"Hm." Menduarthis peeled off his gloves with his teeth, then tucked them into his belt. "Dear Father is dead, I take it?"
Hweilan's scowl deepened.
"Don't take offense," said Menduarthis, his tone light and mocking again. "My father is dead too. At least I think he is. But I assure you, Hweilan, I am no thief. I don't even want to keep your little steel thorn there, though I do appreciate the offer. I simply don't want you causing any trouble on the way. The Ujaiyen's tigers can be a bit… ill-tempered."
"On the way to where?"
"To where we're taking you."
She waited for more explanation. It didn't come, and she knew it wouldn't. "I promise I won't cause any trouble," she said.
"Well, I do appreciate that. But we hardly know each other. How do I know I can trust you?"
"How do I know I can trust you?"
"What makes you think you have a choice?" He waved his fingers at the hunters surrounding them. "Unless you have more ravens up your sleeve… well, I'm afraid I have the advantage, yes?"
"I don't have any arrows," said Hweilan. "I can't even bend the thing enough to string it-much less use it!"
"Then why hang on to it?"
"Because it was my father's!"
"Anything else of his you'd like to hang on to?"
"J-just the bow."
"Hm." Menduarthis folded his hands in front of his face and hummed while he considered it. He looked around at the little hunters, then back to Hweilan and said, "No."
"Why?"
"Because," he said, and his voice went hard and cold again, "although you do seem like a most trustworthy little flower, right now, you need to understand who is in command here. Me. Hand over the bow."
"No. You'll have to kill me first."
"Will I?" Menduarthis laughed and looked to Lendri. "Is she really that foolish?"
Lendri said nothing.
"Oh, yes," said Menduarthis. "Can't speak." He let out an exaggerated sigh-Hweilan noticed that his breath still didn't steam, even in the cold. He raised his voice and said, "The elf can answer this question. Nobody kill him."
Lendri fixed him with a cold glare, then looked around at the hunters.
"Ah, yes," said Menduarthis. "They don't speak the language. Can't understand what I just said. You are paying attention! I guess you'd better keep quiet after all." He turned back to Hweilan. "Last chance. Give me the bow and knife, or I take them."
"No."
He clucked his tongue inside his cheek. "You like magic, Hweilan?"
"Not really."
"Hm. Pity." Menduarthis planted both his heels together, stood very straight, and waved both hands in an intricate pattern. "You probably aren't going to like this, then."
Menduarthis's hands shot forward, and with them came a wind with the force of a dozen winter gales-but focused in one thick stream that flowed around him. His cape billowed out like a pennant. Storm and darkness hit Hweilan, then swallowed her.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Howls haunted Hweilan's dreams. Pain tinged these howls. Remorse. Fear.
Everything around her was cold. Cold and hard. Mountains covered with snow and ice that had not melted in a thousand generations of men. Jagged, broken peaks that bit through gray clouds lined by moonlight. At the mountains' feet, forests of pine older than the kingdoms of men filled valleys-some so deep that they never saw sun or moonlight.
Cold as it was, still the land felt alive. Not merely filled with living things-though that was true; thousands of animals and birds singing, playing, sleeping, waking, hunting and being hunted… dying; even flowers bloomed amid the frost-the land itself and the air around it possessed… a…
Livingness. A steady pulse ran through everything. A breathing. Almost like a song, though one not so much heard with the ears as felt in the blood.
But that blood ran cold.
Her eyes opened, the memory of the dream already fading. She couldn't see. Shadows masked everything.
She tried to sit up, but something held her back. For an instant, she panicked, but then she found she'd been wrapped-more snug than tight-in blankets, then lain upon a thick fur and wrapped again, some of the outer fur blanket folded over her head like a hood.
Wriggling like a caterpillar escaping its cocoon, Hweilan managed to free her arms, sit up, and pull the blanket off her face.
She was surrounded by bones.
She was in a sort of domed tent, made from bent poles of wood-some so green that leaves and verdant moss still clung to them. A small fire in the center of the room cast everything in orange light. Hanging from the tent frame were dozens and dozens of bones. Leg bones, ribs, sections of backbone strung through braided thread like the macabre necklace of a giant. But worst were the skulls. Swiftstags, some with antlers and some without. Tundra tigers, their daggerlike teeth painted in swirls of red and yellow. Many smaller animals-badgers, squirrels, voles-and many birds. And here and there were even a few human skulls, some bare and yellowed with age, painted in many curved and branched patterns, and others still brown and glistening fresh.
The last thing she remembered was Menduarthis on the mountain, then a great gust of wind, hitting her like a felled tree. Her body still ached from the impact, but it was a dull ache. Either a healer had seen to her, or she had slept for many days while her body healed. Perhaps both.
Her stomach felt empty and her throat dry enough to make her believe she had slept for a day at least.
Feeling her body and looking down inside the blankets, she saw that her own clothes were gone. She had been washed and now wore a sort of shift. It felt soft and warm as doeskin but looked fibrous. Someone had washed and clothed her. Hweilan shivered.
She looked down at her right hand. The bandages were gone, and the skin almost healed. The new skin had a too-smooth sheen, but the scabs were gone. The letters were still there, though, a puffy scar: KAN. "Death." She wiggled her fingers, then clenched her hand in a tight fist. The new skin felt tender, but there was no pain.
The flap of the tent opened, admitting a breath of frigid air and one of the little hunters. He ducked inside, pulled the door shut, and his eyes widened at seeing her awake.
They locked gazes for a long moment, then he placed one hand to his chest and said, "Nikle."
In the light of the fire, Hweilan got her first good look at one of these strange hunters.
Her first impression of a halfling had not been far off, at least in height. But there the resemblance ended. He was very thin, and his skin had the tint of a cloudless winter sky. And so much skin showing for such cold weather! It made Hweilan shiver even in her blankets. The little hunter wore a sleeveless tunic of some cured animal hide, belted at the waist. Its fur fringe hung just above his bare knees. He wore no boots, gloves, or coat. Just a very strange hat. It, too, was made from some sort of animal skin, fur around the edge of the cap, tied around a rim of dark wood, or perhaps horn. On the left side, a single antler spike protruded from the rim, and bits of leather lacing tied it to the long cap, so that the hat rose to sort of a curved cone over his head. A tiny skull-from a squirrel or small badger perhaps-dangled from a tassel attached to the top of the hat. The ears protruding from under the rim of the hat were very pointed-sharper and taller than even Lendri's-and the green eyes had the look of elfkind. By the warm light of the fire, they did not quite glow, but they seemed very bright, like flawless emeralds.
Hweilan shook her head. "Nikle?"
The hunter nodded and motioned to her with one hand. "Nu thrastulet?"
The door opened again, letting in more cold air, and Menduarthis entered.
"He's telling you his name," said Menduarthis, "and asking for yours." He rattled off something in the same language she'd heard them speak on the mountainside. Nikle smiled and shuffled out of the way.