Chapter Thirteen
The cold shock is so all-consuming that I nearly inhale a lungful of water. My arms and legs refuse to move, and I begin to
sink.
Move, Bria, I tell myself. Swim.
First my fingers move, then my wrists, and gradually my body comes back to life and begins to obey. I open my eyes underwater,
and I’m surprised at how clear everything is. A school of tiny fish whisks by, changing direction in unison. They’ll be seeking
deeper water soon, to ride out the winter.
I press forward toward the smudge of darkness. As I approach, it clarifies into a cave entrance, hewn into the rock face with
lines too smooth to have been made by chance.
Darkness is total when I swim inside, and I have a moment’s panic. What if I can’t see where I’m going? It would be so easy
to get turned around, to drown in the depths. . . .
There! A slight bluish glow. I swim hard for it, because I’m becoming desperate for air.
I know what the blue glow means; everyone born to these mountains does.
Blue belly mushrooms are deadly poisonous, but they give off a soft glow in the caverns they inhabit.
More important, they produce a dye that Suratians pay top coin for, and in other circumstances, a discovery like this could pay for a new stable.
But right now, that glow means life.
My chest burns with emptiness, and my underwater vision narrows. I’m only seconds away from involuntarily inhaling.
My head breaks the surface. I gasp for breath—too soon, and icy water sneaks into my lungs along with precious air. I’m choking,
coughing, thrashing to stay afloat.
My lungs clear enough that I can gulp pure air, and my thrashing turns to treading water. I spend precious time breathing,
reveling in having made it inside . . . and then realize I’m in a cavern full of stars. I know they’re blue belly mushrooms,
climbing the walls and hugging the ceiling, but in my exhausted dizziness they seem like pinpricks of light in a clear night
sky.
A ledge of stone lies ahead, at the cavern’s edge. I swim for it and haul myself out of the water. I roll over onto my back
and stare at the star-pricked ceiling, sucking air as water puddles beneath me.
It’s warmer here than outside. Or maybe that’s the cold sickness already seeping in, tempting me to stillness.
I lurch to my feet. My lower legs feel like logs—numb, heavy, clumsy. Definitely the cold sickness. It shouldn’t hit me this
soon. Maybe using my Gift was a terrible idea; it weakened me, made me vulnerable.
I have to keep moving.
First left, Titus said. In a chest, packed in straw.
Sure enough, just a few steps forward bring me to a dark opening on the left. Fewer blue bellies light my way, but a lump lies ahead on the rough ground. A chest, maybe.
It’s excessively large to house one puny glove—about the size of a hay bale. The latch manifests as I get nearer. No lock,
thank the gods, but the latch is held in place with a rope knot. Someone wanted the chest closed tight against air and moisture
while keeping its contents accessible.
I fumble at the knot with thick fingers, wishing I’d thought to bring a knife. As I work, I’m vaguely aware of another opening
in the back wall, and a beckoning darkness. If this was a warm summer day and my sister was still alive, no power of gods,
moons, or man could keep us from exploring farther inside.
I know this knot; it’s the same one Ysald Muhler used to tie her mule to the millstone. It loosens beneath my fingers.
The chest makes a slight popping sound as I dislodge the heavy lid; it’s been sealed a long time. Inside is a pile of straw,
seemingly as fresh as the day it was laid. A permanancer must have magicked it to last.
I dig through it all, and a slight prick of mold tickles my nostrils, indicating that the straw isn’t as fresh as I thought.
Even the most powerful magic doesn’t last forever.
My fingertips meet rough leather, cold metal, and I pull the glove from the straw and brush it off. It looks just like the
one Titus showed me, except in slightly less disrepair. A mountain bath will surely fix that.
I clutch the glove to my chest, wondering how best to swim with it, and realize it makes sense just to put it on.
It’s huge, and my fingers don’t begin to fill it out, but once I fasten the leather clasp at the forearm and yank it tight,
I feel assured it won’t fall off.
I turn toward the water, dreading another dark, airless swim, but something makes me pause.
A strange warmth snakes through the air, wraps around me, tempts me to relax. Lie down, maybe. I deserve a quick rest.
It’s the cold sickness come to claim me. No, not the cold sickness. Tendrils of fog slither from the mine’s unknown depths.
Steam rises from the floor, thickening until I can’t see my feet, and I’m suddenly overcome with unspeakable need for . . .
something I don’t quite understand.
But I understand the cause. Mistwraiths.
I should have known. I should have realized. The wraiths retreat to copse woods and caverns during the coldest part of the
winter, especially drawn to places steeped in death or greed, yearning or grief.
Only a good memory will help me resist their siren call. Anja, presenting me with a quilt on my thirteenth birthday. She’d
made it herself—with Ma’s guidance, of course. Oh, gods, what I wouldn’t give for that quilt right now. Bright with blue-belly
dye and thickly warm.
Heated tendrils caress my cheeks, slip down my neck, tempting me to open my eyes. It’s so cold. Don’t you want to be warm? Open yourself, look at us . . .
I need a better memory, one without passion, without need. Anja eating a bug. Finding Titus in the forest. Ma singing “Rise
of the Moons” to put me to sleep.
But nothing sticks. I’m too cold, too Gift-starved, my mind too unfocused. Never face mistwraiths when you’re sleepy, Grandda used to say.
Look at us, they whisper.
Something compels me. I open my eyes.
A mistwraith stands before me, its ethereal face inches from mine—whitish blue and glowing like the mushrooms around us, almost
translucent. I’m frozen with terror, with cold, as it opens its mouth wide as if to devour me. Hot breath coats my face; it
smells like a rotting swamp.
Behind it are more, drifting toward us, clothed in ghostly tatters. One drags a pickax along the floor of the mine, creating
a horrible screeching sound.
I’m about to be mobbed. Not that it will matter. This one will consume me any second. I’m going to die in this mine, just
like my grandfather. Or maybe I’ll be transformed into one of these ghostly creatures, to haunt this place forever.
“Grandda,” I whisper. “I’ve missed you so much. Maybe I’ll see you in Barathrum.”
The mistwraith before me snaps his mouth closed. Cocks his head and peers at me. He was a man once. His ephemeral clothing
hangs in tatters, and his cheeks are gaunt. But even in his half-transparent, not-quite-alive state there’s no mistaking those
broad shoulders, the hook nose, the . . . scar slashing away from his right eye . . .
“Grandda? Is that you?”
Sometimes, when the person fed upon is particularly strong or passionate, he’ll reappear in the mist, as ethereal and ravenous
as the creature that killed him, Da told me.
Wonder wars with horror as the mistwraith leans toward my throat and sniffs my skin. I should flee. Or kick and scream. Anything
but stand rooted to the ground, waiting to die.
Instead I say, with a trembling voice, “It’s me. Bria. You taught me to swim, remember? It was so hot that day, but the creek’s swimming hole was overflowing with late spring rain. There was a current, but I knew I was safe with you.”
The mistwraith blinks, making it seem human.
I press on, focusing on the memory. “You said to think of the water as an ally instead of an enemy. We floated on our backs
together, staring up at a perfect sky, letting the current take us to the edge of the swimming hole.”
The mistwraiths behind him are nearly upon us. But I have my good memory now. I’m not afraid.
A tiny instinct cries warning: Those falling victim to the cold sickness lose the sense to be frightened. But I’m taken by
the memory of our day together in the creek, by the feeling of warmth suddenly surrounding me, by the joy in seeing him again,
even in this strange state.
“Do you remember, Grandda?”
The mistwraith speaks. “Breeeee-aaah.”
It’s really him. And he recognizes me.
“Grandda,” I whisper, tears filling my eyes. “You’ve been here all along. I had no idea.”
The other wraiths are upon us. “Breeeee-aaah,” he says. “Run.”
My ghostly grandfather whirls, so fast it’s a blur, and he screams at his fellow creatures, wild and eerie.
It snatches my mind from its fog, and I realize Grandda is giving me a chance.
The mistwraiths are a glowing maelstrom as they try to get past him to reach me. They must be starving for souls.
No time to think or fear. I race from the chamber, down the corridor to the ledge. I take a giant breath and dive into the water.
It’s less of a shock this time, but I’m not sure which way is up. The maelstrom of mistwraiths is bright in my mind, churning
and spinning and . . . no, that’s my own dizziness. I press forward into darkness, but the ancient glove on my hand throws
off my stroke.
I detect a slight current. Do I fight it or go with it? Think of the water as your ally, not your enemy, Grandda said that day long ago.
Taking a chance, I relax into the current. It sweeps me slightly leftward, toward a blur of brightness—not blue-belly bright,
not mistwraith bright, but honest-to-gods daylight bright.
I swim hard for it, helped by the current. But it won’t be enough. My heart is huge in the airless cavern of my chest. There
was a time I could hold my breath longer than anyone. But not Gift-starving, cold sick, and spent.
Titus is waiting for me with a warm fire and dry clothes. The thought spurs me onward.
My lungs are about to implode as light washes my face, blurs my vision. I kick for the surface. My head knocks against something
hard, and I almost inhale in shock.
It’s my ice floe. I stroke to the side to avoid it and try surfacing once again.
Cold wind greets my nose and cheeks as I gulp air. I reach for the ice floe, hook an elbow over the edge, but I lack the strength
to pull myself up. My muscles are jelly, leaving me limp and helpless.
Distantly, I hear: “Bria!”
Holding on to the ice floe, I manage to lift my other arm and wave the dripping glove toward the shore. “I got it,” I whisper, though there’s no way Titus can hear me. “The glove . . . my grandda . . .”
My hand with the glove splashes back into the water. My elbow slips off the ice floe. Icy dark closes over my head.