Frostfell

CHAPTER SEVEN

Near the ruins of Winterkeep

The old, old woman raised her head and sniffed into the wind. A northern wind, it bit with the promise of ice. Not hard. Not yet. The season was passing, but she still had a few nights before the first snow, a few more days of scrabbling through the ruins. Every evening darkness caught the land earlier and held it longer. She would have to leave soon. Very soon. Old and powerful as she was, even she was not foolish enough to be caught at Winterkeep when the snows came. As the first rim of the sun touched the western horizon, the old woman stood in a shadow cast by a massive stone. It had once stood tall and proud, and even now after all these years she could make out the remains of designs carved into the stone. They were rounded, smooth, some no more than faint indentations, but for those wise enough to know how to see, the designs had obviously been wrought by human hands. The men and mages who cut the stone and raised the temple had been bones and ashes for thousands of years. Their holy place high on the island had stood longer, but it too eventually succumbed to the never-ending winds off Yal Tengri, and fallen. The old woman looked to the far shore a few hundred paces south of the island. Only a few broken stones littered the foundations there. Most of once-proud Iket Sotha lay underground where the brightest day was dark as sleep and it never grew warm, even in high summer. She'd spent several days scrabbling through the ruins, as she did every autumn, searching for relics and any old thing that might hold power. This season's hunting had been particularly poor.

Maybe she'd try the southern stair again tonight. The wind off the water gusted, and she sniffed again. Yes. Snow soon. In her bones she could feel the clouds gathering far away over the northern ice. This would be her last day on the island. The breeze died off, almost as if hushed, and inhaling as she was she caught a strange scent. She sneezed and muttered a curse. What was that foul stench? Almost like … flowers. Crouching low and leaning upon her staff, she looked through the jumbles of rubble at her feet. Nothing but moss lined the wet stones. A few stunted shoots had pushed their way through a crack in the stone at the base of the large rock. She considered trampling them but decided against it. With the promise of snow, they would die soon enough anyway. She smiled. Then the scent hit her again. Very faint but enough to make her scowl. She scrambled through the stones, poking at the rubble with her staff. Some old fish bones there, probably left behind by a tern. The eyes were empty and dead, but a bit of skin still clung round the sockets. The old woman picked it up, plopped it in her mouth, and began sucking on it, trying to soften the bits of skin and tissue. The breeze brought the scent to her again.

What was that? The old woman lifted her gaze and stepped out of the shadow cast by the stone. It lay at the base of the island's crest, a great pinnacle of rock that thrust out of Yal Tengri. Atop the crag stood a tree, long-dead and blackened by generations of winter. It had been a great thing once, not tall but thick and strong, its boughs twisted. Even the winter gales had never been able to topple it.

Something caught her attention. There it was! Something flickered on the tree, painted orange as an ember by the dying sunlight. Could it be a bird, caught in the ancient tree's tangled branches? Perhaps if she were quiet she could sneak up on the poor thing, snatch it, and have more for her supper than old fish bones. The old woman had to lean on her staff and took her time climbing the slick rocks. The scent grew stronger as she climbed, and her scowl deepened. That was no bird. Standing under the great tree, the old woman felt dwarfed.

She and the tree were the only upright things on the island, and she seemed small and insignificant next to it. She'd never liked the cursed thing. She held her staff in a firm hand and raised it, ready to strike. Perhaps she was wrong. Maybe there was a bird up there, and that smell was coming from something else. Should it be a bird, she wanted to be ready. One little rap with her staff. Not hard. Not enough to stop its little heart. Just enough to stun it so she could grab it. Slow, nice and slow, she crept around the tree, her gaze casting upward. The last sliver of sun sank in the west, and its last flicker of flame caught on the thing waving from a low branch. The old woman gasped. It wasn't a bird at all. It had glowed red as an ember in the dying light when her eye first caught it, then as the first bit of true night fell on the island, all warmth and light left the little thing. It was no larger than the old woman's thumbnail, but there was no mistaking it. The ancient tree of the Raumathari kings had produced a bud.