Page 8 of A Sword of Ice
Blood slid down her wrists, staining the sleeves of her gray uniform. She pushed it aside and felt the anger bite its way up her body.
“Don’t,” she ordered, the sting of ardor in her voice.
Petey’s jaw clenched together tightly while the human wielding the whip looked amused.
“Don’t hurt—”
“It’s a beast,” the human interrupted in the common tongue, a language that had always been universal both in the human lands as well as the Feylands. She recognized his rough accent from the West Isles, the islands to the west of Illyk that traded in prized animals and cruelty. They called themselves the Kurreen, groups that traded in animal skin and tortured creatures like prizes. No wonder Petey hadn’t told her a thing; if she’d known he’d been trading with the West Isles of all places, Iona would have been pissed, and she would have reminded him that Henry never would have done such a thing. “It needs to be tamed.”
“Not like that.”
She hated how humans equated taming to violence. When the humans couldn’t control something, they sought to destroy it. To break it. They’d done it to the Fae, and they were doing it to this poor creature. Iona hadn’t been able to do much for the first, but she could do something for the latter.
“Iona,” Petey snapped. “Back the fuck off.”
Her eyes jumped to his, pleading yet infuriated at the same time. “If you hurt it, it will be weak.” She decided to use the one thing he loved more than anything against him. “Then how will you earn your money? No one wants to pay to come see a broken animal.”
Petey’s jaw worked while the human beside him laughed. “You think you can care for it without the whip? Fine. Be my fuckin’ guest.” The human wrapped the whip around his waist like a belt, holding up his dirty brown leather pants, somehow accentuating his pirate attire. He gestured with his hand, and all his filthy pirates holding the bear down stepped away and filed out of the cage.
Petey stayed where he was, glaring daggers at Iona. As if his stare could pierce through her skull and leave her for dead.
“Then you take care of this fucking beast.” He sneered, his lip curling back in a smile that was as malicious as his heart. “Let’s see if he obeys you or kills you first. Get to work.” And then he, too, was gone.
Iona took a breath, fingers tracing a pattern against her thighs before she turned and looked at the bear. The energy seemed to have gone from him, and he was sprawled against the hay-covered ground, wire weighing him down. He looked warily up at her, with big, dark eyes and blood against his body.
Iona held her palms up, forgetting for a moment that they were covered in blood, hoping he wouldn’t develop a sudden craving for flesh and bite her.
“Hi,” she said with equal caution. “My name is Iona.”
The bear’s eyes held her own, and again she felt that surge of magic. Of something cold and…familiarthat she couldn’t quite place.
Her magic lived inside her body like a separate entity. Like a thread of her soul that responded and moved with her. Staring at the bear tugged on that but alsoaddedto it somehow. She knew Mana was trying to tell her something; she just wasn’t sure what.
“I’m going to clean you up, if that’s okay.” She started forward, and when the bear didn’t lunge or growl, she began to work. Peeling the wire from his frame as carefully as she could, Iona winced every time the barbed wire came off his skin and made him bleed. She hated hurting him more, but she needed to get it off completely.
It bit into her own flesh, but she ignored her discomfort. Once the net was off, she tossed it to the side.
“Can I clean you? Would that be okay?” She knew others would find it odd that she was asking an animal for permission, but just because he was an animal didn’t make him any less intelligent than anyone else.
Mana lived in every soul, connected every living thing by threads. Mana lived in this creature as surely as it lived within her, and she knew that he would understand those words.
The bear let out a soft whine and lowered his head on his paws. Permission. That’s what he was granting her. So she moved quickly, grabbing a bucket and filling it with clean water and soaking a sponge inside. She hauled the supplies over to the bear and began wiping his body down with gentle strokes.
It took hours of cleaning and dressing his fur with healing salve, but when she finished, his coat was white. Missing patches and covered in scars and fresh wounds, but clean nonetheless.
“All done.” She wiped her own hands down on her uniform and took the blood-and-water-filled bucket to dump down a nearby drain. She could feel the bear’s eyes on her. Watching, contemplating, but it didn’t move.
She tried to remember everything she could about polar bears. They lived in colder climates, thrived in them. Even if it was winter in Teg, she didn’t think it was cold enough for him. Had he been in the northernmost parts of Ielwyn, he probably would have been content.
This climate was likely too warm.
Iona got an idea and looked around, making sure no one was nearby. When she was sure she was safe, she held her wounded palms out at her sides and called on her magic. It responded within seconds, sending ruptures of cold against her fingertips and outwards. She was careful to keep the magic confined within the dome, making it colder, making the temperature of the water in the pool drop, not until it froze, but was close to freezing.
The bear’s head lifted as the air shimmered with frost. Iona’s breath clouded out of her, getting colder and colder. Once she felt it was chilly enough, her eyes shot open and met the bear’s. He tilted his head to the side.
And she felt it.
The connection. It flowed gently into her, nestling like a bird in its nest right next to her threads of magic, and she recognized the familiarity. Because she’d heard of it before back in Tir na Faie. Back when magic was alive and thriving.
