The Icemark Chronicles: The Cry of the Icemark (57 page)

Cressida knew the root cause of Charlemagne’s silence and put her arm around his shoulders. She was taller than him by just about two inches, and their bright red hair and green eyes would have proven to any onlooking strangers that they were brother and sister. “Come on, Sharley. We have to accept what we’re given, don’t we? Make the most of what you have and rise above the disabilities.”

“You sound just like Maggiore Totus,” he answered sullenly.

“Do I?”

“Yes. He said exactly the same this afternoon.”

“Well, he’s right. Look at old Carnwulf, the porter. He was a housecarl, one of the best, until he lost his leg to the green rot after he was wounded. But you don’t hear him moaning or going on about the unfairness of life. He just accepted his changed circumstances and got on with it. He’s one of the cheeriest faces in the palace and is liked by everyone.”

“Meaning I’m not, I suppose.”

“That’s not what I meant, Sharley, and you know it,” Cressida answered sharply. “Not all warriors carry swords and shields. Some of the bravest hearts I know are to be found among the gentlest of people. They are the ones who face up to the difficulties of life and refuse to be broken or twisted. They earn the respect of everyone and lay as few burdens as possible on those around them. Remember that, Sharley, and
perhaps even the toughest housecarls will be pleased to call you friend.”

Charlemagne felt his face redden in a confusion of embarrassment and anger, but before he could say anything a call rose up from the werewolves at the gatehouse. Immediately all four children of Queen Thirrin Freer Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield, Wildcat of the North, looked out over the snows to the dark and glowering eaves of the distant forest. For a moment it seemed that the very trees had begun to march out over the plain, but the sharp eyes of the siblings slowly distinguished cavalry horses and the raised spears of marching infantry. The army had come home.

As they watched, the softly diffused moonlight seemed to coalesce and gather about a tall figure riding a long-eared mule, and suddenly a brilliant shooting star of light illuminated the front ranks of marching housecarls and the distinctive white forms of the Queen’s Ukpik werewolf bodyguard. Oskan Witchfather knew that his children would be watching from the walls, and he was sending them a signal.

A call rang out from the Wolffolk down at the main gatehouse, and after a few moments the faint reply from the Ukpik bodyguard spread itself over the cold night air. In an instant all four siblings scrambled for the stairway, eager to be the first to greet their parents.

In one of the highest towers of the citadel, Medea looked out over the snows beyond the city walls and watched as her parents marched home. Her feelings were a tangled knot of
contradictions. She was happy that they’d returned safely, but she was angry that everyone would be greeted before her. A generalized resentment seemed to fill her to the brim.

She was a year older than Charlemagne, and of the same slender build, but where he had the red hair and green eyes of his mother and Cressida, she had the same coloring as Oskan. Once, on her thirteenth birthday, a court poet had compared her white complexion and black hair to snowfall in a shadowed forest, but her silence had ensured that no other social-climbing artist had ever again tried to win her support with flattering verse or song. In her own mind she was as quiet as a winter’s dawn. And her coldness was as deadly.

With her thirteenth birthday had come a focusing of the jealousies she felt for her sister and her entire brood of brothers, Charlemagne in particular. She had been six years old when the terrible plague that nearly killed him had struck, and she’d been forced then to acknowledge she had little to give to others in the way of love and compassion. She’d only been glad that at last her closest rival for her parents’ attention was about to be removed by a convenient death. And then, when he’d survived, her disappointment found at least some consolation in his crippled leg.

It was only weeks later that it occurred to her the attention and pampering he received from their mother and father would be his for life, now that he would never be strong enough to fulfill his role as a fighting prince in the Lindenshield household. She felt she’d been forever demoted
in the pecking order of the family, and rising above them all, even above the Crown Princess Cressida herself, was Charlemagne. Untouchable in his disability, forever sheltered by his parents’ love.

But at least her Gift still ensured she had her father’s attention for some of the time, as he put her through her magical paces and devised different training regimes for her. For several nights a week before she’d “come of magical age” at fourteen, he’d joined her in her tower and together they’d created landscapes and cities from the ectoplasm of moonlight and shadow, or sent their Sight far out into the night, viewing the world around and even spying on the housecarls in their mess hall. She’d been thrilled to find that she had Far-Seeing abilities stronger than her father’s, and he’d encouraged her to range to the outermost edges of her Sight, until she could even see the distant coastline and watch the fishing fleet setting out for the rich hunting grounds.

“What do you see, Medea?” he’d asked, and she’d reveled in the fact that he was relying on her to describe the scene that was as sharp as polished crystal to her.

“The moon has laid a path of silver over the calm sea, and the boats are following it,” she’d answered.

“Can you see the crews?”

She pushed her abilities to the very edge of their limit, but the focus broke up and became grainy. With disappointment she shook her head. “No, they’re too far away.”

He’d smiled and hugged her then. “Never mind, Medea.
It’s just a matter of practice. Your Gift will grow and soon you’ll be able to see far out over the oceans and probably count the hairs in the fishermen’s hairy nostrils!”

She’d giggled, taking both of them by surprise, and her father had tightened his hug. That was the last time she remembered being happy. Not long after, Oskan had stopped his regular training regimes. He would still occasionally help in her attempts to reach her full potential but, in the magical world, the Gifted were expected to find their own way.

All of that seemed so long ago, a time when she had been so young and had yet to be disappointed by the rise of Sharley in her parents’ affections. Now, with all of the lamps and candles extinguished in her tower room and the shutters wide open on the freezing night, she watched her oblivious siblings standing on the walls waiting for the return of Thirrin and Oskan. She had no intention of joining them. Instead she’d wait until the sickening screeches and tears of greeting had been performed, and then she’d go down, knowing that Oskan at least would be looking for her.

She turned back into her moonlit room and settled into the high-backed chair that stood in the center of the floor. As her eyes focused on a point in the middle distance and her ears heard the soft, sibilant whisper of snow blowing through her open window and settling in a drift against the wall, her fingers turned the faint milky blue of freezing flesh. Her body was motionless, but her mind walked the shadows of her plans. Watching, waiting, building her strength …

 

Praise for
The Cry of the Icemark

 

“A wild, exuberant read from a truly original writer … Hill creates an unbelievable world so mesmerizing as to seem real.”

— USA Today

“A remarkable debut … unforgettable scenes and characters.”

— Cornelia Funke

“A story that gallops right along!”       — Tamora Pierce

“This extravagant first novel … offers ample rewards … infectious.”      —
Booklist

“A marvelous and multi-species cast … has something to please high fantasy fans of every stripe.”       —
Kirkus Reviews

“Laden with vigorous battle scenes, mystical encounters, and humorous domestic exchanges, Thirrin’s vibrant story will be pounced upon and eagerly consumed by readers….”

—The Bulletin of the Center for Children’s Books

S
OON TO BE A
M
AJOR
M
OTION
P
ICTURE
FROM
F
OX 2000!

 

Copyright

 

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.

Copyright © 2005 by Stuart Hill.
Cover art © 2006 by Jonathan Barkat
Cover design by Leyah Jensen

All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc., by arrangement with The Chicken House. THE CHICKEN HOUSE is a registered trademark of Chicken House Publishing Limited. SCHOLASTIC and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

First published in the United Kingdom in 2005 by The Chicken House, 2 Palmer Street, Frome, Somerset, BA11 1DS. Email:
[email protected]

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eISBN: 978-0-545-38134-5

First Scholastic paperback edition, June 2006