Chapter 19
- Riley -
The wind keeps strengthening, the howls climbing higher, sharper, until they cut through each other in a constant, shrieking chorus.
I can’t help but wonder what those gusts are howling around.
There aren’t any corners here, no edges for the wind to catch on.
Just smooth rock and ice, and yet it sounds like something is being torn apart out there.
Still no Nator’ax.
“Have to eat something,” I mutter. “I’ll need the energy.” My hands feel clumsy as I reach for the pot. I drink a couple of mugs of frit, barely tasting it, then force down some of the stew. I keep pausing, listening between swallows.
Nothing.
The storm builds another notch. The fur hanging jerks and snaps, bowing inward, then slamming back. The screeching is louder now, threading through the wind like something alive.
I glance at the entrance. Any moment now, he’ll come in, ducking through the hanging, shaking snow from his shoulders. Maybe he’s just finishing something. Maybe the chief needed him. Maybe a thousand things. Anything but what I suspect is really happening with him.
Another long stretch passes. Or maybe it’s only a few breaths. It’s impossible to tell anymore.
I add a piece of wood to the fire. Then another. My hands linger over the flames longer than they need to.
Still nothing. The realization presses in slowly, like the cold: he’s not coming.
I straighten as the thought settles into place, whether I want it or not: I’m going out in that.
Alone.
I tie my dress tighter around me, fingers working faster. The fur boots go on, the long wrap pulled close and secured with the twine. I move quickly, then stop again, listening.
Just in case. Just one more moment.
The wind howls. The chirping rides on top of it, closer and somehow wrong. But there’s no deep, calm voice and no footsteps.
Something in him broke. Or changed. It’s like the sword took everything with it—his anger, his certainty, his bravery. Or maybe it’s the storm. Maybe even he’s afraid of this.
I swallow hard and grab another cup of frit, drinking it down too fast. “Damn it,” I mutter. “I was sure you’d snap out of it.”
I wait one heartbeat longer.
Nothing.
That’s it. I wipe some sudden, acid tears from my eyes and check that my big, furry boots are on properly.
I leave the fire and the torch burning, then yank at the fur hanging to push it aside. It won’t budge. Something’s holding it firmly in place, which makes sense in this storm. But I would rather whatever it is was on the inside, so I could open it.
I poke the middle of the hanging. There’s nothing hard on the other side, but it’s as if someone has placed really heavy things on the lower edge of the fur, keeping it firmly in place. I know the skin is tough, as thick as my little finger. And the hairs are dense on the outside.
I kick and yank at the hanging, but it won’t budge. Something really heavy is holding it in place at the bottom.
“But they didn’t know I have this,” I mutter and flick out the switchblade-slash-spoon. The knife part is short, but sharp and pointy. It was never meant for this kind of work, of course.
But I have no choice. So I push the blade into the skin. I have to push hard to get it through, and if the fur hadn’t been held tight by the weight at the bottom, I don’t think I could have done it. But whoever closed the hanging this tightly helped me without knowing it.
The blade cuts slowly down the skin. Despite the cold outside, I start to sweat with the effort I have to put into it, making a slow sawing motion.
The icy wind starts to blow through the slit I’m making, so hard it makes a whistling noise as it passes. Small grains of snow follow.
“Come on,” I seethe as the blade continues its slow cut, making me fight for every tenth of an inch. I don’t need the slit to be that long, just big enough to fit my hips through. But the resistance this thing is giving me is crazy.
I finally lean back and breathe. “That should do it.”
Pulling the opening apart against great resistance, I hesitate to put my head out, because the tightness of the skin is holding it closed. But this is it. I can’t wait.
Using force, I ram my head and my shoulders through the slit and into the ferocious wind and snow on the outside. The weight of my upper body helps pull my lower half through, and I turn around to kick my legs ferociously in the slit until my feet get through.
I struggle to stand up. The wind is blowing hard, whipping me with snow crystals.
When I stand up, the big fur acts like a sail and pushes me in one direction.
I have to grab hold of the rock to stop.
The howling has reached a ferocious level and keeps getting worse.
The chirping also seems closer, like a crazy flock of starlings whirled around in the storm.
There’s no sign of life outside, including Nator’ax. I would have loved to see his giant shape in the dark, to hear his voice, and to sense his determination, his strength.
I stand still for a moment, squinting against the wind and wiping the tears from my eyes. Whether from the wind or from the sadness and disappointment, I don’t know.
“I can’t save you,” I try, but my words are taken by the wind. I turn around, getting my face out of the wind.
Damn this storm! If not for that, we may have been able to plan something, a better escape. If Nator’ax even wants to escape anymore.
I turn my back to the wind. The only way I can go is wherever the wind takes me. So I let it push hard at my back and follow it with light steps in the fur boots, into the darkness.