Si glyph [https://i.imgur.com/mHhTdaF.png]

Blinking at the brightness of the snow-reflected day, Sam crawled from the snow hole, then Lorie, and more slowly, Nana.

Simon tried to rouse himself. For a brief moment, survival had seemed possible. With Andra as a guide, they would live, and walk, and reach Athanor. But she had gone. There was no angel to turn to now, no miraculous rescue for his children — yet, for their sake, he couldn’t give up.

He mustered a smile. ‘Good morning.’

‘There was a woman,’ Sam said. ‘She helped us dig the snow hole, and she was in there with us. Or did I dream that?’

‘No,’ Simon said. ‘She was here. I spoke to her.’ Now Andra was gone, he could easily believe it had all been a dream. ‘She left though. I don’t think she’s coming back.’

‘So what are we going to do?’ Lorie said. ‘Do we move on?’

The icy air stabbed pain through Simon’s chest at every breath. He opened his pack. There wasn’t enough food. Not enough to feed them all, or any of them really, not for the many days it would take to reach Athanor. But it didn’t matter: not to him. With or without food, he would not live that long. He had no strength left, except to do what he must. ‘You go on. I’m staying here.’

Sam and Lorie exchanged glances. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said.

‘I’m not going to make it,’ Simon said. ‘I can’t walk without help. You’ll be better off without me. Take the rest of the food, everything you can carry. Keep going east, and you’ll reach Athanor.’

‘You can’t do that. We won’t let you.’ Lorie turned to Nana. ‘Tell him.’

‘Well, he won’t stay behind on his own,’ Nana said. ‘I’ll be with him.’

Lorie stared between them. ‘But we need you.’

Nana patted her arm. ‘Your father’s right. Which isn’t something I often say, but it’s true.’

Despite her age, Nana had the wiry strength born of a lifetime of hard work. It wasn’t like her to give up, yet her eyes met Simon’s with steady resolve, and he knew better than to argue. She had a right to make the same choice he had.

Lorie flung her arms around Simon, sobbing. Sam clung to Nana and Simon hugged them all. His heart ached. He wished he could hold them forever and protect them from the world, from all the pain life brought, but he could not. Not any more.

Simon pushed them away. He emptied his pack and made a pile of food and anything else useful. Only by concentrating on the task, focussing on the immediate and practical, could he hold in his emotions. At the bottom of his pack, he found the leather toolcase containing his stylus. His father had given it to him on his sixteenth birthday and it had been with him ever since. He slipped it into Sam’s pack.

‘When you reach Athanor,’ he said, ‘go to House Oryche. They should do something for you.’ He wasn’t sure what, but it was all he had to suggest. ‘You will get there. Both of you, you’re braver and stronger than I ever knew. Your mother would be so proud of you.’

Sam tugged his arm. ‘Dad, look.’

Simon blinked back tears. Snow shifted and slid; a dark figure strode toward them. Andra. Andra has come back.

She stopped, considering them and the scattered baggage, before raising a hand to point into the distance. ‘East,’ she said. ‘Come.’

They walked as best they could, Simon leaning on Lorie and Sam helping Nana. Andra loped ahead or to one side, her easy stride mocking their slow progress, returning from time to time to correct their course.

Simon’s feet were lumps of agony. His bad leg ached, his injured fingers throbbed, and pain stabbed his chest with each deep breath of the freezing air. He clung to Lorie mostly for balance; without her, he would have fallen many times.

As the sun crept across the sky, his world shrunk to the next step, and the one after. His vision blurred: all was white. Lorie spoke, encouraging him, but he didn’t know what she said. He stumbled and collapsed. Soft snow cradled his body and his eyes closed. Lying still felt so good. The pain remained, but he could so easily drift into sleep and leave it all behind.

Someone hauled on his arm. ‘Get up, Dad.’

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He mumbled a wordless complaint. He didn’t want to get up. He was tired. He wanted to sleep.

‘Help me.’ More hands pulled at him. Why wouldn’t they let him sleep? ‘You can’t sleep here. On your feet.’

Was that Rane shouting? No, his wife died two years ago. She couldn’t be shouting at him. It must be Lorie.

Somehow, he stood. His feet were numb now. He couldn’t feel them at all, which was better than the pain, but made it surprisingly hard to walk. He staggered along with Lorie on one side and Sam on the other. They couldn’t support his wandering weight. He sagged to the ground.

‘Sam, gather wood for a fire,’ Lorie said.

Simon shook his head. The warm comfortable vagueness receded, replaced by burning cold. He began to shiver. Nana leaned against him and he put his arm round her, to share what warmth they could. Sam and Lorie tugged at dead branches protruding from the snow.

‘Where’s Andra?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Lorie answered. ‘She’s been gone a while.’

They sat in a dip between low hills, which sheltered them from the worst of the wind. A branch cracked in Lorie’s hands. She threw the pieces down.

‘We should—’ Simon struggled to speak, his teeth chattering. ‘—dig shelter. Can’t — light fire.’ The wood would be damp and cold, and they had no matches left, no dry tinder. Trying to light a fire was a waste of time and energy.

‘I think I can,’ Lorie said.

‘How?’ Irritation pushed aside the fog in his brain. Why wasn’t she listening to him?

She continued breaking branches, stacking the pieces into a rough cone. ‘I can call a salamander.’

‘What? You can’t do that.’

‘I think I can.’

‘But you can’t. Don’t be stupid, girl.’

She cupped her hands and stared at them, her face strangely calm.

Simon drew breath to ask her what she thought she was doing — and something was in her hands, almost invisible, a turning of the air that shouldn’t be there. Carefully, she lowered her hands to the stacked wood. The translucent flickering something flowed over the branches. It danced and shivered, and little orange flames bloomed where it had been.

‘That’s not possible,’ Simon breathed. ‘You can’t do that.’

Sam fed twigs to the tentative flames. Damp wood steamed in the growing warmth and smoke curled into the air. Lorie packed a pan with snow and set it beside the fire to melt.

‘How did you do that?’ Simon asked. He still couldn’t believe she had. It was impossible, as flatly impossible as black being white, as day being night. It was easier to believe he was dreaming, yet he doubted he would dream something so outlandish.

‘I… don’t know,’ she said, and frowned at the flames. ‘I was so cold, and I kept thinking of the fire at home. When I watched it burn, sometimes I fancied I saw shapes in the flames, like the glyphs in your book. And I thought, I felt, that if I only remembered the shapes, a salamander would come.’

‘But that’s not possible.’ Only clearly, it was possible — she’d done it before his eyes. Of course, a Fire Adept could summon a salamander, just as Simon could summon the forces of the earth, but they needed a sigil to do it. Lorie had used no sigil. ‘Did you ever do it at home?’

‘No. I think I could have, but I never tried.’

‘You don’t know how dangerous this could be.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘More dangerous than freezing to death?’

‘Yes!’ Simon took a breath. ‘When you summon a salamander, or any Power, it can take over your mind. Most of the training at the Arcanum is about protecting yourself.’

‘It didn’t feel dangerous.’

The fire’s warmth beat against Simon’s face and hands. He hadn’t felt such heat since they’d left the wagon train. Agony throbbed in his feet as feeling returned. ‘A small salamander probably can’t do you any harm, but for Light’s sake, Lorie, be careful. Every year at the Arcanum, a few boys… disappeared. We were never told what happened to them. True possession is very rare. Most who overreach themselves simply die, or go mad.’

The sun was red and low in the west when Andra returned, striding easily over the snow, a pair of dead marmots swinging at her side. Without a word, she crouched by the fire and began skinning the carcasses with quick strokes of her knife. Under the fur they were pitiful bony creatures. She spitted them on her spear and set them on the fire to roast.

‘You walk slow,’ she said.

Fat dripped from the cooking meat and sizzled. The smell brought a rush of saliva to Simon’s mouth. ‘My feet hurt.’

‘Show me.’

Simon hesitated. He hadn’t looked, but he knew his feet were in a bad way, and his hand too. He didn’t want to know how bad. But that was childish and cowardly; avoiding the truth was no defence from reality. Slowly, he removed his boots and peeled off the layers of socks.

Nana hissed.

‘Ugh,’ Sam said.

His toes were swollen and angry red, shading to dark purple and black, and there was a sickly, unpleasant smell, like spoiled meat.

Andra leaned over and grabbed his foot.

He winced. ‘Ow.’

‘Bad.’ She released him. ‘Dead.’

‘She’s right.’ Nana shook her head. ‘When the flesh turns black, it’s dead. It will rot and make you sick. I’ve known men die of it. How’re your hands?’

Simon removed his gloves and unwound the bandage he’d wrapped around his right hand, which the dog had bitten. The index and middle finger resembled over-cooked sausages bursting from their skins. He couldn’t move them.

‘What do we do?’ Lorie said. She was very pale.

Andra pulled out her knife. In the firelight, the blade gleamed — thin, and long, and very sharp.

‘Oh, no.’ Simon pulled away. ‘No.’

‘It’s for the best,’ Nana said. ‘You’ll lose them anyway. Best do it now while we have fire and water.’

‘But not my hand.’ Simon stared at his fingers. Ten working fingers and thumbs. He’d never thought how important they were to him. ‘How can I use a stylus with half my fingers?’

‘Your fingers aren’t much use if you’re dead, my lad,’ Nana said.

They were all staring at him in sickened pity, except for Andra, who pulled the charred meat off the fire. By all accounts, lasker ate human flesh just as willingly. Could he really sit still under her knife while she cut off fingers and toes?

Anticipation of agony was an agony of its own.

Sark had no doctor. What surgery could be done was done by practical women like Nana, women accustomed to butchering pigs, women who could wield a knife quickly and accurately, who would not hesitate or flinch however the patient screamed.

‘There’s no help for it,’ Nana said. ‘And no sense in delaying. Though perhaps we’d best eat first, if Andra means to share that, for I doubt we’ll want to after.’