frell didn’t move from the floor, too defeated, too cowed.

So be it.

His executioner stepped before him. He grabbed Frell by the hair and yanked back his head, baring his neck. The blade lifted high.

Before it could fall, a length of steel burst from the man’s chest. His body stiffened in shock and surprise. The dagger fell and clattered to the floor. The Dresh’ri screamed as the blade was withdrawn and his body shoved aside.

Another Dresh’ri took his place and snatched a fistful of Frell’s robe. “Get up!”

Frell obeyed, wobbling to his feet, struggling to understand—then he spotted the violet eyes and iron collar hidden under the Dresh’ri cowl. He coughed in shock.

Pratik…

The Chaaen tried to shove Frell toward the door, brandishing his bloody sword all around. “Run!”

Frell resisted. He twisted away from his rescuer and stumbled back to the altar. The heat of the two pyres blasted his face. The dark countenance of the Shadow Queen glared down at him.

“What are you doing?” Pratik hollered, panic rife in his voice, swinging his sword wildly.

Frell reached to the sacred book resting open atop the altar and dragged it toward him. He and the others had come to the Southern Klashe to learn more about ancient apocalyptic prophecies. He glanced up to the full face of the moon rising behind the Shadow Queen, then down to the illuminated pages.

I can’t leave this book behind.

Before Frell could close its heavy cover, one of the Dresh’ri broke past Pratik’s guard. The man grabbed the book, cursing loudly in Klashean. The two wrestled over it for a breath. Still too weak, too addled, Frell knew he’d lose this battle.

In desperation—though it went against all his instincts as a scholar—he lunged and snatched a fistful of pages. He ripped them free, desecrating the ancient tome.

Perhaps shocked by the act or unbalanced by Frell’s sudden relinquishment of the book, the Dresh’ri stumbled away, prize in hand. The man’s hip struck the edge of the altar, spinning him around. With a cry of horror, the Dresh’ri fell into the pyre on that side. Screams echoed out of the flames as the man’s body thrashed—less to free himself than to protect the book.

Both causes were lost.

The flames cast higher, licking the edges of that dreaded prophecy painted on the wall. Smoke rolled thickly, reeking of burnt flesh.

Frell clutched his stolen pages to his chest as Pratik reached him. The Chaaen grabbed him and pulled him toward the steps leading out. He waved his sword, holding the others at bay.

“Run!” Pratik repeated.

This time, Frell obeyed.