CHAPTER THREE

Knife

Two months and some days later, on the twenty-fifth of Drums, in the cozy red gloom of their shelter, Aloê Oaij said to her husband, “I dreamed you were suspended between heaven and earth. Then flying knives pierced your body and all four of you fell. That’s how it always ends. I’ve had the dream dozens of times since the new year.”

“Eh.”

Aloê was bitten by a century-long, never-slumbering annoyance. She sat up in her sleeping cloak and said, “That’s all you have to say? Really?”

Morlock Ambrosius shrugged. “There are not four of me. I don’t see how that dream can be significant.”

“Noreê says it is.”

Morlock was silent for a time. Finally he said, “She probably thinks there are four of me. Under her bed.”

“You should stop napping there.”

In reply, Morlock flipped a snowball at her. She fell over squawking, “Where did you get that?”

“It snowed again last night.”

Aloê dodged out of the warm, fire-edged darkness of the occlusion into the fresh-blazing air of a snow-covered morning. She laboriously made a pair of snowballs (it was not a skill she had learned at her mother’s knee in the Southhold) and then shouted into the occlusion, “Come out and fight! Aroint thee, dastard! If that means what I think it does!”

Aloê felt the impact of a snowball on her shoulder. Morlock had taken advantage of her concentration to sneak out of the shelter. She turned and smote him hip and thigh with flying, fragmented snow (her snowballs tended to come apart in midair), and from there it was a tangle of confusion where snow weapons gave way to hand-to-hand combat and, eventually, some uncomfortable but enthusiastic sex in a snowbank—a first, in Aloê’s experience.

They repaired shivering to the welcome warmth of the occlusion and its dim red hotlight.

“After a hundred years of marriage, you still surprise me sometimes,” Aloê said wryly, as they scrambled into dry clothes.

He smiled and pointed at her. She was left guessing what he meant by that—a feeling that did not surprise her, unfortunately.

Morlock packed up while Aloê unmade the occlusion. The icy bite of the unseasonably cold spring air was not as unpleasant as she had feared: maybe it was a good idea to start the day with a snowball fight and some frosty muckling. More experimentation was needed to confirm, she decided.

The snowfall wasn’t deep enough to necessitate snowshoes, but it was deep enough to slow them down a bit. The day was half-gone before they reached the Shaenli farmstead, their usual last stop before ascending the Whitethorns through the Whitewell Vale.

When they got there, she found herself wishing they’d skipped it this time.

The farmhouse was burnt down to its timbers—a charcoal sketch of a farmhouse on the paperwhite landscape.

The farm animals and people were gone. But not all gone: what was left of them was bones—shattered marrowless bones covered with teethmarks.

“What happened here?” she asked Morlock.

“I think they made soup. There’s the remains of a fire over there by the bone heap, and supports for a cauldron.”

“That’s not what I mean. Who did it? Why did they do it?”

“They came from the unguarded lands, I guess. Times have been hard there.”

“This hard?”

Morlock shrugged and turned away. He poked with a stick in a couple of different places, brushing away the snow.

“Think they came that way,” he said at last, pointing toward the Gap of Lone. “Maybe left to go up the Whitewell, into the Northhold.”

Aloê had already drawn both those conclusions. “And so . . . ?”

“Something must have happened at the Gray Tower,” Morlock said. “One of us should go there. The other should head north to bring warning to the peoples of Northhold.”

“Well, would you like to flip for it?”

“I think I should go north, because—”

“Sh. I was joking. I’ll collect what survivors I can from the Gray Tower and follow you north. Or maybe I’ll take Grynidh’s Underroad westward,” she added reluctantly. “I should be able to raise some help from around Three Hills.”

Morlock shot a gray glance at her. He knew how much she hated travelling on Grynidh’s Underroad—miles of which were underground, hence the name. But he said nothing. What was there to say? If invaders were making soup out of the Guarded, she would have to put up with a little claustrophobia or stop calling herself a Guardian.

“Get along with you, then,” she said.

He walked over, held her, kissed her, and walked away. He half ran in a springing long-legged stride that let him hop over the snow rather than slog through it.

She tried to imitate it as she went eastward. But, like so much he did, it was irritatingly inimitable, and she settled for slogging.