Mercurial by Naomi Hughes (ebook reader with built in dictionary .txt) 📕

was a sharp contrast to the uneasy countenance of the rebels, the way the mushers shifted their weight on the foot boards, the way their eyes went from Tal to the unmoving, body-shaped bundle on the last sled in the line. Tal ignored them all as Nyx clamped the other end of the manacle to the first sled’s handle. She touched his shoulder when she was done, a gentle gesture entirely at odds with the scathing look she then turned on her comrades. They shifted and murmured and turned away, finding other things to be busy with as the caravan prepared to leave.

And then they were off. The dogs galloped cheerfully through the mountain pass, the serrated peaks jutting to either side as the sled runners hissed cleanly against the packed snow. That night they camped in a creaky, ramshackle waystation, a small cabin whose doors were left unlocked for travelers. There wasn’t nearly enough room for all of them, but Nyx and Helenia both insisted that he be among the ones who slept inside near the little fire.

He didn’t dream of Elodie’s hands on him. He didn’t wonder whether anyone was giving her water or waking her from her nightmares. What he did know was that she would be well-guarded, and that was all he would allow himself to be concerned with.

Maluk woke from his laudanum-induced sleep the next morning. When the door of the cabin creaked open before first light, the old dog bounded in and buried Tal beneath his furry body, jaw lolling in a canine grin. Tal smiled and sat up. When he ran a hand down the dog’s back, he felt the spot of crinkled fur where Elodie had gripped and refused to let go. “You too, old boy?” Tal murmured, and then got up with a sigh to make ready for the day.

His leg ached as he dressed himself. The broken bone had healed, the open wound vanished into a thin pink scar, but spots of rust phage still speckled his shin and sank tendrils into his blood. He was dying, probably: something else he didn’t allow himself to think about.

The caravan ran hard all through the day. By lunchtime, the early mountain winter had retreated like a tide, leaving behind pools of spring: a reedy ash tree straining valiantly toward the sun, a clump of blue-green clover waiting in vain for the arrival of bees, stubborn white snowdrop flowers watered by glacial melt. When the ground beneath the sleds’ runners changed from packed snow to mud and bumpy rocks, they stopped briefly to retrofit wheels to the sleds and then pushed on. But it was far harder for the dogs to pull in such conditions, and they were already tired from the long run the day before—so when the caravan reached the ruins of an old temple at the foot of the Skyteeth, the Saints agreed to stop for an early dinner and to make camp so the dogs and mushers could rest.

The wide clearing that housed the temple was a natural cathedral of its own. Towering sycamores and mote trees bowed over it, and the light that filtered through their leaves was still and green and holy. Buoyant bits of fluff—mote tree seeds—skimmed and drifted through the air, falling gently on the dogs and Saints like a benediction. From beyond the clearing came the thoughtful rippling of moving water: a tributary of the Entengre flowing toward one of the lakes at the bottom of the mountain range.

Tal looked at it all, and hated it.

He hated the peace of it, the invitation to reflect, the gentleness that contrasted so sharply with what his god had required of him. He hated the unassuming temple that seemed to meld with the forest, half-in and half-out of the clearing, its blocks run through with veins of copper and nickel and zinc; he hated how it was similar to the smaller and newer chapel in his old township, the one that he’d prayed at so fervently when he hadn’t understood what lay in store for him. But most of all he hated the presence he could sense here. His god was waiting for him, had perhaps been waiting for him for a long time, and Tal could no longer put off the confrontation that had been two years in the making.

Helenia, who was standing beside him as she supervised the unpacking of the food stores, noticed the direction of his gaze. She looked to the temple and was still for a long moment, a sad sort of peace sliding over her expression, before she touched Tal’s hand. “I feel the need to pray. Would you like to come with me?” she said kindly, because of course he would not be allowed to go anywhere without his manacles, without a guard.

Nyx overheard from the sled behind them. She straightened with a frown. “Hel,” she said uneasily, looking from her brother to her girlfriend.

“Not to worry,” Tal said with an attempt at a smile. “I think it will be fine. Elodie is perfectly safe and asleep, I have no urge to leap to her defense at the moment.”

He caught his mistake too late. Helenia and Nyx traded a glance heavy with some silent conversation. “Elodie?” Nyx replied.

“The Destroyer,” he amended.

Helenia squeezed his shoulder and unlocked the manacle that had been on the sled’s handrail, clamping it instead around his free wrist. “I’m not worried. It’s just a bit of prayer, and you’ve no weapons and a dozen Saints between you and your oath.”

Nyx watched them go, worry creeping over her features, her gaze fixed on Helenia. Tal wondered when her childhood crush on Hel had deepened to such an obvious love, and regretted that he might be a complication between them now. But there was little else he could say to reassure her, so he simply tried to seem as docile as possible while Helenia led him toward the temple. He didn’t look at all at the last sled