Page 28 of Omen of ice
“Do you anticipate problems tomorrow?”
He snorts and snaps his fingers. An icy bubble forms in the palm of his hand. It’s stunning, a crystalized ball that glints in the light. His thumb twitches, and his fingers curl inward, crushing the delicate ball and sending tiny pieces of ice bouncing across the floor at our feet. “There are always problems.”
10
Valen
We reach the edge of the village by late afternoon. Unlike the trees on the estate, which are vibrant and thriving because of the residual druid magic that remains in the ground, everything in the wild is dead and encased in ice. Spindly branches reach for us as we walk, glistening like glass. I catch the Aphelian staring all around her, open-mouthed, eyes full of wonder. She touches the tip of her finger to the snow-covered leaves, then smiles as the superfine flakes scatter in the wind.
As we cross into the village, several Fae stop to watch us. They smile and wave and offer gifts as we pass. Homespun threads and pottery fresh from the kiln. And wine. Several bottles lay tucked away, stashed in saddlebags for the ride home. I’ve made many routine trips here as an emissary of the Winter Lord over the years. As a child, I was greeted with dismissal and caution, but as I grew older and made the trek myself, the reception warmed.
Mostly.
Wanlo, the village’s overseer, stomps toward us through the snow. He’s tall, with dark hair and eyes, and walks with a limp. The injury, he claims, was obtained while defending the village from an attack several years ago. But whispers claim the injury was caused by the owner of the tavern when Wanlo refused to pay his tab.
“Valen,” he says. “I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon.”
“Lord Orbik told me of your recent troubles. I came to see if I could offer my assistance.”
“We greatlyappreciateit.” His words drip with thinly veiled sarcasm. Wanlo, unlike most of the village, never liked me. He gives my companion an assessing once-over, ultimately deeming her not worth his time. When he turns his attention back to me, he’s sneering. “I see you’ve taken precautions after your last trip.”
“What happened last time?” The Aphelian looks from him to me, eyes narrowing just a bit. She’s so out of place here. Her vibrant, red-hued hair is a discordant splotch of color in an otherwise crystalline setting. She chose a set of black leathers with ice-blue accents today but still wears her own boots. The worn green leather is an odd combination that sticks out, but it’s also uniquely her.
When we started out this morning, last night’s foul mood still haunted me. But half a day on horseback with the Aphelian at my side, and my mood has lightened considerably.
“Several of the villagers attacked me last month,” I tell her.
It can’t be proven, but I strongly suspect Wanlo knew about the attack prior to it happening. He’d been edgy that day. More nervous than usual. I managed to fend the assailants off without using magic, but they got away, their identities kept hidden. I wave a hand between us, grinning. It pisses him off that I’m so casual about it all.
“Jealous of my good looks and charming disposition, no doubt.”
The Aphelian’s lips twist. She leans in close but makes little effort to keep her voice low. “And you didn’t think I might need to know that before coming here?”
“You’ve spent enough time with me. You already know I’m charming.” I swing my leg around and dismount. The Aphelian dismounts as well.
I flash Wanlo a smile. “You were about to tell me more about your troubles?”
Wanlo clears his throat and turns to gesture toward the large building behind him. Their storage house. “The rebels were here again last week. They’ve almost cleaned us out. When is the Winter Lord going to do something about this?”
The storage space in this village is smaller than others’. They’ve been raided four times this season. If the assaults continue, they’ll run out of resources, and getting my uncle to help them is impossible. As it is, my presence here is merely for show. Wanlo and I both know Orbik has no intention of helping these Fae. The Winter Lord won’t waste estate resources to investigate, and he certainly won’t send supplies.
“How many are there?” I ask.
“No way to know for sure. They come at night. Attempts to guard the supplies have failed.”
“They’re killing your guards?” The Aphelian narrows her eyes, and I don’t miss the suspicion in her tone.
Wanlo frowns. “No way to know that, either.”
The Aphelian and I exchange a glance, and he sees it.
His lips twist downward, and he shakes his head. “There are never any bodies. They’re just…gone.”
“That sounds like the rebels.” It’s what they do. Steal Fae away—like my mother—and sell them as slaves. Trolls, ogres—even other Fae—pay top coin for a chance to enslave a citizen of the court that prevailed in the war. The Winter Court has many enemies. The only reason the rest of Derriga hasn’t come for us is the magic soaking our lands. Thanks to the druids’ aid and sacrifice, as well as the magic I donate for Orbik to use, we’re protected.
“Of course it’s the rebels.” Wanlo’s face reddens. “Didn’t you hear what I said?”
“With respect,” I say, “it could be anyone. Piskies are known to pillage food supplies this time of year. Harpies, too. But since you’ve found no bodies, no indication of violence… Is it possible they defected and took supplies with them?”
