The Cradle of Ice (Moonfall #2)

Chapter 23

23

F ROM A ROCKY rise on the beach, Graylin surveyed the village ahead. It climbed in a labyrinthine maze from the water’s edge up to the towering ice cliff. Hundreds of lanterns flickered, along with flames that rose from pots and urns.

The entire town looked like a conch shell cut in half and splayed open. It spread in convolutions and curves, all in hues of red and ocher. It looked sculpted in place—and likely was. With no trees growing in these lands, the homes, walls, and structures—some climbing as high as four or five tiers—had been formed out of the sands and turned into stone by some strange alchymy. All the roofs were thatched with dried kelp, casting a greenish hue that matched the neighboring waters, adding to the look of a seashell cast out onto the beach.

Only this shell wasn’t empty.

Laughter and shouts echoed across the sands, accompanied by the strum of strings and a merry beating of drums.

“Krystnell,” Daal said at his side. “Festival. Start at eventide.”

On Graylin’s other flank, Fenn shrugged. “If we’re gonna drop in, what better time than a celebration?”

Graylin kept his palm on the hilt of his sword, but he kept Heartsthorn sheathed. When they entered the village, they needed to avoid any outward sign of hostility. He wanted no misunderstanding. He glanced at Daal.

Like before.

Nyx had taken Bashaliia over to a nest of massive boulders that offered shelter in a small cave. They would leave the Myr bat hidden there until after their introduction. Quartermaster Vikas would remain behind, guarding over Bashaliia with her broadsword. Along with Kalder. The vargr would also surely strike terror into any villager who spotted him, so he had to be left behind.

In addition, Krysh would stay there—to attend to Bashaliia’s wounds that had started to bleed again during the trek here.

It took those conditions to convince Nyx to leave Bashaliia’s side, but Graylin did not want her out of his reach.

Not in these strange lands.

The plan was to enter the village with a small party, to make their introduction less intimidating. In addition to Nyx, Jace and Fenn would come with Graylin. Still, despite his desire not to appear threatening, he intended to protect Nyx.

Jace had slung his double-headed ax over his shoulders. It was a formidable weapon, forged of Guld’guhlian steel, shafted in unbreakable stonehart. The young scholar had become quite deft with it after months of training aboard the Sparrowhawk.

Likewise, Fenn carried a pair of Bhestyan half-swords at his hip. Though he might be a ship’s navigator, no one aboard a pirate’s vessel wasn’t ready to fight. And the lad had trained with Darant, a swordmaster like no other. Even Graylin had honed his skills by sparring with the captain.

Daal had also sworn to help shield Nyx, while his sister, Henna, promised to hold Nyx’s hand, to further demonstrate their lack of menace. Not that it required any oath-taking on Henna’s part. She hovered around Nyx like a bee to a honeyclot.

Graylin had prepped one last safeguard. He had left Darant’s daughter Brayl back at the sailraft. She had been tasked to ready the small ship, to strip the raft to its essentials, lightening it enough for the reserves of flashburn to be sufficient for one short flight—certainly not out of the Crèche, but hopefully to safety. If necessary, he’d hold the entire village at bay to give Nyx a chance to reach the sailraft.

A scuffing of sand drew Graylin’s attention around. Nyx approached with Jace, but she kept glancing back toward the covey of boulders.

Graylin crossed down the rise to meet her. “Are you ready?”

She nodded, but it looked unconvincing.

Henna dashed forward, all but shoving Graylin aside, and took Nyx’s hand. The girl dragged her forward. “Kee won.”

The child’s bubbling enthusiasm drew a smile from Nyx. “All right,” she said. “How can I refuse such a determined invitation?”

Graylin studied their small party, taking measure of each. He’d have preferred to enter the village with a king’s legions, but this group would have to suffice. He turned around and led them up the rocky rise.

As he scaled the slope, the world grew strangely darker. Graylin rubbed his eyes, believing something hindered his vision. But from the others’ slowing feet and squinting gazes, they also suffered the same.

Except for Daal, who had continued onward, then stopped.

He frowned back at them. “What amiss?”

Fenn pointed upward. “Look.”

Graylin craned his neck. The radiant shine glowing through the fog had dimmed, as if smothered by a thickening fog. The emerald and reddish hues had faded away, leaving only shimmering swaths of blue that looked like a spangle of stars in a night sky.

Daal followed their gazes, clearly baffled by their confusion. “It be eventide.”

Jace gaped upward and offered an explanation. “The luminous lichen and molds… they must dim on a regular basis, some natural tide phased to the turn of a day.”

“Eventide,” Daal concurred.

Fenn smiled in wonder. “Amazing. Maybe these clans use those lights to help navigate their world like we do with the sun and moon.”

“We can explore such mysteries later.” Graylin pointed ahead. “Keep going.”

As they crested the rise, the village glowed in the darkness, its hundreds of flames shining brighter down below. Daal had told them his town was named Iskar, which simply meant Hook. There were another dozen or so villages spread along the coastline, covering the span of the giant rift that split the Ice Shield. One town even sat on an island out there. This entire world of steam and sea went by the name of the Crèche.

Daal set a faster pace. A ringing of stone bells broke out, echoing across the sand, accompanied by cheering. Music ramped up, bright and joyful. A large central plaza near the water’s edge flared even brighter as a ring of bonfires ignited.

“Krystnell starts,” Daal explained, and guided them away from the sea. “Home this way.”

He aimed for the darkest corner of this convoluted shell, where only a scatter of lanterns glowed. The plan was to take them to Daal’s family, his mother and father. To make landfall there first. If they couldn’t convince the young man’s family of their group’s best intentions, then any hope of gaining the village’s trust was doomed to fail.

Plus, Daal had assured them his mother was far more fluent with the Noorish tongue, as he put it. Graylin’s group would need a skillful translator if they hoped to gain the cooperation of the townspeople.

They finally reached the outer edge of the village of Iskar, where a few homes had crumbled into a rubble of sand and rock, as if the magick that had sustained them had given out. Though, more likely, it was from mere neglect and the passing of time.

Daal rushed them down dusty, narrow streets, taking one turn, then another. They passed dark homes, all low-roofed and hunched. A few had candles burning inside, which gleamed through tiny windows, so crude they were barely translucent. Still, the light cast the glass into the pearlescent glow of a clam’s lining.

Daal swept an arm at the empty street. “All go to festival.”

Graylin suspected that wasn’t the full explanation for the lack of people in this corner of Iskar, but he didn’t press the matter. He didn’t want to slow Daal with questions.

The same could not be said of Jace. The former student ran his fingertips along one of those sculpted walls, clearly appreciating its sinuous curves. “Astounding. How did they accomplish this?”

Graylin scowled at him.

“And look at this,” Jace said, slowing to peer into one of the waist-sized urns that held a single flame dancing atop what appeared to be a hollow reed full of holes. It sat imbedded in a pool of oil that floated atop a jellylike substance. “It must be some type of fat or melted wax.”

Daal nodded back. “Whelyn flitch.”

“It smells sweet enough,” Fenn said, sniffing deeply as they passed. “Like mulled wine.”

Only Henna seemed to understand the urgency of the situation, though from a different perspective. She tugged on Nyx’s arm to keep her new friend moving. “Kee won!”

Graylin agreed, motioning to all. “Keep going.”

They finally reached a modest home that looked well-kept, with windows brightened by clusters of candles. Two small fire-bowls flanked the woven-reed drape that served as a door. The flames danced cheerfully, as if welcoming all.

The firelight highlighted an arc of stones that set off a patch of sand. The grains had been combed into an intricate pattern of triangles surrounding a five-pointed star with a crossed set of arrows atop it.

Jace stumbled a step as they approached, then hurried forward. “That sigil…” He stared back at them. “It’s the family crest of Rega sy Noor.”

Nyx drew closer, awe in her voice. “Then you were right earlier, Jace.” She stared at Henna, then over to Daal. “They’re his descendants.”

Daal made an exasperated noise and urged Jace and Nyx back. He held up a palm. “I go first. Better to…” He squinted, struggling for the words.

Nyx filled those in. “To prepare your elders for our unexpected arrival.”

Daal’s features pinched, clearly not understanding.

Graylin just waved. “Go on, then.”

Daal nodded and crossed to the door. With a final worried glance back, he ducked through the drape.

Graylin waited with the others—then the shouting began.

D AAL WI NCED, WEATHERING the storm, praying for it to end. His father stood before him, red-faced, furious, saliva flecking his lips.

A finger stabbed at Daal’s chest. “It’s well past eventide,” his father scolded hotly. “Did you not hear the bells? Krystnell has started. We should be there. With all the village. Yet, we wait and wait and wait, not knowing where you and your sister were. Your mother was about to rouse searchers. On Krystnell of all besotted days.”

“Da, listen—”

“No more excuses, Daal! You’ve been fretting about Krystnell for months. I know that’s why you’re so late, hoping to skirt the festival dance, to put it off another year.”

“That’s not why I’m late,” he said, growing angry himself. Though, in truth, his father wasn’t entirely wrong. Daal had tarried down the beach for that very reason. If he had left promptly, he might’ve never met the others.

And maybe that would’ve been for the best.

“Then why?” His father leaned close, his ameryl eyes shining with frustration.

His mother finally spared Daal, touching her mate’s arm. “Let him speak, Meryk.”

With just her touch, some of the fire snuffed out. His father sagged and waved dismissively. “What then, Daal? Why do you drag your hairy arse in here so late?”

His mother scowled. “Meryk, there’s no reason to be crude or to disparage your son’s Noorish nature. He can’t help it, any more than I can. Do you find me so distasteful for the blood I carry?”

Daal stared gratefully at his mother. Due to her Noorish heritage, she stood a head taller than his father. Her oiled hair was as dark as ebonstone. Her eyes matched Daal’s, as blue as polished ice.

His father gently touched the back of his hand to her cheek. “Of course not, Floraan. You remain as beautiful as when I first met you.”

She leaned into his hand.

Daal knew their history. It was rare for a pure-blooded Panthean to forsake their family and muddle their lineage with the Noor. At least for the past century.

Prior to that, it had not been uncommon. For decades after Skyfall—the day when the Noor had fallen through the mists and crashed here—the two clans had mixed happily. The striking nature of the Noor, who hailed from lands both mythic and fantastical, had stoked curiosity and interest. The newcomers, with their strange customs and skills, had been welcomed into villages, into homes, into beds. But as time passed, that uniqueness wore off, the differences chafed. The Pantheans—who had lived here since the first melt—grew to resent the mingling with the Noor, thinking it diluted their purity. The Pantheans believed their bloodline had been whetted by the steam and ice into their best form. Consensus grew that the Noor befouled it, weakened their lineages.

So, the two grew apart. Those with Noorish blood were relegated to lower duties, held with little regard, forbidden from positions of authority. Still, the Noor persisted, finding comfort among their own, sharing rituals that went back to Skyfall, preserving their language and taking pride in their heritage.

When his father gave his heart and blood to Daal’s mother, he had suffered gravely for it. He had been cast off and exiled by his family, forbidden from ever returning to his village. Still, despite such a fall, he had never once expressed regret for that decision, even while raising a son as headstrong as Daal.

His father sighed, calmer now, but his expression remained disappointed. “Let’s start anew. Why are you—”

The door flap shoved open behind him. Henna jammed her head through. “Have you told them, Daal? We’ve been out here forever.”

Daal waved her back, but she just stuck out her tongue.

His mother drew nearer, her eyes narrowed. “Who’s out there?”

Daal took a deep breath. “Henna and I met some strangers. Far down the beach. After I was done gathering ablyin for tomorrow’s feast.”

“Strangers?” his father asked. “From another village?”

“Well, yes, I guess.”

“From where?”

“They’re Noor.”

His mother perked up, stepping forward. “Our blood? From what village?”

Daal swallowed. “From outside the Crèche.”

His father huffed with exasperation. “Don’t be absurd. Out with it. Where are these strangers really from?”

Daal took a step back and pointed up. “They plummeted out of the mists. Like during Skyfall.” He stared at his mother, pleading to be believed. “They hail from the homeland of the Noor.”

His father rolled his eyes. “What fezzy nonsense is this? I raised you better than that, Daal.”

Henna, still in the doorway, lost what little patience her small body could hold. She entered, dragging Nyx by the hand. The others followed, crowding in behind them.

His father’s mouth fell open. He backed away, sheltering Daal’s mother behind a raised arm. “What daemonic mischief is this?”

Nyx bowed her head, speaking Noorish. “No daemon, I promise you. Just tired strangers needing help.”

Henna hopped up and down on her toes. “And, Ma, you must go see Bashaliia.” She swept her arms wide. “His wings were this big.”

Daal covered his brow with his palm. “Henna, you’re not helping.”