The Cradle of Ice (Moonfall #2)

Chapter 55

55

D AAL KNEW SOMETHING was wrong when they reached the brighter water. Rather than being drawn to the surface and returned to the skiff, he and the others continued coursing through the seas, staying deep. The Dreamer that gripped Daal spun as it traveled, twirling all its black eyes, likely searching for threats.

Daal’s head swirled dizzily.

Still, he appreciated such caution when he caught a glimpse of a pod of pickkyns sweeping below him, undulating their long bodies. Thankfully, the large shadows vanished away.

The three of them sped onward, clutched by their caretakers.

Daal searched around.

Where are they taking us?

He imagined Graylin must be panicked, certain they were dead. But there was nothing Daal could do to rectify the matter. They were all at the mercy of the Oshkapeers.

Daal could not even fathom how long he and Nyx had been down here. It felt like a thousand lifetimes. He expected to find Iskar fallen into dusty ruins by the time they surfaced.

As they traveled, his head still throbbed, blurring all that had been shown him. So much history, so many lives. Most of it was already fading, like waking from a dream. He would try to grasp a piece only to have it dissolve away.

Maybe that’s for the best.

He could not possibly hold that entire history in his head without going mad. Still, the most important stories remained, etched deep into his bones. He knew the raash’ke had once been companions, working in harmony with the people of the Crèche. Until they were corrupted by a figure of bronze.

He twisted enough to see Shiya being hauled by a giant Oshkapeer.

Can she truly be trusted?

With no way of knowing, he turned back to the sweep of the seas. He caught sight of Nyx coursing on his left. He knew what preoccupied her mind and heart. While much had faded, he could still touch the love she felt for Bashaliia. It ached through him. He knew where she intended to go next.

It burned in his mind, a fiery map of a labyrinth that led to the Mouth of the World. That path was scorched in place, never to be forgotten. It felt so branded into him that he suspected even his children would know it.

This last thought crinkled his brow.

He wondered if that was what had happened to the first Nyssian —when Nys Pephia communed with the Dreamers centuries ago. While Daal felt all that history slipping away, perhaps Pephia was able to retain it. He didn’t know how that could be. Perhaps she was uniquely talented. Or maybe the Dreamers had changed her, like they had him, sculpting Pephia’s mind to be able to hold the entire history of the Crèche, to even pass it to future generations. The Nyssians certainly had the innate ability to sense those men who had the proper seed for their future daughters.

Daal shook his head, resigned that he would never know. It was all beyond him. Besides, he had enough to worry about. Most importantly—

Where are we being taken?

The answer came as they reached shallower water. The sandy seabed rose under them, forcing them to the surface.

Daal broke through the waves. Though blinded by the spray, he caught glimpses of high red cliffs and a white stretch of beach. Through his waterlogged ears, he heard distant music, even fainter laughter.

It was the island of Kefta.

The Oshkapeer did not slow, riding the surf, jetting him toward the shore. Its spiked shell led the way, like the prow of a sea god’s boat. Once the Oshkapeer was close enough, Daal was whipped around and tossed toward the beach. He rolled and tumbled out of the water and across the sand.

He lay stunned for a moment on his back.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Nyx discharged just as roughly.

Then his body spasmed violently. He remembered this from his first communing with the Dreamers. He rolled onto his side—and just in time. His body wracked hard, gushing seawater out of his mouth. Still unable to breathe, he got on his hands and knees and continued to heave, pouring a river from his lips and nostrils. His lungs and throat were on fire, scoured by the salt, by the violence of the expulsion. He kept gagging and hacking until finally he was able to catch a clean breath.

He wanted to remain where he was, but he crawled over to Nyx, who was similarly afflicted. She was hunched over her knees. Her spine was an arch of agony. Water streamed and coughed and choked out of her. Tears washed the salt from her eyes. Eventually she sagged, gasping, able to breathe. But she trembled all over.

He drew her into his arms and pulled her onto his lap. She stiffened, possibly fearing his touch. He gathered her closer, passing some of his fire into her, letting it warm through her.

“Wait it out,” Daal said. “It’ll end.”

She hung in his arms, still occasionally coughing, spilling more seawater. He rocked her gently, like he did with Henna whenever she was overwrought or scared.

Splashing drew his attention to the sea. Shiya waded out. Clearly her Oshkapeer was too large to get close to the beach and had dumped her farther out to sea. Not that it mattered to the bronze woman. She did not need to breathe, nor did she have lungs to clear.

She strode over to them. Her glassy eyes shone with concern. Her words were tender and quiet. “Will she be all right?”

He nodded. “Give her a few more breaths.”

Daal forced his arms to relax, realizing they had tightened at Shiya’s approach. The Dreamers’ terror of such figures still echoed inside him.

Nyx finally sat up on her own. She stared down at her wrists. The bleeding had already stopped, as he knew it would. Some property of the Oshkapeers ’ sting encouraged clotting and healing.

He fingered the soft scabs on his neck, knowing he would need to hide them, like he had before. Not that such marks had any meaning, as no one living had communed with the Dreamers since Nys Pephia. Still, their matching wounds would be hard to explain.

He glanced down the empty beach. A shoulder of the headlands separated them from Kefta’s bay. They would have to hike and circle around it to reach town. But at least they were alone for now, able to collect themselves.

After a time, as they rested, the mists overhead bloomed from pale blue to bright spatters of crimson, yellows, and greens, marking the start of a new day.

Daal stirred. “We should get going.”

Nyx nodded. “I must find Graylin. I don’t know if he’s still out at sea or if he gave up and returned to town.”

Shiya stood nearby, a bronze sentinel in the sand. She frowned at them, tilting her head slightly.

Nyx must have noted her expression. “Shiya, what’s wrong?” she asked.

The woman’s gaze swept between the two of them. “Just now, you were both speaking Panthean. I could not follow what you said.”

Nyx frowned, touching her lips.

Daal backed a step, glancing over at Nyx. He switched to Noorish, a tongue that he normally found challenging, but now it felt as if he had been born to it. “Shiya is right. I had been speaking Panthean. So were you. How could that be?”

“When we were communing, joined together with the Dreamers…” Nyx stared hard at him. “We shared our lives.”

He winced, knowing how much he had learned about her. She’d surely gained as much knowledge about him.

He switched to Panthean again, certain she would understand. “Clearly, we shared more than just our lives.”

Nyx kept alongside Daal as they circled around the headlands. The town’s large bay opened before them, crowded with boats of all sizes. A few strands of music still flowed from the festival, greeting the new day, but even those sounded defeated and tired.

She understood that sentiment. Her legs remained weak and wobbly. Even the short hike strained the little reserves she had left. Her chest continued to burn. Her throat had closed tight, rasping her breath.

With Shiya guarding them, they followed the beach that bordered the dock. They tried to stick to the deepest shadows cast by the neighboring cliffs. The intent was to find Daal’s father and Quartermaster Vikas, who had been left behind at the festival.

Despite her exhaustion, anxiety kept her edgy. She stared sidelong at Daal, picturing the Oshkapeer changing his gift.

Altering him for me.

According to Daal, that had happened six months ago, about the same time she had experienced her poison-induced vision, when her whole world changed. Had the Dreamers felt that awakening inside her? Was that why they had forged Daal, knowing she must eventually travel this way to reach whatever was hidden out in the Wastes?

She also considered Ularia, one of a long sisterhood of Nyssians. Ages ago, the first of them had been altered and forged to hold all the Crèche’s history and memories, not unlike what she and Daal had experienced. Was the sisterhood’s creation an early attempt by the Dreamers to do what had been done to her and Daal—before the Noor came and added their blood to these people, blood rich in bridle-song? According to Meryk, the Nyssian sisterhood had been fading in number over the past couple of centuries. Was that because the Oshkapeers had found a better method when the Noorish people arrived, a people imbued with a similar gift to their own? So they let the Nyssian sisterhood fade away.

She shook her head.

It was all too much to grasp, to even ponder.

Still, one impression of the Dreamers’ communion weighed on her the most. The overwhelming sense of urgency and warning. Bashaliia was in danger, and the longer they waited, the greater the risk that she would lose him forever.

Daal stiffened next to her and stumbled a step.

“What?” she asked.

He swallowed and pointed toward the spread of boats and piers. “That’s our skiff,” he said. “Tied up next to the Reef Farer’s barge.”

“Are you sure?”

“I see Neffa. I could spot her horn from a league off.”

Nyx hurried toward the town. “If your skiff and Neffa are here, Graylin must be somewhere, too.”

They sped past the last of the docks and reached the open plaza. As they marched across it, Nyx searched the packed sands, especially where last night’s slaughter had taken place. Before leaving Kefta, they had done their best to scuff away the blood, but a few patches of ground were clearly darker. She hoped it wasn’t enough to draw anyone’s attention.

Daal dashed to the side and returned with two mismatched cloaks, abandoned by some drunken partyers. They were stained and fouled, but Daal passed her one. He threw his over his shoulders. She did the same. Hers stank of either sour ale or maybe piss, not that the two smells were all that different.

Daal inspected her, pulling his cloak’s collar higher. He then reached toward her face. She leaned back, but he simply untucked a few damp locks of dark hair from behind her ears and let them drape to her neck.

“You’ll want to keep those fresh scabs on your throat covered,” he warned. “And hide your wrists under the edges of your cloak. I don’t think anyone will notice the cuts in your leggings.”

She stared down at the holes, edged by dried blood, in her pants.

A loud bark made her jump. “Hold there!”

She twisted around. A cadre of guardsmen in leather armor appeared from a side street. They marched toward them, carrying spears and tridents. Nyx wanted to back away, but Daal steadied her with a hand.

Behind the men, a clutch of familiar figures appeared, led by the lithe form of Ularia. She wore a deep frown of annoyance.

Nyx barely noted her, spotting Graylin behind the woman. The relief shining on his face came close to breaking her. His normally stony countenance crumbled. His eyes welled with tears. He rushed toward her. One of the guardsmen tried to stop him, but Graylin knocked him aside with an elbow.

While still harboring a knot of resentment toward the man, Nyx stumbled to meet him. The night had been too long and too full of terrors. He reached her and hugged her to his chest, squeezing out what little breath she had left. She didn’t fight his embrace. Instead, she sank gratefully into his feverish warmth, a heat likely stoked by his terror for her. She drew strength from his hard arms, even as they trembled.

“Are you all right?” he whispered in her ear.

She could only nod, suddenly choked by tears.

He held her until they both stopped shaking.

Daal was greeted by his father. But Meryk, oblivious to all that had transpired, gave his son a short hug, then a scolding frown. “Where have you all been?”

“I would like to know that, too,” Ularia demanded in Noorish. She drew up to them, flanked by the armed men. “We spent half the night turning this town over.”

Before Nyx could respond, Graylin took a step back and grabbed Nyx by the shoulders. His eyes were wider than normal. “I went out to sea for a time of reflection. ” He stressed the last word, clearly emphasizing a story he had fabricated. “Only to learn you had all vanished while I was gone. I told you to stay close to Vikas until I got back.”

He glanced over to the quartermaster, who stood nearby. Vikas silently gestured in Gynish to Nyx: “Take great caution with this woman.”

Nyx gave a small nod while clearing her throat. On the way here, she and Daal had come up with their own story. She looked down at her toes. “I… I’m sorry. We partook of too much ale. More than I could handle.”

Daal stepped forward. “Don’t blame her. It’s my fault. I challenged her more than I should have. When she started to get sick—”

“I didn’t want to embarrass you,” she told Graylin.

Daal pointed to the corner of the bay. “I took her past the headlands. Away from everyone. Shiya came as our guard. It proved to be a long eventide for us. Still, as ale-sick as we were, our bellies fed many fishes. But I think Nyx is feeling better now.”

Nyx realized Daal was speaking Noorish far too smoothly. No one commented on it. Though Meryk was looking at his son with a pinched brow.

Before his father could say anything, Nyx offered a sheepish look to Graylin. “I’m sorry we scared everyone. That was not our intent.”

Graylin pulled her into a stiff hug. “That’s all right. We’ve all overindulged from time to time.”

Meryk snorted his agreement. “I think that applies to the Reef Farer, too.”

Ularia only scowled deeper, then dismissed them with a wave of an arm. “Then prepare for our return to Iskar. We’ve wasted enough time on such foolishness.”

As she stalked past Nyx, Ularia whispered to one of her guardsmen, likely the leader of the group. She spoke in Panthean, likely believing that Nyx wouldn’t understand.

Nyx did—though the woman’s words were disturbing.

“I don’t trust any of them,” Ularia hissed. “When we get back to Iskar, you and your men keep close watch on them. Don’t let them out of your sight.”