Chapter 1 #2
Her dark coat gleams like polished obsidian in the dim light filtering through the stable's high windows. Father gifted her to me on my sixteenth nameday, a northern-bred mare with the endurance to survive the harshest winters. Fitting, I think grimly, considering where we're heading.
The tack room yields a worn saddle and bridle, gear kept for the stable hands rather than noble riders.
My fingers shake as I work the leather straps, muscle memory guiding me through the familiar motions.
How many mornings have I saddled Shadowmere for sedate rides through the manor grounds?
How many times have I dreamed of riding beyond those carefully maintained boundaries?
Today, we find out what lies past the horizon.
The mare stands patient as stone while I secure the girth, her training overriding any confusion about our unusual departure time. I lead her from the stall, soft hoofbeats muffled by the thick straw covering the stable floor.
Outside, the wind has picked up, carrying the sharp bite of approaching weather. The sky hangs heavy and grey, pregnant with snow that will fall before midday. Perfect cover for my escape, if I can stay ahead of the storm.
I swing myself into the saddle, grateful for the countless riding lessons that made mounting second nature. Shadowmere shifts beneath me, eager to run after days of confinement. Her breath steams in the cold air, matching the clouds that puff from my own lips.
Behind us, the manor sleeps on in peaceful ignorance. Soon the maids will discover my empty chamber. Father will rage. The wedding guests will whisper behind gloved hands. Lord Blackmoor will... I shudder, not wanting to imagine his reaction to being publicly humiliated.
Let them rage. I'll be long gone.
I touch my heels to Shadowmere's flanks, and we move forward into the pre-dawn darkness.
Past the kitchen gardens, now buried under their winter blankets.
Past the ornamental pond, its surface frozen solid as mirror glass.
Past the stone gates that have marked the boundary of my world for twenty years.
The road stretches ahead, pale as bone in the moonlight. To the south lies the capital, where Lord Blackmoor maintains his primary estate. To the north, beyond the Reach, lies wilderness and the unknown settlements Aunt Ravelle described.
I choose north.
Shadowmere's hooves ring against the frozen ground as we pick up speed. First a trot, then a canter, then a full gallop that sends my heart soaring. The wind whips my hastily braided hair, and tears stream from my eyes, though whether from cold or exhilaration I cannot say.
This is what freedom feels like.
Miles pass beneath us. The road narrows from a proper thoroughfare to a trader's track, then to little more than a footpath marked by occasional stone cairns. The mountains rise around us like sleeping giants, their peaks lost in the gathering clouds.
My thighs burn from the unaccustomed exertion. Court riding, with its emphasis on perfect posture and graceful movement, never prepared me for hours in the saddle at speed. But I grit my teeth and endure the discomfort. Pain is temporary. Marriage to Lord Blackmoor would be permanent.
The first snowflakes begin to fall as we climb higher into the foothills. Fat, lazy flakes that drift down like goose feathers, beautiful and deceptively gentle. Within minutes, they multiply, dancing thick as summer gnats on the strengthening wind.
Shadowmere's breathing grows labored, white plumes streaming from her nostrils.
I should rest her, find shelter, wait for the storm to pass.
But behind us, pursuit cannot be far away.
By now, the entire manor will know of my disappearance.
Father's men will be saddling their fastest horses, preparing to drag me back in chains if necessary.
Just a little further. We can rest at the trader's way-station.
But the way-station, when we finally reach it, stands empty and abandoned. Its roof has partially collapsed under the previous snows, and ice glazes the broken windows like blind eyes. No shelter here for woman or beast.
The storm intensifies with frightening speed.
What began as gentle snowfall transforms into a howling blizzard that tears at my wool cloak and drives ice crystals into my naked skin like tiny daggers.
Visibility drops to mere yards. The path, already faint, disappears entirely beneath the accumulating snow.
Shadowmere stumbles, her hooves slipping on hidden ice. I lean forward in the saddle, trying to shield both of us from the wind's fury. My hands, already numb despite my gloves, can barely maintain their grip on the reins.
We have to find shelter. We have to—
The mare's hoof catches in a snow-hidden crevice, and she goes down hard.
I have a moment's warning, enough to kick free of the stirrups before she rolls sideways down the slope.
My shoulder strikes something solid, rock or ice, and fire explodes through my arm.
The world spins, white and grey and black, as I tumble after my horse.
Down, down, down.
The ravine is deeper than it appeared from above. I hit bottom with a bone-jarring impact that drives the air from my lungs and sets my head ringing like a bell. Snow fills my mouth, my nose, my eyes. For terrifying seconds, I cannot tell which way is up.
Breathe. Don't panic. Breathe.
I push myself upright on shaking arms, spitting out snow and blood. My lip is split, probably from where my teeth cut it during the fall. More concerning is the sharp pain in my left shoulder and the way my arm hangs wrong.
Dislocated, I realize with sick certainty. I've seen it before, during hunting accidents and riding mishaps. The arm needs to be reset, soon, before the muscles tighten too much to allow proper healing.
Shadowmere lies twenty feet away, a dark shape against the white snow. She's trying to rise, but something's wrong with her left foreleg. Broken, most likely. In this cold, in this storm, with no help for miles...
She's going to die.
I stifle a cry. Shadowmere, who carried me to freedom, who trusted me enough to follow where I led. Now she'll die because of my reckless flight into the wilderness.
I crawl to her side, my legs too shaky to support me upright. She whickers softly when she sees me, a sound full of pain and confusion. Her dark eyes, so intelligent and trusting, reflect my own fear back at me.
"I'm sorry, girl. I'm so sorry."
I know what needs to be done. The eating knife Aunt Ravelle gave me would be quick, merciful. But my hands shake too badly to draw it, and even if I could, I lack the strength to do what must be done.
Instead, I press my face to her neck, breathing in her familiar scent one last time. Then I force myself to stand, to turn away, to leave her there, frozen.
Some choices have no good outcomes.
The ravine walls rise steep and slick on all sides, offering no easy escape. But into the gorge, the land might level out, might offer a path back to higher ground. I have no choice but to press forward into the storm's teeth.
Each step is agony. My shoulder screams with every movement, and my wet clothes are already stiffening with ice. The brown wool dress, so practical when Aunt Ravelle selected it, proves woefully inadequate against the northern cold. Within minutes, I cannot feel my feet inside my silk slippers.
One foot in front of the other. Don't stop moving. Don't think about the cold.
But the cold is all there is. It seeps through fabric and flesh, settling into my bones with teeth and claws. My breath comes in short gasps that burn my lungs. Ice forms in my hair, my eyelashes, the folds of my cloak.
How far have I come? How far is far enough?
Time loses meaning in the white void of the storm. I might have been walking for minutes or hours. The ravine seems to stretch on forever, a frozen hell where the wind shrieks like banshees and the snow falls thick as burial shrouds.
My legs give out without warning. One moment I'm stumbling forward, the next I'm on my knees in a drift that comes up to my chest. My dislocated arm dangles useless at my side, and I can't seem to remember how to make my fingers work.
Get up. You have to get up.
But my body refuses to obey. The cold has settled deep, too deep, turning my blood to slush and my thoughts to fog. This is how it ends, then. Not in a marriage bed or a birthing chamber, but alone in the icy cold, frozen solid as winter stone.
At least it was my choice.
I try to summon defiance, anger, anything to keep me fighting. Instead, I find only a strange peace settling over me like a blanket. The pain in my shoulder fades to a distant ache. The burning cold becomes merely cold. My eyelids grow heavy.
So tired. Just rest for a moment. Just close my eyes...
A sound slices through the storm's howling, distant but unmistakable. Wolves. A pack, by the sound of it, their voices rising and falling in the ancient song of the hunt. They're far away still, but sound carries strangely in these mountains. What seems distant might be very close indeed.
Wolves.
Father used to tell stories of the great northern packs, dire wolves the size of ponies with jaws that could snap a man's spine. Legends, mostly, but based on truth. In the deep wilderness beyond the Reach, predators still roam that haven't been seen in civilized lands for generations.
Hungry predators. Following the scent of blood and fear.
I'm too cold for proper fear. Instead, I feel almost curious. Will they find me before the cold claims me? Will there be anything left for Father's men to recover, or will I simply disappear into the white void of winter?
The wolf atop the ice cliff. Our House sigil, rendered in silver thread on countless banners and garments. I always thought it represented strength, dominance, the predator ruling from its mountain throne.
Now I understand. The wolf isn't ruling anything. It's lost, isolated, cut off from the pack. Just like me.
Just like me.
The howling comes again, closer now, or perhaps my hearing is playing tricks in the wind. Either way, I need to move. Freezing to death is one thing, but being torn apart by wolves is quite another.
I force myself back to my feet, swaying like a drunk. The world tilts alarmingly, but I manage to stay upright. My legs feel like they belong to someone else, numb and clumsy, but they still function after a fashion.
Deeper. Go deeper into the ravine.
Maybe the wolves will lose my scent in the storm. Maybe the cold will claim me before they arrive. Maybe rescue will come from some unexpected quarter.
Maybe.
But even as I stumble forward into the white unknown, I know I'm lying to myself. There will be no rescue. No miraculous salvation. No happy ending for the runaway bride who thought she could survive on courage alone.
The storm swallows my footsteps as soon as I make them, erasing all trace of my passage. Behind me, Shadowmere grows quiet. Ahead, the ravine stretches on into nothingness.
And somewhere in the howling wind, wolves sing their ancient song of hunger and death.