Coldmarch

Split was redder than any alder paint now. ‘I don’t want you to know where my Cold is hidden, boy! In case the Vicaress catches you and tortures you. Damn the damned Khat, he doesn’t need my Cold. A man should always die with a few secrets.’

‘Like I said, I don’t need Cold,’ I said, letting the anticipation build. ‘I have what I need.’

Split sighed, rubbing his temples. ‘A mad flock. And I thought two boys was going to be obstacle enough.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Cam asked.

Split huffed, wiping away a little leftover grey ash from under his nose. ‘You obviously don’t know much about the Coldmarch, Tavor.’

‘Never mind that.’ I asked the Pedlar as seriously as I could, ‘What do you believe?’

Split’s beady eyes narrowed even further. ‘In regards to?’

‘Everything,’ I said simply.

‘A mad flock,’ Split muttered again, rubbing the sides of his head.

‘We’re the best flock you’ve ever had,’ Cam said, still indignant.

Shilah tapped at the Khatclock glass once more.

‘Don’t do that!’ Split chided.

Shilah turned around with a glare. There was a plan in her eyes.

I waved my friends off, needing them to be still. This was going to be the first time a stranger witnessed what my machine could do.

‘What do you believe?’ I asked Split softly again, holding my palm over the bucket, the Abb ready to fall in the water. I didn’t relish the idea of wasting a full golden bead, but the Pedlar’s trust and obedience was equally as important.

‘About the World Cried?’ I continued. ‘About the Khatdom? About the Jadans? You don’t call us slaves, not like most High Nobles. What do you believe?’

Split paused, gathering a huge breath in his ruddy face. Everything inside the shack went quiet enough that I could hear Picka braying gently outside in the stable, knocking her hooves against the trough.

‘You really want to know?’ Split asked quietly.

I nodded.

The pause was so heavy that I thought the floor might crack. When he finally looked at me, it was with something emptier than anger. His eyes stirred in the realms of loss, which was all too familiar.

I wanted to dig my fingers back into my wrist, but I had to keep the Abb steady.

‘I believe that we’re alone,’ Split said quietly, his cheeks trembling. ‘That no one is watching. I believe that everyone consumes this World Crier crap all the time, and they drop down on their knees to get their doses, and they say “give me more, please, let me have the truth”. But you know why everything around us, the whole damned world, is all still sand and shit? You know why when people say Great Drought I say my great pale ass? There was no ‘chosen’, no ‘unworthy’. It’s all Sun-damned coincidence. There’s no such thing as the World Crier, or if there was, then he died long ago and left us on our own. You know what I believe?’ He paused, looking into the steaming waters in the bucket. ‘I believe we’re alone as can be.’

I let the gold bead fall.

The bucket creaked and screamed at the rapid change from water to Ice, the seams splitting loose and cracking in half. The scorching water completely changed in the blink of an eye, pushing hard enough to break the metal entirely apart. This wasn’t just a few Drafts in the bottom of a barrel, or a Shiver in the wind. This was a complete and utter shift in reality. This was snuffing out the Sun. This was taking the Vicaress’s fiery blade and turning it around so she could be Cleansed.

This was sanctuary.

The solid block of Ice was both shield and weapon. I had a feeling I could stick it in the heart of Paphos and it would never yield, even after being gnawed on by the Sun, hacked at by taskmasters, stabbed by the Vicaress, and prayed away by the Priests.

Split’s face went slack, his eyes processing the impossible. His fingers had stopped scratching at his leg, and were now sweeping through the air in front of his face, as if he were trying to swat away the devastation of a mirage.

I picked up a piece of the metal scrap that had exploded from the bucket, which still lingered with the touch of Ice, and pressed the flat of it against my injured wrist. The pain and throbbing ceased immediately against the impossible Cold.

‘Meshua,’ Split whispered, and then stumbled backwards, smacking into his counter, his body jerking stiff. ‘Meshua.’

I gave up the scrap, the residual Cold quickly becoming too much. A gorgeous mist drifted from the top of the Ice, white and lovely. The Inventor in me wanted to grab an empty bottle from the healing box and see if I could bottle the stuff, thinking it might be useful in its own right.

Split’s face had gone so pale I could almost see the bones underneath. His eyes were flashing with something that looked unsettlingly like worry. ‘Damn it to dust and rot. After all these Sun-damned years.’ His expression grew murderous and sorrowful at the same time, his hands clenching into fists so tight I thought his knuckles might dissolve to powder. ‘It can’t be Meshua.’ He clenched his teeth and his face trembled, as if he were about to hiss. His breathing quickly grew stunted, his breath shallow and infrequent. His hand went over his chest, pain registering in his face.

I hoped the lingering Droughtweed wasn’t reacting with the shock in some unforeseen way. Abb had taught me some rudimentary healing techniques, but nothing extensive, and I wouldn’t know how to deal with a failing heart.

‘It’s not possible,’ the Pedlar said between his teeth. ‘Can’t be real. Not now. Not after all this time.’

‘Split,’ I said, staying behind the Ice. ‘It’s okay. It’s safe.’

‘Man or woman?’ he said, pallid face somehow seething red.

‘Sorry?’ I asked carefully.

‘Is Meshua a man or a woman, you little brat?’ he barked, far removed from any semblance of patience. His eyes kept flicking to the Droughtweed pit in the floor. ‘You must know, since they gave you the Ice.’

Mist from the Ice rode up the front of my shirt and it took everything in me not to swoon from the spectacular sensation. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

Split sucked in a breath, his clenched hand rubbing the spot over his heart, as if he were attempting to loosen his lungs up for air. His movements were frantic, and the muscles in his shoulders strained.

Shilah walked over to Split and reached out to put a hand on his shoulder. ‘It’s okay. We all felt the same way the first time—’

He swatted her away, not meeting her eyes. ‘Don’t touch me. Back up, girl!’

‘Whoa,’ Cam said, holding up his hands. ‘Take it easy, Pedlar. She’s only trying to help.’

‘Dammit! Meshua! Man’ – Split’s breath had constricted to a wheezing now – ‘or woman?’

‘What is Me-sh-ua?’ I asked, enunciating each syllable. I recognized it from the sacred words Abb had sung to me, but he had never revealed what the prayer actually meant.

Split pointed at the Ice, his finger shaking. ‘The Crier’s child. Meshua. The one who made that.’

I paused, not following. ‘I made that.’

‘Yeah, Spout made that,’ Cam affirmed, snapping his fingers at Split. ‘Weren’t you watching?’

Shilah crossed her arms over her chest and gave Cam a dark look.

Split kept rubbing his heart, his knuckles frantic now.

‘Yes, I know that, Tavor moron,’ Split chided. ‘But the Jadan who shed that golden tear. The Crier’s child. Meshua. Simple question. Man. Or woman? The Book of the March isn’t clear.’

Cam stepped closer, holding his palms up innocently. ‘I think you’re mistaken, my friend.’

Split grabbed his crossbow from the ground, and all three of us stiffened. Before Shilah could extract her knife, an arrow was once again threatening my face. Split’s hands were shaking so badly I had no idea if the arrow would end up in my eye or chin, but he kept looking at the Droughtweed pit, so I knew his aim would not be true.

‘Are you with the Vicaress?’ Split seethed. ‘Or did you steal the golden tear?’

Cam went to step in front of me, but I kept him at an arm’s distance. As long as the arrow wasn’t pointed at my friends, I felt perfectly calm.

‘I didn’t steal anything,’ I said. ‘I found the secret that’s going to set us all free. All of us. Jadans and Nobles alike.’

‘You found it?’ Split asked, aghast.

I nodded, looking at Shilah. ‘With help, of course.’

‘Did they—’ Split nearly choked on the words. ‘Was it— Did they put it in the ground?’

I wasn’t shocked to hear the suggestion about ‘putting it in the ground’, but I was most certainly intrigued. There had always been Old Man Gum’s endless prattles about ‘they put it in the ground’ when I was young and living in the barracks. And then the Crier had said something similar in my vision when I’d been put under the Thoth’s wool hat. Leroi had only agreed to let me stay in the tinkershop after hearing the phrase. It must mean something. I pointed to the Coldmaker bag, to the chiselled bronze Eye peeking out from the canvas. ‘No. It was put in my mind. And my heart. And my hands.’

Split’s face broke, and he turned the crossbow around, holding the tip of the arrow against his own throat. The metal pressed into the soft flesh and scratched against grey stubble. The Pedlar’s hands were no longer shaking, which somehow seemed worse.

No one moved.

‘I was loyal,’ Split sobbed, a tear racing down his cheek. ‘I risked everything, and this is how I get repaid! I believed for so long! And the Crier takes everything from me. Then ten years later sends salvation like it’s nothing! Like it’s Sun-damned NOTHING! Meshua was all supposed to be a lie, I could handle a lie, because if it’s real …’ His thumb crept closer to the arrow release. ‘If Meshua is actually here. If you are here with the golden tears, standing in the same place where …’

My jaw had gone slack, completely at a loss for what to do. Mist from the block of Ice swirled upwards, curling around Split’s fingers, which I prayed wouldn’t flinch. If the Pedlar pulled the trigger, the Coldmarch was over.

Shilah raced to the Pedlar without fear, inching her hand in between the arrow and his throat. It wouldn’t stop the weapon if Split chose to squeeze, but her confidence was as good as a steel barrier.

‘You’re part of this,’ Shilah said softly, curling her palm around the tip of the arrow, almost enough to make a fist. ‘We need you, Split.’

Split gulped as his eyes slipped sideways and fell again on the Droughtweed pit.

‘Tell Meshua to go burn forever,’ Split exhaled, his thumb shaking so badly it was now tapping the release. ‘Didn’t save anyone.’

Shilah slowly removed Split’s hand from the trigger. ‘You can save us. Help bring the machine to Langria. Be a part of this.’

The Pedlar’s face cycled through a dozen emotions, and finally he let out a long sigh and dropped to his knees, the crossbow skittering across the floor. Shilah was quick to pick the weapon up and take the arrow off the shaft, giving me a calm nod, almost as if she did this sort of thing every day. The knife never even left her thigh.

Saving my admiration for later, I reached over the Ice and put a hand on the Pedlar’s shoulder, my whole arm tingling.

‘She’s right,’ I said. ‘We need you, Split.’

‘Show mercy, and tell me it’s a trick,’ Split said, his eyes closed tightly, refusing to look at the Ice. ‘Is it expected that I forgive everything? Just like that?’

‘It’s real,’ I said. ‘And I’ll tell you everything you want to know.’

‘You have the miracle,’ Split said, face still scrunched tightly. ‘The golden tears of the World Crier’s child. And you don’t know Meshua.’

‘I don’t know. But we need to keep the Coldmaker safe. Now can you get us to Langria before the hounds track us down?’

Split opened his eyes and pressed his palms on the ground as flat as he could, the mist that had settled against the floor slipping through his fingers. Then he looked up at me, boring into my eyes. Anger had slipped away, and of all the things plaguing his face, regret now ringed his eyes the most.

‘Don’t you understand?’ he asked, pointing a finger at the block of Ice. ‘This is the miracle; this is Langria. And it’s not just hounds that they’re going to send.’

Chapter Seven

Split’s hands moved like heat lightning as he scooped out mounds of ash, burned leaves, and slag from the small pit in the floor. Tossing the residue aside, he wiped his hands on his already ruined shirt, leaving long black smudges. The air in the shack quickly became dusty and thick from the flurry of upended Droughtweed remains, making me hold my breath so I didn’t cough or inhale too much. Once the plant touched fire, the smell turned from earthy to sickly sweet. The tang caught in the back of my throat and reminded me of things of which I didn’t want to be reminded.

I looked at the Ice, over which Split had reverently draped his thin sleeping blanket, making sure that it wasn’t sullied by his senseless digging.

Cam leaned in and whispered in my ear. ‘I don’t think this is the time for him to huff Droughtweed and go on some vision quest, Spout.’

‘I’m not sure that’s what’s happening,’ I said. ‘You add leaves to make the slag more potent, you don’t wipe it clean.’

‘You do know your stuff. Can you say something to him?’ Cam asked. ‘I don’t think he likes me very much.’

I nodded, making my tone as gentle as possible. Split’s reactions were interesting to behold, making me wonder if I should have kept the Coldmaker secret.

‘Split,’ I said gently. ‘Perhaps it’s not the best time for that. We should be moving, and it’s best we take our wits along.’

Split had already removed most of the old deposit, and he grabbed a new strip of boilweed, wiping the pit clean. The cleaning didn’t make much sense, knowing from my weeks beholden to the Roof Warden that compounding the grey residue only made the visions and high stronger. He was ruining his supply.

‘Meshua and Ice,’ Split said to himself, his coughs coming out grey. ‘Wits don’t exist any more. So I have to get Baba Levante. I have to get Baba Levante. I made a promise that I would.’

‘Split,’ I said again, hoping the sound of his name might snap him back to reality. ‘We have to get moving.’

‘Absolutely,’ Split said, practically shining the pit now. ‘But first we have to go under.’

Shilah had returned to her place near the Khatclock, scrutinizing the edges for signs of a secret passageway the device might be hiding.

‘Okay,’ Split said, stopping and sitting back on his thin ankles, looking over the pile of ash and slag next to the pit. ‘It’s ready.’

I swallowed, taking a step back. ‘I don’t do that any more.’

I thought back to Old Man Gum from my childhood, curious about what event had sent him over the edge of sanity. We had to respect him, since he was the oldest and most weathered in the barracks, but no one ever took his babbling seriously. Now I had to know, who put what in the ground? Had the crazy loon from my past, with his toothless mouth and wild eyes, known about this Meshua as well?

‘Girl,’ Split said gently, still staring into the pit. ‘Shaylah. You can do it now. Open the clock and give it a turn.’

‘Shilah,’ she corrected firmly.

‘Fine,’ Split said, waving a hand. ‘Just don’t look at me.’

Shilah lifted the glass off the face of the machine. She didn’t seem nearly as lost as Cam and I in all of this. She spun the hands one full rotation in the same way Mama Jana had, and the large Eye clicked open, revealing gears behind. But instead of causing the whole creation to swing forwards, the Khatclock stayed where it was.

The floor opened up.

With an angry creak, the bottom of the Droughtweed pit fell to the side, revealing a tight passageway wide enough only for one person. Thin stairs dropped down into the darkness at an alarming angle, steep and slick.

Split coughed at the wave of dust stirred up by the floor’s disappearance, and gave a satisfied nod, his body visibly loosening. ‘Okay, let’s be quick. They’re going to be coming for us.’

Cam covered his mouth and spoke between fingers. ‘Shivers and Frosts, Spout. What is he—’

Split turned to Cam, his eyes still red and raw. ‘You don’t get to touch anything down here.’

Cam turned up his palms, taken aback. ‘Why are you singling me out?’

Split scoffed, turning back around and threading himself through the hole. ‘Tavors.’

Once the Pedlar had disappeared into the secret chamber, a tiny light blossomed within, casting flickering shadows back up the stairs. Shilah came over and gave the back of my neck a squeeze, her fingers lingering on my tattooed numbers. ‘He’s right. About what we made.’

‘Hmm?’ I asked.

She pointed to the Ice, and then, without another word, followed the Pedlar into the hidden space. Her upright posture was perfect for slipping down the steep stairs, and the grey dust swirled and eddied in the wake of her swift descent.

A sudden gasp returned back up, but it sounded more of awe than danger.

I clapped Cam on the shoulder, finally wanting to smile at the adventure in it all. I should have been dead a dozen times over – we all should have – but my father would have been proud to watch me attempt this Coldmarch. There was no time for me to grieve, so I knew the second best thing was to do his memory proud. Abb had had a great sense of humour, but an even greater sense of story.

‘Better keep those hands to yourself, Tavor,’ I whispered with a smirk, hovering over the open pit listening to the sounds of muffled conversation.

Cam’s face fell. ‘I wasn’t going to touch anything.’

‘I was joking,’ I said as quickly as I could.

‘Oh.’ Cam gave me a sullen look. ‘You seemed serious.’

‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ I said. ‘I was just kidding.’

Cam waved it away. ‘No, I know that. It was funny.’

I put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You’re family. I don’t lump you with the rest of— I just—’

Cam’s smile grew wider, but I could see his true expression behind his eyes, as if I’d punched him in the gut, or taken a taskmaster’s whip and added to the scars on his back.

‘It’s okay,’ Cam said.

‘No, we—’ I tried, my stomach sinking. ‘You’re not—’

‘It’s okay, Mic— Spout,’ Cam said with a nod, finding his eyes on the hole instead of my face. ‘Let’s go see what this crazy Pedlar is hiding.’

I pressed my teeth together, promising myself I’d make it up to Cam later. Before going into the chamber I slung the Coldmaker bag over my shoulder, wincing as a metal edge of the machine caught my injured wrist.

‘You can leave it up here,’ Cam said in a gentle manner. ‘I don’t think anyone is going to take it.’

‘I know,’ I said, but couldn’t bear the thought of leaving the machine behind. ‘But just in case.’

Then I proceeded down the stairs, holding the bag close and trying not to slip. Since I only had one good grabbing hand to begin with, I had to keep most of my body pressed sideways for balance, the lips of the stairs scraping into my ribs, worsened by the weight of the machine.

But once I settled at the bottom, I was unable to withhold my own gasp.

The place was a museum.

Or a tomb.

Or a vision.

Or the finest shop, selling equal parts treasure and equal parts dust.

I couldn’t tell.

‘What is this place?’ I asked, clutching my machine close.

This was completely unlike the other secret chamber we’d discovered since starting the March. Even though we’d found spaces with little shrines and gifts from past flocks, mostly those rooms had consisted of crude drawings on clay walls.

This third chamber made the first seem practically empty.

Split’s chamber was the size of a small Cry Temple, the ceiling high enough that even Slab Hagan – the tallest Jadan from my barracks – wouldn’t have been able to touch the top without a stool. Two dark corridors snaked away near the back of the room, dimly lit by a fresh candle flickering on a centre table. Overstocked shelves rose up from every available part of the stone floor, bursting at the seams with artefacts and maps and tapestries and treasures that screamed at us from every corner of the room, dizzying in their array and sense of age. Statues. Beaded clothing. Pottery. Jewellery. Scrolls. Everything down here had a tinge of neglect, but even under the shawls of dust, the items glowed with personality and life.

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