Followed by Fros(16)

I spent most of true winter in the valleys, for the natural snows in the mountains grew too steep for me to ascend. I ran out of food quickly, no longer able to forage. It took a toll on my frostbitten body, making me gaunt and doll-like. More than once I snuck into nearby villages or townships at night, when the natural snow blew hard and masked my curse. I stole whatever I could find—eggs, oats, even chickens, though the relentless weather made fires nearly impossible and forced me to eat most of my meat raw. Sadriel found this especially amusing, though I saw less of him in those months. More men died in winter than any other time of year. At least, I assumed that was what kept Death away.

I tried not to steal too much from any one village, for I feared being seen. I knew the distaste my own village held for wizards and the craft; I could only imagine the disdain others had for those cursed by it.

As soon as the earth began to warm and the snow melted, I climbed back into the mountains somewhere on the west edge of Iyoden, and there I remained, moving between camps when my snow grew too deep. I carefully built a fire to dry my newly snow-scrubbed clothes. They all needed mending, but I had not thought to bring a sewing kit with me, all those months ago. I doubted my inflexible fingers could manage a needle, besides.

I sat near the fire, my skirt pulled up to midthigh so it wouldn’t burn, the worn volume of Ancient Phonetics of Larcott sitting beside me on the earth. I watched the flames caress my frozen hands and taste the tiny cuts along my knuckles and the icy calluses of my fingers. No matter how long I kept them in the pit, the fire’s heat never touched me.

I kept my long, white hair tucked into the back of my dress, for it would burn, and I still fancied it after spending a year in the wild, despite knowing the atrocity of my appearance. I had not seen a mirror since I left Euwan, fortunately.

My braid slipped from my collar and I started. Looking back, I saw Sadriel behind me, deftly unbraiding the strands. I made no effort to pull down my skirt and make myself modest—after so long on my own, I hardly thought of such things anymore.

“No old men to escort today?” I asked, turning back to the fire. “No sick children? Birthing mothers? Soldiers?”

He didn’t answer me. He simply finished unbraiding my hair and ran his fingers through it. I bit down hard to keep my teeth from chattering as he worked through a snag. Finally he picked himself up and found a seat across the fire. The flames’ heat didn’t bother him any more than the brisk cold of the mountain morning did. They didn’t bother either of us.

He leaned his cheek on his fist and watched me for a long moment.

“You could turn over that chemise,” I said, jutting my chin toward my drying laundry.

He made no move to do so. “Have you reconsidered my offer?”

“Do I ever?” I picked up a coal and turned it over in my fingers.

“You’ve been in these mountains a long time,” he said. “It’s not like you to remain stationary. The cold must have reached the nearby village by now. How sad, after such a harsh winter.”

I frowned, thinking of Euwan. I had lived as a cursed woman for only three days within its borders, yet because of me Bennion had died, and many others had sickened. I may have killed livestock, too, and ruined countless crops. That guilt weighed heavily on me, pushing against my slow, cold heart. I never had apologized, not even to the Hutcheses for killing their little boy.

“I don’t need you to remind me,” I whispered, not sure if he could hear my words over the crackling of the fire.

Mordan still haunted my thoughts every day—it was impossible not to think of him. The anger I held for that man, the contempt, was often the only fuel that got me up in the mornings. I would brush off my blankets of snow and live another day, if only to spite him. Still, I realized I could have—should have—dealt with him more gently. Despite what he had done to me, the horrors he had unleashed on my life, I believed his feelings for me had been sincere.

“Oh, but you do,” Sadriel said, grinning as usual. He reached across the fire—the flames bent away from him—and stroked my jaw. “Because I’m the one who can make you forget. It’s been too long, Smitha. Come with me. The dead make poor companions.”

I jerked away.

He didn’t quite frown, but his lips pressed into a thin line for a fleeting moment. He stood, adjusted his hat, and said, “By the way, there are hunters with dogs heading up the mountain. You may want to run, or you’ll be in my domain sooner than expected, and not in the manner I would prefer.”

He grinned and tipped his hat.

I stiffened at his words and pulled my hands from the fire. “There can’t be,” I protested. “I’ve stayed far enough away from the villages. My curse doesn’t reach them!” I stabbed my finger upwards, toward my eternal storm, to illustrate my point.

“Ah,” said Sadriel as he faded away, “but it reaches the springs.”

My breath caught in my throat. I leapt to my feet and peered higher up the mountain. Springs ran down from the snowcaps up there; I had passed them often between camps.

Wadding my skirts in my hands, I jogged up the mountain, its jagged surface jabbing my feet through wearing soles. I wound around a steep cliff and navigated over thick pine roots before the first spring came into view—a small river formed from mountain runoff.

It clung to the brae like a sheet of glass, netted like lace around the rocks interrupting its path. The entirety of it was frozen. Sadriel was right. I had stayed here too long.