Chapter One
Time is not the arbiter of what is, what was, and what will be. It is Memory. Without it, falsehoods are believed and truths are discarded. Or so it is thought . . .
The snowtiger had yet to take a name. By now she needed one. She deserved one. She knew herself, understood her place in the world as an individual and had spent the last fifty years in these mountains, hunting and killing whatever prey she required. Already she’d lived decades longer than any others of her kind, and there was a reason for this.
It was centered in her beating heart. A purity she couldn’t name. It glistened within her like a stream of water under sunshine. The snowtiger required it in order to maintain herself, and she required it in ever-greater quantities. Instinctively, she recognized the best such sources for what she needed were the strange two-legs who cut trees and yowled nonsense. Months ago, she had ambushed one, a shambling wreck, a creature barely alive. Its meat had tasted putrid, but she’d been so hungry, she’d eaten it anyway.
The rotten flesh had caused her to vomit, and for a time she thought she would die. But she hadn’t. She’d lived, and a new type of being, one never before seen, now stalked the Dagger Mountains.
The snowtiger knew none of this. She simply studied her prey, planning her attack.
Cinder Shade would never recall the warning signs that signaled the end of his life.
Why would he? A timeless wind with neither beginning nor end didn’t travel the deserts, the wilds, or the highlands and speak of it. Nor did omens split the sky with lightning. Neither did old men, bearded in white, pronounce his prophecy.
Instead, Cinder’s doom occurred on a prosaic day. It was a typical summer afternoon in the high plains of Rakesh, dry and sunny, yet cool. A snow-capped mountain range stretched in all directions, a wall of towering gray and white peaks cupping the verdant valley in which Cinder’s family lived. The village of Swallow hunkered in this place, and from where Cinder stood, he could see his neighbors and kin farming the stone-strewn fields surrounding the sixty or so homes making up the hamlet.
This was a hard land, shaping and tasking a hard people, folk who defied the chill winds blowing down from the mountainous heights even in the month of Vahasth, summer’s deepest warmth. Cinder didn’t mind the tribulations thrown at his people, though. It was the lot of humans everywhere to struggle, and this was simply another place to be tested.
In truth, he loved this valley. He loved the peace, the ancient majesty of the soaring aspens and cedar; the night skies filled with shining stars burning like scattered sparks from heavenly fires. He especially loved the lack of elves. Their kind, arrogant and self-centered, lived in all other directions of the compass—south, north, east, and west—but not here. Not in Swallow. As Cinder reckoned matters, their presence would have been one test too much. He wouldn’t have been able to abide living beneath the scorning heel of those aether-loving bastards. Of course, he’d never met an elf, but everyone said they were arrogant assholes.
A hawk cried in the cloudless sky, breaking Cinder from his thoughts. He stared at the raptor, wishing he could fly, a sentiment common to boys, even those who were no longer children but still a few years from manhood. The hawk, a silhouette of grace and beauty, banked on the breeze. That same wind flitted through the surrounding evergreen forest, and the scent of cedar, pine, and aspen lofted on the air. So, too, did mosquitoes, flying torments this time of year. Cinder swatted at them as he hobbled away from the family well, burdened by a pail of water.
Some might have called Cinder handsome given his even features. Nose not too large, smile not too wide, and almond-eyes that weren’t too round. Others, though, would have deemed him plain, penalizing him for his clumsiness. It was a clubfoot and an emaciated leg—his right—that made him so. It caused him to sway with every step, leaving him poorly balanced in the way he walked.
But even a clubfooted stumblebum like him was expected to work hard in the warmer months. Warmer being relative. After all, these were the Dagger Mountains, where winter bit deep and lasted long, while summer flitted away as quickly as a pleasant dream and all work was dedicated to surviving the coming cold. Cinder wasn’t immune to the penalty of a demanding life. He worked as well as he could, and right now he carried the pail full of water toward the herbs and vegetables in the garden.
His mother called to him, and he halted with a groan, setting down the heavy burden of the water-filled bucket. In addition to a clubfoot and withered right leg, Cinder was also weak. He was short and built like a post rail.
His eyes flicked about, searching for his mother, and he quickly found her. She stood near the chicken coop, steps from the back porch to their log cabin, hands on hips, and a patient, generous smile on her face.
His mother, Inara Shade, had been a beauty in her youth, but the rough life of mountain living had worn her down. Not even forty, her hair was gray, her skin gnarled and leathery, and she complained of a sore back on most days. But time and the difficult elements hadn’t worn away her happy spirit or loving smile.
“Only two more pails,” his mother said. “Your father says he’ll do the rest. Pitch needs your help.”
Cinder smiled in anticipation. Pitch. He was everything an older brother should be. Protective, loving, but most of all, understanding and fun.
Cinder shouted acknowledgement and glanced to where his father, Onyx, was bent over a hoe. His father was a large man, tall, big boned, well-muscled, and possessing a hearty laugh. His hair remained the same dark color as that of most folk in Rakesh, but his skin was as wrinkled as an apple left out in the sun. Despite his outwardly ancient appearance, Cinder’s father could still outwork most of the younger men in Swallow. The only one he couldn’t was Pitch, who had inherited their father’s stout build and stamina.
Right now, Cinder’s father tilled the herbs and vegetables in the garden. The green growths there would add flavor and fragrance to their bland winter fare, which generally consisted of dried meat, potatoes, and barley.
With such thoughts in mind, it was in this timeless moment that Cinder saw an awful portent. His future emerged from the forest, a monster pushing past clinging brambles and pine needles. Cinder’s mouth went dry.
A snowtiger. A massive one. This one was larger than a bear. Gray-white fur rippled despite the suddenly still air, and white eyes glowed like lanterns.
Aether-cursed.
All sounds died, the world seemingly holding its breath as the creature gathered itself. It exploded toward Cinder’s mother.
Cinder’s throat clenched with fear. He couldn’t call out a warning, but his mother noticed his horrified gaze. She shifted about, searching for what held Cinder’s attention. She screamed at the same time that Cinder’s throat finally loosened, and he shouted.
The snowtiger attacked. Cinder’s mother had no chance. She brought up an arm to protect her face, but the monster simply plowed through it and bore her to the ground. Four-inch teeth gripped her throat, biting deep. Cinder’s mother gave a single anguished cry before she was silenced forever.
The snowtiger rumbled in pleasure, and a faint glow, pale as snow, wafted from the body of Cinder’s mother. Her aether. Useless to a human, but greatly desired by all other creatures such as elves and dwarves, and even more so by those animals who were aether-cursed. It made them smarter, stronger, and longer-lived, but at the price of an abiding hunger, an insatiable need to feast on human flesh. Man killers.