Chapter 84: North

They came up the far side of the pass, from the north, the Imperial side: a lot of them, a lot of hooves, and the creak of wagons on frozen ground. Roderick put a hand on Aren’s arm, and they went flat in the crack.

It was a caravan of twenty wagons, maybe more, with riders in grey and black around them and lanterns swinging on poles. But the wagons weren’t carrying goods. They were carrying people, young ones, boys and girls Aren’s age or a little older, in good furs, sitting in the backs of the wagons with weapons across their knees, talking and laughing and passing a flask.

They stopped at the top of the pass to rest the horses, not fifty paces from the crack, and Aren listened very carefully.

"...third time my family’s sent someone, and the last two came back merely Tempered, can you believe it? My father nearly disowned my brother."

"That’s because they didn’t get close enough. You have to go right in, to the middle of the lake. Nobody gets Perfect at the edge."

"Nobody gets Perfect at all, that’s a story they tell to make you go in further and freeze."

"The Varkens actually got one eight years ago, Perfect Marrow. You saw what he did at the Iron Trials."

"And four of the ones who went in with him are still standing in the ice."

There was laughter, and somebody passed the flask.

"The trial’s in a month, in the capital," a girl’s voice put in, sounding bored. "And the Crown’s opened it again this year, so anyone can enter, commoners, foreigners, whoever."

"Iron answers merit," somebody announced in a deep, pompous voice, and they all laughed again.

"It’s true, though. Any noble house can sponsor whoever it likes. Last year Lord Haskel entered his stable boy for a joke."

"What happened?"

"He died on the second day, which was very funny."

There was more laughter.

’Haskel. I’ll remember that name, Lord Haskel.’

When the horses were rested, the caravan moved on, north, down the far side of the pass, and the lanterns disappeared into the dark one by one, and the voices went with them.

Aren lay in the crack with his cheek on the frozen rock and put it together.

A lake with a cold so deep that people froze standing up in it. Perfect Marrow, for anyone who could get close enough. And a trial in the Imperial capital, in a month, open to anyone a noble house would sponsor.

Under his ribs, the Familiar shifted hungrily toward the north.

Feed it well in the cold places, the merchant had warned, in his shop that wasn’t always there, because it will be hungrier there than you expect. And the dragon had told him almost the same thing: you will pass through cold places, very cold, so remember that you carry a piece of me now.

He closed his left hand, and the scale in his palm was warm.

"Ghost," Roderick whispered beside him, "you’ve got that look again."

"Yes."

"What does it say this time?"

Aren turned his head and looked at him in the dark.

"It says I should go north."

Roderick stared at him in horror.

"North, into the Empire, in the middle of a war? With a captain who knows your face and a priest who wants to know what you are?"

"Yes."

"That’s completely mad!"

"Yes, it really is. But the Choir came out of the Empire, and Ansel went back into it. Everything I need to know is up there, and everything I need to get stronger is in that lake. And I can’t do any of it from Salt Lane."

Roderick didn’t answer for a good while.

"And your sister?" he asked at last.

That was the real question, and it had been the question ever since the yard and the song, since he had stood in the middle of a battle and heard Nell’s tune coming out of the mouths of priests. The Choir knew there was an eater now, and they would look for him, and a girl in the Academy infirmary sang their song every night without knowing it.

"I can’t watch her from up there," Aren admitted quietly.

"No, you really can’t."

They looked at each other silently.

"I can go back," Roderick offered, as simply as he said everything now. "South, at night. I’ll be there in two weeks, and nobody sees me unless I want them to. I can sit on the roof of the infirmary tower every night, and nobody will ever know I’m there."

"Roderick, you don’t have to..."

"I want to," he said, looking away out at the dark. "There’s a woman on Copper Street mending a coat for nobody. You said that when we came back, I’d go down and see her." His mouth twitched slightly. "You were going to make me do it anyway."

Aren took off his pack, untied the eel-skin bundle, and counted what was left: seventeen lilies, two of them short a petal. He wrapped twelve back up and held them out.

"One petal in her water every three days, and no more. And watch the mark on her arm carefully, and if it grows, even a little, you tell Crane."

Roderick took the bundle carefully in both hands. "Anything else?"

Aren thought about it seriously.

"Tell her I’m not doing anything stupid."

Roderick looked at him, at the mask inside his shirt, at the north and the war.

"She won’t believe me."

"No, I don’t think she will either."

They sat together in the crack in the rock until the wind finally dropped and the sky in the east began to grey.

From the top of the pass all of Kharn lay below them, small and far away. The King’s banners, grey and gold, were already moving out of the gate on the stone side in a long thin line heading south down the valley road, and on the iron side the great gate was slowly swinging shut. They heard it close long after they saw it, a deep sound that rolled slowly up the mountain.

On top of the iron wall, a single figure stood alone with a lance.

It was far too far to see a face, but Aren didn’t need to.

Roderick held out his hand, and Aren took it.

"Don’t die up there, ghost."

"Don’t fall off any roofs."

Roderick laughed, a short surprised sound. He pulled the black strip up over his face, turned, and went down the south side of the pass, and within twenty paces the dark between the rocks had swallowed him. There was nobody left on the mountain but Aren.

He stood alone at the top of the pass for some time, and then he slowly turned north.

[Anchor out of range: Kaela Voss.][Anchor out of range: Vivienne Ashgrave.][Anchor out of range: Rook.][All Anchors out of range. Investment unavailable.]

’Figures.’

He called up the other window, the one he hadn’t properly looked at since the night in the mine.

[Name: Aren][True Class: Zero (EX, Unique)][Public Class: Servant (F). Combat Aptitude: 0][Rank D: Skin (Tempered). Flesh (Tempered). Bone (Tempered). Blood (Perfect). Marrow: Locked. Requirement: extreme cold.][Strength: 413. Agility: 313. Endurance: 470.][Skills: Reduce to Zero (Lv. 2). Write-Off (Lv. 2). New Moon (S), Mastery 60%. Moonlit Step, Mastery 47%. Street Fighter’s Instinct, Mastery 74%. Iron Sense (C). Ward of Zero (SSS), Cooldown: 35 days. False Face.][Familiar of Nothing: Juvenile. Reach: 10 paces. Hunger: 31%.][Ledger: Blood Tempering (Kaela Voss), 61%. Blooded blood (Kaela Voss), stolen.][Anchors: 3/3. Vivienne Ashgrave (Primary), Hostility 58%. Rook, Hostility 71%. Kaela Voss, Hostility 100%.][Status: Something below has noticed you.]

There were no anchors in reach, nobody to invest in, and nobody to pull him out if he fell. There was nobody in front of him but himself.

’Fine, then. I’ll just invest in me, entirely.’

He started down the mountain toward the Empire.