Beasts of the Frozen Sun Page 2

  “Rhys?” At the sound of his name, my younger brother’s face lit up, eager for our father’s attention. “Escort your sister home.”

  “Aye, Commander.”

  “No,” I said. “I condemned Dyfed to death. I must bear witness to his execution.” When Father started to protest, I overruled him with the logic he used on his own warriors. “How can I understand the consequences of my actions if I do not see them through to the end?”

  Father regarded me. “Condemning a man is very different than watching him die. I’d prefer to spare you this, but if it’s what you wish, I’ll allow it.”

  “It is.”

  “Very well. Rhys, escort your sister to the gallows.”

  My brother led me out of the great hall, past the block of stone cells reserved for holding prisoners until their punishments were decided. We stopped at the back of the crowd that was already gathering around the gallows. The grim tidings had spread quickly.

  “Why are you doing this?” Rhys asked.

  “You know why.” I loved both of my brothers dearly, but they filled very different spaces within my life. Garreth was my self-appointed mentor and protector, and Rhys was my friend. He understood me, as I did him.

  “It’s not your fault, Lir. Dyfed stole from our clan. That makes him a traitor. He earned his death sentence.” These were Father’s declarations, coming from my brother’s mouth.

  “You believe that no more than I do.”

  “It doesn’t matter what we believe. Grandfather is chieftain. Father and Madoc are commanders, as Garreth will be one day. But you and I are followers. I’m a second-born son and a terrible warrior. You’re god-gifted and smart, but you’re still only a girl to them. Our place is to do as we’re told. We’ve no other worth.”

  “Father’s a second son.”

  “I’m not Torin.” Rhys had the same nut-brown hair and eyes as Father and Garreth, but the similarities ended there—they were born warriors, but Rhys was a quiet, gentle soul. “You should leave Stony Harbor, Lir. You should go to Aillira’s Temple. At least there you’ll be allowed to make your own choices.”

  There were two diverging paths my life could take. As a god-gifted Daughter of Aillira, I could pledge myself to Aillira’s Temple, a sanctuary in the center of Glasnith where girls like me went to study with priestesses, learning how to hone their abilities and use them to serve the gods. Or I could marry a highborn lord from an allied clan and sire children to continue the traditions of our clans and country. Both were lifelong commitments. My father had left it for me to decide, but there was little time left. It was only half a year until my eighteenth birthday, when I would have to give an answer. I’d not yet chosen. The notion that I must choose one, and that there were no options but these, rankled me.

  “What, and leave my wee brother to care for himself?” I spoke in jest, but it was the truth. How could I leave Rhys? Or Garreth or Father? How could I ever choose to be parted from my family? “You’re more than a second son and a lousy warrior to me, you know.”

  “Aye, I’m the sap who helps you sneak around and defy Father’s orders all the time.” Rhys’s tone was light, but his grip on my arm tightened. The crowd around us had grown. Dyfed’s son Ennis was here, pale and frightened, glaring when he saw me.

  I was the soul-reader, the one who judged men’s guilt. The one who’d damned his father.

  Would the other Daughters of Aillira at the temple hate or fear me as the villagers did?

  Garreth spotted us, pushing his way through the crowd. “What are you doing here?” He stepped to my side, taking my other arm. “We’re going home, Lira. I won’t let you watch this.”

  “No.” I held firm. “This is my choice. I’m staying.”

  Besides, it was too late. Father and Madoc were already steering Dyfed toward the scaffolding steps, his wrists and ankles still chained. Lord Aengus was with them. The chieftain was an older man, his hair and beard gray, his face wrinkled, but he still carried himself like the great warrior he’d once been.

  Father threw the rope over the gallows’ crossbeam. Madoc knotted the noose.

  I could hardly bear to look at Dyfed as he was made to stand upon a crate beneath the gallows. He shook with terror.

  “Dyfed of Stone,” Aengus called loudly, “you have been found guilty of stealing weapons from your own clan. For this crime, you are sentenced to hang. May the god of death have mercy on your sinful soul.”

  “Look away, Lira,” Garreth said.

  I didn’t. Madoc kicked the crate out from under Dyfed’s feet. The herdsman thrashed, swinging from the noose. His son cried out, but others cheered.

  Rhys and Garreth stood on either side of me, as if their presence could protect me from the sight, the awful consequences of using my gift. I swallowed hard to keep from retching and clenched my fists, digging my nails into my palms.

  I had done this. I helped kill this man.

  I watched until it was over, until Dyfed dangled motionless. The rope creaked in the wind. Only then did I let my brothers lead me away.

  When we neared the stables, I pulled free from them. “I want to ride.”

  My brothers followed me as I entered the stables, breathing in the scent of straw and manure. Winter stuck her head out, whickering. I scratched between her ears and she pressed her muzzle against my chest. The beautiful white mare had been a gift from Father.

  Garreth shook his head. “You’re going home.”

  “Don’t you have pig shite to shovel?” I ignored him and looked to my younger brother. “Please, Rhys. I need to get away. Just for a little while.”

  “No,” Garreth said again.

  Rhys hugged me. “Go on,” he said. “Just be careful.”

  “Always.” Through my skirts, I patted the knife sheathed to my thigh. I was on Winter’s back and out of the stables in a flash, leaving Rhys to deal with Garreth’s ire.

  Our village was surrounded by the Tangled Forest, where trees warred, trunks and branches coiling together, competing for soil and sun—what appeared at first glance to be single, colossal trees were actually many plants knotted in strangleholds. I rode until the trees ended and the land dropped away in sheer bluffs that loomed over the crashing waters below.

  The sea had turned angry, foam coating its surface like sugared icing. Anad, the god of wind, was fighting with his jealous wife, Faerran, goddess of the sea. Their passionate clashes flooded villages and sank ships.

  The bluffs were the northernmost part of our island. I’d never left Glasnith, but Father and Garreth had taught me, through maps and stories, about the lands beyond. To the east were the Auk Isles, an archipelago of forests and farmlands, their people similar to my own. Sanddune and Savanna were arid landmasses to the south, ruled by strandlopers and bushmen. The rocky northern isles of Skerrey were populated with hardy fishermen and whalers who kept to themselves. And if you sailed far enough west, you might find the elusive lands of the Frozen Sun.

  The legends of the Westlanders were far-fetched: stories about frost giants with hearts of ice and souls of fire. I wondered how it would feel to touch a soul made of fire. Would it hurt? Could it burn me?

  I glanced down at my wrist, at the strange, small scar there—slim white lines that curved at the ends and came together into a shape that resembled a small flame. A wound from a long-ago dream. A dream I still didn’t understand.

  I looked back at the sea.

  Here, in this beloved place, I could let myself imagine a third option for my life. Not to be tied to a husband or a temple, but to explore the world. To cross the oceans spread out before me. To trek across hills of red sand, summit mountains made of blue ice, speak exotic languages, treat with mysterious tribes from other lands. This was the life my heart yearned for. A life I could never have because girls were considered too fragile to be explorers, and a chieftain’s granddaught
er—a Daughter of Aillira, no less—was too valuable to set free.

  Above, clouds scraped across firmament, torn asunder by Anad’s breath. The water swallowed the sun, and Nesper, god of the heavens, split the sky into flecks of blue, orange, and gold. The stars were Nesper’s children, appearing loyally to flicker and shine.

  The scar on my wrist tightened suddenly, a warm flutter inside my skin—a thing it had never done before. I shook my hand and the sensation ceased. It must have been my nerves running riot.

  Back in the village, they would cut Dyfed’s body down from the gallows. The priest would read verses from the Immortal Scriptures and set fire to his body. Dyfed’s family would pray and weep as it burned.

  Quiet, humble Dyfed. Guilty but not evil.

  I pushed the thoughts away. Rhys was right—we were followers, with no say in the laws of our people. I could do nothing for Dyfed now except beseech mighty Gwylor, the god of death, to be merciful and accept the herdsman into his Eternal Palace.

  My dreams of adventure were useless, selfish. I should care more about what I could do for the people of my clan and my island. I owed it to my mother to make my life mean something, to make myself worthy of the sacrifice she had made for me.

  I kneeled at the edge of the bluffs, head bowed, offering prayers to the gods for Dyfed’s soul, and my own, until my knees and head ached. Please, I begged, fingers digging into the earth, let me use my gift for healing instead of hurting, for helping instead of damning.

  A gust of wind tore at my hair, whistled in my ear.

  Wait, it promised.

  Had I not been burdened by the herdsman’s death, I might not have lain awake that night. I might not have decided to sneak from my family’s cottage to walk along the harbor.

  How different my life might have been.

  The sky was a black shroud. By the gleam of moon and stars, I crossed the hills of our village, where they sloped down to meet the pebble-strewn shore. Gray water funneled around the massive sea-worn boulders Stony Harbor was named for. The harbor was placid, its waters protected by arms of rocky cliffs stretching out on either side, ragged, like they’d been chiseled haphazardly by a drunken god. Fishing vessels were tied along the wooden pier, buoyed on the swells rolling in. Just beyond the harbor lay the Shattered Sea, full of jagged stone pillars rising like teeth from beneath the wild waves.

  Barefoot, I dug my feet into wet sand. Under my breath I sang an old sea ballad my mother had taught me:

  When will my love return to me?

  Each day, each night, I watch the sea.

  A cold wind sighs, a lone gull cries.

  My love, my love, return to me.

  I lifted my skirt to my knees and edged into the water, letting the waves tug at my ankles. I picked up a thin stone and skipped it across the water’s surface.

  Oh has my love forgotten me?

  The days pass by, storms ravage the sea.

  I toss in my sleep, as he calls from the deep.

  My love, my love, return to me.

  There were shapes bobbing on the swells. I squinted, trying to make out what they were. Distracted, I kept singing, my voice little more than a whisper.

  How could my love be lost to me?

  His ship was swallowed by the sea.

  I feel him close, but it’s only his ghost.

  My love, my love, return to me.

  Splintered pieces of wood washed in on the waves. I plucked one from the water, running my thumb over the smooth lines of a carving; the design looked like scales. The next piece I grabbed was covered in swirling knots.

  This was wreckage from a ship, but I’d heard nothing of missing vessels or fishermen.

  Something splashed in the water. It looked like a floating pile of rags, but then it moved. I could just make out the shape of a man struggling toward shore. I waded out to help him, taking hold of his flailing arms and dragging him onto the sand.

  “Are you—” The sentence died on my lips. The man flopped onto his back, and I saw what was left of his body. His right leg was missing below the knee. His left foot, too, was gone. The sharks had made a meal of him.

  “Mordir,” he said. His eyes were open, but he didn’t see me. He stared at the sky, mumbling the same incomprehensible word. “Mordir.”

  I leaned in, studying his weathered face. Black markings decorated the skin of his right eyelid, stretching up to his brow and down to the corners of his eye—reptilian scales, like the design on the ship’s wreckage. Likely the warrior-mark of his clan, but it was no clan I knew of. I doubted he was even from our island. His accent was heavy and rough, and the word he repeated was nonsense.

  Mordir.

  Could it mean …

  “Mother,” I said with sudden understanding.

  That’s what he kept saying in his strange language. He was crying out for his mother. I’d heard tales of bloody battles, of men holding their injured comrades. Dying warriors often called for their mothers as the end came.

  There was no point fetching a healer; the man would die before we returned. His hand reached out for something unseen. I clasped it and held on.

  “Mordir,” he cried, tears streaming down his cheeks.

  “It’s all right,” I told him. “It will be over soon.”

  His eyes dulled moments later. His cries fell silent.

  “The god of death has claimed you.” I set his limp hand on top of his chest. “May Gwylor accept you into his palace.”

  Up ahead, the harbor curved around a rocky cliff edge, hiding the shore on the other side. There could be survivors. I let go of the dead man and splashed around the barrier.

  My stomach sank like a stone.

  The harbor was littered with broken planks from a ship. And bodies … so many bodies, lying on the sand, bobbing on the waves.

  Dead. Every last man.

  I made my way from one shredded corpse to the next. They were nothing more than husks, faces bleak and withered, all of them bearing the same black scale marks around their eyes. These men were ripped apart, every body missing arms or legs. Some were headless. Others had chunks torn from their torsos, their guts spilling onto the sand. Whatever attacked them had left wide, deep bite marks from teeth far bigger than any shark’s.

  Only one monster caused such carnage.

  “The Brine Beast.” I fell to my knees. My fingers went to my ankle, tracing the ring of scars where the Beast attacked me all those years ago.

  I glanced at the cliffs above, at the stone watchtower that was manned at all times to keep an eye on the harbor. Where was the sentry? The Beast could be out there now, waiting to attack the next Glasnithian ship to cross its path. And who were these dead men—were there more of them out there, other ships that hadn’t sunk? I had to alert Father.

  On my way back to the village, a flapping of wings startled me. A massive raptor glided over my head, alighting upon the broken section of a spar stuck in the sand. The raptor had feathers of black, gold, and crimson, and eyes that were bloodred. It was a lammergeier, the largest bird in Glasnith; they were vicious, known for knocking lambs, goats, even men, off sea cliffs to the rocks below so they could feast upon the broken bodies. Because the Immortal Scriptures said the Great Betrayer used to transform into a lammergeier to spy on the dealings of mortals, the raptors were feared as harbingers of ill fortune.

  The lammergeier lowered its head. As if compelled, I followed its gaze.

  Sprawled across the spar was another body.

  I moved toward the corpse, the lammergeier’s inquisitive eyes following me. It opened its curved beak and unleashed a poignant shriek.

  The man lay on his stomach, water lapping at his legs. His hands clutched the spar, as if it would ferry him to the otherworlds. I knelt beside him and let out a slow breath.

  A shock of golden hair, smooth skin—he
was young. From what I could see, the Beast hadn’t touched him. He must have drowned and washed ashore.

  The scar on my wrist tingled.

  There was a sweet boyishness to his features. Grief tugged at me. I pushed a wet mesh of hair out of his face. “I’ll make sure your body is burned, your spirit cleansed,” I promised.

  His lashes fluttered. Blue-gray eyes stared back.

  I yelped, scrambling away. The dead man watched me.

  Not dead. The man is not dead.

  Looking into his eyes was like gazing at the ocean—swirling shades of deep cobalt and steel gray. Fathomless.

  Familiar.

  “You?” I choked, wondering briefly if I was actually asleep in my bed and this was all a dream. Because, as impossible as it was, I knew this man.

  I’d seen him once before.

  It happened when I was twelve, on the third anniversary of my mother’s death. Every year, when that hateful day came, I snuck away in the night, took a horse from the stables, and rode to the northern bluffs. Alone on the bluffs, I prayed and wept and let myself remember her, releasing all the pain I tried to bottle up and smother the rest of the year.

  On this night, I heard something as I rode home from the bluffs. I’d grown up in these woods, and I knew them as well as my own skin. The strange sound that slunk across the land was not one that belonged. I dismounted and crept nearer, searching. Several shadowy figures gathered, speaking with grunts and snarls that barely resembled language.

  I felt the man watching me, like his eyes could burn holes in my flesh.

  He was behind me. Before I could turn, his arm closed around my chest, his hand covered my mouth. My nerves crackled where his skin touched mine. I couldn’t see his face, but his breath was hot against my neck, his voice a purr in my ear, making threats I couldn’t understand.