Ice Country (16 page)

He takes a step closer, which means his belly
touches me—not his clothing, but his actual skin, because he’s not
wearing a shirt. Thankfully, I am, but the barrier seems so thin
and insignificant I have to choke back another pulse of vomit.

“No funny business,” he says, showing us all
his teeth, which amount to half of what he would’ve started with as
an adult, yellow and chipped.

“Nothing funny here,” Buff says, and I agree
wholeheartedly.

“All yers, Big,” the sword-poking guard
says.

As he turns to go, I say, “See you later,”
but he doesn’t look back or return the sentiment. Probably because
he doesn’t expect he will.

“In,” Big says, and I wonder whether he came
out so large that his mother couldn’t have possibly chosen any
other name, or if the nickname was given later in life, when he
quickly exceeded his peers in every physical way. Probably the
former, if I had to guess.

When I forget to move, Big punches me
forward, his fist like a battering ram, sending shudders through my
bruised body. By the way Buff grunts behind me, I can tell he got
the same treatment.

Torches line the walls of the dungeon,
casting shadows in all the right places. Or the wrong places, if
you’re me and you can only imagine what’s reaching out from the
dark spots as you pass them.

I try to get a good look in the cells we
pass, but their bars are thick and the shadows are deep, and if
anyone’s in them, then they’re well hidden and quieter than a baby
on its mother’s teat.

“Get in,” Big says, motioning with his axe to
an open cell door on my left. I limp through, turn back to watch
Buff do the same. “Not you,” Big says, stopping Buff with an axe
blade to his throat. He seems to use the axe for a lot of things.
Like if he were to shave his back, which clearly, based on the
thick tufts of fur growing back there, he doesn’t, he would
probably use his axe to do it.

He slams the cell door shut with a clang,
twisting a big key in the lock in a practiced motion that I expect
took him years to master given the sausage-like girth of his
fingers, which clearly aren’t made for dexterity. Clobbering, yah.
Pummeling, most definitely. Turning keys in locks, not so much.

“Later, buddy,” I say to Buff as Big pushes
him forwards.

“Enjoy the food,” he returns with a
dried-blood smile.

I take a moment to study my surroundings,
which only takes a moment, because the cell is tinier than Buff’s
house, and decorated with a miniscule assortment of gray stone
walls, floor, and ceiling. A metal pail sits in one corner. I get
the feeling I’ll be holding the urge to use the bathroom as long as
possible in this place.

As I settle in on a spot on the floor that
looks slightly less dirty than anywhere else, I hear a clang, the
rattle of a key in a lock, and then the thud of heavy footsteps as
Big lumbers past. “No funny business,” he hollers as he slams the
dungeon door behind him.

I sigh. This is what I wanted. Right? Chill
yah, I tell myself. It’s better being locked up on the inside,
where Jolie might be somewhere nearby, than free on the outside,
always wondering what happened to my sister, whether she’s alive,
whether she’s safe.

“Buff?” I say.

“Yah.” His voice isn’t particularly close,
but it’s not far either, maybe six or seven cells down the row.

“How you feeling?”

“Like a punching bag.”

“You’ll heal,” I say with a smile.

“I know,” he says.

“Buff.”

“Yah.”

“Thanks.”

“You owe me,” he says.

I’m about to respond when something scrapes
the wall in the cell next to mine.

I
sit statue still
for a few seconds, listening intently. Was it my imagination? Was
it the scrape of a rat’s tiny claws? Or was it something else
entirely?

“Don’t try and avoid me, Dazz,” Buff says.
“Just because we’re locked up doesn’t mean I won’t come collecting
one day. And it’ll be something big, something mind-blowingly huge.
You’ll wish you’d never asked for my help in the first place.”

But I’m not listening. Well, I’m listening,
but not to Buff. I’m listening to the wall, because I hear the
scrape again, only this time it’s louder, and it almost
sounds…
intentional
, like someone’s trying to get my
attention. Well, if so, it works, because I scoot across the stone
floor, unconcerned about the dirt and whatever else has stained it
so dark over the years. I shove my ear right up against the wall,
willing Buff to shut his trap.

“You know, I might just ask for your
firstborn at some point,” he goes on. “If you can ever find a woman
who’ll tolerate you, that is.”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” I hiss.

“Or maybe you can just take my brothers and
sisters off my hands for a while—or forever.”

“Shut it, Buff,” I finally say loud enough so
he can hear.

“Heart of the Mountain, Dazz. No need to get
testy. I was just kidding. Well, mostly.”

The wall pinches me, right on the cheek.

I pull back, expecting to feel the wetness of
blood, but it’s dry. My skin stings slightly and I feel a tiny bump
forming, but that’s it. I reach out to touch the wall, to see if
it’ll sting me again. That’s when it jumps out at me.

A stone clatters to the floor, leaving a gap
in the wall.

When I peer through, dark brown eyes stare
back.

“Who in the burnin’ scorch are you?” the eyes
say, as raspy as a punch to the face. “And why the scorch are you
followin’ me?”

“What the chill is scorch?” I say, feeling a
warm blush on my cheeks. What the chill? I’m not a blusher. I don’t
blush.

“What the scorch is chill?” the icy voice
says. Did I say icy? I meant raspy. Yah, just raspy.

“I’m Dazz,” I say, memories of a strong,
brown-skinned girl floating through my mind. A punch to the
face.

“I don’t give a burn whether yer King Goff,”
the Heater girl says, which confuses me for a second, because
didn’t she ask who I was? But she’s speaking so different than what
I’m used to, using words that make no sense and rounding them off,
almost like the curve of her hips.

“Uhh,” I say.

“Why’re you followin’ me?”

“I’m not,” I say.

“Who’re you talking to?” Buff calls.

“That Heater girl,” I reply.

“I ain’t no Heater girl,” the Heater girl
says sharply. “I’m a Wild One.”

I grin. “I’m sure you are,” I say, instantly
pleased with my wit.

“You are?” Buff says.

“No, you ’zard-brained baggard. Not
Wild—Wilde, like with an
e
on the end.”

Roan’s words come back to me.
The Wildes
steal more and more of our women every year
.

“Yah, Buff, I am. Now can you please shut
your icin’ trap?” I shoot over my shoulder. I turn back to the hole
in the wall and the set of mysterious brown eyes. “You’re a Wilde?”
I ask stupidly, considering that’s what she just told me.

“Well, that settles it. I’m speakin’ to a
searin’ fool. Sun goddess help us all.”

Well, I don’t know about the searin’ part,
but the fool bit’s probably right, considering I’m in a dungeon on
an impossible mission to rescue a sister who might not even be
here. “Can we start over?” I say hopefully.

“Watcha mean?”

I take a deep breath. “I’m Dazz. I’m an Icer.
I’m not following you.”

“Oh-ho,” the Wilde says.

“Okay, okay. I am, but not like you think.
You see, my friend and me, his name’s Buff. Say hi, Buff.”

“Hi, Buff,” Buff says. The Yag.

The set of deep brown eyes just look at me
and I can see what they’re thinking:
his friend’s a searin’ fool
too
. Which is probably a fair thought to have at this
point.

“Anywayyy,” I say, “we were trying to get
information on what happened to the Heaters, because there were
rumors flying around about bad shiver, all kind of bad shiver, and
then I saw you and I thought you were a Heater and so I chased you,
not because I wanted to hurt you or anything like that, but because
I wanted to talk to you, to ask a couple of questions about the
Heaters and whether everything was okay and whether…” I stop. I’m
rambling like a river of melting snow in the summer.

“What kinda questions?” the girl says, the
rasp of her voice tickling my eardrums.

“I guess just, do you know what happened to
the Heaters?” I ask.

“I was there,” she says.

“But how? I thought the Wildes stole the
Heaters’ children.”

“That’s a burnin’ lie,” she says. “Give me
back my brick.” Because of my bumbling, arguably the most important
conversation of my life is spiraling out of control.

“Wait, nay, I’m sorry, that was just what
Roan told us.”

Silence. Her eyes blink. Once. Twice. Three
times. I feel the blush I never knew I had coming back. Something
about being under this woman’s scrutiny is like having my stones
clamped in a vice.

(In a good way?)

“You know Roan?” she asks. There’s something
hard in her voice.

“Not really. I met him once at the border. As
part of my job. He told us a lot of things, but maybe it wasn’t all
true. Do you know him?”

“Roan’s my father,” she says, pulling away
from the hole.

~~~

I try for a few hours after that, trying to
get her attention, to get her to come back to the hole, to talk to
me, but she’s not having any of it.

Buff interjects every once in a while, but
mostly he’s tossing jokes around, like the hits he took to the head
have made him a little loopy.

Eventually, I get tired of speaking through
the hole, so I shove the brick in, but only halfway, so I can pull
it out again if I have to. I slump against the wall, force my eyes
closed, try to sleep. I say one last thing before I drift off.
“What’s your name?”

“Buff,” Buff says.

“Skye,” the Wilde woman says, and then she’s
silent for good.

I sleep.

~~~

I’m awakened when the heavy dungeon door
crashes open. For a moment I’m disoriented, scrabbling at the walls
and reaching into the empty space in front of me, but then I
remember where I am. In my cell, slumped against the wall, sleeping
sitting up.

Big’s voice is a deep rumble of thunder. “No
funny…” Well, you know the rest.

Feet scuffle on the floor. More prisoners. I
wonder if this is a busy day in the dungeons or if every day is
like this, prisoners in, prisoners out. Do prisoners ever go
out
? Or is the sentence the same regardless of the crime:
life in the dungeons. I wonder if they’ll even feed us, or if we
just wither away until we can’t wither no more—and then we die.

The feet trod along, at least three sets,
maybe four, in addition to Big’s crashing footsteps, and I find
myself shrinking into the shadows, like Skye—that’s her name, isn’t
it? Or did I dream it?—musta done when we passed by her cell.

“What the scorch happened?” Skye says, her
voice firm and echoing.

“Shut yer Heater pie hole!” Big roars.

“I ain’t a Heater, you great big tub o’ tug
lard!” Skye retorts. I grin in the dark. She don’t take nothing
from nobody, and I’ve got the black eye to prove it.

“It’s alright, Skye,” another female voice
says, its tone the exact opposite of Skye’s husky timbre. Hers
floats like a simple melody from a flute, calming everything and
everyone that hears it.

Skye stays quiet.

Four people pass by my cell, their skin
orangey-brown under the torchlight. They’re wearing light-brown
skins, exactly like Skye was wearing when I first met her. They
look in at me but their eyes don’t register any sort of
recognition, because they can’t see me in the shadows. A few hours
ago I’d have said they were Heaters, but now I have no clue,
because no one except the men at the border seems to be
Heaters.

Two are guys, two girls. I only get the
barest glimpse, but one’s got shortish black hair, longer than
Skye’s but only by a few months’ growing, and could almost be her
sister, if she wasn’t so much skinnier. Still muscular, but with
bones no bigger than the splinters I occasionally pull out of my
feet. Next to her is a guy, lean, muscular, with a look of strength
about him. Behind them is another woman, with long, black hair and
a regal walk to her, almost like she’s dancing. She looks strong as
chill, too, but in a way that’s more graceful than Skye. And
bringing up the rear is the Marked man, every bit as full of muscle
and hard edges as Buff described, covered with dark markings that
shine a bit in the light, which, when combined with his dark eyes,
give him an intimidating look.

Only I’m not intimidated. Not by him. Not by
his posse.

The only one who might intimidate me is Skye,
but I’m not admitting that just yet.

Then they’re gone and I crawl back outta the
shadows. Clinks and clanks and four more prisoners are locked
in.

I return to the brick, waiting until Big
passes and slams the door before pulling it out. “Skye,” I
hiss.

“Whaddya want, Icer?” And then her eyes are
there and I’m blushing and my heart’s beating just a little bit
faster.

“Why weren’t you with your friends?” I
ask.

“Who’re you talking to, sis?” a voice says
from nearby.
Sis
. Must be the thin, splinter-boned one.

“Just that searin’ Icy that tried to git us
in the trees,” she calls.

“Scram, Icy,” another voice says, this one
warm but full of pressure. The Marked guy. Gotta be.

“’S okay,” Skye says. “He ain’t causin’ no
problems, are you, Icy?”

I almost laugh at how they continue to refer
to me as Icy. To me that means they think I’m attractive, but from
their tone I know they mean it in an entirely different way. And
not a friendly one. “Dazz,” I say.