64: THE SNOWS OF KISHNA-FARRIGA

(Kihrin’s Story)

I stepped through Thaena’s gate onto the Kishna-Farrigan streets and knew I’d miscalculated. Made mistakes on so many levels, really, but the most immediate one was visceral, personal, and involved the weather.

It was snowing.

The Manol Jungle had boiled at a temperature excessive by Capital City standards. Dolgariatz’s supplied clothing had been thin and designed to catch the breeze. Even the shanathá chain was so light, it had clearly been enchanted to ensure its wearer didn’t die of heatstroke before they might die of sword stroke instead.

The chill cut through our clothing like we were wearing smoke.

The numbness echoed my feelings. I stood there for an eternity of heartbeats, perfectly still. I remembered my father’s body, my mother’s screams, the black ash flecks peeling away as I unmade Rol’amar. The look on everyone’s face as they realized … well, I’m not sure. At the very least that my good intentions were meaningless. If the connection between Vol Karoth and me was growing stronger—as it seemed to be—then soon I’d be a hazard to everyone around me. Everything around me. A freed Vol Karoth had darkened the sun. And how would that work now? Would Vol Karoth slowly take me over? Would all that power, far too much for my body to contain, consume and destroy me? Would I become a second Vol Karoth so there would effectively be two?¹ I couldn’t tell if my flesh prickled from the cold or my horror. Everything I feared most in the world, condensed into one sharp needle of possibility.

Thurvishar took my arm. “This way. You wait inside, and I’ll go back to Shadrag Gor and fetch us both something more appropriate for this weather.”

“Right,” I managed to say. “Sure.”

I knew a lot of spells to protect me from heat and fire, and not a single one to protect me from cold. Snow fell even as we stood there, lingering on my eyelashes, collecting like a film over my shoulders. While the cold did a blessedly good job of covering the scent of trash and gutted fish from the harbor, I would have rather kept that olfactory assault. Instead, the air smelled like salt, woodsmoke, and ice, the cold scraping my nostrils raw.

I’d never seen snow before, not even in Jorat; I just hid from it inside a toasty cellar tavern while I listened to Janel and her not-quite-so-trustworthy confidant Qown convince me to help them slay a dragon.² This stuff was pretty, but also uncomfortable.

I decided I didn’t like it.

I didn’t watch Thurvishar create his gate back to Shadrag Gor. I was … distracted.

Absently, as if thinking through fog, I wondered if the cold was natural or if Aeyan’arric had somehow beat us here. But everyone wore furs or warm wool coats. The snow was no surprise. Certainly no dragon-inspired panic. Demon inspired, maybe. A few buildings were burned shells not yet rebuilt, others merely singed. People were jumpy in a way that reminded me of Galen, never quite sure when Darzin would materialize, in the mood to teach him a “lesson.”

My teeth began chattering, and I remembered Thurvishar had told me to wait inside. Inside what? Oh right. A tavern.

I’d seen little of Kishna-Farriga on my last visit, although I could tell you a great deal about the quality of their slave pits and sewers. The buildings weren’t like the Capital’s, where space was always at a premium. Back home, even the poorest quarter’s walls were solid and thick, packed tight and layered high. In contrast, Kishna-Farriga spread out indulgently along hills ringing the harbor, each building rising up past its brethren like bleachers at a stadium.

My frosting breath and the numbing cold reminded me I was ill dressed to stay outside. I entered the tavern.

As commentary on Kishna-Farriga’s metropolitan nature, my entrance only caused a minor stir. The large room brought to mind Joratese cellar houses, except above ground and made from wood. Still, it was a closed-in space, meant as shelter in a wide array of weather conditions. Great shutters lashed the windows closed. Fire roared from a hearth. Smoke from oil lamps filled the room with a sooty haze. The front room seemed unusually crowded for the hour, likely from merchants, clerks, and dock workers enjoying a break from the normal routine. The crowd seemed cheerful enough. The smell of food made my stomach rumble. With effort, I ignored it.

Instead, I sat down in a chair as close to the hearth fire as possible, uncovered my harp (what was I going to call her? I still hadn’t decided), and started to play.

Normal etiquette (or at least normal Capital City etiquette) demanded a musician check in with the public house owner before setting up shop, but nothing about my clothing suggested a normal musician. They’d probably cut some slack to a rich, eccentric vané living up to the racial reputation.

Also, I wasn’t in the mood to ask permission.

So I played. I started with “The Ballad of Tirrin’s Ride” and “The Song of Dawn.” I also played the only two vané songs I knew, both of which were melancholy dirges. One was literally named “Valathea’s Song” (which was why I’d learned to play it in the first place). As one might well imagine, it was a dire tragedy where everyone died and everything hurt.

I played it twice.

I normally would have sung too, but I didn’t trust myself not to break into tears.

Finally, my aching fingers demanded I stop. It had been too long since I’d played the harp—my calluses were wrong. The bar fell silent and stayed that way for a vast, pregnant beat after I looked up.

The room broke out into applause. People shouted suggestions for what I assumed were local ballads, probably shanties. I ignored those and began packing away the harp. I couldn’t keep calling her Valathea now that Valathea was a living person. Sorrow? Maybe Sorrow. That’s what Valathea meant, after all.³ The harp’s curse had lost none of its potency. I’d gained the harp and, right on its heels, lost my father. Again.

A thickset man, pale by Quuros standards, walked up to me, cleaning his hands on his apron. “Want … life? In … tree … the…”

I blinked at him. He was trying to speak the vané language, voral. He was doing a terrible job at it. Still, I admired the effort. A Quuros tavern keep wouldn’t have bothered. “I speak Guarem,” I offered.

“Oh, thank the gods,” the man said, visibly relaxing. “I asked if you want something to drink? On the house.”

“I’d rather have something to eat, if you don’t mind.”

The man shrugged. “Sure, why not? I have steak pudding left if you want.”

“Pudding—” I shook my head. I imagined the local idea of “pudding” and mine didn’t resemble each other. Either that or the local cuisine was unbelievably foul. “Whatever you have. Thank you.”

“Be right back. Also, you should pick that up before someone thinks you don’t want it.” He pointed to the ground.

Ords. I’d missed the crowd throwing money at my feet, and I almost laughed in dark humor. Would I have been complimented or scandalized if I had really been a vané lord?

Well, I needed the metal. I didn’t have any local currency.

I bent down and picked up the coins, thinking three things. One, this wasn’t how I’d expected my day to end. Second, that I already missed Teraeth and Janel like they were the air I needed to breathe. Lastly, that since time moved differently in the Lighthouse at Shadrag Gor, Thurvishar should have returned before I’d reached the end of that first song.

So something must have happened.

My mind raced with a thousand ugly possibilities. Relos Var knew about Shadrag Gor. Var wouldn’t necessarily be polite if he ran into Thurvishar again. And if anything had happened, well, it was Shadrag Gor. Thurvishar could have been months dead, and I’d never know. I might be on my own.

I looked around. A few people were still giving me looks, ranging from wary to curious, but most had gone back to their drinks and chatter.

A group of people huddled around a table in the back, and they had a serious, focused intent I knew well. Gambling of some sort, although I wasn’t close enough to tell the specific flavor. The game itself didn’t matter, though, as long as luck was more important than skill.

“Thank you, Taja,” I murmured.

I fingered the coins in my hand. Maybe it was enough to buy my way in.