Thread of Frost

Ch. 10: Tarhalla

Tristan woke to daylight.

He sat upright. White smoke filtered through the trees, drifting up like ghostly fingers. Branches snapped under feet. Tristan rubbed at his eyes; Isaac and Owain were silently packing up the camp, ignoring each other with staunch determination.

Isaac slung a pack over his shoulder. "Come on, Beauchamp. Let's get a move on."

He hadn't turned around. Not, Tristan thought, that he was surprised; Isaac could hear a rukka drop from a mile away.

Owain paused. "Are you well enough to ride?"

He was holding Tarquin up, his red hair rumpled from the dirt floor. It made him look younger, somehow. Wilder, like a creature of the forest.

Tristan frowned. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Your shoulder." Owain nodded. "It bothers you in the morning sometimes."

Tristan touched it. The skin was puckered, raised like the spine of some animal. He'd almost blown apart his arm when he was thirteen trying to build a self-firing catapult; he'd smashed against a wooden dresser and woken up in the infirmary three hours later. The muscle still twinged in the morning, sometimes.

But how did Owain know—?

Oh.

Right.

"I'm fine." Tristan's voice was short. "Let's go."

They mounted their horses in silence. Owain took the lead, winding up the path. Hours passed. Thick trees gave way to mossy, rolling hills, and they paused at the top, surveying the village below. A steep waterfall plunged toward the valley, and buildings dotted the grassy banks like small white mushrooms.

Tristan adjusted his reins. "Is that it?"

Isaac's face was grim. "I really godsdamn hope so."

A rattling noise filled the air. They all turned to look at Tarquin, who was slumped over the horse; the former guard's face was an odd shade of purple. Something tightened in Tristan's chest. He didn't know much about medicine, but he knew that turning into a human blueberry wasn't a good sign.

Tristan shifted on his horse. "Is he...?"

Isaac blew out a breath. "He'd better not be. We need him alive." His eyes were fixed on the village. "Delivering a corpse to their door isn't exactly a white flag."

Owain pressed two fingers to Tarquin's throat. Apparently satisfied, he dropped his hand. "It's not much farther now."

Isaac turned. "Did Cidarius tell you what the house looks like?"

Tristan shook his head. "She's never been to Tarhalla."

Or Anna hadn't been to Tarhalla when they'd been trapped in the Tower of the Sun King together, at least. Now... A lump rose in Tristan's throat. Now, Anna could have escaped and made it to Tarhalla. Now, she could be safe.

More likely, a little voice whispered, Eris killed her.

Tristan circled his horse.

"Come on," he said. "Let's go."

They picked their way down the shoulder of the hill. The sun burned overhead, warming the skin of his neck. Tarquin muttered the occasional word, his eyelids flickering; Owain was using one hand to keep him propped on the horse.

Buildings sprouted like wildflowers, a bouquet of purple foxglove, bulbous tulips, and butter-yellow daffodils. Most of the buildings had a ramshackle quality, as if they'd been hastily constructed and painted. They also, Tristan noted, seemed very quiet.