"What did he say, old man, and pray it's what I need to hear, or I'll leave you here with these savages to use your bones as they see fit!"

  "He says... they raided Riverrun with the war clan. Killed everyone," said Jorry. "Women, children."

  "And the ghost child?"

  "They never made it past the last farmstead. They never made it out."

  Marise released him. "Do you know Riverrun's location?"

  "Yes,” was Jorry's toneless answer. “I was born there.”

  Then Marise understood why this old man had come so willingly. He understood precisely.

  "So, you knew all along, didn't you? Well, I hope you're happy with your worthless revenge. Now let's go. You are showing me the way."

  "Why?" said Jorry, then took a step back, head lowered before the scornful gaze.

  Disgusted, Marise strode towards the clearing, the way they’d come. He could hear the susurrating cries of the forest now, the savages returning to their village. They filtered from roots and trees like spirits to find their chieftain slain with the knife still inside. And far away in unison they cried their haunting song of death.

  The palfrey looked up and snorted.

  "I am not sorry!" said Jorry behind him.

  Marise turned, "Oh? What revenge do you want against these people? They die to Incara's armies every day! They live in huts made of skin! What more do you want? You expected me to kill them all, didn't you? To dish out some justice. Oh, yes, I bet you did. You thought that's why I’d come. That’s why you wanted them ‘unhidden.’ Well, I can't blame you. Carnage has done worse in the past, ended wars with different violence. But I am not here for justice. I’ve come to this bloody snow desert, or whatever the hell you call it, to preserve life, not to end it. Do you understand me? That’s my business here, and leave justice for the gods!"

  Jorry frowned; he mouthed the words "whatever the hell," an unfamiliar expression. It was one of those Marise had picked up from Perkins at Sturmgarde Castle, and now he pulled a bag of gold from the satchel and threw it at the old man.

  "There. You want to go?"

  "No," said Jorry.

  "Then will you help me find the way?"

  "I will show you."

  "Good," said Marise. He kicked the stupid underbrush and got his foot stuck in it and blasted a ten-foot shrubbery, all pretenses gone as he strode into the forest. Jorry kept well back.

  They started south at a tireless pace, Marise cursing himself all the way. This entire place was wretched enough to drive anyone mad. The gray sky, and the blackness of this White Forest, with its damnable White Desert, and all the time they had wasted because of Jorry's dishonesty.

  But he understood the old man now, and wondered whom he’d lost. Everyone, probably. Marise could imagine his need for revenge as though it were his own. He thought of Sturmgarde, remembering how much he missed Amomi's wisdom and Arkane's laughter. He missed even Aryana's stubbornness. Then of course, if anything should ever happen to Littleimp, the whole world would be imbalanced by the sudden lack of mischief. Wrex's one-track mind; Izrail's always calling him “little brother;” Steel's sarcasm; Sleepnaught's sullen silence; Ultime's kindness. If anything should ever happen to them, Marise could imagine killing much more than one already dying chieftain.

  He could imagine burning the whole world.

  Magz

  If I am the darkness

  and you are the sun

  when you are near

  I will be gone

  But careful where you shine

  To cast no shadows here

  Inside them I will reappear

  He is faster than his brothers, carried by his lucky moccasins along the frozen forest floor. He runs past crystal trees low with branches made of glass, and everything blurs together. He hardly feels his toes touch the ground. And, often, they do not, propelling him over boulders that rise like the backs of sleeping giants, hitting the ground hard, gaze on his quarry, now here, now gone in a labyrinth of gray tree trunks.

  Winter is everywhere, early and brutal in the north. His arms are bare, and the woolen shirt barely past his waist. This attire is essential for speed. The deer is getting away, and he would catch it. His mother would not be happy; it is dangerous to get sick this time of the year. But he focuses on his breath and the snow. A breeze fills his ears and streaks fresh flakes through the tunnel of his vision. His brothers must be so far behind by now, they cannot even see him, as he glimpses the animal's bushy tail, and here and there the sprinkle of crimson.

  Twelve year old Magz has hair so white, it makes the snow look dirty. His eyes are sometimes black, and sometimes the deep golden color of flame. He can see in the night too, and his tendency to sneak in it invisibly has bought him the nickname ghost child. But he wants to believe that he is no longer a child, though his brothers disagree. He would show them. He would have to, since it was not easy to tell them. Magz’s voice has a defect so when he speaks, it must be in a whisper, modulated to a hoarse whisper if he wants to make himself heard.

  He is closer now, can see the deer's frightened eyes, an arrow still in its haunches. He draws his knife, an ugly blade from the folds of his tunic, edge outward along his forearm. Another few steps, he clears fallen branches, and the deer is changing directions, once, twice. He jumps with one foot on a tree trunk and slams into the animal when it streaks into his path. The deer is not large, and the impact throws it to the ground, dead before landing with the knife clean across its gullet.

  His breath is ragged, and he clings to the caramel fur on top of him, the warm embrace. Snowflakes stick to his cold skin. Beside him, the deer's dead eye stares ominous and black into the thinly patterned branches of the sky.

  He has not moved when his brothers find him. He smiles at them, and the oldest, Gavin, is laughing, reaching down to ruffle Magz’s hair - cold,white strands between calloused fingers. Serri is only two years older than Magz and grinning with pride. Magz hopes this settles the debate of being just a child.

  They help him to his feet. He shivers, grateful for the furs they've brought. The gesture takes some of the victory away, because they had carried the weight, and he had not. But his brothers say nothing, and Serri wraps him up, while Gavin prepares to carry the deer on his shoulders.

  The frozen river is close, and soon the wind will find them in the clearing outside their house. It is a busy place, their home in the distance, warm and inviting, with everywhere snow brighter than the sky, even early in the afternoon. His mother washes clothes with water thawed by the fireplace, smoke wafting from the stack in the sloping roof, and his younger sister Jackie sees them coming. Magz could bet she was told to stay inside, but she willfully runs out anyway. She is going to be a warrior when she grows up, she tells them loudly, as if they did not know, stabbing her brothers in the ribs with a stick. Serri picks her up and holds her upside down. Some warrior she who is carried all the way back home with her wild hair brushing the snow.

  Serri pulls the bow from his back. He is a good shot but almost missed the deer that morning, when Magz had given chase. Serri cleans his hands in the snow when the meat is packed, and Gavin disappears into the barn.

  Each deliberate action makes way for the restful afternoon. Jackie waits impatiently for her brothers to be free, and finally locks her arms around Serri’s neck and climbs onto his back. She is a bundle of furs, and he carries her while she laughs and points where he should go. Jackie used to have a pony that she had ridden fearless, sometimes with a branch raised like a warrior, and sometimes like a queen, gaze on her subjects cold as ice. But the pony had sickened and died last autumn. When she cried, Serri had let her ride on his back, and now he could not get rid of her, and did not want to either. It is always an adventure to carry Jackie on your back; you never know what would happen; sometimes you are a destrier at war, and sometimes an ambling donkey.

  Jackie’s laughter zooms past Magz, who picks up a snowball. Serri ducks out of the way, and the snow hits Jackie instead. She licks her frozen lip and promises retribution in squeaky tones.

  “Good pony, go! Magz is coming, oh no don’t let him get us, Serri, faster!”

  She loves having so many older brothers. “Try my snowcake. I made it, isn’t it delicious?” She says, and they each eat a snowcake and ask if she has made any more. “No more. You’ll spoil your supper!”

  They listen to Jackie more so than Liana, because, as the eldest, Liana is in charge of their education, which is something much worse than snowcakes. When Liana says, "rewrite this passage," it means real work using the smelly feather quill. Serri complains the least, while Gavin hardly cares about poetry or numbers. He works mostly on the farm, and Liana is easy on him. On Magz, she is not so easy. As a middle sibling, his duty’s to excel at everything without excuses.

  Like most days, Liana is writing a love letter to Joshua of Riverrun, the strongest young man in the village. He has promised to teach Magz how to be strong, too, earning his help and approval in the courtship of his sister. But Liana likes Joshua already; not since she had laid eyes on him, or spent time with him or anything, but since she'd learned that he could read and write.

  Magz rolls his eyes to hear that again, this time at Liana’s insisting that if he wanted to win a girl’s heart, he had to study harder.

  “If a girl only cares that I can read, then I don’t want her,” whispers Magz. His sister is used to his voice, its quiet desperation to be heard.

  “Fine then, be that way; a lonely little boy.”

  “I am not lonely. I have you!” says Magz and hugs her.

  “If you think you’re wriggling out of today’s lesson with your affectionate ways, you’re sadly mistaken. The hunt is over, and you know the deal we made. What does this spell?”

  “But Liana, I caught the deer. Myself.”

  “I heard. I’m sure father will tell everyone in Riverrun what a fierce little thing you are. My concern is today’s lesson.”

  “When will he get back?”

  “With Gavin and Serri tonight, I’m sure.” She points to the parchment. “What does this spell, Magzy?”

  He stares at her finger and whispers hoarsely,

  “Why couldn’t I go with them?”

  “Because you have to study, and you are too big to ride double. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

  “It spells ‘home.’ Liana, if I couldn’t go to town, then can I go play with Jackie while it’s still light out?” He can hear the thunk of snow hitting the side of the house, Jackie's way of telling him to hurry up.

  “Ten more minutes and you can go.”

  In ten minutes a snowball welcomes his face, and his sister giggles within her thick hood. Their mother watches from the window; this is one of the harshest winters, and still they play, making even the cold useful in their games. Two hours of light more, estimates Magz by the sun. Jackie is inside the snow fort while he builds the walls higher. She emerges, huge furry head turning to find him.

  “Make it taller, Magz! Serri will break it otherwise, he is too big.”

  She will not let Gavin enter, that's for sure. Doubtless he’ll crawl in anyway. Magz is prepared for this architectural challenge and shapes snow into bricks with the thick part of a branch. He gets an idea and sprints towards their house, reaching up to crack a long icicle from the edge of the roof. Jackie follows him, and Magz places an icy stalactite in her arms, so large that she has to carry it that way. He takes three more and returns the fort.

  “Use them in the corners, look we have four.”

  But Jackie ignores his instructions and places hers with the point downwards, so it shatters. Magz sighs and hands her another. She secures the second icicle with the heavy end down, so the tip points up menacingly.

  “That’s for cavalry to get skewered when they charge,” She says.

  “No, it’s too dangerous, what if you fall on it? We have to break off the sharp end.”

  “Nooo, leave it. That’s better. It’s more scary.”

  Magz leaves it and resumes making snow bricks, laying each one carefully, while Jackie wriggles back into the fortress, her voice muffled:

  “Do you reckon father will buy us jam?”

  “Why should he?”

  “I want some, and father said he will buy us jam next time he goes to Riverrun last time he went.”

  Magz has no answer. They build on, dreading the darkness. The walls are big enough now, and Jackie has to come out to keep from knocking everything down. Finally they shape the turrets and punch arrow holes. Jackie’s eating ice off her glove. Crunching, she tells Magz in a high pitch of excitement about how a castle should look. They have neither of them ever seen a castle, but Liana tells stories each night, and they remember to put a moat and big towers. Magz’s fingers are frozen, and he knows Jackie must be just as cold. He takes her hand and says they have to go inside.

  His mother meets them at the door on her way to the barn to get more wood. Jackie wants to go with her. She loves it outside in the cold, made for it, or made of it; a snowflake in the shape of a little girl, willful and determined, not subject to the wind like every other.

  Inside the house, Magz cleans his woolen shirt with water out of the basin, scrubbing stains from the hunt in front of the fire. He is falling asleep to the scratch of Liana’s quill.

  He waits for his mother and sister to come back. But they do not. No matter how long he waits, they do not come back.

  He stirs; it’s been a while since Liana’s quill has made a sound. It lies forgotten on the unfinished letter, ink leaking from the feather tip. The black stain spreads, absorbing words like rivers into the sea.

  Magz stands with bare feet on the uneven wood, waiting for Liana too now. He listens to his breathing and the fire. He listens to the wind, the door banging hollow on its hinges. He recognizes the heavy, running footsteps and moves towards them. He calls out in a whisper and is suddenly lifted by the incredible strength of his father. Magz holds onto the muscled arms, rushing through the air. Arrant clarity and madness crease his father’s face, beard wet with ice. The room revolves round and round. The cellar flashes by, empty of sour apples, and Magz will not let go.

  He falls, nails digging in, but he falls…

  “Whatever happens, do not come out, do you understand me, son? Do not come out.”

  Magz whispers back, but the shadow of the door slams down and he's alone in the dank cellar. He counts, like hide and seek, wiping away tears with the back of his hand. He calls out as loudly as he can, but it is only a whisper. He can see in the dark, all around him shades of gray, colorless and beautiful. He crawls up and pushes on the cellar door. The fire has died in the living room. They cannot all be outside; it is too cold. He calls Jackie's name and walks slowly to the creaking door.

  He sees the horses first, then the riders. They are huge tribesmen from the North, draped in furs, wolf and bear heads for armor. Within the folds of their animal skins are beaten swords. Even the horses are terrifying, their bodies ornamented with skulls and human bones. Magz searches with stinging eyes. He notices that some of the mounts bear long bundles of tied cloth in woven colors, sagging on either side where a rider might sit.

  And from one of the draped bundles, an arm is loose, falling out.

  The tribesman closest to him grunts in surprise. Magz's skin crawls while eyes scrutinize him all around. When the mounted man speaks, it is in a guttural, ugly language, and a dozen similar voices laugh around him. Their mounts shift, and Magz finds Liana. She looks half-frozen in her night dress, an icy rope tied around her neck and hands. She starts to cry when she sees him and calls out his name.

  “No, Magzy... run away, run away and hide!”

  The watching men seem to have had enough. Several dismount. Liana screams, a shrill that can be heard for leagues over the snow. A man hits her, but she will not stop, and he hits her again and again until she lies quiet, blood dribbling out of her mouth. The man leans over her when a bundle of furs suddenly collides with him. He yells out in pain and flings the little girl away, tripping backwards. He falls like a tree onto the remains of a trampled snow castle, and an ice stalactite bursts from his chest...

  Jackie looks up from the ground, spits out most of the dead man’s ear in a spray of blood on the snow. A whistling slap with the flat of a sword turns her face away. A tribesman moves to his fallen comrade and snarls at what he finds. Viciously he kicks Jackie's body. Magz notices his father's knife, the same he had used for the hunt. Only the hilt is red, and he lifts it, sticky in his palm.

  Liana is screaming again:

  “No, Magzy. No! Run!”

  A tribesman lifts her by the hair. But the sun has long set when Magz looks up, and he does so through golden eyes that see bright shades of gray. This is his last clear memory.

  The maelstrom presses on his ears.

  Then he is witness to the dark world through another's eyes. He sees himself as others do. What are you? he wants to shout, but the mouth belongs to someone else. He is breathing blood. Magz can taste the iron of his own knife, its soughing rasp. He relishes the wind that wraps him like a cocoon.

  Nearby, a mouth is shouting in an unfamiliar tongue. The boy vanishes at the end of his pointed finger. Confused, Magz sees the burning eyes, the excavation of his own chest. An angled blade wrenches out his splintered ribs. Magz watches on his knees within, and the panic spreads like black puddles on the snow that rushes up to meet him…

  He stares sideways at the bare feet of the ghost child.

  Horses buck and throw men off to bolt into the forest. The world is incandescence without color. He is everywhere and nowhere at once. Men try to fight the winter wind and are blinded by it. They see the orange eyes and flee a dream that follows because it is inside them.

  The child is invisible in the nighttime, yet bright as the surface of a ruby, a last demonic vision. Only crimson footprints…

  The man he chases sobs out a universal prayer for the gods, but only Magz can hear from within. He lands flat with a weight on his back and plows into the underbrush, face cut by gelid leaves. His nails dig red streaks into the ice. He shrieks and begs when someone grabs his hair, but the sawing of iron rips his skull apart by the roots.