It took a further miserable eternity to find the place they were looking for, and now that Qanath was no longer terrified of being stranded in the wilderness buried in the snow, she became conscious of the cold. Her entire body ached with it, and her extremities had gone numb. Beneath her, she could feel the gray horse trembling.

When they turned a final corner to find their destination before them, both of them drew up short. Qanath wasn’t sure which of them was the first to stir. She was used to Havec helping her, and now her limbs shook with the cold and with the weakness that had arisen in the wake of her fear. She botched the dismount and staggered and sat down on her butt with a flump in the snow that was already deep as her knees. Her horse was between them, and by the time Amril had thought to wonder where she was and come look for her, she had regained her feet.

Together, they climbed through the deeper drifts disguising the risers of a short flight of stairs leading up to the imposing front door, banded in metal and emphatically closed. While Amril balled his coat up over one fist and pounded at the door, Qanath dug through her pockets, numb fingers fumbling against odds and ends they could barely feel. When a man came in answer to the knocking, she had the gold signet in hand.

“I need to speak to a man named Jonet,” she told the astonished Moritian soldier, who didn’t seem to know what to make of the pair of Tabbaqerans freezing to death on his stoop. “I have a message from your prince.”

The Sky Opens

The storm pursued them south for the remainder of the day, the snowfall steady, if nothing like so fierce as Havec had dreaded it would be. Farait had fashioned a little tent from a blanket that mostly shielded his face from the snow without smothering him, and his world was shrunk down to the length of gray fabric above, the sliver of white sky visible below, the forward horses’ hips, the tips of his own boots. He remained as useless as he had been since the instant he fell, and there was nothing to do but lie here and think. When he wasn’t worrying about the girl, he was thinking about Kebbal. He hadn’t known it could do something like this, and he had to wonder if anyone did.

The monster now inhabiting his father’s corpse had referred to Havec as a cage, but that just couldn’t be the case. If the only thing standing between Kebbal and freedom was a willingness to hurt him, speaking as someone who had once been locked in a trunk for days, he could say with certainty that any squeamishness he might once have entertained, he had left behind in that sweat-soaked nightmare reticule. He would have killed someone with his bare hands to be free from it, he would have killed them with his teeth. Kebbal had lived within a human host since before humans began recording history.

On that fateful night, Xar had told him Kebbal killed him, but he hadn’t thought to wonder if maybe the man was serious; he had just assumed it was hyperbole. An expression of remorse. If Kebbal could have been free of him at any time, though, why had it not freed itself long since? The answer he came up with was: if it killed its host, the Legacy would be broken and it would be alone. Only if its host died in a more natural manner would the Legacy pass on.

If that was true, it would have to mean the Avatethura were quite a lot more astute than he had previously given them credit for. He had thought to do some traveling once this was over, see what he could of the Empire before duty demanded that he settle down and start a school. Toward the top of the list of destinations must be his fellows’ academies. He had a lot of questions begging to be asked. Maybe it didn’t matter all that much in the larger scheme of things – the Avatethura were as old as news could get – but he’d like to understand the being that lived in him. He found himself envying Arandgwail, who could see it. When the girl captured an image of it, it had looked like a simple two-dimensional squiggle, but the shyin described it as a being of refulgent darkness, and he wished he could lay eyes on it.

“Excuse me, um, soldier-priest?”

The man moved up alongside him. “Yes, Avat? Are you well? Can I do anything for you?”

“Your people believe the Avatethura were created by Adaba to help her put her rebellious children down so she could go on unmaking reality whenever she felt like it.”

Hot Priest’s head cocked quizzically, but he said simply, “Yes.”

“Are you sure they fought for her?”

His eyes went wide. Hib’s face appeared on the right, looking even more surprised.

“If Kebbal has a fault, it’s that it loves too well. Which I guess everyone can see now for themselves. I feel like, when they met the First Gods and realized that all they were fighting for was the right to be, the Avatethura would have sympathized. All the supernatural beings we meet regard it as transcendently beautiful. Did that not leap out at anyone?”

“If they were allies from the start, if they were the midwives who brought mortal life into being, why do we keep them caged?” Farait mused.

“Because we don’t,” Havec replied. “If all Kebbal ever needed to do to be free was kill its host, then free isn’t the right word. Say instead: alone.”

“What, then, is the purpose of the bond?”

Havec chewed on his lip while he considered that. “They were made by the goddess who’s older than,” he would have waved his hands, but couldn’t, “all of this. Made to help her wipe her children out so she could wipe out the world, so they have to be…”

“Made of some otherworldly substance that could survive the destruction of material reality.”

“Well, yeah. But if they helped to make this possible, they deserve to be able to enjoy it like we do. Kebbal,” although he addressed the words to the creature inside him, he said it aloud, “I am going to eat a piece of pie for you very soon.”

He could no longer see the man’s face but heard his surprise. “You aren’t… upset about this power play? I would think you would be… averse to being controlled. Particularly in light of… circumstances.”

His mother snorted rudely. There was no possible way she had the first idea what they were talking about, but that wouldn’t stop her from forming an opinion on it, one that cast him in an unflattering light. Before she could speak, Farait called out a sharp command and Havec’s conveyance stopped. All was still save the whistling of the wind, then he heard a moan. It seemed to have come from behind them. There was a confused thudding of hooves as one or more horses turned in place, then Farait cursed. He heard Hib whisper what sounded like a prayer.

Havec had opened his mouth to demand to know what was happening when suddenly everything was happening too fast to be talked about. Something screamed a phlegmy scream of purest rage. Farait issued another command and the cadence as his horse’s hooves struck the packed soil of the road came faster with every step.

Another scream, and now Hot Priest was gone the two horses carrying Havec’s conveyance had been left unattended, with no one to keep them calm. Panicked, they bolted. The stays that lashed his slapdash stretcher to their saddles broke first at his feet, so that he was dumped to the ground feetfirst, and by the time the ties at his head came undone he was practically erect.

He had one fleeting moment in which to feel a surge of deep gratitude when his legs held his weight. Then one of the fleeing, terrified horses caught him a glancing blow with its rump and he was sent staggering drunkenly across the snow-dusted ground, arms whipping about him. For one deluded second, he thought he had control of his limbs and was good to go, then a boot went out from under him on the snow-slick soil and he fell hard on one hip.

He rolled onto his butt, squinting at the scene as he tried to figure out what was happening. They had found the road along the coast, he had no idea when. Now he was paying attention, he could hear the pounding of the surf against the shore, hidden from his vision by a thin screen of salt-stunted pines.

While he was distracted, something had gone wrong. Something sufficiently alarming it had scared everyone, including Kebbal; he had expected it to maintain its hold on him until they were back on Tabbaqeran soil, and was pretty sure it wouldn’t have let him have control of his body again if it hadn’t feared he might need to defend himself. When he saw what the fuss was about, his heart skipped a beat.

It looked like a person, standing erect on two legs. It was too small, though, the size of an adolescent. The bones in its face were heavy, a thick mantle of brow thrusting out over its milk-white eyes. It wore nothing save a loin-cloth, and the hair on its head and body were a washed-out shade of yellowed brown, as if it had been made from cloth, dyed cheaply, then left out for a long period in the sun.

The noise hadn’t come from this gaunt figure, but from a small, fluffy monkey it led on a leash, the jaundiced hue of tea-stained teeth. The monkey let forth another blood-curdling shout, but its master held silent, watching them with neither fear nor anger. Havec knew what it was: however long he’d been away from home, some things were just too terrible to forget.

“Stay away from it!” he screamed as he scrambled to get his feet under him.

The soldier had only just drawn up from his charge and was turning around to ride back. Havec couldn’t make out the expression on his face from this distance through the ongoing flurries of snow, but he didn’t draw rein. He was riding right back toward the droghos as if he hadn’t heard the warning and intended to engage it with his sword.

The others were still sitting their mounts where Hot Priest left them; the two horses that had held Havec’s sling had only gone about thirty yards down the road before they stopped. Far enough to be well away from the droghos without losing sight of their humans. Hot Priest was hefting his sword speculatively.

“Farait,” he shouted, too urgent at this moment to be intimidated. “If that thing touches you, you will die. Just ride around and leave it be.”

The man drew up, and now he was studying Havec, face set. He had no idea why the fool was so reluctant to take his word for this, but after a breathless moment when only the wind and the waves dared to speak, he finally gave his reins a flick. He steered around the creature still standing in the middle of the road watching them with its dead eyes, so small and skinny you might be tempted to wonder what harm it could do. Havec didn’t breathe again until Hot Priest was well away from it. Then, releasing a shuddering breath, he turned away and proceeded down the road in pursuit of the horses.

He was gathering up the first of them, a handsome chestnut fellow with white socks who wasn’t prepared to take Havec’s word that the danger was past, by the time the others rejoined him. His mother looked shaken and made no attempt to criticize his handling of the situation. Hot Priest, on the other hand, was pissed. “You do realize I’m a soldier? I may not have your skill, Avat, but the uniform isn’t honorary. I don’t appreciate you constantly keeping me to the rear like some foolish noncombatant who can’t be trusted near anything with an edge. I won the lists two seasons running in my weight class in my regiment. Maybe I can’t hold my own against you with a weapon but there is no way you can beat me wrestling!”

Havec was too rattled by the droghos to match the man’s temper with anger of his own. And he felt funny, off-kilter, unsteady on his feet. As if it was taking a while for his will to reassert its command of his flesh. “It’s not a judgment on you,” he said wearily, stroking the distressed horse along the jaw with the hand not wrapped in its reins. “I’m not going to fight it either. No rational person gets near the things. If it touches your skin, you’ll freeze to death. Period. I could set you on fire, it wouldn’t change a thing.”

“Oh.” Hot Priest sounded nonplussed. “I have a bow…”

Shaking his head, Havec moved around to the animal’s side and climbed into the saddle. “Just leave it alone. It won’t mess with you unless you get within arms’ length, so don’t.” With a quiet word to the horse, he set off across the road in pursuit of its partner.

“You don’t want me to hurt it,” the Tabbaqeran said to his back, sounding as though he wasn’t sure what to make of that.

“The droghos were people once,” he told his companions, not looking at them. “In the age before man, they hunted the great plains to the north. Then winter came and lingered for too long. All of them died, the adults and the children, the babies and the ancients, and now they’re winter’s slaves. They go where the cold goes, hanging icicles from eaves and shaping the snow into drifts. They don’t mean any harm, and the right way to deal with them is stay away.”

He would never know how Hot Priest might have responded to this: at this moment, Hib said hesitantly, “Avat? Zaresh?”

When Havec glanced at him, the boy’s face was slack, eyes wide. He twisted in the saddle and found that two more of the little cold-bleached people had joined the first. While he looked at them uneasily, trying to recollect whether he had ever heard that someone witnessed more than one droghos gathered together in one place, a fourth emerged from amongst the trees, stepping out onto the road.

“Avat?” Farait prompted, waiting for his cue.

Havec held still, watching the things that stood now in a cluster in the center of the treeless stripe of snow that was the coastal road. They weren’t facing one another as though communicating; rather, strung out in a row, they were studying him. ‘Unsettling’ seemed too mild a word. Decided, he turned his horse’s head south. “I don’t know what they’re doing, but I think we shouldn’t hang around to find out.”

***

The bewildered Moritian who had come in response to their knocking didn’t appear to speak their tongue. In marked contrast to most of the people Qanath had encountered in this country, he seemed more confused than hostile. Rather than slam the door in their faces, he summoned someone to tend to their horses and indicated by gestures that he was inviting them inside. Then he didn’t step back from the door and let them in, standing stock-still with his eyes fixed on the shyin. She had no idea whether Ara was aware of his scrutiny, let alone whether he was affected by it, but he turned promptly into a raven and flew up to perch on his master’s shoulder. This impressed their guide deeply, and he dropped them a bow as he finally stepped back from the door and let them in.

They hadn’t been able to get a look at the building’s exterior thanks to the storm, but now they were inside, it was obvious they were in a fortress. She had read enough history in school to recognize the trappings of siege-craft, the thick stone walls, the tightly-spiraling staircases. At one point, they were forced to cross an interior courtyard already humped high with growing drifts of snow, and she looked up, searching for and finding narrow windows on every face of the building’s second story, looking down upon the exposed space.

Then they were back indoors and moving on. The rugs were thickly layered upon the floor and even hanging from the walls. She had the sense that money and effort had been invested in the décor; here and there, she saw pieces of statuary and the ubiquitous weavings were intricate.