Chapter Twenty-Three

Washed Away

It’s not hard to doubt yourself. Many people have encountered miraculous things, only to talk themselves out of believing what they have seen. Millions who have witnessed unusual events and actions have later allowed others to convince them that they didn’t see what they actually saw.

Sometimes our minds are out to get us.

Winter was in just such a state. She was back in her icy chamber, lying on her back, covered again by the mask and shroud, with her hands tied behind her body. Her wrists and hands ached from being tied so tightly, and her brain buzzed with the knowledge that as long as her hands were covered she couldn’t touch her surroundings and thaw anything.

She also had absolutely no idea what to believe. She thought she knew who she was, but Jamoon had messed with her thinking. She wanted so desperately to see Leven. She knew that he would know what to do. She wished for Clover to suddenly appear, or for Geth to yell out that he was back and that he would take care of things.

Winter was worried about her mind. It felt as if someone had stuck a hand into her head and was now peeling away her thoughts and recollections. Winter couldn’t remember anything about who Jamoon was. She had no idea whose side he was on or if she was on that side along with him. She shouldn’t have been surprised. When she had been reverted to a baby so as to return to Reality and help Leven, she had known that she was probably giving up all her other memories.

Under her shroud, she thought about the small, makeshift toilet that Geth had escaped through and realized how next to impossible it was that he could somehow rescue her.

Still, she had to have hope.

Winter’s brow furrowed, her long, white-blonde hair hanging down under her mask and covering her right eye. She blew out, trying to move her hair from in front of her face, but the mask made it useless. She got painfully to her feet and twisted her body, trying to see her bound hands. She couldn’t see them at all. She moved to the corner, away from where the door opening was, and stood so that she could see her hands in the reflection of the icy wall. With the mask over her head, it wasn’t a perfect glimpse, but Winter could see what was binding them.

“What fools,” she whispered. “Why did I not think of that before?” Winter smiled as her stomach growled and her mind prepared a course of action.

She moved to the far wall and stood with her head down and her shoulders slumped.

“I need to speak to Jamoon,” Winter pleaded to the walls.

“It’s late,” a voice echoed back. “Jamoon is in Morfit.”

“I have no idea of time,” Winter replied. “And if Jamoon is not here, let me speak with that sickly rant. I know he’ll want to hear what I have to say.”

There was a long, pregnant pause as the guard digested what she was saying. She could almost hear him imagining the reward Jamoon would give him if he were to deliver a talking prisoner. Of course, Jamoon would be equally unhappy if she had nothing to offer and the guard had interrupted him for no reason.

“Well?” Winter said impatiently.

There was the noise of cracking ice followed by a slit of light that shone through the wall, exposing the exit. The crack in the ice expanded, and there stood a single rant. He was wearing the traditional black robe. He was tall on his right side and lumpy on his left. Winter couldn’t even guess what the left half of him was at the moment. In his right hand he held a long, wooden kilve.

“If you—”

One could argue for days about what the guard had intended to say. Perhaps he was going to say, “If you want, I’ll carry you.” Or maybe he was going to say, “If you find a pair of prescription reading glasses, they’re mine.” Of course, both of those possibilities seem unlikely, seeing how he was a rather aggressive rant who didn’t like to do extra work and had perfect vision.

What he was about to say will most likely never be known because as he began to speak, Winter froze his right side while simultaneously freezing the covering on her hands. She hurled herself against the icy wall, shattering the frozen rope and cloth that had been keeping her hands bound.

With her hands free, Winter touched and thawed the rant’s kilve. She snatched the staff from the guard as she stepped around him and began running down the icy hall. The kilve was long and wooden and painted with the ashes of dark dreams. The pointed end was sharp, with its edges so finely sanded they could have slit the throat of a roven. The other end was as blunt as a steel fist. Kilves were an effective weapon for beating your enemy or for utterly destroying incoming dreams. Winter could feel the evil this particular kilve had been a part of.

She shuddered and kept running.

Looking out through the slits of the mask, Winter tried to remember the little bit she knew of the place, but everything was ice and there seemed to be hundreds of hallways heading hundreds of directions. Most of the ice was smooth and reflective. Winter felt as if she were in a house of mirrors, with her reflection looking back at her from all angles.

Winter raced down a wide corridor, shaking her arms to get the blood flowing back in her wrists and hands. Her shoulder hurt from the beating it had previously taken. An angry shout behind her rang out.

They were coming.

Two large rants appeared in front of her, running toward her as if they knew of nothing else worthwhile in life. Winter thought of them as ice. Their dreamlike sides writhed and complained, trying to support the weight of their now-frozen right halves. Winter dashed between them and pushed them to the side.

The footsteps and shouts behind her grew louder.

Winter ran as fast as she could, her heart and head pounding like wet shoes tumbling in an electric clothes dryer.

“Stop her!” a thunderous voice screamed.

Winter touched the wall with her right hand as she ran. Instantly the structure thawed, turning into a wall of water, which collapsed in a terrific wave. She threw the kilve to her other hand and touched the wall on her left as she ran. It too became a gigantic wave of water. Winter could see the entire fortress behind her beginning to thaw, the water rising, picking her up, and carrying her down the hallways as it melted. She put her arms out in front of her and let the giant wave hurl her away from her pursuers. She could hear their screams fading behind her.

Winter raced with the wall of water down a steep set of stairs, out into and across a brick courtyard, and into another hallway. Ahead of her she could see a gigantic stained-glass window. The image was of the Want working with metal. It was a beautiful piece of art, but Winter knew it was her or the window. She extended her arms and held the blunt end of the kilve out in front of her.

The kilve shattered the glass with the water following right behind to wash the bits away. The room behind the window was huge, and as the water dispersed and ran off in a thousand directions, Winter settled to the floor and gently washed up against the brick fireplace.

She pulled herself up onto her hands and knees, her hair hanging down inside her mask like a bunch of wet spaghetti noodles. Winter had had enough. She jabbed the pointed end of the kilve into the seal of the mask and ripped it open. Winter threw off the mask.

She frantically looked up and back.

It appeared that no one had made it as far as she had. Winter worked herself out of the loose bodysuit she had been shrouded in, exposing the outfit she had been wearing when she had stepped back into Foo. Winter knelt and bit at the wrist of her right sleeve. There was already a small opening in the cuff thanks to Geth having hidden there. Winter pulled out a small length of elastic. She bit at her other sleeve and pulled out another small piece. She flipped her hair back and grabbed a handful on the right side. She twisted the elastic around it, creating a long, wet pigtail, then did the same to her left side.

Winter sighed. It was heaven to have her hair out of her eyes at last.

She was searching around for an exit when a voice spoke out, startling her.

“You look much younger than the Winter Jamoon spoke of.”

Winter jumped in shock and took a defensive stance with the kilve. Hidden in the shadows near the edge of the fireplace was the small, disgusting rant. He stepped closer and coughed. As the light hit him, she could clearly see his red right eye.

“I told Jamoon you would try to escape,” he said knowingly. “Jamoon is too slow to listen to me.”

“Well, now that we both understand what I’m doing, I’ll be going,” Winter said with determination.

“Wait,” the rant said, coughing and waving his right hand impatiently. “You still don’t remember your part? Jamoon said you would remember and help us.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Winter said, her own soul wriggling uncomfortably.

The rant’s right eye burned.

“Just let me leave,” Winter bargained. “When I remember what you’re talking about, you’ll be the first to know.”

“I can’t let that happen,” he growled. “You will die before you get—” He stopped talking due to his left half beginning to bubble and hiss.

As much as Winter wanted to know what the rant had to say about Jamoon, she knew she needed to act fast. Rants were weakest when they were shifting. It was a dirty play, but she was not about to lose the opportunity.

Winter drew back and swung the kilve with as much strength as she had. The stick struck the sickly rant in the right shoulder, and he collapsed like a pile of stacked cards, screaming as he hit the ground.

“Stop!” he cried, his body still adjusting.

Winter was out the door and into the mountains before the rant could say another thing.