Prologue

They say that memory is like a pond or a looking glass; the longer you look, the deeper you will see. They say it like if you stare too long into your memory, you'll fall in and sink and drown and be lost in the past; it's not true, of course, but the words still carry some warning long forgotten. Memory is like a fire that we stoke and kindle carefully to keep all the things we need ready and at hand when wanted - much like a torch or a skewer of meat, sizzling and delicious to sustain us in the winter nights. We are not born masters of the dark places however, and this leaves us open to stare too long, to sink too deep, to reach too far. There's a danger to memory, that fire can become an inferno and consume everything we know, until all that's left is the burning pain and smoldering remnants of a life well-loved.

~~~

Laying face down was a juxtaposition of life and death, everything above was hot and all below freezing cold; the air smelled of blood and ash as Dyl tried to lift their head. Pain filled the world and there was weight - their body was heavy, sluggish as one hand clawed free of the ash and expired cinders - choking to breath. Their skin as black from soot, raw red wounds wept on the back of the hand and the wind kicked up ash about them. Everything was smoke and soot and on the wind was the smell of death. A voice rose over the wind, a mournful grieving wail that tore Dyl's heart open and a cry spilled past dry and cracked lips, tears from some unexpected font gathered in their eyes, fell down their cheeks mixing with the blood and soot and they heard scrambling in answer to their voice.

There had been hands then: arms, faces, voices and eyes had come close but Dyl barely remembered any of it aside from the wildfire of pain that made the forest spin in dark greys and greens. It had been the snow that lasted in the confusion of thoughts, clean and cold, packed upon their body to soothe the wounds while herbs were ground to make poultice. The healer's eyes were amber-gold in the dawn, and she did not speak as she tended the charred body of one who had been intended to raise a shield in defense of the copses and valleys; there were other voices, other shadowy forms that came to speak to the healer but Dyl did not try to look. Shame and grief filled the world with a bitterness and they did not want to see the faces of those they had failed; and tried to forget the last moments when they had known it was all lost as hands lifted them from the frozen bed, laid them on furs and carried them silently into the woods. All the eyes of the forest fell on the quiet trek, no voice broke the shattered sorrow and they did not know which way or how long they were carried.

But memory was like a winter pool and the frozen surface was the last moments of Dyl's life - a life filled with laughter and life and love, green and growing things, an enclave reveling in the wild ways even as beyond the forest towns and cities grew up. The icy surface of that past life was stained with the blood of the village, Berrok's sword lay broken somewhere beneath the surface, and there was a place where the ice was thin, shattered - Abin's last scream echoed in their mind and the ice gave out under their hopeless gaze. Dyl sank beneath with a mournful wail, letting the cold take them and begged all the gods to let them die. To die and forget.

Fate had other plans.

~~~

There are watchers in the shadows, eyes that witness from beyond the knowable; not all the watchers look for the same reason...

"Love, you see, gives strength."

"No. I see. Love is to the mortals as breathing, we wager on their destinies while they wager on their hopes."

"Mortals, silly, have so little time. They must invest in every moment."

"Fools."

~~~

She leapt up onto the table, skirts twirling and laughed as the music reached a crescendo and flung her hands upwards, chanting the words under her breath and smiling as the tavern filled with the 'oohs' and 'ahhs' of appreciation that always preceded the bestowment of coin. Rotald continued to strum on the lute and sing, his voice echoing through the room while drinks were served and feet stomped; Sylaise eyed the group and noticed a well-dressed merchant towards the back. She smiled and turned to whirl and create another burst of colors above the crowd, it would make a good distraction while her little friend lightened the merchant's purse for him. She turned to issue another enchantment but froze as she saw the boy walk in. He was tall and striking with skin a soft green and eyes the color of the stones the sailors swore would protect them on the seas; his hair was dark, and he smiled when their eyes met, she thought his tusks made that grin all the sweeter. His voice when they met was soft and dulcet, his laugh was boisterous and his kisses were spicy, tasting of the smoke he pulled on from that pipe he seemed always to have in hand. She was intoxicated, she clung to him in the dark night and for three days they were inseparable. He'd broken her heart and left her to wake up alone and cold to answer the constable's badgering as to where the culprit was. Nobody told her what she was accused of knowing.

With-Two-Daggers came in the pre-dawn of the third morning, setting her pack beside the cell door and slipping the tools into the lock.

"Firefly is gone, horsie run far far with pretty boy, we go fast. Quiet." The goblin had hissed with delight as the lock clicked open and she stepped out to snatch up the pack.

She pulled her belt tight about her waist, tears beginning to fall as the two darted out into a storm that hid her tears and they slipped into the back of the first wagon she saw leaving the city. With-Two-Daggers deftly skinned a few rats that she didn't ask where he'd found - she'd learned not to ask those sorts of questions of her companion.

"He took my horse, and left me to rot in that jail cell," she whispered and tried to dry her cheeks. "I'm going to kill him."

Her friend smiled and held out a small, vicious looking dagger and she put it in her belt.

"We be free, you get revenge and be happy."

~~~

The echo of bone and stone clattered, a thousand voices called out in ecstasy and horror at the thunder. Lightning crackled, snow froze in the sky, dark eyes flit through the sky a thousand strong and unnoticed.

"Interesting, scoundrels waylaying each other. Does he know what they came for?"

"No."

"Does she know the cost?"

"She believes she does."

"Why do you torment them so?"

"It is not our purpose to torment, but to witness. Now look again, another sun rises."

~~~

He had run until he couldn't stand, then slept only until the first baying of the hounds shattered his rest and rose again; the ice over the ground was slick and hard, and his body hurt from where the ice had gotten through the cloth. Ebon turned back to the still dark sky, where a thin line of red lined the horizon with the first hints of dawn and tried to run. It wasn't much of a run, more a staggering trot over the uneven ground, but his long strides would hopefully carry him to safety if only he could outlast those damned dogs. He shivered in the wind, and considered his chances again but the recent raids had turned even the most open minded villages against anyone who looked even slightly related to the Horde of Bones. He had no choice, the food he'd stolen had kept him from starving but the townsfolk had hardly seemed to care as to his reasons so, though he towered over most of them, he'd been well outnumbered and chose the better part of valor: survival. The scenery brightened into a glaring haze that made his eyes water but with hope, Ebon saw a cave ahead and scrambled over the slippery stones towards it with the idea of a decent rest out of the elements making his heart pound in his ears.

It was barely a hole in the ground, edged with frost and darker than the night itself - and it stunk. The air inside the cave was vile, close and Ebon choked as he slipped and slid down the gravel towards the floor. He heard the sound over the clatter of the stones tumbling, over his coughing, just barely and froze, turning to squint into the depths of the cave. Too late did the young man realize his error - this was not a cave but a den, and the inhabitant had woken at his clumsy entrance. His host was not forgiving of the imposition and he scrabbled back up the rocky way, a huge fury of fur and claws clambering after him with enough noise that he was certain he'd woken a damned dragon.

The land was broken and uneven, the snow hid the holes and the stones but he stumbled and fled as quickly as he could while death rushed down the slope towards him.