Chapter Six
In the morning, I find the unmistakable prints of an ice cat in the mud beside the lake. Crisp and fresh. Huge. I mention
to Titus how odd it is that one of the great predators would come so near our campsite without bothering us, but he just shrugs.
“It was drawn by the scent of our meat,” I persist. “It could have killed us!”
“We were safe.”
“How do you know that?”
His gaze shifts away. “Blackwind. Ice cats know better than to challenge a Thordin stallion.”
He’s being evasive, and I have no idea why, but it’s clear he wants me to let it go.
A day of eating and resting has done me a world of good. The ache in my bones that made me feel three times my age has started
to fade. The sky seems bluer, birdsong sharper.
But the chill in the air makes me pause. It’s snappy and bright, and my skin tingles from invisible pressure.
“You sense something,” Titus says.
“Snowstorm. A bad one, if I don’t miss my guess.”
He pulls on his boots. “How long?”
“It will be here by late afternoon.” I start tossing everything into my saddlebags. “We’ll need shelter.”
He crouches to roll up his bed. “Any ideas?”
“There are way stations all along the king’s road,” I say. “Marked by rock cairns—I’m sure you’ve seen them. Well, they mark
way stations all along the road near my father’s inn. I’ve never actually traveled this stretch before.”
“Are the way stations trading posts? Hunting cabins?”
I pause in my packing. “Please don’t take this as asking a personal question, but it is awfully strange for a lone man to
cross the Grimsvolder Mountains at this time of year. Especially strange to dare the journey without knowing anything about
it.”
He frowns.
“And dangerous,” I can’t help adding. “One snowfall can kill you. You’ve seen how steep our path gets. In a bad snow, it’s
hard to tell sometimes where the path ends and the edge of a cliff begins. Many travelers step to their deaths.”
He continues packing as if he didn’t hear a word. But then he stills. His hand moves to clutch the mysterious amulet beneath
his shirt, and he says, “I have no choice.”
Of course I have no idea what that means. “I’d love to ask you about that. But I won’t.”
He flips his saddlebags over Blackwind’s back and tightens the cinch. “All right. One question,” he says. “In return for washing
my clothes, drying all that venison, and salvaging the hide. You can ask me one thing.”
As if his answers are currency, to be doled out like precious coins to a beggar. I swallow my irritation and say, “Why did
you save me?”
He turns to face me, his eyes hard. Maybe angry. “It’s complicated.”
“I was hoping it was simple. Like, ‘I couldn’t bear to see innocent people enslaved.’ Or ‘I’m secretly a royal guard, on a mission to patrol the highway.’ ”
He mounts up, and after I kick gravel over the campfire’s embers, I follow suit. As we steer our horses back toward the road,
he says, “Everyone knows that if you want to find commoners with uncommon Gifts, you travel a major trading route, where nobles
have been spawning bastards for centuries. The Corthan king recently began recruiting magic users, some at incredible trouble
and expense. So when I saw the enslavers transporting a group of Grimsvolders—a major treaty violation—I had to intervene.
I’m just sorry I didn’t move fast enough to help everyone.”
It’s the longest speech he’s made yet. I’m dying to ask why he’s so interested in Sunderland politics, how he even knows about
a monarch’s interest in the Gifted. But I don’t want to chase away his conversation, so I say, “There’ve been rumors of royal
blood around the Three Corners Inn for generations. But even my sister’s Gift was far from royal—maybe just a little more
useful than everyone else’s. I don’t suppose I’m a drop more royal than any other trader or tavern owner along the king’s
road.”
We break through the trees and turn north onto the road. The air is chilled and heavy. Clouds collect to the west, which is
where all our late-fall storms come from.
“I’ll answer one more question for you,” he says. “In exchange for one of my own.”
“Oh?”
“What is your Gift?”
I don’t hesitate. “Fine. My question in exchange will be: What is yours?”
His lips press into a firm line.
“That’s what I thought.”
We ride in silence, save for the clop-clop of horse hooves against stone. But my mind is whirling. A lone man in the mountains as winter breaks. A rich man. A man whose
interest in international politics drives him to dangerous action. He’s a lord of some kind, I’m sure of it. Maybe a third
or fourth son, in danger of inheriting nothing but the clothes on his back. Maybe he’s out seeking his fortune. In fact, he’s
exactly the type who has spawned bastards along this road for generations, producing uncommonly Gifted commoners.
But his shadowed eyes and secrecy and single-mindedness speak of determination. Of purpose. I have no choice, he said. Whatever he’s after, it’s nothing so base as a mere fortune.
The wind whistles through the peaks. Light snow begins to drift down. “Watch for a cairn marker!” I call through the wind.
If we don’t find a way station soon, we’ll have to settle for a deadfall. Pack ourselves in with snow, keep a hole open for
air. We have enough food to last several days now. But I’m not sure what to do about the horses.
We get lucky. Just as the snow is thickening and the rising wind is sending it stinging against my cheeks, Titus points to
a high rock mound. A bit of threadbare fabric stretches away from it, whipping in the wind like a flag.
Beyond the rock mound is a faint track. It will be covered in snow soon.
We follow it through the trees, up a slope to a broad plateau.
Four wooden buildings with thatch roofs huddle around a common plaza.
Horses nicker in greeting; one of the buildings is a stable.
Smoke curls from the stone chimneys of the other three.
It’s not just a way station, but a trading post. Titus shoots me a triumphant look, and I know what he’s thinking.
This is where we will part ways.
We ride up to the building with the brightest windows. An inn or bunkhouse, I hope. A boy with floppy hair flies out the door
and tears down the steps toward us. “Four shills to stable your horses!” he calls. I know that look well. He’s thrilled to
see paying customers this late in the season.
We dismount, Titus hands over the coin, and the boy leads Blackwind and Apple away.
Everything about the building we enter is an affront to my sense of proper innkeepership. A small statue of Morvinrog, the
two-faced god of storms, sits lonely and dusty on a crooked pedestal, half-sunken into a hardened puddle of candle wax. The
floors are grimy with spilled ale and weeks-old rushes. Hazy smoke hovers near the ceiling; the hearth is not properly vented.
The tables are dry and cracked, bound to cause splinters. The air smells sour, like meat gone to rot.
But the place is warm and dry, with only a handful of people thanks to the late season, which means we’ll have no problem
getting a cheap room or two.
Everyone stares as we enter. A short, bald man in a leather apron approaches. “You just beat Morvinrog’s curse,” he says.
“The storm’s going to settle in for a spell. You have enough coin for several days?”
Titus is about to say yes, but I jump in. “We can work for some of our keep.” No sense flashing more coin to strangers than rovers ought to have.
“Can’t say as there’s any work around here needs done,” the innkeeper says.
“Give me a mop and a bucket, and I’ll show you where you’re wrong. And my . . . companion . . . is handy with an ax. You’ll
need extra firewood for the lay-in.” I have no idea if Titus is good with an ax or not, but it’s worth it to see his glare
when I volunteer him for work.
The innkeeper rubs at his jaw, nodding. “One room or two?”
I’m not sure how to respond to this, but Titus says, “My sister and I can share.”
So that’s how we’ll play it. It’s not inappropriate for siblings to travel together, but neither will it be considered odd
for a young man seeking adventure to cut a pesky sister loose for a season.
Though, to anyone with eyes, I’m as closely related to Titus as I am to Apple.
“I can have a room ready in a bit,” the innkeeper says, and it makes me twitchy to know this place doesn’t turn over rooms
the moment they’re vacated. “In the meantime, my wife made pheasant stew today. Interested?”
My mouth waters. Titus nods. “Two bowls.”
“Coming up. Have a seat.” The innkeeper indicates a nearby table and bench with a lift of his chin.
The bench scrapes the wood-plank floors as Titus pulls it out. We sit side by side, and the innkeeper returns moments later with stew that’s a bit too thick from boiling in a kettle all day, but at least it’s meaty and hot.
We’ve only taken a few bites when the door swings open and the stable boy enters, brushing snow from his tattered coat and
slapping his gloves against his thigh. He closes the door and heads to the corner, where a group of bearded trappers huddles
around steaming mugs. They talk in low voices, occasionally looking up at Titus and me. The stable boy gesticulates wildly,
and even though his words don’t carry, their intensity does.
“What’s that all about?” Titus asks me in a near whisper. “Strangers come through here all the time.”
I swallow my bite of stew. “Not strangers with a Thordin stallion and a lordling’s tack. And not girls. Winter trapping is
mostly a man’s trade.”
“Oh.” He stares into his stew, eyes narrowed.
“They’re speculating that you’re secretly of noble blood, or at least wealthy.”
“You think they’ll try to rob us?”
I glare at him. “We innkeeper types are a curious, gossip-hungry lot. But we’re good neighbors and good people.”
He brightens. “Then it will be no problem to leave you here. I’m sure you can find work for the winter.”
“Yes,” I say, running my spoon through my stew, my appetite suddenly gone. “I’m sure I can.”
Later, the innkeeper shows us to our room. It’s much smaller than any of the rooms in my mother’s inn, with only one cot,