Chapter Sixteen
I don’t remember sliding from Apple’s back, but I nearly twist my ankle running down the rocky path. Ma is doing her best
to meet me, but her limp slows her down. One hand maneuvers the cane; the other is stretched wide, awaiting my embrace.
When I make it into her arms, she murmurs, “Oh, Bria, my minja, oh my gods.” She’s too thin, and her voice is scratchy, like
her throat has been cleaned out with a fork, but she smells like Ma—lilac and sage, with a hint of warm woolen blanket.
I’m not sure how long we stand there, neither of us wanting to be the first to let go. Gradually I become aware that her shawl
is wet with my tears and her fierce grip around my shoulders is weakening.
She steps back, holds me at arm’s length. “Oh, sweet girl. I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it. Praise Cerastes.”
Hesitatingly, I ask, “Da?”
She shakes her head.
It’s like a stab in the gut, to lose him all over again, but the dagger of grief is also steady and familiar and a little
bit dull, and I find it’s not so hard to look Ma straight in the eye and share her acceptance.
“Anja?” she asks in a near whisper.
It’s my turn to shake my head.
She nods, unable to speak.
“I know where she lies,” I assure her. “I can find her again, when it’s time. I couldn’t bring her back, or even bury her . . .
I was so weak . . . but as soon as the snow melts . . .”
“Bria . . . ,” Ma attempts. She closes her eyes. Takes a deep breath. She cups my cheek and tries again. “It’s all right,
baby girl. The gods have given you back to me. I won’t let anything rob me of my joy in that.”
“During the last few weeks,” I say, “I’ve learned it’s possible to have joy and heartbreak at the same time.”
Ma has always had a way of seeming smugly amused, and she does it now, lifting blond brows over ice-blue eyes and quirking
a smile. She seems years older than when I last saw her—skin dry, hair dull, a bit slumped. But that arch look is so familiar
and dear.
“Does your happiness have anything to do with that giant fox boy on the Thordin pony?”
I recoil. “Mother!”
“What? What did I say?”
“No one says that anymore. He’s half Dhakaran.”
“It’s not an insult. They have those orange-ish eyes, and they’re such a clever people—”
“Stop. Keep your prejudices to yourself. Please? For me?”
She glares, but I can tell she’s not really angry at me.
“Would you like to meet him?” I offer. “He’s the reason I’m alive.”
Her face softens. “Of course I would.” She casts her gaze beyond me and hollers, “Ho, Dhakaran boy! Come here so I can get
a look at you!”
Titus has already dismounted and leads both horses by the reins. His face is expressionless, his step slow. I know him a little better now, and I think he might be afraid of my mother. I’m careful not to smile.
“Titus, this is my mother. Ma, this is Titus. He rescued me from the raiders and helped me get through the mountains.”
He says, “Nice to meet you, Dama Angarsold.”
My mother throws her arms around him. “Thank you, thank you. You brought my girl back to me. I’ll never forget it.”
Titus’s eyes are wide, his body rigid like a tree trunk. But after a moment, his free hand slips around Ma’s shoulder, and
he hugs her right back.
My heart swells. I want these two to like each other.
“Let’s go inside,” Ma says, stepping away. “I don’t have much to offer these days, but the sun sets early on the leeward side,
and I still have a big hearth.”
The inn’s common room is a disaster, with one wall completely open to the trees and sky and another streaked with char and
watery soot. Pine needles and fallen leaves litter the floor, blown in by the mountain winds. Everything smells strongly of
doused embers and slightly of mold.
Our shrine to Cerastes is toppled onto the floor, chipped and dark with soot.
For some reason, this of all things tightens my throat and stings my eyes.
Da carved it from an oak stump, long before I was born.
Even blackened and nicked, it’s a beautiful bit of work, depicting Cerastes in her flowing hair and gown, twisted around the evil dragon Baloranth.
According to legend, the goddess and the dragon wrestled in the sky, battling for dominion of Barathrum.
After many days, they fell to the earth in a giant meteor, but only Cerastes emerged from the ashes, victorious at last. She has since ruled the afterlife with fairness and justice.
Da had a knack for carving. Each year he gave Anja and me a gift on Sunderday, something he had carved especially for us—dolls,
horses and sheep, flowers, and even wooden jewelry. We had a collection of lovely knickknacks and toys displayed on a shelf
in our bedroom.
Perhaps some of them survived. But the second floor is probably unsound. It wouldn’t be safe to go up there. I indulge in
one longing glance at the stairway before following Ma into the private family dining room.
The dining room, at least, seems untouched by flame or bandit. Everything looks and feels the same: the massive two-way hearth
that provides visibility to the common room, the pine table where we took countless meals together and kneaded bread dough
every night before bed, the lavender and sage drying above the mantel, shelves full of wooden dishes carved and polished by
Da. The only difference is the cot shoved into the corner, made neatly with a faded quilt. Ma has been sleeping here.
“Are none of the guest rooms sound?” I ask.
“Two are in usable condition,” Ma says, reaching for bowls on the shelf. She winces, clutching her side, then tries again.
“I’m saving them for guests.”
“That’s . . . optimistic.”
She shrugs. “ ‘Prepare for the worst, prepare for the best,’ my father always said.”
I share a quick look with Titus. Should I tell my mother about Grandda? He wasn’t killed in the cave-in, Ma. He was trapped in the icy dark, slowly starving until he became a monster. And by the
way, it’s probably the king’s fault. . . .
I decide to keep it to myself for now.
From a pot keeping warm beside the hearth, Ma dips up three bowls of thick stew.
“That smells wonderful,” Titus says. “Venison?”
Ma sets the bowls on the table. “Jaco has been keeping me stocked with meat.”
At Titus’s questioning look, I say, “Jaco is one of our year-round residents. A blacksmith. Keeps busy shoeing horses and
mending cartwheels during the guest season, works on arrowheads, knives, buckets in the off-season. Quiet fellow. Likes his
privacy.”
“We also have some seasonal residents,” Ma says. “The Three Corners was almost a proper village before the bandits came.”
She gestures toward the table. “Sit, sit.”
Chairs scrape the floor as we comply. “The trapper brothers?” I ask.
“Came early this year,” Ma says. “I don’t think we could have put out the fire if they hadn’t arrived when they did.”
“I’m glad they’re all right. And Jaco.”
“And Ysald Muhler,” says Ma. “She already attached the traps to her waterwheel. We’ve been pickling trout for the winter.
Fish smell is oozing out of my skin.”
“Good, that’s good.” My home. More intact than I ever imagined. People I grew up with still alive, still not giving up on
this place.
“A few chickens survived,” she says. “And Willow and Juniper are as ornery as ever.”
“The milk cows,” I inform Titus.
“Jaco’s boy?” Ma asks me. “He was taken when you were.”
I consider softening the blow, but I decide on the truth. “We were shackled in the same cage,” I say. “He changed the color
of his fingernails over and over until he Gift-starved.”
Ma sighs. “I’ll let Jaco know. Now eat.”
The three of us are silent a moment, simply sharing a meal. The stew is not wonderful—no salt, too many turnips, the meat
chunks too chewy. But it’s so much better than trail food that I find myself shoveling it into my mouth.
Titus, on the other hand, is sitting straight-backed in his chair, holding his spoon like a gentleman and taking small, controlled
bites. His demeanor is at odds with his disheveled appearance—hair escaping his tie, peach fuzz on his face, water and sweat
stains on his shirt. Ma peers at him. “You don’t talk much, do you, boy?”
“He’s a great conversationalist,” I say around a mouthful of venison.
“Then he won’t mind telling me how he came to save my daughter. At length and in detail.”
Titus sets down his spoon. His face is stoic. “I was traveling the king’s road when I encountered the raiders,” he says in
a quiet voice. “When I realized they had people tied up in their carts, I followed.”
He falls silent.
“And then?” Ma prompts.
Titus lowers his gaze. “I killed them.”
“All of them?”
“Titus has a sure shot and a fast release,” I say quickly. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” If Titus wants to tell Ma about
the ice cat, that’s his decision, but it won’t come from me.
Titus says, “In Grimsvold, the penalty for enslaving is death. But I didn’t anticipate that they would slaughter their prisoners.
If I had known, I never would have . . .” His attempt at stoicism has failed, and his face is stricken. I have a sudden urge
to hug him.
“Is that what happened to Anja?” Ma asks in a near whisper. “They killed her when you—”
“No!” I say. “She was already gone. I think . . .” I’m suddenly struggling to make words around the lump in my throat. “I
think she had a head injury. She lived . . . for days, sick and dizzy, and then suddenly . . .” My head falls into my hands.
I don’t weep. I don’t feel ready for that just yet. But I want to deny the world for a moment, close my eyes against the memory
of my little sister’s face suddenly going slack, her arms sagging in their sockets.
“I’m glad you killed them all,” Ma says fiercely.
Titus says nothing, and I dare to peek at him. He’s not glad about it. Not even a little.
Spoons scrape bowls. The fire in the hearth crackles. Mountain jays chatter in the nearby pines.
Titus surprises me by breaking the silence. “I so appreciate your hospitality, Dama Angarsold. But I must be on the road at
first light. Can I do anything for you tonight? Chop firewood? Clean the stable?”
“We just got here!” I protest. “Surely we can stay—”