The Dragon's Path

you.”
    He pulled a canvas bag out from beneath his cloak. The cloth reeked of dust and rot, and something in it shifted and clanked as he put it on the snow. His eyes sparkled in the moonlight.
    “They were in the back storeroom. And a bunch of other things. Smit found them really, but I thought of you and I traded him.”
    Sandr pulled out a cracked leather boot laced with string. A complication of rusted metal clung to the sole, dark and dingy except for a knifelike blade running the length that shone bright and new-sharpened.
    “Ever skated?” Sandr asked.
    Cithrin shook her head. Sandr pulled two pairs of boots out of the sack, the ancient leather grey in the dim light. She took another long drink of the wine.
    “They’re too big,” he said, “but I put some sand inside.Sand’s good because it shifts to fit the shape of your foot. Cloth just bunches up. Here, try them.”
    I don’t want to,
Cithrin thought, but Sandr had her foot in his hand, stripping off her boot, and he was so pleased with himself. The skate was cold and the bent leather bit into the top of her foot, but Sandr pulled the string laces tight and started on her other foot.
    “I learned how in Asterilhold,” Sandr said. “Two… no, God, three years ago. I’d just joined the troop and Master Kit had us in Kaltfel for the winter. So cold your spit froze before it hit the ground, and the nights went on forever. But there’s a lake in the middle of the city, and the whole time we were there, you could cross it anywhere. There’s a winter city they build on the ice every year. Houses and taverns and all. Like a real town.”
    “Really?” she said.
    “It was brilliant. There. I think that’s done it. Let me get mine on.”
    She took another mouthful of the fortified wine, and it pressed its heat out toward her fingers and toes. Somehow, they’d already gone through half the skin. She felt it in her cheeks. And the fumes made her head feel muzzy and bright. Sandr struggled and grunted, the knife-shoe of the skates creaking and rattling. It seemed impossible that anything so awkward would actually work until he had the last strap in place, half walked and half wobbled to the pond, and then pressed himself out onto the ice. Between one breath and the next, he became grace made flesh. His legs scissored and shifted, the blades hissing as they scored the ice. His body shifted and swooped as he slid across the pond and then back, his arms graceful as a dancer’s.
    “They’re not bad,” he called. “Come on. You try.”
    Another drink of wine, and then one more for luck, andCithrin maneuvered herself out. Cold air bit at her, but only with dull teeth. Her ankles shifted as she fought to make sense of this new way of balancing. She tried to push off the way Sandr did, and fell hard on the ice. Sandr laughed his delight.
    “It’s hard the first time,” he said, hissing to her side. “Give me your hand. I’ll show you.”
    Within minutes, her knees were bent, her arms widespread, and her feet chopping at the ice. But she didn’t fall.
    “Don’t try to walk,” Sandr said. “Push with one foot, glide on the other.”
    “Easy for you,” she said. “You know what you’re doing.”
    “This time. I was worse than you when I started.”
    “Flatterer.”
    “Maybe you’re worth flattering. No, like that. That’s it.
That’s
it!”
    Cithin’s body caught the trick, and she found herself gliding. Not quite as gracefully and certainly as Sandr, but closer. The ice sped under her, white and grey and black in the moonlight. The night tasted like the fortified wine and moved like a river flowing around her. Sandr whooped and took her hand, and together they raced the length of the mill pond, the grooves of their skates tracing white lines in the dim.
    From the banks, one of the mules commented with a grunt and flick of his haunch. The wind of Cithin’s passage whuffled in her ears. She felt herself grinning and spinning. The knot in her belly was a memory, a dream, a thing that happened to another person. She fell twice more, but it only seemed funny. The ice was cloud and sky, and she had learned how to fly. It creaked and groaned under her weight, and Sandr clapped his hands as she made an elaborate and awkward curtsey in the center of the pond.
    “Race me,” he shouted. “There and back.”
    Like an arrow from a bow, Sandr sped for the far bank, and Cithrin followed him. Her legs ached, and her heart beat like a boulder