Page 101 of The Cradle of Ice
“It mean nothing,” he mumbled.
She took his arm, trying to get his attention. Only her touch sent waves of fire through her. She ripped her fingers away. She backed a step, her chest heaving, as if her body were still trying to inhale that heat from him.
No …
Still, with that brief contact, she flashed to a deep-seated fear in Daal. She felt herself being dragged into the cold, dark depths of the sea. She caught a glimpse of Neffa’s tail, then even briefer, a golden glow shining far below. But the overwhelming sense of it all was pure terror.
She stumbled farther back, trying to escape it. Vikas caught her, kept her on her feet. Nyx shied away from the woman’s touch, too. It took her a few breaths to finally collect herself and stare back at Daal, whose eyes were huge.
“Daal, I’m sorry. I know something horrifies you, but I must know. What does dreaming and the Dreamers have to do with Bashaliia?”
He looked down at his toes. Henna hung on his arm, sensing his distress and sticking close. “Bashaliia glows,” he mumbled. “I see it, but it goes deep into him.”
“Bridle-song?”
“Nyan.” He shook his head, struggling for the right words. “It is his past. Memory. Down deep there was once more. He misses, needs, dreams of it.”
Nyx slowly understood. She had sensed it herself at times. Bashaliia had been cut off from his brethren. Out on the Ice Shield, he had traveled beyond their reach, beyond their communal bonding. Yet, he still craved and pined for that larger connection.
And I took it from him.
Still, something was missing in Daal’s explanation. “But what does Bashaliia’s dreaming have to do with Oshkapeers?” she asked, struggling with the Panthean word. “Those Dreamers in the sea? What do they dream of?”
Daal glanced across the plaza. They had reached its edge and had stopped. Most of the mourners no longer paid them any heed.
He turned back, his face a mask of pain and fear. “Like Bashaliia. Oshkapeers. Dream of past. Memory old. Theirs and ours. All. Our dead feed them. With our flesh.” He picked a pinch of his skin to demonstrate. “And with our dreams.”
Nyx gaped at him. “How … how do you know that?”
“We know. Stories old. But I know more.” He stressed the last, his eyes strained with horror. “The Oshkapeers know too much. About the Crèche. About raash’ke.”
With his words, Nyx felt a flare of hope. She reached for him again, then drew her arm back. “The Dreamers know more about the raash’ke? Like what?”
He shook his head. “It fuddled. Confusing. Not dream enough with them. They touch me.” He again fingered those strange marks. “Then throw me away. Not worthy. But I tell no one. Not mother. Not father. Not even Henna.”
She frowned. Clearly, he had had some horrifying encounter with those Dreamers, whatever they were. It had left him scarred both inside and out. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
His voice dropped to a breathless whisper. “Forbidden to go to Oshkapeers. Only the dead go. If I tell, village will kill me.” He swallowed hard, looking down at Henna. “Maybe all of us.”
Nyx struggled to put this together. There was more to this story, but maybe it was best told in private. Still, if Daal was correct, these Dreamers must be imbued with some form of bridle-song. And more importantly, they had greater knowledge concerning the raash’ke.
If I could reach them with my song, maybe boosted by Shiya, could I learn enough to help Bashaliia?
Nyx glanced out to the skiffs rocking on the sea, carrying the dead. She turned to Daal. “I must speak with the Reef Farer.”
“Why?”
“To convince him to let me go with the mourners, to travel with the dead to the town of Kefta and beyond.”
Daal understood her intent. “No. I warn you before. On the beach we first met. No go. Not ever.” He gripped the edge of her sleeve, careful not to touch her skin. “It is death.”
She pictured Bashaliia, enveloped by his warm wings, the snuffle of his velvet nose. Ages ago, she had abandoned Gramblebuck in the swamps, a friend who deserved more. She would not do that again.
If there was even the slimmest chance of saving Bashaliia, then so be it.
I’ll face death.
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