By the time they made camp, he was beginning to feel the effects of the day. Not just the bone-deep weariness that came on the heels of hard emotion, but the more prosaic result of being kicked repeatedly and thrown into a wall. He settled gingerly to the earth before the actual fire the sorcerers had made tonight in lieu of their glowing rocks. Real fire was brighter, warmer, friendlier, but also carried a greater risk that it would get them noticed. Havec had the sense they had taken the chance for him, in hopes it would cheer him up. Everyone was treating him with exquisite caution, as if they feared that, at any moment, this brave façade would crumble.
Fat lot they knew. He was in a pretty good mood, all things considered. And his spirits were about to get a boost: he heard soft footfalls at his shoulder a moment before Farait stepped up to his side. He had a small pottery pot in hand: “For the bruises.”
Havec nodded and drew his shirt up off his back, then over his head. It was cold, he wasn’t about to take it off entirely. Fine, and he was extremely nervous. He rested his elbows on his knees and turned his face toward the fire, glad the man was behind him.
His shoulders writhed at the greasy touch of the ointment, and again at the hot-cold sensation as it began to sink in. “This is a very popular remedy,” Hot Priest murmured reassuringly. “It won’t speed the healing, I’m afraid, but it will do a lot to minimize the pain.”
He didn’t need help with Kebbal around but kept that thought to himself. “Not my first exposure. I didn’t learn nearly as much about Tabb as I should have in the last few years, but I got my share of bruises.”
“Of course. I meant no offense.”
He became conscious of how carefully the others kept their eyes turned off them. All save his mother, who was staring directly into his face. He met her gaze and refused to look away. He never did learn who might have won their staring match: Moida approached his mother with food and water, stepping between them as she did.
This distraction denied him, there was nothing to pay attention to but the hands on his back. “So,” he said, and it came out aggressive, like a challenge, “you’ve come to counsel me?”
“Counsel?”
“Is that not what priests do?”
“It’s not what I do. The disciples of Mahudar believe that what truly defines suffering is the fact that everyone endures it alone. We see what those in need see and feel what they felt so that there is one person in the world who truly understands what it was like.”
“Oh,” he said uncomfortably. A hand slipped around his waist onto his bruised ribs and he bit his lower lip between his teeth, glad he wasn’t making eye contact with his mother.
Then, unfortunately, it was over, and the man was scooting around to sit at his side. Havec pulled the shirt back over his head and settled it on his slimy back, where it plastered itself against him like a second skin. He cast his eyes around in search of a new topic of conversation to keep the priest’s attention on him, and it was then that he became conscious of the fog. It was rolling in from the west, upslope, very visible because of its luminous contrast against the dark. The forward front was practically solid, billowing as it bore down on them with the implacability of an avalanche. For a moment, he simply stared at it, trapped between surprise and the desire not to say something foolish in front of Hot Priest.
His companions just went on gazing into the fire or their cups of soup, though. Finally, he said, “Am I the only one who finds that creepy?”
They turned to find out what he was looking at, and one by one they stood. The others were puzzled and alarmed, but his mother seemed to draw meaning from this uncanniness: her pale skin had gone the hue of ice. There was a hiccup when she was too appalled to react, then she spun to face him. “Look what you did, you miserable, ungrateful wretch!”
“Ungrateful?” he demanded, and he was on his feet with no recollection of having stood. All the anger he hadn’t been able to summon during their first confrontation coursed through him. “Why would I possibly be grateful to you? The only decent thing you ever did for me was ruin my life!”
He might have said more, but the fog was upon them, encircling their camp. It carried with it the familiar sulfur smell from the bubbling pits around the mouth of the spooky cave, as if they had dragged it behind them all this way. It was filled with screams, muted and echoing, as if the cloud itself was in agony. It seemed shy of the fire and formed a hollow dome around them, unwilling to come closer. While they were still spinning in circles wondering how much danger they were in, a pair of semi-solid, milk-white arms reached out of the encircling wall. They wrapped around Moida’s chest and yanked, and she was gone. The fog itself kept screaming, but Moida never made a sound. The roiling wall where the night had swallowed her held mum.
Hib screamed “Moida!” His anguish cut at the ears, and he hurled himself forward, prepared to run right into the murderous fog to search for her. Havec grabbed him before he could take more than a step, but the boy thrashed so hard he was forced to wrap both arms around his chest. Hib stopped fighting, sagging into his embrace and sobbing helplessly.
“Guys?” His voice sounded weird rebounding off the low white ceiling overhead. “Do we have any idea what this is?”
Turning in another wary circle, Farait raised his sword. More out of force of habit, one had to assume, than in hopes that it would do any good. “Is it… alive?”
“Ara?” Smooth Guy prompted.
The shyin held out both hands, feeling the air. “The fog is the mantle of a creature.” He made a graceful curling gesture on either side of his head. “It’s mane.”
This was alarming, but first things first. “Can you go out into it to retrieve the old woman, is it safe?”
“You want her body back?” Arandgwail asked with the inappropriate cheerfulness so typical to him.
The kid sobbed against Havec’s chest, but Smooth Guy was speaking before he could respond. “A creature of what kind?”
Hair-On-End’s head cocked while he considered it. “It reminds me of the lady I sometimes see riding on his shoulder.” He pointed at Farait, but for one merciful moment, no one understood what he meant.
Then the girl whispered, “Are you telling us it’s a god?”
“Am I?” Hair-On-End replied. “It’s nothing like the person in him.”
Havec nodded; that made sense. There were only a handful of Archetypes of War and they were all accounted for. It wasn’t a comforting thought; he had come to think of the Archetypes as benevolent, in their own peculiar way, but this wasn’t. No creature with icy, sulfur-smelling, scream-filled fog for hair existed to bring good into the world.
Without anyone having suggested it, they had ended standing in a defensive circle with their backs to the fire, staring at the white wall around them as they waited for it to reach out again. Over one shoulder, Havec asked, “Mother? You seem to have some idea what’s going on.”
“Your father and I removed you from Moritia for a reason, you should have stayed away,” she told him angrily. It was all she would say.
It came as a shock when, only a few minutes later, the nightmarish fog cleared. Havec had expected it to come for them one by one until no one was left. Probably all of them had. He felt no relief; instead, his fear increased. Nothing that malignant would be satiated by a single death, he felt sure of it. It couldn’t possibly be done causing pain, which meant the worst was yet to come. When he turned to face east, he could see the backward edge of the stormfront retreating down the hill.
Not retreating, he corrected himself: advancing toward something else.
“What is it?” he growled. When no one answered, he closed on his mother, taking her by the shoulders and giving her a shake. “What is it?”
“Do you truly remember so little?” she sneered.
“I know.”
It was Hib who’d spoken, and all of them turned to look at him.
“It’s winter.” His eyes were on Havec’s mother. “You mean to bring winter to the south.”
“You recognized it?” Hot Priest asked.
“We knew this was coming,” the boy said quietly. “I mean, not this, but something. That’s why it took Moida: to punish her for spying.”
