Page 38 of The Cradle of Ice
Another Dresh’ri took his place and snatched a fistful of Frell’s robe. “Get up!”
Frell obeyed, wobbling to his feet, struggling to understand—then he spotted the violet eyes and iron collar hidden under the Dresh’ri cowl. He coughed in shock.
Pratik …
The Chaaen tried to shove Frell toward the door, brandishing his bloody sword all around. “Run!”
Frell resisted. He twisted away from his rescuer and stumbled back to the altar. The heat of the two pyres blasted his face. The dark countenance of the Shadow Queen glared down at him.
“What are you doing?” Pratik hollered, panic rife in his voice, swinging his sword wildly.
Frell reached to the sacred book resting open atop the altar and dragged it toward him. He and the others had come to the Southern Klashe to learn more about ancient apocalyptic prophecies. He glanced up to the full face of the moon rising behind the Shadow Queen, then down to the illuminated pages.
I can’t leave this book behind.
Before Frell could close its heavy cover, one of the Dresh’ri broke past Pratik’s guard. The man grabbed the book, cursing loudly in Klashean. The two wrestled over it for a breath. Still too weak, too addled, Frell knew he’d lose this battle.
In desperation—though it went against all his instincts as a scholar—he lunged and snatched a fistful of pages. He ripped them free, desecrating the ancient tome.
Perhaps shocked by the act or unbalanced by Frell’s sudden relinquishment of the book, the Dresh’ri stumbled away, prize in hand. The man’s hip struck the edge of the altar, spinning him around. With a cry of horror, the Dresh’ri fell into the pyre on that side. Screams echoed out of the flames as the man’s body thrashed—less to free himself than to protect the book.
Both causes were lost.
The flames cast higher, licking the edges of that dreaded prophecy painted on the wall. Smoke rolled thickly, reeking of burnt flesh.
Frell clutched his stolen pages to his chest as Pratik reached him. The Chaaen grabbed him and pulled him toward the steps leading out. He waved his sword, holding the others at bay.
“Run!” Pratik repeated.
This time, Frell obeyed.
FIVE
A SHIVER OF SHARKS
First, know Noor was a bastarde of a knyghte. Ruthless in his ambicions, relentless in his convictions, dogg’d in his pursute to cross the Dragoncryst—but worst of alle, was his unswervyng belefe in his owne misbegotten notions of what laye b’yond those ici peaks. Second, know this. I miss my frend & he did not deserve such a cold end to his tale. Still, I suspect he would hafe it no other waye.
—From the addendum in the second edition of The Kronicles of Rega sy Noor (added by the cartographer of the first excursion, who refused to accompany Rega on his catastrophic second expedition, where ship and crew vanished into ice)
20
DAAL WADED OUT of the Ameryl Sea and planted the butt of his fishing spear into the red-sand shore. He leaned heavily upon it, drawing deep breaths after his long dive. His wet skin steamed on the cold beach.
He stared across the expanse of the sea, its waves oiled in every shade of green and deeper ameryl, a shimmering mirror that vanished into the distance. The waters spread under an ice cavern that stretched hundreds of leagues wide and twice as deep. Its roof spanned half a league above, and its bottom delved to unknown depths, to forever-dark regions guarded over by the Dreamers.
A few rocky islands dotted those waters, but most of the land was an endless beach that spread along the sea’s edge, framed on the other side by a towering ice wall that climbed into the mists. Directly overhead, the world of ice broke into a sky so distant and cold that few dared venture there.
Only death lay above.
Down here, the Crèche protected life, a cradle that nurtured all.
Daal swiped the dampness from his brow.
Across the sea and above, a warm fog hovered high, rising from regions of boiling waters. The steamy mists swirled across the high glacial roof. The ice’s steam-smoothed surfaces and spearlike sickles glowed through the fog, bright with shining lichen and draped with phosphorescent frills of fungi.
Exhausted, Daal let the net slip from his shoulder and drop to the beach. A few black ablyin shells rolled free.
“I’ll get ’em,” Henna called from behind him. His sister trampled through the sand village she had crafted while waiting for him.
