The Dragon’s Daughter and the Winter Mage by Jeffe Kennedy

~ 12 ~

Gen awoke with a pounding headache, aches in every muscle, and a briny taste in her mouth. Had she succumbed and eaten the yummy fish? She’d certainly slept, which was terrible, though she couldn’t remember exactly why it was wrong…

Oh, right, because she could be stuck in orca form forever. But she wasn’t cold anymore. She was toasty warm, cuddled up against another body. Someone tall and strong, her arm draped over his muscular chest, her leg intertwined with his hairy ones. Decidedly masculine.

Isyn.The surreal midnight conversation from the night before came rushing back, including her talking him into sharing the bed with her. It wasn’t as if he’d be tempted to seduce her. She probably looked and smelled terrible and, let’s face it, men weren’t exactly falling over themselves to bed her. Not even a man who’d been forcibly celibate for decades, as evidenced by Isyn’s clear disinterest in her. When she’d embraced him the night before, he nearly thrust her away from him in his eagerness to distance himself.

He was so beautiful, though, lying on his back, face peaceful in sleep, the thin sunlight filtering in highlighting his elegant profile, and bringing out the warm tones in his ivory hair. Wim had that same color hair, which they’d clearly gotten from their mother, Nix. Gen had assumed at first that Isyn’s hair was white with age, but the golden undertones indicated otherwise. Absent of pain, stress, and exhaustion, his face looked far less lined. He might’ve been stuck in this alter-realm for decades, but he had retained a robust strength.

Moving slowly and carefully, she eased her entangled limbs from his, holding her breath and hoping he wouldn’t waken and be repulsed by her groping him during the night. And after he’d risked his life to save hers, too. She’d very nearly succeeded detaching herself, when a hard grip suddenly vised on her wrist, making her squeak in reflexive alarm.

Isyn’s head turned and eyes opened, the green brighter in the light of day, sharp with suspicion, his face hard and angry—then softening with recognition. “Briar Rose,” he breathed.

“Gendra,” she corrected gently, feeling as pinned by that intense gaze as the surprisingly strong grip on her wrist.

“Gendra.” He made her name into such an intimate caress that she trembled—which, unfortunately, with their bodies pressed together, he immediately felt. “You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he said, tensing. Then, as if abruptly aware of his grip on her, he released her and yanked his hand away as if he’d burned himself. “I apologize,” he said, as rigid as his body. “I didn’t mean to, that is, I—”

She scrambled back, swiftly putting space between them now that she didn’t have to worry about waking him. “No, it’s my fault. Somehow as I slept, I must’ve…” She couldn’t finish that sentence. Sitting up, she regretted that, too, her head swimming with nauseating effect. Putting a hand to her head, she groaned. Please don’t puke on Isyn, she urged herself.

“Don’t move so fast,” he bit out. “You have a head injury.”

“I noticed,” she snapped in return, then flopped back on the bed. “I forgot,” she admitted, “though you’d think the pounding headache would’ve been a clue. Not being able to heal myself really burns my tail.”

He laughed. “A shapeshifter metaphor, no doubt.” Still moving stiffly, he edged out from under the covers, sat up, and massaged his thigh muscle for a moment before turning his back to her and pushing to his feet. He’d slept in his clothes, but they were soft, thinner garments, possibly woven from some sort of wool, probably for wearing under other clothing—and they clung to his fine physique. He stretched, joints popping. He might be aged, but his body hadn’t lost its condition, his waist narrow and shoulders wide, his ass—displayed at nearly eye level, so was she not supposed to look?—taut and firm.

When he groaned, she felt guilty for ogling him, determinedly lifting her gaze to the back of his head. “Does your leg pain you?”

He glanced over his shoulder, expression rueful as he gathered his long ivory hair into a queue and tied it with a cord from the table beside the bed. “My everything pains me, but the leg aches particularly in the morning.”

“I can sympathize there. Why does my body ache all over, though?”

“You pulled me for leagues in the sled, remember?” His smile looked almost affectionate. “I doubt you were in condition to be a draft horse.”

“I do so much better when I can be an actual draft horse,” she grumbled.

“I can just imagine. You lie still and I’ll call for food.” Taking up his staff and leaning on it for support, he crossed to the soup urn, put a hand on it, and grunted. “We definitely need something brought up. The flame went out, and I don’t think either of us wants cold, congealed fish soup for breakfast.” He unbolted the door and hobbled out, closing it again behind him.

Gen was pretty sure she didn’t want even hot fish soup for breakfast—but not even the lingering orca in her was tempted to eat those leftovers. Besides, it was probably very cold, congealed fish soup, as the air temperature in the room was decidedly crisp. Gen was just as happy to snuggle back under the furs, where it was cozy and comfortable. Though she did have to pee quite urgently, so that would have to be taken care of, and soon.

With Isyn out of the room, she scooted just a bit toward where he’d lain, running her hand over the impression from his big body under cover of the blankets, inhaling his scent. He’d never know, and she wanted to remember this. Scent memory was the strongest. If she survived this experience, she wanted to be able to comfort herself on lonely nights by evoking this moment and how she’d felt waking beside him. Comforted. Cared for. Not alone.

The chamber door banged open, and a red-furred, grumpy-looking member of the folk stomped in. They pointed at her and chittered something long and complex. Before Gen could try to frame a reply, Isyn limped back in, clucking and chitting a reply. Moranu! No wonder he’d taken the better part of a year to learn their language. Truly it was a marvel he’d learned to speak it at all. The red-furred folk spun on him, speaking even faster, overlapping and interrupting him. Isyn continued evenly, showing no sign of backing down on whatever they argued about.

Finally the creature of the folk threw up their hands and stomped out again, talking to themselves the whole way. Isyn gave Gen a wry smile, green eyes bright and amused. “That’s Jasperina. She’s protective of me and is not yet convinced that you aren’t another of the creatures from the other alter-realms sent to murder me.”

“She’s not entirely off target there,” Gen pointed out. “Except for the murder part.”

“Lucky for me, or I’d be a killer-whale snack by now.”

“Orcas don’t eat people,” she told him primly. “And I wasn’t that far gone.”

Another of the folk came in carrying a tray with steaming mugs, eyeing Gen curiously. Isyn said something that sounded like a thank-you, gesturing for them to set the tray down. “Here, let me help you prop yourself up so you can drink.” He limped to the bed, leaning on the staff.

“I can move under my own power,” she protested. “I just need to take it slowly.”

“Gendra, let me—”

“And I must answer the call of nature,” she admitted, hoping she wasn’t blushing. A normal, natural thing—just not something she’d discussed with a man, ever.

“Ah.” He looked as chagrined as she felt. “Thoughtless of me. Let me show you the way.”

“You sit and have your tea or whatever it is. I’m sure I can find it.”

“Are we going to be forever urging each other to be still and rest?” he asked, humor quirking his lips. He had a fine mouth, sensitive and firm at once.

“It’s either that or we don’t get out of bed,” she quipped, then blushed in earnest. What is wrong with you, Gen? Afraid that any attempt to explain herself would only dig her in deeper, she fled—quite gingerly after her head gave a sharp throb—for the facilities, such as they might be.

They were not much. Plus, the chute seemed to open to the outside far below and produced a seriously strong updraft of freezing air. Fully awake and alert after that bottom-chilling experience, she scurried—gingerly, curse it—back to Isyn’s bedchamber, which now felt delightfully warm by comparison. It also helped that two more folk had arrived, one stacking firewood into the empty bin and the other stoking the fire into a cheerful blaze.

At Isyn’s raised brow, she tucked herself back under the furs, delighted to find the bed still warm, and arranged herself into a sitting position to accept the steaming mug he handed her. It was made of the same rough-fired, ugly clay as the bowl had been, with no handle, but it fit well into the cup of her palms. And the hot liquid inside—paradise.

Isyn had been watching her, and he chuckled at her gasp of surprise. “Chaife. It’s the one good thing about this place.”

Whatever chaife was made from, it tasted like nothing Gen had ever encountered before. Very sweet, almost creamy, with a spicy edge somewhere between pepper and cinnamon, with a finishing flavor that reminded her of Jak’s good whiskey.

“The only good thing?” she asked Isyn, who sipped from his own mug in his chair by the fire. He only had one of everything, which made her sad. No one ever sat with him by the fire or kept him company on long, dark evenings.

By comparison, her life had been rich and full of important friendships, and she was ashamed that she’d ever complained about loneliness. This life was true loneliness, every bit as terrible as Stella’s tower. Perhaps more so, that he was surrounded by others who were so very different.

“I shouldn’t say the one good thing,” Isyn answered, his gaze going past her. “I mean, I was able to survive, which it sounds like, from your description of the other alter-realms, I wouldn’t have in one of those. And the folk aren’t terrible companions. Just different. Somewhat single-minded.”

“How did you explain my presence?”

“I said you arrived as I did, from my own land and people, and they’re mostly satisfied. With a few salient exceptions.” He grimaced for Jasperina’s behavior. “Once you feel better, I’ll take you on a tour and introduce you to everyone. They’ll soon grow accustomed to your presence.”

She considered that, trying to put the prospect in a positive light, rather than succumbing to the cloud of gloom waiting to descend over her. Surely Stella and the others would find them. Eventually. Had even a day elapsed in their home realm? Feeling a bit more clear-headed with rest and nourishment—the folk serving them had also brought a creamy cheese with smoked fish that was quite good, though she longed for toasted bread to accompany it—she tried the math again. If Isyn had been here approximately fifty years and had been gone from their world for a few months—call it a quarter of a year to make it more or less even—then she could multiply everything by two hundred and get close, right?

So, one hour at home was two hundred hours in the Winter Isles. Two hundred hours was eight days, and she’d been here at least half that long, maybe longer, so it could have been just an hour or less back on the little sailing ship. But the math got a lot more depressing after that because if it took them a full day to find her… It didn’t bear thinking about.

“Gendra?” Isyn asked, cocking his head in concern as he studied her. “Are you feeling worse?”

Definitely, she was. Much worse. “Not at all,” she lied. “I’m looking forward to that tour.”

She might as well settle in.

The tour didn’ttake long. The island where Isyn and his people lived was the larger one amidst their small cluster, but that wasn’t saying much. Isyn said one could circumnavigate it at a brisk walk in about three hours. Which, he confessed with a distant look, he’d done many times over the years, just for something to do.

Gen’s skin already itched with the need to shapeshift, and the low-grade craving to swim or fly would only worsen, only this time there was no end in sight. Would she go mad eventually with the need to shift? Stories implied that had happened to the old high queen, Salena, who’d been exiled from Annfwn in the days when magic hadn’t penetrated past the barrier. So far from the ancient Heart of Annfwn, she’d been unable to shapeshift and had slowly deteriorated, losing her health and sanity.

Not something pleasant to dwell upon. Nor was the endless vista of frozen sea that formed the rest of the small world of the Winter Isles. They stood out on a rocky promontory, enjoying a break in the overcast in the late afternoon. The sun seemed far away, the light thin and weak, but it did warm her skin, if infinitesimally. After napping for a good part of the day, she felt substantially better. She’d donned her furry cloak and the other winter clothing she’d worn across the steppes of Erie, glad that she’d at least had the subconscious wit to shift back to human form wearing her cold-weather gear.

That moment of pure instinct, when she’d been soaked to the bone and freezing, and she’d grabbed her First Form and come back warmly dressed, seemed impossibly long ago, and equally beyond her now. The inability to shift felt so odd, like reaching for something familiar only to find it missing. It wasn’t fear blocking her, like her mother had talked about, or an external magical force, like the sorceress’s hold that had trapped her uncle Zyr in gríobhth form. It was just not… there. Something about the alter-realm’s very nature put her other forms out of reach. Just as they couldn’t physically leave the place, except via the rifts. Hmm.

“What happens if you just keep going across the ice?” she asked.

Isyn laughed without music or humor, gaze hard on the horizon. “If you go far enough to be out of sight of these islands, very soon afterward you find yourself coming toward them again.”

She gazed at him in cold horror, thinking it wasn’t her imagination that the lines on his face seemed carved more deeply than usual. “That’s awful.”

He tore his gaze down to hers, mouth twisting in wry agreement, though his eyes held only bleakness. “The very definition of madness, yes?”

The thought was so close to her own that she shivered.

“Cold?” he asked with quick concern. “Let’s go back inside.”

“No, I mean, yes, I’m a little cold, but…” She turned to face him, the yawning pit of despair making her bold as nothing else seemed to. “Could I just hold onto you for a moment?”

His smile turned genuine, and he opened his arms and cloak to her. “Anytime you like, Briar Rose.”

She wasn’t sure if she was comforting him or herself, but she snuggled in against him, winding her arms around his waist and her cheek against his. He wrapped her in his cloak, holding her with gentlemanly looseness. The scent and feel of another human being in all this vast, alien landscape helped to calm her, grounding that dizzying sense of vertigo. “I can’t imagine how you stayed so sane all these years without this,” she murmured. How much longer would he live? If she was stuck here forever, how soon before she wouldn’t have even this companionship?

“It’s not so terrible,” he whispered against her hair. “The folk are good people and competent at survival. And perhaps your group of heroes—not to mention Falada—will find you soon.”

She tipped her head back, unwilling to let go of him, searching his deep green eyes. They had a dark gray border, like a ring of shale around a forest pool she’d seen once. His handsome bones shone through the weathered skin, the sterling integrity of his character apparent in the lines radiating from the corners of his eyes, even the set of his chin. What a truly strong mind he must have that he hadn’t succumbed to madness or despair trapped in this place. “They’ll find us soon,” she corrected.

He smiled sadly. “My rose, I—”

“No defeatism,” she instructed firmly, placing a finger over his lips to stop the words. He tensed, his lips surprisingly soft against the pad of her finger, framed by the faint ivory bristle of a few hairs the old-fashioned straight razor he’d used had missed. His breath whispered warm against her skin, his eyes lighting with a fire that made her wonder what it would be like to kiss this man. This was no boy like Wim, no dissolute charmer like Henk. Isyn was a man, matured and hardened in the fiercest crucible. His gaze caught and held hers, his lips moving under her touch, slightly pursing in… a brush of a kiss?

Her breath caught hard in her chest with longing, wanting it to be true, that he was thinking of kissing her. And if he did, she knew in her bones that she wouldn’t have to think about trying to like it. She wouldn’t be able to think at all. It would be dazzling and passionate and scintillating in all the ways she’d ever dreamed of, and—

He cleared his throat, gaze lifting from hers to fasten on the distance again. Suddenly and brutally aware of the intimacy of their position, she yanked her fingers away and stepped back. It was unfair and needy of her to keep clinging to him. That was something else to know about him, that a man like him might be tempted by her by virtue of long isolation, but being wanted because there was no one else? Not exactly a wonderful prospect. Of course, give her a few months and she doubted she’d have any pride left. She’d be begging Isyn to notice her, which was pretty much a given for her life. “I apologize,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t.” His blazing green gaze bored into hers again. “Gendra, you’re a beautiful young woman, but I don’t want—”

Instead of clapping her hands over her ears as she dearly wished she could, she interrupted. “I believe you promised to show me the alpacas?” she asked brightly. She couldn’t bear to listen to him explain how he didn’t want her. How she was such a good person but his heart was given elsewhere. Oh, Moranu, what if it was? Isyn had been sailing to the Isles of Remus to claim a kingdom—and perhaps a bride? Someone he’d longed for all these years, staying true in his heart. So romantic, but for once the romance didn’t elicit a dreamy internal sigh from her. Instead she wanted to rail at the uncaring sky and shake her fists at her stupid fate.

Isyn inclined his head formally, eyes softening with relief. He was clearly just as happy not to have to explain himself. “The alpacas are indeed the pinnacle of the tour,” he replied with a cheerful smile she was pretty sure he faked for her benefit, so she wouldn’t feel so miserable.

She refrained from commenting that it didn’t take much to be the pinnacle of the tour of the Winter Isles. Even talking about them in the plural was overstating the case, as only the one was big enough to sustain a population. Side by side, they strolled back to the wooden fortress that was home to the folk. It crawled in varying levels over the sloping hillside, long covered corridors snaking out to attached buildings that were equally sprawling. Isyn had explained that there had once been a village arranged in a circle around a central plaza, but the persistent winter had caused them to cover everything over. At least wood was plentiful, the evergreen forest thickly covering most of the islands.

The alpacas lived in a large barn, steamy with their collective warmth and smelling not unpleasantly of the woody materials they ate. Isyn explained that the creatures could subsist on twigs and bark that the folk stripped from the timber they harvested, along with the evergreen needles. In the past, the alpacas had grazed on grass, but it had been years since any had grown on the Winter Isles. It was a good thing the ruminants could live on the harsh diet, as they in turn provided milk, cheese, and wool for the folk.

Gen had never tried an alpaca form—they weren’t good for speed, strength, or giving rides, which were the main reasons to take an otherwise pretty boring, grazing herbivore body. These were more interesting animals than she’d imagined, however, with keen, intelligent gazes and fierce dispositions.

Though Isyn warned her to be careful of their teeth—and spitting!—she couldn’t stay away, edging closer when he turned to gesture at the feed storage bins. She was interested, but his detailed explanations gave her the uneasy feeling that he was grooming her to take over as ruler of this tiny kingdom. The man had a fatalistic streak and seemed determined to die, which only made her heart ache.

So, instead, she sidled over to a deep-brown alpaca, studying it closely, lulling it into perhaps letting her feel its woolly coat. Stretching out her senses, she tried to consciously access that intuitive part of her that recognized another form and delivered it to her. She hadn’t tried to so consciously assess and assume a form since her last spate of attempting dragon form—long before this quest began. That same sense of groping in the dark for something that should be there and wasn’t resulted from her efforts. But… something there, glimmering beyond sense, lured her with distant promise…

“Gendra—no!”