Reign of Shadows - Deborah Chester [28]
Stunned, he lay there a moment. Astonishment flattened him more than the actual blow. His father had never struck him before. Never. His father did not believe in violence. His father always said his hands were a gift from the gods, to be used to heal, not harm.
Beva must hate him for what he’d done. Bitterness welled up in Caelan. He’d spent his life loving his father, wanting so desperately to measure up to his father’s high standards, yet torn by wanting to go his own way. Now he wondered why he had ever bothered to seek this man’s affection.
Above the treetops, jackdaws wheeled in the sky with their raucous call. The ponies jangled their bits impatiently and stamped in the cold.
“Get up,” Beva said at last. His voice had lost its anger. It sounded hollow and unlike him. “Get back on your horse. We have far to ride.”
Caelan rose to his feet and brushed the snow from his clothing. Nothing dealt him at the school had been this humiliating; not even the treatment from the soldiers had equaled this. His head was on fire; the rest of his body felt cold and detached.
“I’m not going with you,” he said.
“Don’t be foolish. You ran away from school without adequate preparation and came to grief immediately. How long do you think you would last out here?”
“I won’t go,” Caelan said, refusing to acknowledge his father was right. “I won’t go home to be purified. I won’t do it.”
Beva’s eyes narrowed. They locked stares—Beva’s cold and Caelan’s hot. Finally it was Beva who looked away first.
“Get on your pony,” he said in a voice like stone. “We shall settle the matter once we are home.”
Resentfully, knowing he had little choice, Caelan mounted and they rode on. Neither of them spoke again through the long cold hours until dark, when they camped in an ice cave at the foothills of the Cascades. The air held the crisp scent of the glacier far above. Outside, beyond the edge of the forest, the aurora shimmered lights of green and pink and yellow in a dazzling display that tilled the night sky. Caelan huddled at the mouth of the ice cave, far from the warmth of the tiny fire his father had kindled, shivering in his cloak and enraptured by the sight.
“Caelan,” his father said finally, breaking the long silence between them. “Come back to the fire. You have seen enough of the light spirits at play.”
Caelan said nothing. He did not move.
“Caelan!” his father said sharply. “Come here.”
Caelan ignored him, his gaze still locked on the beauty of the sky. How magical it was, as though the gods opened the veil between heaven and earth just enough for mortals to enjoy this glimpse of their wondrous world far beyond reach.
“The light spirits can dazzle your wits and draw you outside if you’re not careful. Don’t tempt the wind spirits into preying here.”
Caelan snorted to himself. He knew the aurora had nothing to do with the malevolence that flew on the winds during winter nights. His father didn’t believe the old superstitions either, no matter what he might say.
But defiance had a way of diminishing Caelan’s pleasure in the beautiful display. Abruptly he returned to the fire.
It was so small it hardly gave out any warmth. Ice caves ran deep into the Cascades. They were camping inside a long, tunnellike entry that was made more of stone than of ice. To build a fire deeper would be to start the ice walls melting. The ceiling could fall. But here they were safe enough, deep enough into the mountain to avoid detection by anything prowling the darkness, their fire glimmer further concealed by the branches pulled across the mouth of the cave.
Beyond the fire and their bedrolls, the ponies shifted restlessly. Their shaggy bodies gave out warmth in the narrow space to supplement what the fire provided. Overhead a few icicles dripped. Caelan shifted position to avoid them. He had already eaten, too hungry to refuse the rations his father offered.
Beva, as usual, ate only a tiny portion of the bread and cheese, picking at his food, tasting, nibbling, putting it down again. He studied Caelan,