Ember and Ash Read online

  “You don’t have to whistle,” she gasped. Mam had taught her this, at least, even if she’d kept silent about Fire. The spell for protection. Words, what words should she use? She fought for breath and sang. “Safe, safe, warm and safe.” The five notes had to be equal in length and power, but the words could be changed to meet the need.

  The wraiths were slowing, although the arrows of ice kept coming. Ash and Cedar picked up the song, their deeper voices twining through hers. “Safe, safe, warm and safe,” they sang, memories of family celebrations where they had all sung rounds and ballads sliding through her mind, giving her strength and a sense of deep belonging.

  The ice wraiths hovered, claws extended but no more needles flying toward them. The fragments of ice which swirled around them caught the sun so that they were enshrined in rainbows, beautiful, every color dancing across their white faces and arms. They flung back their heads and howled.

  Terrible, terrible—beings so ethereal should have voices high and piercing, but this sound was deep, thunder, rocks ground beneath ice, echoes resounding in the deepest cave.

  Cedar stopped singing, but she and Ash kept on desperately.

  “He sees us,” Cedar said again. The wraiths’ howling was doing something—the ice beneath them shuddered again and again. Ash was looking around, still singing—he grabbed Ember’s shoulder and spun her, pointing to where, bright in the sunlight, cracks were snaking toward them from the edge of the ice sheet. Lightning bolts of emptiness into which they would fall and die.

  “I’ll hold them,” Cedar said. “You go.”

  Ember kept singing, but she shook her head, and Ash took Cedar by the arms and did the same.

  “Elgir taught me something,” Cedar said. “I’ll survive.”

  The cracks were breaking wider, each movement bringing a whip of sound against their ears. Ash put both hands on Cedar’s shoulders and nodded, once. Cedar nodded back and began to sing again, his voice stronger than before.

  Still singing, Ash and Ember backed away, watching both the wraiths and Cedar. The wraiths were undecided: whom should they follow? They turned between the two, back and forth, until Cedar cried out something in a language Ember had never heard. Then they whipped back to him, like snakes following prey.

  He sang, but this time he sang, “Watch, watch, watch and hunt.”

  Ember’s breath caught in her throat. That was too dangerous, too dangerous! The cracks were heading for Cedar, straight for him, straight to him, and the wraiths also, drawn by power as thirst to water.

  They advanced, slowly, hands coming up, claws reaching out. He still sang, but softer, and Ash pulled Ember away, as fast as she could go, both of them looking over their shoulders as the cracks and the wraiths converged toward him.

  He looked up and grinned at them, across a distance which seemed much wider than it should have; how long had he been singing? How long ago had they left him there?

  The largest of the ice chasms had almost reached him. He spread his arms, and shouted, “Hunt!” on the last note of the song, and ice flew up around him in a flurry of white and dazzling rainbows.

  As it fell, a gray wolf jumped forward, leaping over the chasm as if it were a narrow stream. Tongue lolling, it sat on the other side and mocked the ice wraiths, who shrieked in high desperate voices and leaped after it.

  Cedar ran, the wraiths following, moving out of sight toward the edge of the ice, jumping chasms and abysses, it seemed, for sheer fun.

  “Gods help him,” Ash said, his voice trembling. “We must run also.”

  There was no more time to test the ice, to move slowly and carefully from firm footing to firm footing. Now they raced, guessing where the best surface was, their eyes attuned to the shading of the ground so that they anticipated the dips and chasms in time.

  Behind them, the ice wraiths’ shrieks still sounded from time to time; still desperate; still unsatisfied; and that was all the comfort they had.

  On the Ice

  The Mountain was closer. On its bare shoulders Ash could see hot springs steaming, leaking down the slopes to battle with the encircling ice. Smoke was gathering around the summit, darker and thicker than before. He hoped that was a good sign, but “caught between fire and ice” was an old saying of his mother’s, and he wondered if this battle had been fought with other footsoldiers, in other times.

  He wondered, more than anything, why Fire had forced Ember to come here. It was clear, now, that everything He had done—killing Osfrid, taking the flame from the Domains, sending Ash and Cedar with her—had been done to bring her across the Ice. Even the detour to Starkling—had Fire organized that with the warlord so that Cedar would learn the spells he would need?

  What did He want with her?

  The old story of Sebbi, sacrificed to the Ice King a thousand years ago, haunted him. If anyone had to be sacrificed, it would be him, not her, but he would fight to his last gasp first.

  Which would mean nothing against one of the Powers.

  The closer they came to the Mountain, the colder it was. So cold that it was hard to breathe; so cold that it pressed down on him like a heavy weight, dragging at his hands and feet. Even though he was in his winter gear, the cold bit through the thick furs as though they were a linen shift. He began to imagine his toes turning black with frostbite, his penis shrivelling and dying.

  Ember was in no better case. Although she was walking in his footsteps, she was struggling. He wondered if he should take her on his back, but wasn’t sure he’d be able to walk at all if he did.

  They paused for a moment to rest at the top of a carved ice slope and Ember came close to him, put her mouth to his ear.

  “This is unnatural,” she said. He looked down into her bloodshot eyes; still startlingly green, but so tired. So afraid.

  “Yes,” he said. What else was there to say? This cold, in summer, was deeply unnatural. They were being attacked, and the closer they went to the Mountain, the worse it would get.

  He yearned to sink down onto the ice and simply sleep. That was death, but was death such a bad thing? Going on to rebirth, starting again… He might have done it if Ember hadn’t been there. But she was so vulnerable; and stronger than he was, because she pushed him in the small of the back to say, “Get going!” He smiled at her and tucked his head down to bury as much of his face in his collar as he could, and got going.

  It became colder still. So cold that with each step his foot froze to the ground and he had to break it free. He used an icicle, because oddly that froze his hand less than his knife did, and stepped and chipped, chipped and stepped, Ember doing the same behind him.

  He wondered if they would just collapse from exhaustion, unable to go farther.

  Then they were on the upward slope, at the bottom of the Mountain, and the cold seemed to lessen, just slightly. Ash looked up. They were within bowshot of the first gravel slope. A long bowshot, a long way to go, but at least his feet weren’t freezing to the ground now. He grinned back at Ember and her eyes smiled at him over her scarf.

  They paused and looked back over the ice field. From this small height Ash could see the carvings the wind had made, those crevasses and ledges which they had struggled over all day. Beautiful, he thought. So beautiful and so deadly.

  The Ice King came.

  Invisible, silent, the sense of His presence sweeping in from the north was so great that it forced Ash to his knees.

  Not on your life, he thought, and struggled up again. Ember had never fallen. She stood straighter than ever, facing the oncoming Power with disdain.

  No one must go to the Mountain!

  It was more a scream of ice grinding together than a voice, but it was thunderous, impossible, ripping mind and body apart, and the mind behind it was colder than ice, full of long purpose and deep desire. Ash stumbled and almost fell again, but he recovered in time to steady Ember as she reeled back.

  The two of them held each other up like two old grammers helping each other to the pri
vy.

  “Call us no one, then,” Ember called back to the empty sky, “because we must go there.”

  She was so brave and so reckless. The weight of the Ice King’s mind fell on them, draining all warmth, all hope, all sense of life. They were nothing, midges, ephemeral. Who were they to challenge the great purpose, the eternal creation of beauty, the unchanging perfection of the Ice? Every time in his life that he had ever felt unworthy swelled in his heart and told him that it was true; that humans were nothing, the Ice was forever. His own appreciation of its beauty fought against him; he was ugly, pustulent, disgusting, while it was pure, clean, perfect. It was right that it should survive and he perish.

  Ember’s hand found his. Ash straightened his back and stood next to her. He knew how to talk to the gods; his mother had explained it when he was still a young boy. He formed the words in his mind and sent them out into the blank ice field, where he could see nothing but winter, lying under the high sun of summer. Which was wrong.

  You have no right to bring cold in high summer, he said with certainty. All the other things were matters of Power versus Power, but this he knew, deep in his soul. Even the Powers should not subvert the cycle of the year. You are doing wrong.

  You dare to judge me? The roar was the roar of an avalanche, and it drove them both to their knees and set the ice field groaning. They clambered up again and faced him, having to keep their eyes almost closed because of the glaring light which grew even more intense as they stood there.

  “Ice is not eternal,” Ember said. “And you must fade, each spring, as it is ordained for you.”

  Humans, He said, the scorn so deep that it was like acid, you will die now.

  The wraiths had found them, speeding up behind silently, grabbing Ember and tossing her to the ground, pushing him down, face in the ice.

  He rolled and sprang up to find them clustered over her, greed in their burning eyes. They smiled at him, as if in challenge, and extended long, long claws to her back. She turned over, dazed, and he barreled into them, standing over her, legs astride, bellowing defiance.

  If he had been a crane, if he had known how to change, as Cedar had known, he could have flown her to safety, even if it destroyed him to lift her weight; or he could attack with beak and talons as they did. A knife in each hand, he lifted his arms as he had in the crane dance, willing the air to give him purchase, begging it to help him grow the feathers he needed, the ones he had almost had once. All he had were weak human fingers, soft human hands, heavy feet.

  “Let me change!” he sang in five wobbly notes to whoever controlled these things. There was no change. But there was a pause, as the wraiths heard him sing and realized that he had no power—not like Cedar, not even like Ember; he had no Power behind him, no warmth or Sight or ability. They smiled, and gathered together, ready to attack again, claws out. The ice needles flicked out from them, spearing into his cheeks and chest. And all he had was himself, the center of himself, which was, after all, just a single arrow in flight.

  As though the thought had called it up, wind arose. It curved around both sides of the mountain, giant hands flipping the wraiths away from them, sending them sprawling across the ice, lifting into the sky, flapping futile hands, screeching, imploring, complaining to the relentless buffets and gusts which slid impossibly around him and Ember and barely lifted the hair on his head, but which hit the wraiths like a tornado. A warm tornado.

  The Ice King howled with anguish, but it was as though He, too, were swept away in the wind, because the sense of heaviness, of being tied to the earth with lead chains, lifted and Ash could move freely again.

  In his mind, a voice spoke, which was the sound of an arrow in flight, Hurry.

  He dragged Ember up and pulled her, not caring where they stepped, further up, and further up, and step after step, stumbling together, gasping for breath, higher, steeper, until his foot came down on gravel and rock, not on ice, and they climbed on hands and knees as the slope grew steeper and they could look back, finally, at the brilliant ice below them, where there were no wraiths to be seen.

  They leaned against each other, panting, and heard the triumphant howl of a wolf cut across the sky.

  Ember had heard stories about the molten rock which could stream from places like this, but although the ground was warm under their feet, she wasn’t sure if that was simply because they weren’t on ice anymore. There were no ribbons of glowing rock, no flames dancing over a deceptive crust, not even any smoke, except high above them, on the summit. There was no fire on Fire Mountain.

  “So we climb,” Ash said. He looked tired.

  “Rest first,” Ember said, but he shook his head.

  “I don’t think we have time,” he said. “Something—whatever brought the wind—said, ‘Hurry’ to me.”

  “Are you tired of all this—this enchantment?” she asked, exasperated. That irrepressible smile broke across his face, his teeth white against the red sunglare burn of his cheeks.

  “Part tired of it, but—” he shot a glance of pure mischief at her, “but part fascinated, too. Who knew my little brother would turn gray so early?”

  Laughing, they began to climb. They had lost their poles somewhere in the frantic scramble to the mountainside, so they had nothing but their hands and feet to help them up. The surface was loose with gravel and dirt, and under that the rock was harsh, sometimes cutting their gloves right through.

  Wind still circled the base of the mountain, lifting currents of snow and dirt into drifts in the air and letting them drop. Ember felt the cold radiating from the ice, but the sun was summer hot and she shed her big winter furs and wore only her felt coat and hat. Ash did the same. They left the furs puddled against a boulder shaped like a hat, in the hope of finding them again. In the hope of making it home.

  The slope was steady, at least, but it was hard work climbing the slippery scree. She fell often despite Ash’s steadying hand. They were both covered with dirt and dust and sharp, powdery particles of stone which got into her nose and eyes and made Ash cough.

  She laughed at him, once, as they rested on a ledge halfway up. He was gray with dust.

  “You look like your name!” she teased.

  “I,” he said, with mock hauteur, “was named after my Uncle Ash, who was named after a tree. I am happy to look like the noble ash tree.”

  Out here, in the bright light and wide blue sky, any barriers between them had vanished like the wraiths. Every time she looked at him she felt her heart swell. Love, she thought. It tingled to the tips of her fingers, climbed into her throat and blocked it, made her dissolve, every part of her aware of his breath, his movements, each strand of his hair.

  Now they were off the ice she could feel the fake desire from Fire licking at her skin, but she shrugged it off like the counterfeit it was.

  “Hurry,” Ash said, pulling her up. “I think we have to get to the top.”

  They started struggling upward again. But two-thirds of the way up the slope there was a much broader ledge, and it led easily to a fissure in the mountainside, a cleft unpleasantly reminiscent of a gaping mouth. From inside came the unmistakable smell of fire, the burned air shimmering up outside the cleft, floating Ember’s hair as it had floated before the butterflies flew, creating a breeze which blew the dust from Ash’s hair and made it shine brown again.

  “Here,” she said with certainty. “He will be waiting in here.”

  Now they were so close to the end, fear hit her and her hands started to shake. Ash stripped off his gloves and hers, exposing the scratches and cuts from the sharp rocks, and took her right hand gently in his left. She gripped it, ignoring the pain, and he returned the pressure.

  “Together,” he said.

  The passageway through the rock was dark, with ragged peaks reaching down in unexpected places. They felt their way, but kept hands joined. Ember was afraid that if she let Ash go, they would lose each other completely in the dark.

  Zigzagging, rough underfoot
—this was not made for or by humans, Ember thought. This is the natural rock. It grew hotter as they moved in, and smelled more of brimstone.

  Around another corner, and there was light—the red, flickering light of the bathing caves back at Mountainside. Ash stopped and she stood close to him, just behind his shoulder, and then forced herself to move forward, next to him, unprotected. This was her task.

  She tried to free her hand from his and go on alone, but he held on tightly and walked with her.

  Fire Mountain

  A round cave lay beyond the passageway. On its far side was a pool of the hot red rock mud, just like the bathing caves, glowing with heat, small flames dancing over it. That was all. Rock floor, walls, fire.

  “I have to steal some of that fire,” Ember said. All through this trek she had kept secure the bone which was the only object that could withstand the fire rock. It was safe in her petticoat pocket. She took it out and held it tightly in her left hand, ready.

  But she had nothing to fish the fire fragment out with. This, gods help her, was when they needed the poles. Even if they burned up in a moment, it might have been long enough to get the—the ember.

  Her knife would have to do. And for that she would need her right hand back. Reluctantly, she freed her fingers from Ash’s grasp, and this time he let her.

  “My knife is longer,” he said, handing it to her.

  She took it carefully and moved toward the pool, feeling that it couldn’t be this easy, not after all the death and despair and anger and pain to get here. Surely He wouldn’t just let her take it and go home again?

  The heat from the pool was searing. She wrapped her scarf around her face as if protecting from cold, but it didn’t help much. Kneeling just within arm’s reach, Ember turned her face away, imagining her skin crisping in the dry air. Out of the corner of her eye she managed to locate a small chunk of hot rock floating on the surface of the mud, and stretched forward, sliding Ash’s knife delicately to it, the tip moving underneath, coming up…