Snowtear Read online

  He stopped in the middle of the street, the wind blowing a fine mist of snow at his back. His eyes lingered on the front door of the unassuming home. Engraved in the wood was the visage of the Orchard, a place once close to his heart. Riken lingered, forgetting how to move until a strong wind whipped up behind him and reminded him.

  He pulled snug on the hood of his cloak, shielding his tingling cheeks, and left the little cottage in his wake.

  Halfway to Morning Gale Row, a pint-sized urchin with a dirty face stepped in his path.

  The kid wore holey boots, a faded cotton tunic that stretched too far past his knees, and leggings too thin for this cold weather. His hair, brown and wiry, looked like it had just come from a fight with a cyclone. On the left side of his face, an elongated scar resided, won in a tussle with a shopkeeper who hadn’t taken kindly to the dingy youth trying to pilfer his wares.

  “What is it, Sod?” Riken asked, stopping to catch his breath. “I’m a little under the weather, if you can’t tell.”

  “Look about the same as always,” the boy said.

  “Can still bend you over my knee.”

  “You couldn’t bend a limp noodle, Snowtear.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Got information for you.”

  “Grand,” Riken said, and brushed past the boy with a sigh.

  “Don’t you want to hear it?” Sod said, walking alongside him, matching Riken’s decrepit pace.

  “All ears.”

  “This Sage girl you looking for, she ain’t the only one’s gone missing of late.”

  “What?”

  “Got dirt in your ears?”

  “Snow.”

  “There’s other young girls disappeared too.”

  “Recently?”

  “Somewhat. Five in the last year, according to what I hear about. Old Min Yinuma, her youngest went missing about a cycle ago, taken from her bed in the night. No one’s seen or heard of her since. And Hatty Raincloud, she come over from Far Burden a few decs back, her little one, Mavis, I believe her name is, she’s gone to.”

  “So?” Riken said, wishing he’d rented a room closer to Sine. His feet were going numb. He hoped it was merely the snow in his boots.

  “So?”

  “Aye, so. So some girls go missing. What does that have to do with mine? Kids go missing all the time.”

  “They usually turn up, for good or ill,” Sod said defiantly. “None of these have. You think I’m simple, Snowtear. All in all, I heard about twenty-something such kids in the last cycle alone. I checked them out. Most come back, a few were found dead, but not these.”

  “So you’ve nothing substantial on Sage, is what you’re saying?”

  “Substantial, my ass,” Sod said. “That’s worth at least five kyn, I think.”

  “You think wrong, little one.”

  “Don’t call me little one, Snowtear. You’re the one looks like he drew the shortest end of the shortest fucking stick ever. Pay up, this’s good for something.”

  “Good for shit,” Riken said through a coughing fit. “You got nothing. Oh, five girls have gone missing. Sound the bells. Thank the Fire. And the Wind too, while you’re at it.”

  “Gonna hack up a lung?” Sod asked with a grin.

  “Perhaps. Haven’t decided.”

  “You’re for shit, you know that. I do as you ask, and for what? I went into some rough places to find out this stuff for you, you know?”

  “You’re always in rough places,” Riken said. “Wherever you go is rough. Your kind is what makes them that way.”

  “That so?”

  “Aye.”

  As if bored, Sod stuck out his foot and sent Riken flailing to the ground. For some reason that couldn’t be beneficial, his face had been growing ever warmer, so he actually welcomed the biting snow. When he didn’t make a move to right himself, Sod poked a boot in his side and nudged him onto his back.

  “My thanks,” Riken said, staring up at the hazy stars before his eyes and their sky-bound cousins beyond.

  “Of course.”

  “Help me up?” Sod took his outstretched hand and lifted him easily to his feet. “My apologies,” Riken said.

  “For what?” Sod asked, though Riken could tell the thoughtless remark had stung the boy.

  “You’re a good kid, Sod.”

  “Good enough for five kyn?”

  “Three.”

  “Fine, stingy bastard. I heard about you and the dead girl. You alright?”

  Riken wiped a few clumps of snow from his coat and stared up into the star-filled sky. He drew in as much breath as his aching chest would allow, then coughed it all out hoarsely. His mind went back to the room where he’d held Anastasia’s abused body. His stomach turned in on itself, and he doubled over, spraying the ground with used whiskey. As he gagged, Sod clamped his back.

  “Thought you didn’t drink on a job.”

  “Aye, well…”

  “Thinking about her, huh?”

  Riken nodded as his stomach began to settle. He knew of whom Sod spoke, and it wasn’t Anastasia.

  Still bent over, he fished three brown coins from his pocket and handed them to the boy.

  “Want me to help you home?” Sod asked, rubbing his back.

  “Nay, I’d rather be alone.”

  “I’ll come around in the morn, then, remind you about the girls.”

  “My thanks.”

  “Take care, Snowtear. Don’t drink anymore for awhile.”

  “Piss off, urchin.”

  The boy disappeared around a corner, shaking his head as he went.

  4

  Not positive why he’d come, Riken found himself standing beneath Sefen’s lone window. The place was dark.

  He pictured the snobbish manservant sitting at his chair, reading by candlelight. Riken didn’t know exactly why, but he disliked the man immensely. Maybe it was simply his smug, condescending nature. Maybe. Or it could be that Sefen had had a hand in what happened to that sweet, innocent girl. He could even have been the one that slid the blade across her neck, ending what little life she’d ever had.

  Riken grabbed a handful of snow, packed it into a tight ball, and hurled it at the open window.

  It collided with the wall about halfway up.

  His attempt thwarted, Riken fell back on his strengths.

  In the dead of the still night, he threw back his head and howled, screaming, “I know what you did. I know, you smarmy whore’s son. You hear me, you piece of horseshit? I’ll end you, Sefen. You can’t hide from me. I’m Riken fucking Snowtear, and I own your ass. I…”

  His last threat lodged in his throat as all strength fled his limbs. He passed out in the snow, satisfied.

  Chapter Eight

  “Jatta lost a daughter.”

  “What? Say that again.”

  “She had a little girl named Maura, like six-cycles-old. One day Jatta comes home, late in the evening. Her mother had stepped out to buy flour. She goes up to check on the little one, who’s supposed to be upstairs in bed, and Maura’s not there. Jatta wasn’t worried at first, thought the mother had taken her with her, you know, but when her mumma comes home alone, Jatta goes wild. The two of them search the whole damn house. Nothing. Folks I talked to said they come barreling out like they were on fire, screaming Maura’s name. Most of those nearby helped search. Hours, they looked for her, but she was gone.”

  When Uther finished, Riken asked, “When was this?”

  “About four months ago,” Uther said, deftly rolling a smoke of brown herb between his thick fingers.

  Riken shook his head. Had Sod mentioned a Maura this morning?

  They were sitting on Uther’s enclosed porch – Uther in a wide, cushioned swing, Riken relegated to a willow rocking chair with unsmoothed knotholes poking at his back. On the short table between them sat a half-empty bottle of orange wine. Its weak scent drifting toward him caused an occasional lurch in his stomach.

  The aftereffects of the pr
evious night’s festivities were wreaking havoc on him. For not having many muscles, they sure ached like mad. He still felt queasy, and the drummer in his head was making quite the ass of himself.

  “And now she’s working for the Ullimars,” Riken said.

  “Aye,” Uther said.

  As Uther finished his roll and slipped it into the crook of his mouth, Riken contemplated this new turn. Jatta’s kid goes missing, then she gets work at a house where the same thing happens to another girl. Jatta could’ve taken Sage out of grief, wanting to replace her own daughter, but, if so, where was she keeping her? Not in that little house. Then there was this business with the five other missing girls Sod had told him about. Did they have a role in this mess?

  “You hear anything about other missing girls?” he asked Uther, who shook his head, and exhaled brown smoke through his nostrils.

  “Why?”

  “Nothing,” Riken said. “Listen, many thanks for the extra comfy chair. I’ve got to go check on some things.”

  “Still want me to watch her?”

  “Till I say different, aye.”

  “You’re the boss, twig.”

  He didn’t bother greeting Sefen, simply asked, “Where’s Mon Ullimar?”

  Sefen, wearing his usual impeccable robe, stepped politely aside as Riken pushed his way past.

  “Mon Ullimar is out on business,” Sefen said.

  “The Min?”

  “She is about.”

  “Kindly fetch her for me, then,” Riken said.

  Sefen tilted his head slightly as if he didn’t care to take orders from anyone but his masters. His distaste duly noted, he walked by Riken toward the right staircase.

  “That’s it. Good boy,” Riken said, clapping his hands. “Go fetch.”

  Sefen’s assured stride wasn’t impeded in the least. He went up the staircase, into a hallway, and returned a few moments later.

  “The Min will be right down,” he said. “Is there anything I can get you while you wait?”

  “Nay, we’ll get to that later, friend.”

  Sefen’s face remained cordial until Marr Ullimar arrived, then he left by way of the hall.

  “Mon Snowtear,” Marr said, slowly descending the stairs. She held onto the banister as if terrified she’d tumble to her death otherwise. Her appearance had worsened since last he’d set eyes on her. Her hair was a tangled mess. She wore no paint on her face whatsoever. Her dress looked as if she’d slept in it for the past few nights, and her breath would be unsafe around any flame. She spoke in words so slurred he had to concentrate to make them out. “You’ve found her?”

  “Nay, Min, my apologies.”

  “It’s more coin you want, isn’t it? I know your kind. More coin, and then you’ll bring her back to me?”

  “Of course not, Min,” Riken said, wanting to reach out and steady her swaying before she hurt herself.

  “I’ll pay whatever you ask. Just stop hiding her. You know where she is. You probably took her. Sefen, bring Mon Snowtear more coin, however much he demands.”

  “Min, please,” Riken said. “I just have a few questions.”

  “Questions,” she said, throwing her hands into the air. “Always with the questions. Questions, Mon Snowtear, aren’t finding my precious Sage. They can’t bring her back to me. You can. That’s why Gregor hired you. Too bad he didn’t know how useless you were.”

  “Here, Min. Please sit,” Riken said, taking her hand and guiding her to a crimson sofa next to the staircase. After he’d eased her down, she jerked her hand away so violently her head cracked against the wall.

  “Sefen,” she yelled, sliding down into a laying position. “Wine.”

  “Min, what does your husband do?”

  “Do? He loses things. He loses things that shouldn’t be lost.”

  “His coin, Min? How does he make it?”

  “Sefen,” she yelled again, her voice breaking pathetically. “Sefen, bring me more wine and show our good Mon Snowtear out. He won’t return her. He wants more coin. Give it to him on his way out.”

  Riken didn’t see need in defending himself. He turned to leave just as the front door swung open.

  “Ah, Mon Snowtear,” Gregor Ullimar said as he came through, slipping out of his olive overcoat. Sefen was at his side from out of nowhere. He took the coat and draped it gingerly over his arm. “My thanks, Sefen. Mon Snowtear, what news?”

  “Little, I fear, Mon Ullimar,” Riken said, glaring at Sefen as he left with the coat. “I was wondering if you might have time to answer a few questions.”

  “All I have is time these days, Mon Snowtear. In the den? I see Marr has appropriated the sofa.” He barely looked at his wife as they walked past. She didn’t notice the slight, having fallen asleep with one arm dragging on the floor. “She’s having a tough time of it. We all are. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Of course, Mon,” Riken said as they entered the spacious den.

  Gregor took a seat on the same couch he had when they’d first met earlier in the week. He produced a fine, wooden pipe from the breast pocket of his blue, silk shirt. There was a small herb bag on the table between them. He retrieved it, released its string, and tapped a generous portion into the mouth of the pipe. He lifted his finger to the opening, and a small flame appeared on its tip.

  “You’re a pyron,” Riken said.

  “Aye,” Gregor said, nodding and puffing yellow smoke. “Though not very proficient. I read from a base scroll at the Foundation. My father didn’t see the need in my spending time questing on my Tish’Ret. He wanted me home and working the family business as soon as possible.”

  “What business would that be?”

  “Oh, gems mostly. My father acquired quite a large number of mines in his long lifetime. Mostly in this region, but we have a few near Keltion’s Vision.”

  “Sounds profitable.”

  “Aye, but quite the headache sometimes,” he said, exhaling the yellow smoke quickly. “I fear I haven’t the aptitude my father had. Now there was a brilliant man. You’d have liked him. Everyone did. He could be tough, but always out of love. He always told me that love was the most important aspiration a man could have, but that coin would always do in a pinch.”

  “A wise man,” Riken said.

  “Aye. Wise and good. And how he loved his little granddaughter. He used to put her on his knee and play horse, even though it pained him something fierce in his later cycles. He never once denied her. I wish Sage had gotten to know him better. When she was young, she called him Ginpa. Funny how children are with words. She really loved him. She loves everyone. She’s a very special lady.”

  “I have no doubt, Mon.”

  “When she was young, before she left to live in Burden, I used to take her with me on trips to visit our mines. She hated them, all cold and dank and smoky, but she loved the journey. She’s an artist. She draws the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen. She did that one behind you when she was ten cycles.”

  Gregor extended his arm, and Riken looked over his shoulder. In a gold frame was a charcoal drawing of an expansive landscape with a giant rising sun in the distance. All the lines were bumpy and out of place.

  “It’s not her best, I assure you. She did it looking out the back of the wagon on one of our trips. Hard to make sure lines when you’re bouncing along the plains with an expert amplifien in toe, but how else could we travel? It would take months otherwise.”

  Riken understood the notion. Amplification was an amazingly valuable fibra to possess. He’d have given his right eye for such aid during his grueling eight cycles of questing on his Tish’Ret. A gifted amplifien could’ve cut that time by well more than half.

  Even to the most knowing of Cryshal’s inhabitants, the fibras were a fantastic mystery. In ancient cycles past, the old tales said, all manifestations of the fibras were attainable by an individual. Why this changed, or when exactly, remains murky. But it did. Now, and for tens of thousands of cycles, seekers into the
realm of the fibras were allowed only a single path. The accumulation process is arduous at best, masochistic at worst. To obtain proficiency in a chosen fibra, a seeker must spend many cycles at one of five Foundations – learning under the tutelage of demanding instructors, studying the ancient scrolls, and crafting their own unique path to attain their fibra: their Tish’Ret. Studies completed, the hopeful either reads from a base scroll, or gets the pleasure of spending the next few, or very many, cycles questing all over the land accumulating specific ingredients for their Tish’Ret. Reading from a base scroll grants dual benefits. Time spent in study at the Foundation is woefully shorter, and it foregoes the grueling questing process, but the benefits end there. Such a person will never be especially powerful in their fibra. At eighteen cycles, young Riken Snowtear had thought taking such a path a craven’s way out. At twenty-six, moments before undertaking his Rites of Tish’Ret to coalesce his fibra into his being, he’d stood petrified over his circle of ingredients wishing to all he held dear that he’d just given in and become a craven when he had the option. He hadn’t, and though his Rites been the single most terrifying task he’d ever endeavored, he’d carved his way into the realm of the mystical fibras successfully.

  Only five presently-living souls were exempt from this fundamental criterion: the Five True, one of whom resided in a castle a mere four blocks from where Riken now sat. Trueborns, like those of old, were born possessing the total wealth of the fibras. Thus far, the Five True had used their unique power for the good of all. Long ago, they’d established the four Corner Cities. Obviously unhindered by the regulations of time, at least those compulsory to normal folk, these five distinctive souls had been breathing air for well over ten thousand cycles. In their era as rulers of Cryshal, the world had known mostly peace, excepting the bitter Three Race’s War, in which the Five had mostly abstained from engaging.

  When Riken looked back, Gregor’s eyes had filled with tears. The vulnerable expression diminished much of his usual superiority. It made him seem just another man, a miserable father who wanted his only daughter returned to him. Suddenly, Riken found it hard to remain jealous of Gregor Ullimar and all his extravagant possessions. What good were they to him now?