Followed by Fros(22)

I shivered and hugged my bag close to myself.

“Forgive me for scaring you. I need your help,” he continued. For a moment, I didn’t think I had heard right. He requested my help? Me, who had caused so much devastation, who could kill with a touch? “I come from Zareed, far south of here. My land and my people are suffering from a long drought; the mountains no longer give us water. Our food is low. Many people and animals have died.

“But I heard tales of you, Svara Idyah, from a merchant. A woman in the Northlands followed by the cold. A woman who is followed by snow.” He glanced up, ready for snow to fall from the opaque clouds overhead. Our chase had been fast paced, so they remained dry. “This snow can save my country. If you will only come back with me, I will offer anything you wish. Only for a time, on my honor.”

I stared, wide-eyed, my thoughts as frozen as the ground beneath my feet.

“Anything, anything,” he repeated, enunciating each syllable as though I had not understood. He clasped his hands together and went down on one knee. Many of the riders behind him murmured. “Please. We have traveled long and hard to ask you this.”

I swallowed, no moisture on my tongue. I asked, “Your country?” The words came out raspy. “Y-You are a king?” My mind searched its memory of my Hraric book. “A sheikh?”

The latter term surprised him, but he answered, “My full name is Prince Imad Al’Hraith of the Fourth Generation.”

I felt faint and not solely from my exhausting run. For years I had only inspired fear and hatred in those who learned of me, and I had not spoken to a soul outside of Sadriel for so long my throat felt unaccustomed to speech. Now a prince of Zareed knew the truth about who and what I was and he knelt before me, unalarmed by my curse. Inspired by it!

I felt something spark inside my chest that felt distantly familiar.

Imad stood again, bits of decomposed leaves clinging to his knee. He made no effort to brush them away. He stepped forward. I held my ground.

“We are down to the last water in the well,” the prince said, stifling a shiver. “Please accompany us. We have brought a horse, and we will provide you with whatever comforts you need.”

I shook my head no, and his face fell. I quickly explained. “I cannot ride. I . . . Whatever I touch freezes.” I stepped back and gestured to the frostbitten ground where my feet had been and the new tendrils of ice that snaked from my feet even as I spoke. “I will hurt your animal.”

Imad smiled, a grin far different from the one Sadriel so often bore. His seemed hopeful, and it lit his entire face. “We have blankets, many blankets, for it is cold for us in the Northlands.” He glanced at the indigo rider behind me—I had forgotten he was there, barring my exit. “And we can switch horses as necessary. Please, you will consider?”

It seemed unreal, standing there in the sloping aspen forest at the base of a mountain I had no name for, surrounded by Zareedian soldiers garbed in terrifying armor. It was like something out of one of my books. Their dark eyes watched my every movement, some hopeful, others skeptical, many wary. These men had chased me for three days, causing the utmost terror to course through my frozen veins, but they wanted me. A prince—a prince!—was begging for my aid, presenting me with a way to use my deathly curse for good.

I loathed to leave Iyoden and the safety of its mountains. Despite my adoration for their plays, I had heard terrifying tales of the Southlands and of Zareed. Yet Prince Imad had addressed me civilly, and if he did not fear my curse, I knew I should not fear him. Had he wanted me dead, I would not have been standing there debating his offer. How long I stood, studying him, I do not know, but he waited patiently.

I nodded.

Imad raised both his hands and turned toward his soldiers, who cheered, a cluster of low and high noises that echoed among the trees.

To me, he said, “Come, come,” and motioned for me to follow him. Uncertainty still rooted me to the ground, and I did not budge. After rummaging through his own saddlebags, Imad pulled free a folded piece of cloth—a yellow weave that looked almost gold. When he unfurled it, I saw it was a shirt similar to the one he wore, with thick seams and long, baggy sleeves.

The soldier who stood sentry behind me as I spoke with Imad finally rode his gelding forward. I flinched away from him. His dark eyes disregarded me, and in Hraric he said, “She can wear one of the soldiers’ extra uniforms.”

I admit I impressed myself by understanding his words.

Imad shook his head and replied, again in Hraric. I did not catch every word, but I understood enough. “A woman who will save our country deserves finer. Relax, Lo. What damage can this do?”

Lo was one of the words I did not recognize, but from context, I assumed it to be the soldier’s name. He cast a dark glare at me, as if to blame me for the disposal of this finery, and I looked away, shivering.

Imad offered me the shirt. I refused at first, but he insisted. “I will not have you ride with us in rags. Please.” He smiled.

I took the shirt from him, and though he wore long sleeves and gloves, I was careful not to touch him. I pulled the smooth fabric over my own dress and tied it around my waist. Big enough that it billowed around me, it was nevertheless the finest thing I had worn in three years, perhaps longer. It seemed to be made of cotton, but I had never touched cotton so soft.

To Lo, Imad said, “See her to one of the spares and give her our best rations. She is terribly thin; after a Northland winter, she must be famished.”