Page 50 of The Cradle of Ice
Daal stared gratefully at his mother. Due to her Noorish heritage, she stood a head taller than his father. Her oiled hair was as dark as ebonstone. Her eyes matched Daal’s, as blue as polished ice.
His father gently touched the back of his hand to her cheek. “Of course not, Floraan. You remain as beautiful as when I first met you.”
She leaned into his hand.
Daal knew their history. It was rare for a pure-blooded Panthean to forsake their family and muddle their lineage with the Noor. At least for the past century.
Prior to that, it had not been uncommon. For decades after Skyfall—the day when the Noor had fallen through the mists and crashed here—the two clans had mixed happily. The striking nature of the Noor, who hailed from lands both mythic and fantastical, had stoked curiosity and interest. The newcomers, with their strange customs and skills, had been welcomed into villages, into homes, into beds. But as time passed, that uniqueness wore off, the differences chafed. The Pantheans—who had lived here since the first melt—grew to resent the mingling with the Noor, thinking it diluted their purity. The Pantheans believed their bloodline had been whetted by the steam and ice into their best form. Consensus grew that the Noor befouled it, weakened their lineages.
So, the two grew apart. Those with Noorish blood were relegated to lower duties, held with little regard, forbidden from positions of authority. Still, the Noor persisted, finding comfort among their own, sharing rituals that went back to Skyfall, preserving their language and taking pride in their heritage.
When his father gave his heart and blood to Daal’s mother, he had suffered gravely for it. He had been cast off and exiled by his family, forbidden from ever returning to his village. Still, despite such a fall, he had never once expressed regret for that decision, even while raising a son as headstrong as Daal.
His father sighed, calmer now, but his expression remained disappointed. “Let’s start anew. Why are you—”
The door flap shoved open behind him. Henna jammed her head through. “Have you told them, Daal? We’ve been out here forever.”
Daal waved her back, but she just stuck out her tongue.
His mother drew nearer, her eyes narrowed. “Who’s out there?”
Daal took a deep breath. “Henna and I met some strangers. Far down the beach. After I was done gathering ablyin for tomorrow’s feast.”
“Strangers?” his father asked. “From another village?”
“Well, yes, I guess.”
“From where?”
“They’re Noor.”
His mother perked up, stepping forward. “Our blood? From what village?”
Daal swallowed. “From outside the Crèche.”
His father huffed with exasperation. “Don’t be absurd. Out with it. Where are these strangers really from?”
Daal took a step back and pointed up. “They plummeted out of the mists. Like during Skyfall.” He stared at his mother, pleading to be believed. “They hail from the homeland of the Noor.”
His father rolled his eyes. “What fezzy nonsense is this? I raised you better than that, Daal.”
Henna, still in the doorway, lost what little patience her small body could hold. She entered, dragging Nyx by the hand. The others followed, crowding in behind them.
His father’s mouth fell open. He backed away, sheltering Daal’s mother behind a raised arm. “What daemonic mischief is this?”
Nyx bowed her head, speaking Noorish. “No daemon, I promise you. Just tired strangers needing help.”
Henna hopped up and down on her toes. “And, Ma, you must go see Bashaliia.” She swept her arms wide. “His wings were this big.”
Daal covered his brow with his palm. “Henna, you’re not helping.”
24
NYX SAT AT a small stone table. The benches were slabs of the same, only softened by cushions. A spread of toasted loaves and jams had been offered to them. The fare tasted both strange and familiar. They washed it all down with a sweet wine.
Jace picked at his bread, his nose close to the crumb. “I’d swear it’s made out of barley and rye.”
Daal’s mother—Floraan—corrected him as she laid down a platter of moldy cheese of some form. “Sea oats and fermented algae,” she said. “An old Noorish recipe.”
