The morning had been clear and cold enough to freeze piss when it hit the ground. The sky had given no particular sign of trouble until trouble descended. In the space of an hour, the day went from calm to blustery and from blustery to a howling gale. Dar Cinlama and the Antean expedition had been rumored to be just ahead of them somewhere along this road, but Marcus didn’t care about them any longer. Or about the spider goddess or anything other than the thought that freezing to death on a icy track in Hallskar wasn’t the way he’d hoped to die, but it also wasn’t the worst.
“Your turn,” someone said, but Marcus wasn’t sure who. He tried to blink but his eyes felt raw. Cary tugged at his shoulder again, pushing him toward the cart. “It’s your turn. Get in.”
“Right,” Marcus said. With numb blocks for arms and legs, he clambered up the back of the cart. The wind wasn’t so bad here, though the cold was cutting. There was frost on the costumes. He inched forward until he was nearly at the front. Kit sat on the bench, his body made nearly round by the cloaks, jackets, and blankets that wrapped him. Snow and ice were sticking to him like he was a stone.
“We have to find shelter,” Marcus shouted over the voice of the weather.
“Yes,” the snowball-lump that was Kit shouted back.
“Are you sure we’re still on the road?”
“No.”
Marcus paused for a moment, trying to think what he could do about that.
“All right,” he said. “I’m going to rest.”
“You should.”
Marcus turned back. A gust of wind shook the cart, and he felt the jarring when the wheel fell back to the ground. The tiny glass lamp that hung from the top of the folded stage didn’t go out, and he cupped it in his hands, letting the warmth of the little flame thaw his fingers. They were all taking turns resting in the cart except for Kit with the team and Smit who wouldn’t stop leading the two riding horses. It was only their second week out of Rukkyupal, and the fantasy Marcus had built of going from town to town putting plays on for the Haaverkin and uncovering hints about the whereabouts of Dar Cinlama was dead.
Someone shouted. Charlit Soon, Marcus thought, but it could have been Cary. He had the image of someone fallen in the snow and unable to rise. He fought the weariness, focusing his eyes, then went out to help them back up.
Only no one had fallen.
Charlit Soon was standing off to the side of the road, pointing out into the grey-white gloom of the world. Marcus fought his way toward her, slipped on the ice, and rose again. When he came close enough to hear individual words, she was shouting, “Light! There’s a light.”
And to Marcus’s amazement, there was. It was faint and inconsistent, but somewhere close, a fire was burning brightly enough to penetrate the storm. And Charlit was standing on a side track that seemed to lead toward it. They had very nearly walked right by it.
“Stay here,” he shouted. “I’ll get the others.”
It seemed to take hours to stop them all, to turn them, then find Charlit again and start off. The wind blew against their backs now, shoving them forward. And slowly, a darkness rose up before them: a massive structure of black wood logs woven one atop the other into a wall. More trees were laid over the top, and a load of snow as tall as all the rest towered above it, higher than clouds. A great pitch-stinking torch fluttered in the wind like a lighthouse in fog, and a thick wooden door stood beside it.
Marcus struggled forward and slammed a numb fist against the door, hoping that someone would answer him and planning how to break it down when they didn’t. The door swung open on a Haaverkin woman. Her vast body was covered in light wool and fur. Her face was complicated by swirling tattoos in red and blue, and her expression was like a mother whose child has just hauled home a basket of puppies.
“Who in hell are you people?” she asked.
“Marcus,” Marcus said. “Kit over there. Some others. Make plays. Wondering if we could come in.”
The woman sighed, shook her head, and turned to call over her shoulder.
“Kirot! We’ve got more idiots.” She turned back to Marcus. “I’m Ama of Order Murro. This is our lodge house. You there. Just leave the horses. We’ll get them. You’ll only cock it up.”
Marcus nodded, then stumbled past her into the warmth.
The lodge house was a single massive room with a fire burning in a stone grate at the far end. The air was sooty and thick. Great tables ran along the walls with benches made from split trees. The Haaverkin at the tables—twenty, perhaps thirty of them—turned to watch him with amusement and curiosity. Marcus raised a hand in greeting, but kept stumbling forward toward the light and the promise of warmth. As he drew near the flames, he saw thinner figures at the hearth. A half dozen Firstblood men, and a leather-skinned Dartinae man with eyes so bright it seemed like his head was hollow with firelight blazing through empty sockets.