The Iron Crown

5: Saoirse

The village was dark.

Saoirse felt a rock settle in the pit of her stomach. It was early in the morning, and with the blizzard raging, perhaps she simply couldn't make it out properly yet. She tried to reassure herself those black silhouettes in the fog would light up with a golden warmth, any moment now. Behind her, Florin clicked his tongue, and in a heartbeat, he had urged Noctis up to trot along beside her. She couldn't read him. His hollow face held no expression, staring vacantly at the path ahead with his lips pressed into a thin line. If he could sense something wrong, though, he didn't say it. Florin glanced over at her, raising his eyebrows.

"People probably let their fires burn out in their sleep," she said, slipping out of the saddle and wrapping the rope around her hand. Saoirse padded over, taking Noctis' reins. More than once, her grandfather had told her off for riding directly into the village square. The square is for people, not horses. She had protested, at the time. It was far more inconvenient to loop around to the stables. She had worn him down eventually; so long as she led them through slowly, she would be allowed to take the shortcut. The memory brought a smile to her lips.

A smile that faded all too fast.

The cobblestone was covered in ice. Not snow, hardpacked by busy feet. Thick, cold ice - like someone had dumped a pond in the square and watched it freeze over. The mare bucked her head, hooves slipping a little as Saoirse tugged the rope. Even Noctis seemed uneasy. His ears were flicking, grinding his teeth but still dutifully following. She found herself using the horses for balance, her boots threatening to slip beneath her.

It came like a ghost from the snow; a black figure, stood in the centre of the courtyard. Broad shouldered, straight-backed with their arms raised to the sky. Relief flooded through her veins; there was only one man in the village that tall.

"Calder!" She called out. She expected him to turn, stop whatever he was doing and wave - perhaps question why she was back so soon. But he stayed, frozen, reaching out as though to touch the clouds. Her confidence wavered. "Calder?" Still, the figure didn't waver. With her heart in her throat, Saoirse took a back, passing the mare's rope up to Florin. The boy frowned.

"Don't," he warned, already moving to slide from the saddle. She wasn't listening. Every nerve was on fire, begging her to wait for him to check, or to simply run. She wished she had a lantern, or even a candle. Something so she wouldn't have to get so close. Saoirse swallowed the tightness in her throat and reach outed, placing a hand on his shoulder.

The man was cold.

Implausibly - impossibly - cold. Cold enough her arm snapped back, a soft hiss escaping er lips. Her fingers were covered in a fine layer of frost, the skin beneath beginning to blacken and die. Her stomach lurched. Slowly, Saoirse picked her way around him, hoping and praying to every god she could think of that she was wrong. The frost glittered, in the watery moonlight. It had stiffened his clothes, crawled like a noose around his neck and then finally settled like a death mask across his face. The old man's eyes were wide open, lips parted ever so slightly, as though preparing to call out.

Frozen solid.

Saoirse stumbled back, almost tripping over something half buried in the snow. She spun around, dislodging more snow from the pile. A second body - Calder's wife, lying on her side with her arms wrapped over her head. Her face was twisted, the ice distorting the scream into something that was barely human. She too had been caught in a single moment, though where his was reminiscent of praise, hers was nothing but terror. Her stomach lurched again, and before she could compose herself, Saoirse was doubled over, throwing up bile. She barely heard the grunt of pain as Florin slipped from the saddle, nor the little whines that escaped his crouched beside her, planning a hand on her back. He said nothing, as she continued to empty her stomach, but his gaze was fixed on the fog, on the snowdrifts which she could now see heaped across the square. Nor did he say anything as she curled in on herself, hot tears threatening to spill. She couldn't let herself cry. She wouldn't let herself cry.