Winter Be My Shield (15 page)

‘Then I'll swap,' Isidro said. ‘Sierra's mare's not bad tempered, just a little witless. I'll take her and Sirri can have my gelding.'

Cam raised one eyebrow at the intimate form of her name. He hesitated for a moment before he spoke, reluctant, Sierra thought, to say anything that might imply he doubted Isidro's ability to handle the beast. In the end he shrugged and said, ‘Well, it's worth a try. I'll walk with you until we catch up with Rhia. I don't like having you both riding so far back. If there was any trouble Brekan and the women wouldn't hear until it was too late. Best if you stay close now anyway — the sun will be up soon and Sierra will have to ride blindfolded. I want you both in easy reach from now on.'

Sierra stole a glance at Isidro, trying to read his face without being obvious about it. His loyalty was to his brother, she understood that, but he hadn't mentioned the experiment or its effect. Cam's suspicion of her the night before had hardened into outright antipathy today — if Isidro saw no reason to mention it she certainly wasn't going to bring it up and give him any more opportunity to take against her, but she couldn't help but wonder why Isidro chose to keep silent.

Isidro slipped down awkwardly, swinging a leg over the pommel and sliding down with his back to the horse, rather than dismounting normally and risk catching his splinted arm between his body and the saddle. Cam had one arm out ready to aid him, and Sierra felt a ripple of pain through his arm as his feet touched the ground and he staggered before Cam steadied him. The ripple died almost as quickly as it had come, but Sierra suspected that a more serious impact would override whatever magic it was she had worked.

‘Let's get a move on, then,' Cam said, tossing the gelding's reins to Sierra. ‘We've got a long way to go.'

 

The crystalline brilliance of the day was fading when Osebian's scouts led Rasten to the abandoned camp. The scouts were half-breeds, cautious,
taciturn men made even more so by the fact Lord Rasten stalked behind them. Osebian's men were hand-picked, the best that could be enticed from Mesentreia to this barbarian land. They looked down on half-breeds as mongrels, but the truth was that no import could match those born and raised here when it came to tracking in the snow. Ricalani children were given white balls to play with in the winter to train their eyes to spot the slightest difference in shades of white. They spent their childhood following their parents trapping and hunting, and lived and breathed the world of winter until they were as much a part of it as any other creature of the wild.

Once, Rasten supposed, he must have lived a similar life, but he remembered little of the days before Kell had taken him, and after that it had been years before he saw the light of day. He could read a scatter of prints in fresh snow, but that was all.

He'd left his horse with the men at the same place Corasan's men had stowed their gear before the disastrous attack, while Osebian's men scraped and hacked at the snow to dig some semblance of a grave for the men who'd died there. Rasten went on ahead with the scouts. Sierra had been here — he wanted to put himself in her place, to imagine what she had been thinking and feeling while men bled and died around her.

‘Two of 'em came this way, my lord,' one of the scouts said to Rasten. ‘A man and a woman. They walked out towards the horse-line, moving carefully, and once the men there were dead, they ran back.'

‘A woman?' Rasten said. ‘How can you be sure?'

‘Her tracks aren't as deep,' he said. ‘She was lighter than the other one, and shorter, too, judging from the stride.'

‘What proof is that?' Rasten said. ‘It could have been a boy.'

‘So it could, my lord,' the tracker said. ‘But my gut tells me it's a woman.'

The scouts led him over the rise and down into the little valley where the camp had stood. Bloodstains kept fresh and bright by the cold were splashed across the snow. The tracks were still visible but in a week's time only the most experienced eye would pick them out. Within a month they would be gone entirely, covered by fresh snow, and any other remains would stay hidden until the spring thaw left them scattered on the bare and sodden earth.

To the west was an untidy row of man-sized mounds where the dead had been lined up. The snow drifted over them, but the scavengers had
dug through to rip into the corpses and scatter the remains across the campsite. Foxes and wolverines had left tracks and bloody scraps as they squabbled over the bodies, but at the men's approach they had melted away. Only a pair of crows remained, perching on a frost-covered bone before finally flapping away with a hoarse complaint when they came too near.

‘They had time to pick over the dead, then,' Rasten said.

‘And go through the gear they'd left on the sleds,' the scout agreed.

Rasten grunted. ‘And what's that down by the ice?' he said, nodding to a dark smear further down the valley, a mound of ash and charred wood. ‘Looks like a pyre.'

‘It is, my lord,' said the tracker. ‘Lost one of their own, I'd say. There's some bones left.'

Rasten clenched his hands within his mittens. ‘Man or woman?'

‘Man, I'd say, and older. Past his prime.'

Rasten let out a breath. Not Sierra. ‘How many?'

‘My lord?'

‘How many were here? How many people were living in those tents?'

The tracker blanched. ‘Six or seven, perhaps. No more than eight.'

Just seven or eight, against the twenty men Corasan had sent out, and only a couple of them warriors of any skill. Those were pitiful odds unless they happened to have someone like Sierra with them.

‘Uncover those bodies,' he said. ‘I want to see them before the light's gone. And I want to know how long they were camped here and when they left. Find out how many horses they had and what direction they took.'

The scout bent low. ‘At once, my lord.'

Rasten turned his back on him and pulled off first his mitten and then his glove, then reached into his sash where the parcel of rubies nestled beside a coiled braid of fine black hair. She'd been here; she'd killed and bathed in the power that spilled with the blood. ‘And what did they say, Little Crow?' he murmured. ‘What did they do when they saw just what you are?' They would blame her for the one who died and hold her responsible for bringing Corasan's men down upon them. Already they would be muttering about the folly of rescuing her from the snow and someone, very quietly for fear that she would hear, would suggest it might be best to correct the situation. A drug in her tea perhaps —
given the medicines Cammarian had purchased, they certainly had such a thing — and then, as she slept, a knife across her throat.

Rasten wound the black braid around his fingers, raised it to his face and caught a whisper of her scent.
You wouldn't let them
, he thought. She was too much of a fighter for that — too stubborn and wilful to bow her head and let anyone else decide her fate.

The rest of the men arrived with Osebian in the lead. Most animals were nervous around sorcerers and the duke's black horse snorted and fought the bit as Osebian forced the beast to approach him. ‘I've ordered the men to pitch camp,' he said. ‘Since you're intent on picking over the dead, I see no point in pushing on tonight. I take it you wish to pick up the trail again in the morning?'

‘Early,' Rasten said. ‘We're a full day behind them. We have more men, but they have to break trail as they go. It shouldn't take us more than a few days to catch them.'

‘Very well,' Osebian said. ‘About that fellow who insulted you —'

‘He's mine,' Rasten said, narrowing his eyes.

‘If you want his head, hurry up and take it,' Osebian snapped while his horse danced beneath him. ‘It's bad for the men's morale to see their comrade dragged along like a cursed prisoner.'

Rasten carefully tucked the coil of hair away and pulled his glove on again. ‘When we do catch up with Sierra, I'll need to work a ritual before I bring her down. I was planning to use the loudmouth. If you would rather I killed him now, I can, but you will have to provide me with another in his place. If you think morale is bad now, just wait until you announce the lottery to sacrifice one of their number who is blameless.'

Osebian's face darkened. ‘Deal with him as you will, then,' he said, and wheeled his horse around to ride away.

The scout stood nearby with a flaming torch in his hand to ward off the rising dusk. ‘The bodies are ready for your inspection, my lord.'

Rasten held his hand out for the torch and the scout handed it to him with a faint tremor in his hand that shuddered through the wood.
Well, Little Crow, let's see how far you have progressed.

They travelled until well after dark. Isidro felt Sierra's touch wearing off before sunset and as the darkness encroached so did the pain, spreading through him like a thicket of thorns, the barbs jabbing deeper with every movement. When they paused just before sunset to debate pitching camp now or pushing on for a few more hours, Rhia poured him a dose of poppy and Isidro downed it without hesitation. What he needed most of all was rest, but the growing pain in his arm wouldn't allow it until the numbing dose of poppy swept it away.

When Cam led them on again, Isidro fell into a doze in the saddle, and the next thing he remembered was being steered inside a half-constructed tent and being told to lie down on a thick pile of spruce, while Lakua coaxed a fitful flame into life inside the stove. He felt as if he was floating as he watched the tent go up around him, Eloba lashing the shaggy cover to the tent frame and Rhia carrying in all the gear.

Once the fire was burning bright Lakua brought in the pot with the evening meal and set it on the stove to warm. Lakua and Brekan had set it going that morning before they took down the old camp — they had brought the pot to a rolling boil, then bound the lid in place and wrapped it well in blankets and furs, with stones that had been heated in the stove packed around. With enough insulation, the pot stayed hot and continued cooking well into the day. By evening it had cooled but by then it was cooked through and needed only to be heated again. While she waited for it to come back to the boil, Lakua mixed up a bowl of batter for a bannock and cooked it in a spluttering pan with plenty of butter. Cam came in several times with buckets of water dipped from a hole in the river ice and armloads of wood, and Brekan, who had been tending the horses, shuffled in and sat as near to the stove as he could, with his arm pressed tight over his broken ribs.

Isidro didn't realise Sierra was missing until she came in, pausing just inside the doorway to stamp the snow from her boots. Everyone fell silent for a moment when she appeared, but the noise picked up again, though lower than before. They were all somewhat subdued that night. Garzen's absence was keenly felt and not just because the loss of a pair of hands meant that those of them who were able were still working long after the camp chores were usually finished.

Sierra settled beside Isidro, sitting cross-legged so that her feet were out of the way of Laki and Rhia, who still fussed around the stove. The poppy was wearing off and Isidro sat up. ‘Any trouble getting your tent up?' he said with a yawn and scrubbed the heel of his hand across his eyes.

‘I worked it out,' she said with a small shrug. When they had stopped for the noon meal there had been a brief but terse discussion about where Sierra would sleep that night. None of the other women wanted her in their tent despite the fact that she'd slept among them before without any ill effects. Sierra had defused the situation by volunteering to use her salvaged tent, but only now did Isidro realise that no one had helped her — everyone had been occupied with their own tasks.

Isidro lightly touched her arm and offered her his left hand. No one was watching — Sierra was effectively being shunned, and it extended to Isidro by association. His first instinct was to keep quiet about this aspect of her power and this inattention was the nearest to privacy they would get.

Sierra took his offered hand in silence. Once again the initial contact was painful but this time he was ready and steeled himself against it. Within a few moments the blessed numbness had spread through his arm again.

Cam and Eloba returned not long after and Rhia and Lakua served up the evening meal, topping each bowl of stew with a torn portion of bannock. There was a little more in each bowl than usual — when Lakua had set the beans to soaking Garzen had still been alive. Isidro thought of him with every mouthful he ate. Gathered together like this, they felt his loss most acutely; the mood in the tent was heavy and subdued.

When everyone had eaten Eloba and Brekan took the bowls outside to scrub them clean with snow and Rhia called Sierra over to change the bandages on her burned wrists. The dressings had stuck to the burns and
Rhia had to soak them loose. He knew it was rude, but Isidro watched Sierra closely as Rhia worked. She didn't so much as flinch, although it must have been painful. Sierra had either trained herself or had been trained not to react to pain — and given the nature of her power, Isidro suspected it predated her capture by Kell. Her kin must have policed her mercilessly against showing any sign of her talent.

The only time Sierra showed any reaction at all was when she saw the damage the bracelets had done to the clan tattoo on her wrist. The burn had almost obliterated it, leaving only a few blurred marks on her skin. The only way a tattoo could be removed was with a hot iron and to have one's clan tattoo destroyed that way was a grave thing — if carried out in punishment for some crime, it meant the ancestral Gods of her lineage had removed their protection. The superstitious held that anyone so marked was cursed.

Rhia was fastidious as she cleaned the wounds and wrapped fresh bandages around them but the lack of warmth in her manner and her touch made it clear she was doing it solely out of duty. When she was done Sierra thanked her, shrugged on her coat and said her goodnights before ducking out of the tent with a flurry of cold air.

Now that the poppy was wearing off Isidro remembered the book Sierra carried in her packs. He hadn't given it a thought since he'd learned her true identity, but now that he knew, he realised there was only one place the book could have come from — she had stolen it from Kell.

The realisation left him torn. The thought of handling anything Kell had touched left him revolted, but if it was Kell's, then the book would contain knowledge of mages uncensored by the priests and the clans. Of course, Sierra might not be willing to let him see it — but there was no harm in asking. Isidro cast around, looking for his coat, when Rhia sat herself firmly down in front of him and told him to open his shirt and lie down so she could listen to his chest.

‘But I feel fine,' he protested. ‘Really. I've hardly been coughing all day.'

‘Quiet,' she said. ‘I cannot hear when you talk.' She listened to his lungs, felt his pulse, and went through an examination he thought unusually thorough, given that he was showing no real sign of distress. She took so long that Isidro wondered if she had guessed he meant to
talk with Sierra and was trying to keep him here instead. ‘You have done well today,' she said. ‘I was worried you would be ill again. A day in the saddle is very straining for a man who has been as ill as you.'

‘Strenuous,' he corrected her; she repeated the word with a smile.

‘And now you should sleep,' she went on. ‘I have more poppy for you if you want.'

‘Not just yet,' Isidro said, sitting up and fumbling with the ties of his shirt.

Rhia tied them for him, then sat back on her heels with a scowl as he pulled on his jacket. ‘Why must you get dressed? Everything you need is in here.'

So that
was
her game. For a moment Isidro considered offering some excuse, then decided he had no mind to lie to her. ‘I'm going to talk to Sierra.'

Rhia's scowl darkened. ‘I think you should stay here. You have spent too much time with her already. It is not good for you.'

‘Rhia —' he began, but before he could go on, Cam leaned in to interrupt him.

‘Just what do you think she's going to do to him, Rhia?' he said in a quiet voice.

‘Magicians work harm wherever they go,' Rhia said. ‘Their power is a poison — it corrupts everything they touch. Isidro has been tainted by it once already, when Lord Kell had him captive. This woman can only do him harm. They cause fevers and madness. They weaken the blood, and turn wounds foul … I saw it happen, back in Mesentreia when I was serving my master.'

Cam and Isidro exchanged a glance.

‘Those diseases all exist where no mage has been seen within living memory,' Isidro said. ‘You might as well blame them on evil spirits.' He managed to get his jacket tied with a clumsy knot and reached for his coat. ‘Consider this an experiment. Sierra will be with us for another week — we can see if I get sicker or not.'

Rhia turned imploringly to his brother. ‘Cam!' she pleaded, but Isidro was already reaching for the tent flap and behind him he heard Cam say, ‘Let him go. He's a grown man, not a child.'

Outside, with the cold biting down through his fur, Isidro shuddered. There was much about Rhia he admired, but this insistence on treating
him like a halfwit who needed to be watched over was grating on his nerves. He took a deep breath, trying to shake the feeling off, then headed for Sierra's tent, a low and dark silhouette pitched some way from the larger shelter.

Unlike the big conical tent, Sierra's salvaged shelter was wedge-shaped, with the hide suspended from a single pole supported by a pair of sticks driven into the snow. The ridge-line sloped down towards the back so the tiny stove didn't have to heat quite so much space, with more snow heaped up along the tent walls for insulation. The little chimney exited the tent wall through a pipe-thimble that protected the leather of the tent from scorching and every so often a drift of sparks wafted from the end of the chimney, released by the shifting of coals in the fire. From inside, he could hear soft noises as she moved around in the cramped space.

He announced himself. ‘Sierra, it's Isidro.'

There was silence and then a hasty rustle of fabric and a moment later she peeled the door flap back enough to look out. Her face was guarded and tight and only when she saw he was alone did she relax a little. ‘What are you doing here? Is something wrong?'

‘No,' he said. ‘I just came to talk to you. That book you've got — it was Kell's, wasn't it? I was wondering … would you let me see it?'

She pursed her lips for a moment. ‘Can you read Mesentreian? Wait, that's a foolish question, of course you can. Come in — I'm afraid it's a little cramped.'

At the front of the tent the roof was just high enough to let them sit upright, but one had to enter it almost on one's hands and knees and Isidro had not yet learned how to do so gracefully with one good arm. Between his boots and his coat he brought in more snow and cold air than he intended and Sierra had to lean past him to fasten the tent flap closed again. Her hair brushed against him, tumbling over her shoulder in an inky cascade.

Inside, the tent was warm and cosy. The stove, resting on a tripod of notched green sticks inside the entrance, was just large enough for one small pot, which bubbled away at a merry simmer. A small pile of firewood sat next to it. Her furs were spread out within arm's reach of the stove, but with only a light blanket for a cover. The tiny stove would need to be fed throughout the night and with a light blanket the chill
would wake her sooner than if she slept bundled in furs. If the fire died out completely, she would have to rouse herself to start it again from flint and steel, growing wide awake and thoroughly chilled in the process. By sleeping lightly and waking more often she could simply reach out and shove a few more sticks into the fire without ever properly waking, and get a better night's rest.

Already sweating beneath the weight of his coat, Isidro settled cross-legged on the spruce and shrugged it off, letting it fall in a puddle around him. The space was so small he sat very close to her, close enough to feel the warmth from her skin. The stove door stood open and in the ruddy firelight Isidro could see Sierra's shirt was loosely tied and unbelted, her skin damp and her hair freshly combed. He'd come upon her just as she had finished bathing, he realised, and the bustle of activity was her getting dressed before letting him in.

Sierra turned away, rummaging through her kitbag at the foot of the tent to find the book. In daylight, her hair was a lustrous blue-black, but now it reflected the firelight in a ripple of red. The curve of her neck and shoulder as it disappeared under the collar of her shirt was so exquisite it made his heart lurch and he tried hard not to think about what she might be wearing underneath.

Stop it,
Isidro told himself,
just stop it.
True, she was beautiful and fascinating, but he was still a broken man, a cripple. Once he may have been a man with something to offer any woman who caught his eye, but those days were over. Now he was a liability, as helpless as a child and utterly unable to contribute to the daily life of his companions, let alone able to survive on his own.

But there was at least one thing he could offer her in return for what she'd given him. All the education and study that had seemed so useless in the past could at least be of some value.

Sierra set the book between them and then rummaged through the sack by the stove. ‘I think I've got a lamp and a bit of oil here, too, somewhere …' She spoke quickly, almost tripping over her words, and a fat blue spark spluttered to life in the palm of her hand and chased itself around her fingers for a moment before vanishing up her sleeve with a buzz, like an angry hornet.

His mind still full of hopeless longing, it took a moment for her words and their strangeness to sink in. The light from the stove might be
enough to fumble around in, but any real activity in a tent after dark in a Ricalani winter required a candle or a lamp of some sort.

‘Don't worry about the lamp,' Isidro said. ‘Just use what you were using before I interrupted you.'

Sierra froze, and then very slowly turned back to him. Another miniature bolt of lightning burst from her fingertips, but this time it arced across to the stove and hung there crawling restlessly over the metal. Her eyes were narrow and suddenly wary. ‘Most people are frightened of what I can do,' she said. ‘You're not, and yet you have more reason than most. Why is that?'

Isidro shrugged. ‘The priests keep saying that mage-craft is evil, but I've never seen evidence to prove it.'