Kraaia's blue is broken

Sleep seemed a cold, dark lake, and Kraaia bobbed just at its surface, afraid to let herself drown.

Such darkness surrounded her that she could scarcely have said whether her eyes were open or closed, except that over and over she was warned by the cold wetness of her lids touching together, and the wicklike wetting of her lashes as the tears spread. She concentrated her attention on crying cleanly out of the corners of her eyes.

She was numb from the neck down. Her limbs had stopped shivering. Her stomach had stopped gurgling over the cold pie and the colder snow she had eaten. She had lost her desire to pace and kick and rant. She had lost all desire.

Earlier she had risen several times to kick the snow out of the mouth of the cave. It had seemed horrifying to her then: the snow rising and rising until it covered the door, until by dawn she would be entombed behind its pristine whiteness in a well of utter blackness.

Now she lay quietly and watched.

She could not see the snow fall, of course, but she could see it rise. The sky that had seemed so black outside appeared a velvety blue from within the cave: the color of Osh’s most precious pigment.

She imagined he had painted it for her: an extravagant swath of unbroken blue on the wall across from her cold bed. It would be the last thing she saw before she dreamed.

Then, between tears, her picture was spoiled, rent by a broad black line. She blinked. A tear dropped from the corner of her eye. The image wavered in rings like a reflection. She held her breath.

It moved, and she knew then it was not one of Osh’s paintings. She knew also that it was not Osh. He did not have Osh’s sapling-​​like sway or silhouette, and nor did he have Paul’s buoyant stride.

But she knew by his glide that he was an elf, for dark as it was, his feet flowed smoothly over the cragged floor of the cave like water over pitted stone. She knew by the height of his head. She knew by his long arms.

And she knew by his lack of fear and lack of weapon that he knew she was a helpless girl. She had run away one too many times, and now she was about to get hurt.

She knew what had happened to Cat. She knew what had happened to Gils’s mother. And she had seen with her own eyes the swollen belly and the haunted face of that girl out at Mouse’s house.

Kraaia swore then that she would not let that happen to her. She would cut the creature out of her womb herself, and die cleansed. If she could, she would kill herself before the elf had even laid a hand on her, and die pure.

She slipped her hand subtly into her pocket as the elf approached. Her fingertips slid over the smooth, knobbed end of the wooden handle, and her fingers closed around the shaft.

The last of the blue light was blotted out by the elf’s body. The steel blade rocked smoothly into the depths of its oiled leather sheath and withdrew.

“Don’t be frightened,” the elf said softly. “I’m Vash.”