Followed by Fros(30)

The sheila took our party to an orange-painted inn made of small mud bricks. It stood two stories in height and had tightly woven sinew screens over the narrow rectangular windows. The inn had been cleared out just to accommodate me and the soldiers. The innkeeper and his wife seemed eager to serve us, and eager to please me, as if the slightest disappointment would prevent my snow from falling. One hour after we reached the inn, snow began to fall, whisking through the city on bitter winds that drove families indoors to light fires for warmth—a rarity in these lands. Our inn had a hearth for cooking purposes, but the innkeeper kept it stoked with black rocks and the twisted, thorny brush that grew in patches along the mountains.

Most of the soldiers, some wrapped in blankets, chose to take their dinner in the front room at my table. The hearth drove back a good deal of my chill, so I imagined, for I only heard the occasional chattering of teeth other than my own. I kept my gloves on as I ate my spicy stew, spooning it into my mouth as neatly as I could manage. Others, including Eyan, ate more like ravenous dogs, which eased my mind concerning my own strange dinner habits.

Halfway through the meal, Eyan chuckled. “Smeesa, you have a curry icicle on your face!” He reached for my cheek.

I jolted back from his fingers hard enough to shake the bench, causing the soldier next to me, Qisam, to slosh a spoonful of stew onto the stone tabletop. A few others glanced at me, including Lo, who sat at the far end of the long table.

I touched my cheek, grateful once more that I didn’t flush, and found the droplet of broth frozen there. I peeled it off and let it fall to the floor.

“Careful,” I said, trying to sound lighthearted. “I don’t wear these gloves for fashion.” I didn’t know all the niceties of Hraric, so I spoke directly. “My touch is colder than a man can bear. I do not wish to harm you.”

The fleeting thought of Sadriel entered my mind.

Eyan looked startled for a moment, but then he laughed and pounded his palm on the table. “She is like a cobra!” he said to the others. “Quick and fascinating, but one kiss and you’re a dead man!”

The table laughed at the comparison, and I smiled, glad for Eyan’s good humor. When the noise died down, I said, “I will have to have a helmet made.”

To my surprise, Lo chuckled from the end of the table, though he did not look my way. It was the first sign that the man of steel was not quite metal all the way through.

The second night, as the snow collected on the streets and the winds whistled through the sinew screens, Lo addressed me from the end of the table—the first time he had spoken to me when the situation did not require it.

“I find it interesting,” he began, swirling his spoon over the bed of rice before him, “that a Northlander would speak Hraric, especially as well as you do.”

He said it in Northlander, which I found interesting, for only a few of our party knew my native tongue. Most would not be able to understand the conversation, let alone interject their own thoughts.

I glanced at him, wondering at his motives.

“In Zareed, learning the northern tongue is a necessity for any businessman, diplomat, or traveler,” he continued, setting down his spoon and staring at me with those dark, near-black eyes. “The earth is fertile north of the Unclaimed Lands, and trade with those farmers and merchants is essential for us. But the Northlanders care little for our own goods, outside of spices and jewelry, which they can obtain with little speech.”

Eyan whispered to the soldier beside him, perhaps trying to decipher Lo’s words.

“I admit,” I answered in Hraric, if only for the others’ benefit, “that I did not learn Hraric for love of the Southlands. Since I was a child I have found languages fascinating, especially old or forgotten ones. To me, they are like secrets.”

Lo watched me with an unreadable expression. I hesitated but went on.

“The study of Hraric was available to me, and so I learned what I could. Listening to the talk of your men is very helpful, though I fear I now know more slang than actual words.”

A few soldiers snickered. Lo smirked.

Folding my hands in my lap, I said, “It’s very interesting, really, the provenance of a language. I believe a creole derived from an old Northlander tongue, Angrean, must have made its way down to the Southlands, because many of your root words are similar.”

Lo raised an eyebrow but nodded.

“For example,” I went on, slow with my Hraric, “the word ha means ‘man,’ and tar means ‘summer,’ which is not so different from the Hraric word for camel: fapar. And if a camel is derived from men and heat, that deftly explains why I cannot ride one.”

The men laughed around us, Eyan especially, for those who had ridden with me from Iyoden to Mac’Hliah still found my awkwardness with camels a good joke. I smiled at their reaction, then dared to chance a look at Lo.

He smirked, a glint in his eye. Shaking his head, he returned to his meal and did not speak to me again that night.

Lo’s silence did not last long, for the day we left Kittat to relish in the wake of my blizzard, Eyan took the front of our traveling formation and Lo rode farther back, his eyes constantly searching the mountains as we passed over them to make our way to Ir. I did spy a few people amidst the cliffs, but if Lo did not feel threatened by them, I knew I need not worry.

I was grateful when he finally spoke to me. Aside from the soreness of riding a camel for so long, my coldness felt especially brisk to me at that moment, and with nothing to distract me from it, I focused on its chill—the way it seemed to chew on me from the inside, like falling through ice and the shock of hitting the cold water, except that lightning-like sensation never subsided or calmed, only ached and throbbed.