The Maid's War(76)

When he heard the noise, he started to weep.





CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Secrets of Ice





The fur blankets, thick boots, gloves, and thick wool cloak that he had purchased in the city of Dundrennan could not evict the chill that had settled into Alensson’s bones. Even his whiskers had a dusting of snow. He climbed the majestic peaks through rock and ice and fierce winds, following the thundering waterfall up to its origin, a snow-capped mountain wreathed in winter’s chill year-round. It was the source of the water that made the land fertile. It was impressive, cold, and mysterious, and although his toes felt like stones, he pressed on, huffing his way up trails better suited to goats than men.

His exertions up the cliff face rewarded him with a view of the verdant valley below, including the gray citadel that was the fortress of North Cumbria, tucked between thickets of fir trees so dark they were nearly black. He could only hear the wind and the ruffling of his cloak. The community was too far below for its noises to filter to the upper heights of the mountains.

The Maid had said she would meet him at the ice cave in three days. He’d done his best to close the distance, barely stopping to rest and eat. His strength had flagged, but his determination was prouder than the solemn boulders around him.

The trail arrived at a small plateau where he found a great boulder fixed with iron chains. The thought of being chained there made him shudder. Something heavy pressed on his mind as he stared at it, and he felt an unmistakable premonition. Had he been to this lonesome perch before? It felt like it, yet he had never been so far north in his life. He walked up to the stone and rubbed it with his gloved hand. Snow cleared away, bone-dry like sand. The iron chains were heavy and fastened through stout rings.

Unsure of what he was seeing, he pressed onward, following the crevice of the river as it wound through the upper gorges of the high mountains. He continued on his way, chafing his hands and hunkering inside his layers of fur and cloth. The ice caves were a mystery, and he wondered how he would find them.

But he did.

When he reached the end of the river, which had shrunk to a small trickling stream that was sluggish with chunks of ice, he saw the maw of the cave. A strange power emanated from it, and enough daylight remained to illuminate the interior. He marveled at the colors as he ventured cautiously into the cave. The inner walls were rich with shades of silver, blue, green, and turquoise. Ice; all ice. The rippled, supple edges and contours were all the effect of wind and weather.

This was a hallowed place. He could sense it deep within his bones. There were ancient secrets contained here, mysteries related to the origins of the world. As he ventured into the cave, the stream solidified into a giant slippery sheet of ice strong enough to support his weight. He had to walk carefully, though, for the footing was treacherous.

Wandering into the convoluted corridor, he gazed ahead, looking for any signs of life or magic. When he reached the far end of the cave, he found himself facing a wall of ice. The pommel of the sword began to glow, startling him. He sensed the blade’s magic responding to the proximity of the wall. Carefully and cautiously, he withdrew it from its sheath. The blade had a textured, warped pattern, much like the curious flowing shapes of the ice walls. The sword had been birthed in a cave like this, he intuited. It drew its powerful magic from the very depths of the Deep Fathoms.

What was he supposed to do? Alensson approached the wall, holding the blade before him so that its light shone on the surface. A misty breath came out of his mouth as he exhaled, and he shuddered with cold. Was he supposed to yield the blade to the wall? How? He waited, listening, trying to make sense of his strange and mercurial feelings. Something wasn’t right. He was missing something.

Only Genette would be able to invoke the magic, he realized. He needed her.



Alensson spent that black, freezing night alone in the cave, with only the frail light from the sword to assist him. He waited throughout the next day, tromping around in the cave, climbing the rocks and peaks outside to build up his warmth again. He was freezing to death, he realized. The food supplies he had bought in Dundrennan were dwindling. Drinking water from the stream only made him colder, and it barely slaked his thirst. Where was she?

As he waited, his mind kept returning to the boulder and the chains he had passed on his way to the cave. It could not be coincidence. Would the Ceredigic bring her there when they discovered she’d survived the falls? Though she’d asked him to meet her here, she hadn’t told him how she would come. Should he go search for her? Or should he wait? Why wouldn’t the Fountain speak to him?

Alensson gritted his teeth and marched in circles in the ice, fearing he was losing his wits. The thought of his wife’s cozy cottage nestled against the castle wall. How he longed to sit in front of the hearth with Jianne. The babe was coming within the month. He had to get back to his family. But what good could he do them if he did not return with Genette?