Duke Ian Chidair paused, growing momentarily silent, while from the outside a strong gust of winter wind entered the icy chamber, pulling at his face, his hair, moving frozen filaments. . . .
“Cold
. . .” he said then, turning his neck with an audible creak in order to turn his face to the window, speaking in a soft voice. Now that he spoke at a low volume, his chest’s whistling came more pronounced in the quiet. “I am cold, yes . . . and I don’t know it, don’t feel. It’s like I am already on the other side, seeing this world through a thick barrier. White as snow and thick as cotton. But . . . at least I am still here, even in part. Because what awaits me over
there
could be even colder. Death’s cold. I cannot . . . cannot bear to know. Not yet. . . . Not ever.”
“My father
. . .” Beltain said. “If only I could give myself up in your stead. I am so sorry.”
Hoarfrost looked around, back at his son. “Nonsense, boy,” he said in a once more loud voice. “Your life is yours, and you should hold on to it as well as you can—while you can. And, don’t be sorry for me. Because, my loyal whelp, I am not going anywhere! You hear that? And you, you hear, Death, you old ugly whoreson? You will not have me!”
“What will happen?” Beltain said.
There was a very terrible pause as something, like mechanical gears, went into play; it pulled at the Duke’s frozen mask of a face, molded it into a perverse semblance of something that a living man would do naturally.
Hoarfrost smiled.
“I’ll tell you what. We’re going to have us a little war, a bit of military fun on Lethe’s behalf. Why, we’ll go patrolling the Northern Forests and catch us some pretty girls! That’s what we’ll do! Not a single one will get through, or I’m a lying sonofabitch!”
And as Beltain stared, knowing on some level that his father did not mean it, was only verbally baiting him, Hoarfrost roared, “By God and the Devil, It’s hunting time! The season to snag me a ripe and willing Cobweb Bride!”
T
here were few things more unbearable, Percy thought, than having to trudge in the winter snow along a rutted road between towns, in the middle of nowhere, holding a heavy basket, headed to one’s certain freezing death—and having to listen to Jenna Doneil’s teeny, slightly flat voice singing the same damn verse of a “song” she made up, over and over, for the last several miles.
“Cobweb Bride, Cobweb Bride!
Come and lie by my side!”
And again:
“Cobweb Bride, Cobweb Bride!
Come and lie by my side!”
And then, repeat this every two beats per measure, taking a step per beat, and occasionally skipping and hopping like a bunny rabbit, in-between the verses.
Lord, if you hear me, take me now.
And failing that, Death, if you hear me, and I am your Cobweb Bride, now would be a good time.
The road stretched and curved occasionally, around bends and up small hillocks, so that they had to make the extra effort to walk on an incline, their breaths coming in curls of white vapor in the cold air. At such times Jenna would forget her song and trudge uphill, but still with a sprightly bounce in her walk. Percy meanwhile followed her less exuberantly and in secret relief at the temporary silence.
She didn’t have the heart to tell the child to hush—it was a good thing Jenna was in such high spirits, early in the journey. Very likely she had no true understanding of what potential difficulties lay ahead of them.
The first of such difficulties was looming fast. They would have to stop and rest at some point. Have a bite to eat. Answer the call of nature. But where, and how? It was not a good time or place to stop and sit around in the snow. And as the day advanced, there would be a further decrease in temperature and a hardening in the wind, even a possible blizzard. Already the sky looked angry grey up around the edges where darker monochromatic clouds moved in. By the time it got dark, there would be some ugly winter weather. And they were still more than halfway from the nearest town of Tussecan.
Percy considered how to gently suggest to Jenna that they should walk faster without alarming the girl.
Another possibility was to hitch a ride to town with some kind stranger. Only, for the last hour of walking they had seen almost no one else on the road—a very occasional bundled figure of a shabby homeless straggler, or a clattering donkey cart often rigged on sleds, whose driver did not look altogether friendly. In fact, being wary of possible dangers of another kind, Percy made sure they stayed well away from the road or even concealed themselves behind trees for most of the passerby traffic.
“Percy!” said Jenna all of a sudden, as they carefully came down an icy incline. “I’m cold . . . and I kind of need to pee.”
Percy stopped.
“All right . . .” she said. “Let’s see, hmm . . . All right, let’s walk a little bit more until we see a thicker roadside hedge.”
“All right,” Jenna said, echoing her. And they continued for about a quarter of a mile until there was sufficient growth alongside the road that could properly conceal a person.
“Go on behind that one. And I’ll stand here and watch the road,” Percy said.
“You promise you won’t go away and leave me here, Percy? Promise!” said the girl in a sudden intense voice. The expression of her eyes was startling in its vulnerability.
Percy pretended not to notice and shook her head with a teasing half-smile. “What kind of ninny do you take me for? We need to stick together. I’d be very afraid to go off on my own, to be all alone, especially now, so of course I won’t go away. I need you, silly.”
“Oh
. . .” said Jenna, and apparently reassured, clambered behind a snowed-over hedge.
Percy stood in place, stomping her feet to keep moving, glancing around at the overbearing whiteness of the snowscape around them. She considered if maybe now was a good time to open the basket and see what was there to munch on. Except, she was really loath to remove her relatively warm mittens and dig around in there with fingers that would become icy in no time.
On the other hand, her stomach was rumbling, it was past midday mealtime, and eating would be something that can warm a person up—she remembered hearing this somewhere.
“Oh, confound it
. . .
fire
is something that can warm you up,” she muttered to herself out-loud. “Fire, we need warmth and fire. . . .”
“Huh?” came Jenna’s voice from the hedge. “Did you say something? You’re not leaving, are you? I’m almost done, please, I’m coming out!”
“Take your time,” replied Percy.
At that point she heard the rumbling clatter of yet another cart coming on the road from behind them, and the sound of several boisterous voices. It was coming from back where they had come from, Oarclaven.
Percy considered dashing behind the hedge, but in that moment Jenna appeared, straightening her skirts and patting down her kerchief. “All done,” she said brightly, then skipped and hopped in place, thumping down the snow with her thick wrapped shoes.
The cart was slow-moving. Percy watched it come rolling from the distance, driven by a single large draft horse, and there were figures walking on either sides. They were all heavily bundled, and from the looks of it, all were wearing skirts.
As they approached, Percy and Jenna heard laughter and many female voices, chattering. What in the world? The cart was filled with young women. At least six were piled inside, their kerchiefs and hats clustered together from the distance and blending in like a bunch of brightly colored mushroom caps. Two more walked next to the cart.
When the cart was close enough to distinguish faces, the women suddenly started to wave and scream at Percy and Jenna in a sort of hysterical giggly chorus that only a bunch of barely pubescent girls could manage when they gathered together and things got too rowdy and fun.
“Oh, look!” Jenna said, perking up. “There’s Flor!”
And indeed, there was Flor Murel, Oarclaven’s best baker’s eldest daughter, a bright red shawl over her blond hair and dark coat, her bundled feet dangling from the cart, waving at them.
“Hey, Percy! Look, everyone, that’s Pur-seh-pho-neee Ayren! And Jenna! Jenna Doneil! Hellooooh there, Percy!” she exclaimed, her fine-featured, pretty face flushed and rosy, and not a sign of the redness of tears around her eyes that they had seen on her earlier this morning through the bakery window.
The rest of the young women picked up the yelling and there were even whistling and catcalls. As Percy and Jenna stared in amazement, the cart slowed down, and the driver—a slightly older woman bundled in a very dirty-looking, ragged, brightly multi-colored woolen kerchief—pulled up at the reins, saying “Whoa, Betsy!”
The great wheat-and-cream colored horse obeyed, and the cart came to a full stop only a couple of feet away from Percy and Jenna.
“Hello there, girls!” the woman driver said in a deep sonorous voice that immediately made Percy feel right at home. “Where are the two of you headed on such a cold day?”
Percy opened her mouth to reply, but once again Jenna was there first.
“We’re looking for Death in his Keep! And we’re gonna be Cobweb Brides!” Jenna exclaimed with the same level of cheer that someone would use to announce an outing to a fair to buy caramel apples.
“Oh, you are, are you?” said the woman, and her very dark eyes held a twinkle of amusement. “Well isn’t that a lucky coincidence, girls, because so are we! Cobweb Brides, the whole lot of us—myself excluded, of course, I’m just an old bag, here along for the ride. I’m Grial, by the way, from Letheburg. This here is my cart and my horse Betsy—never mind, yes, I know the name’s a bit odd and not very horsey at all—not Grial but Betsy I’m talking about—but she thinks she’s a cow and that’s her name, she tells me, so what can you do?—and so anyway, I’m just giving a ride to a couple of nice young ladies, and picking up some stragglers on the way. Do you realize that the road from Letheburg to here is practically crawling with all of you Cobweb Brides? Honest to goodness, you appear to be more plentiful than roaches. Much prettier than roaches, too, in most cases, I dare say—though it being winter and darn chilly, there aren’t that many roaches running out in the snow, so a person cannot properly compare. Now, if you ask me, those little pests are far smarter than you’n me. When it gets cold they naturally scamper off into warm hidey holes near chimneys and—”
Percy listened to the rolling flow of the woman’s words and felt a blooming of some kind of warm, comfortable feeling rise in her, so that for a moment she forgot the biting cold.
“But you know, I do tend to carry on a tad too much, till the cows come home and roost, or would that be chickens?” Grial said. “And so, let me ask you this, girls. Are you by any chance interested in traveling the rest of the way with us? The cart’s got room enough for most of you, and the rest can take turns walking beside it. We have plenty of food between all of us, and what better way to keep warm than huddle together in a nice pile of hay? So, what do you say?”
“Thank you, Ma’am, for your very kind offer,” Percy said. “I think it would be very nice, and I think we’d like that very much. Isn’t that right, Jenna?”
“Yes, Ma’am!” the girl exclaimed.
“Ah, wonderful!” Grial said, then turned around and motioned to the women in the cart. “All right, ladies, how about two of you hop on out and let these two poor dears have a chance to rest their feet for a couple of miles? We’re on rotation here, all proper and regimental.
. . .”
And as two of the women started to scramble from their places in the cart, Grial turned again and said to Percy, “So, how long have you been walking now? Don’t tell me you’ve made it on foot all the way from that last town—what was its name, Oarclaven?”
“Yes, Ma’am, we have,” Percy replied, as she pushed Jenna up into the cart right next to Flor and then got in beside a thick-set girl with thoughtful grey eyes, in a plain brown wool coat and black shawl, whom she recognized also as a local from their parts. Her name was Gloria Libbin and she was the daughter of the town blacksmith.
“Hi, Percy
. . .” Gloria said shyly. She was always a quiet one, and Percy didn’t know her all that well. However she smiled in reply.
“Hi, and very nice to meet you, I’m Lizabette Crowlé,” said another young woman from behind them, with a pretty, slightly sharp-nosed oval face, sitting deeper inside the cart, dressed in a nice burgundy coat with proper buttons, and an almost stylish mauve hat. “That’s Crowlé with an accented ‘e.’” At which point the other remaining girl in the cart giggled and rolled her eyes. This last one appeared younger than all of them—indeed, not too much older than Jenna—with a round face, a blunt up-turned nose, and tufts of brown hair visible underneath her multi-colored woolen kerchief that she wore over a dirty-yellow coat.
“Hi, Percy, I’m Emilie, ’an there’s no accented ‘e’ or nuthin’ in my name, and my surname is Bordon. Pleased to meet you, my Pa is a swine breeder’n’herd down south, we’re not fancy folk. Oh, and hi, Jenna!”
The four girls walking beside the cart introduced themselves one by one. One of the two who had given up their seats to Jenna and Percy was Regata, a tall younger daughter of a Letheburg merchant, with a friendly unpresuming face, dressed in a warm-looking coat of forest green, with dark brown fur trim along the collar, and a cape-hoodlet on top, also fur-trimmed, with a fine linen kerchief underneath. The other one to vacate her seat on their behalf was Sibyl, the kind-faced daughter of a tailor also from Letheburg, with lively eyes, the pale freckled skin and ginger brows of a redhead, and wearing a well-cut royal blue coat and hood, and a woolen mulberry scarf.
The remaining two girls who had been walking all along were Niosta and Catrine, two sisters from somewhere even farther down south than Letheburg; they didn’t say where and really weren’t all that sure. They were both heavily freckled and gawky-thin, their faces smudged, with weather-beaten tanned skin, and their expressions snide and street-smart. Their clothing consisted of worn flimsy footwear, drab wool coats with many tears, revealing in places the underneath-layers of homespun of indeterminate swamp-brown hues, and faded shawls that had seen better days and had holes worn to prove it. They frequently exchanged knowing glances, and gave Percy and Jenna some no-nonsense hard stares.
“All right, ladies, are we all ready to move on?” Grial said loudly. “Then we advance onward, I say! All men to the deck, starboard and portside! That is, all ye flaming cabinboys to the poop! Or is it legionnaires right foot forward and hold on to yer kilts? Oh, never mind! Whoa, Betsy!”
T
he Infanta watched with unblinking attention the strange hate-filled man who was the Marquis Vlau Fiomarre tell a peculiar story of grievances that made no sense to her, for they did not match any known history of this Realm.
“Fiomarre,” he said, turning his scalding dark gaze upon her. “We are—or, have been—if not the most ancient, loyal, true, then surely one of the five such fundamentally noble families in the Kingdom of Styx, and rivaling any other in the Realm. And yet, through the cruel impossible whim of the Liguon Emperor, your illustrious damned father, we are destroyed.
. . .”