Ice Country

“Two hits?” I say. “Like I said, thesissy-eyed Heater girl knocked me out with one punch.”

“I guess I can just take a hit better thanyou,” Buff says, laughing. But then he grabs his head like he justgot hit by an iceball.

I sigh. “We can argue about it later. What doyou think they’re doing here in ice country?”

“How the chill should I know? They’resupposed to be destroyed.”

“Maybe most of them are,” I say. “Maybethey’re coming here looking for help, someone to take them in.”

“Fu

“Well, we were chasing them.”

Buff’s eyes narrow. “Hey, describe thisHeater girl again, will ya? You know, the girl who beat youup.”

I punch him on the shoulder, but then Idescribe her.

“The short hair thing’s kinda weird, isn’tit?”

I shrug. “I guess so, but it sort of workedfor her. She wasn’t bad looking.”

Buff says, “You know, I felt like there weremore of them, too.”

“More of who?”

“The Heaters, or Marked, or whoever they are.Although I only saw the guy with the markings, it felt like therewere others watching the whole thing.”

“How many?” I ask.

“I du

We both stare off into the forest for a fewminutes, thinking about everything. Finally, Buff says, “What arewe going to do?”

“Find them,” I say.

~~~

It’s dark by the time we get back to theBrown District. We agree to meet in the morning, to start lookingfor the mysterious invaders who gave us the quickest beating of ourlives.

When I push through the door, I can’t helpthe smile on my face. It quickly fades though when reality sets in.Mother’s in front of the fire, rocking slightly, using her hands todrum out an uneven rhythm on the floor. Wes is off to the side onthe floor too, back against the wall, hand against his head, ahalf-eaten bowl of soup beside him. And, of course, there’s noJolie. It’s like losing her sucked all the life out of our alreadylifeless family. We may have only gotten to see her once or twice aday, but that was enough to make things different, to fill in a bitof the emptiness.

I can’t. As hard as I try to think of theHeaters in ice country, I can’t. Images of my broken family floodmy mind and my lips stay flatter than the floor.

“Wes,” I say.

He doesn’t move.

“This has to stop,” I say.

No response.

“I know where Jolie is.”

His head snaps up and a pair of red-veinedeyes stares at me. His face is moist. He’s been crying. “That’s notfu

“She’s in the palace somewhere,” I say.

“Cut it out.”

“I’m being serious. I’ve got a lot to tellyou. I should’ve told you sooner.”

Over two fresh bowls of soup, both for me,and to the erratic sound of my mother’s ceaseless drumming, I tellhim everything. What the job really was, about the Cure, how wefound Nebo dead and frozen, about the “special cargo”, how I feltill being a part of it. I wrap things up with our trips to firecountry and “meeting” the Heaters.

Wes’s eyes widen at parts, narrow at others,but mostly just pay rapt attention to every word I speak in betweenslurps of soup. When I finish, his eyes finally leave mine,drifting to watch Mother and her incessant drumming.

“You don’t know for sure Jolie’s in there,”he says.

“I know,” I say.

He nods, like he understands. It’s abrother-sister thing. He knows, too.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I’ve beendying more and more every day.” The way he says it sounds soweary-like, as if he might die right here, right now, on the spot,if he doesn’t like my answer.

“Like I told you, they’re watching me. Or atleast they were when I worked for the king. I expect they’re stillwatching, on account of what I know, although maybe they’re notbeing quite as attentive now that the trade agreement seems to beon hold, or over, or whatever. I thought if they knew I told you,they’d kill us both.” It’s the honest to Mountain Heart truth.

Wes nods, sighs. “You did the rightthing.”

I close my eyes. My brother’s back. The onewho decides what’s right and wrong, who always knows what to do,whose approval I’ve been desperately seeking even though maybe Ididn’t realize it until right now. His words seem to wash over melike cold water, cleansing me. Every decision I’ve made over thelast few months has seemed so wrong, mostly because Jolie’s stillgone, but hearing Wes say those words seems to validate it all. Ishouldn’t need validation, but I do.

“Thanks,” I say.

“What now?” he asks.

“I need your help.”

Light flows into his eyes as he turns towardme, as if someone’s just lit a fire, although the fireplace hasbeen crackling since I entered the room. A purpose. Perhaps hecan’t get a job, can’t provide for his family, but he can help mebring Jolie back, and that’s a greater purpose than anything.

~~~

We don’t know where to start looking, so webegin where it started, where Buff and I got our arse’s handed tous by a girl and marked man.

“The trail’s cold,” Wes says, “but it’s stillhere.” I smile, both because of the words he’s saying and becauseit’s him that’s saying them. I haven’t heard him speak like that,with such confidence and directness, since Joles was taken.

“How many do you think there are?” I ask.

Wes chews his lip. “Can’t tell just yet, butat least two. Maybe more.”

“Good,” I say. “Let’s see where it takesus.”

Wes leads, because he’s the best tracker, andBuff brings up the rear, because, well, “You’re the biggest arseI’ve ever met,” I say.

He makes a gesture that borders on rude, butslips in behind me, stepping on the back of my boots every fewminutes.

We’re warm when we start, on account of ourheavy clothing, but soon the trail leads us high enough up themountain that it’s downright chilly. “The Heaters we always met atthe border were dressed for hot weather, wearing only thin skins,”I say. “These ones had skins and looked ready to face thecold.”

“Do you want to be the one to warm her up?”Buff says from behind.

“Shut it,” I say. “Just because I wasimpressed with how she could throw a punch doesn’t mean I’m lookingto hug her.”

Wes stops, looks at us both like we’reslightly crazy, says, “The trail keeps leading up, so they’d begetting good use out of those skins right about now.”

Wes keeps marching on and we follow. He stopsevery once in a while to inspect a broken tree branch or a shallowfootprint.

When we reach the snowfields, there aredozens of prints, all clustered together, and then deep gouges inthe snow where it looks like they laid down. “I can see fivedistinct sets of prints,” Wes says.

“They’d have frozen their stones off lying inthe snow like that,” Buff says. Then, gri

“Oh, she had stones all right,” I say, “justnot the kind you’re talking about.”

“Don’t they know snow is cold?” Wes asks.

I shrug. “They’ve probably never seen it. Youshould’ve seen the look on the Heater children’s faces when we camethrough these parts. They were in awe of the white stuff.”

“Don’t see what the allure is,” Buff says.“I’ve had enough of it to last me for ten lifetimes.”

I bend down to touch the impressions in thesnow, imagining the Heater girl in the snow, knee bent, smiling atthe white ground around her. What is she doing so far fromhome?

“Well, whatever the case, even with theirwarm clothing they’d be getting pretty cold at this point,searching for shelter. Let’s see where their footsteps lead,” Wessays.

Sure enough, the trail leads off to the side,away from the snowfields and back into the forest, where the snowis thi