7 Folds of Winter Read online

  7 Folds of Winter

  by

  Carolyn McCray

  * * * * *

  “I normally don't read fantasy books, but when I read 7 Folds of Winter, I couldn't help but get attached to the characters and their struggles. The author did an amazing job of expressing each individual character’s voice and role in the story. I know teens that have a taste for action, adventure, and romance all in one will love to read this book, and I hope to read more by Carolyn McCray.”

  lilskittles12

  Teen Reviewer

  “7 Folds of Winter is a Young Adult Fantasy novel, and if you are looking for fantasy and an out-of-this world story to read, this is it… From the inventive names of the characters down to the imaginative plot, Ms. McCray’s creativity goes above and beyond the norm for a young adult fantasy…”

  Stacy Eaton, Author

  My Blood Runs Blue

  5 OUT OF 5 STARS!

  “7 Folds of Winter is a unique mix of characters thrown in together by the Fates to travel across this amazing white icy world to save it and each other, but will it be enough?

  Each character is perfect in their creation. Together they face the world. Alone they face self-doubt and some face adolescent changes. I love all the characters for being their own unique person.

  7 Folds of Winter is a roller coaster in a snowstorm. Exciting! Chilling! Exhilarating!”

  The Pirate’s Bounty

  Reviewer Extraordinaire

  "A delightful fantasy filled with Old Gods, family bonds, and the magic that comes with both. Traven and Crystalia will grab you and draw you into their quest, until the last page leaves you wondering!"

  Amy Blackthorn

  IDoStuff.net

  *****

  Start Reading

  About the Author

  Other works by Carolyn

  Contact Information

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Info

  *****

  CHAPTER 1

  Traven was nearly beside himself with excitement. It was the spring equinox, and this year his family had the honor of hosting the feast. Which meant every friend, cousin, aunt, uncle, dog, and runaway slave that could pronounce the Spart name were housed and fed for a full week.

  Traven had so many playmates; they ran as a pack, leaving behind a sea of destruction. But not now. No, now all the children were as still as a bunny sniffing the air for kiyotes. Even though their Granny Barely was doing nothing more exciting than sewing a lace kerchief, each of them stared up at the old woman as if she were one of those snake charmers.

  Granny put down her stitching and sighed. Each of us took a deep breath as she closed her eyes and rocked silently. Traven knew the time was at hand. The table was cleared, the dishes done. The menfolk had retired to the dining hall, smoking their pipes and drinking the sauce our Ma slapped us for sipping.

  The women had taken seats around the room, quietly picking up their craft. Traven smiled at his Ma until he realized that Granny was staring at him with those storytelling eyes of hers. The whites of her eyes glistening in the firelight.

  Once her eyelids drooped, we jostled for position, not caring that we had to stay inside tonight. Our angst at not being able to join the older children out in the barn was forgotten.

  For those like Traven who were too young to lift a sword, or his sisters Amari and ’Becca, who were too tender to bleed a woman’s first blood, gathered to listen to Granny. The old woman stirred, and we were rapt with attention.

  Clearing her throat, she leaned forward. “When the first snows fall…” Granny stopped as she coughed and wheezed until she finally spit up something into her handkerchief that resembled what we fed the dogs. But she always did this. It set the mood. Silence blanketed the room. Even Auntie Kay’s knitting needles fell quiet.

  “When the first snows fall — stay at your hearth!” Granny announced as the room was plunged into darkness. Even those of us who had seen this trick every equinox gasped as the fire cracked and popped. I knew the womenfolk had put out the candles, but I loved how the youngins stared with wide-open eyes.

  By the glow of the fire, Granny’s every feature took on menace. Her hands curled around the arm of her chair. I would swear her nails grew and had all manner of nastiness beneath them. Voice low and threatening, she continued. Even the occasional crack in her throat sent shivers down our backs.

  “Do not be deceived by snow’s pretty facade or its delicate taste. It is death!”

  We took a collective gulp. Winter, the season we’d just weathered, became strange and mysterious again. In reality, it was just a time to annoy our mothers to the point that they wanted to throw us out into a snow bank. But they never did. Storms could descend from Father Winter so quickly that they blinded the eyes. It was very likely you’d never find your home again.

  “First ya gets all cold and tingly. Then the numbness sets in. So cold you can’t even feel your own hands. But before you fall into that final sleep, you hear voices from the past. Voices of the dead talking to you from the grave. That’s when ya know you’re done for.”

  Traven looked down at Helda. Her brother had snuck out two winters ago and was lost. His body wasn’t found until the Thaw. Helda’s eyes shone with tears, and her jaw was slack, her mouth slightly open as she took in the story, body and soul.

  “So do not forget. Stay to your hearth! But if you find yourself on the Barren Plains, caught in the clutches of a blizzard, then seek the Seven Folds of Winter. They are your only protection. Nay, they are your only hope.”

  A chill went down Traven's spine as he closed his eyes, promising anything to any god who would guide Granny to his favorite story about The Rider Who Did Not Know.

  ’Becca interrupted the old woman, “Oh, Granny, please tell the story of the Snowy Maiden. Please!”

  Amari, Traven’s older sister, added her encouragement, “Yes, Granny. Tell us of The Rider and The Maiden’s love. Is she safe in the Icy Tower? Will they ever be reunited?”

  Traven was about to pipe up, but Granny was already shaking her head. He should have known Granny would decline. She had the look of fire and fight in her eyes. Tonight a love story would just not do.

  “Girls, you’ll have to wait. It is too early in the year for such tales. Snow still kisses the Western Peaks. Wait until the fireflies blink their intentions and young men come courting. That is the time for such a romance.”

  Traven hid a smile as Granny went back to rocking. The fire popped, sending a spray of sparks into the hearth. All thoughts of silly love ballads faded from the room. Tonight was for bone and sinew.

  “A Rider, who did not have a Granny as nice as I, wandered into Winter’s grip.”

  Traven did not hear the next few lines. He was too busy thanking all the gods for his good fortune.

  “Frozen to the bone and starved, The Rider Who Did Not Know searched the horizon for some sign that Old Man Winter did not wish him dead. It was then that the Giants appeared on the horizon. At first they were just specks. Then theys grew to the height of the tallest tree The Rider Who Did Not Know had ever seen. They spoke a strange language, but their meaning was clear…”

  Granny paused as only she could, then continued.

  “They meant to eats him!”

  The little ones squealed, and soon there was a semicircle of open space in front of Granny as they scooted back a bit.

  “Pulled him from his horse, they did, knocking his sword away. Then grabbed him by the arm and started dragging him across the plains. Because, ya see, they wanted their meat fresh.”

  Now even those who had begged and cried to go out to the barn inched away, leaving Granny room to lean forward even more forebodingly.

  “Bef
ore the Rider had a chance to pull the hidden knife from his boot, the snow itself gave up the White Wolves of Winter. They growled and snapped, causing the great Giants themselves to tremble.”

  Traven thrilled at this part, but Traven noticed that ’Becca had slipped from our group and crawled onto our mother’s lap. That was okay. If one of the little ones didn’t wake up screaming, the storytelling wasn’t good enough.

  “But the wolves didn’t eats him. They brought him back to their lair… where the Rider met a Fairy…”

  “Forgive me, Granny, but I really can’t concentrate.”

  Traven chuckled, startling both himself and his horse. He hadn’t laughed in months, and certainly not since crossing the tree line onto the Barren Plains. Snowstorms had battered him until his lips bled from a simple smile. His situation really was not all that funny, but still Traven laughed.

  Granny had it right all along. Just before you give up the ghost, you start hearing voices from the grave. Traven’s grandmother had been dead for over six years, yet he could hear that scratchy voice like it was yesterday. Her eyes had shone with pride when he left his hearth to seek Mount Shrine and become a Hero just like those in the tales she told.

  To think all that Traven desired had come true. He grew to be knighted by the Queen herself, hunted with a prince, and kissed more than his fair share of princesses. Glory and praise had been showered upon him like a gentle spring rain.

  Half a decade ago, when he was anointed as a Hero of the Realm, it was upon the very steps that Kings were crowned. The breeze had been warm that morning. It had tugged on the red ribbon that sealed his Imperial scroll. He could feel the rough parchment in his fingers as the Emperor handed him the document that set him upon his Quest.

  Back then it didn’t matter to Traven that he would have to forsake his home and family to ride to all four corners of the world. No sacrifice was too great. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind, and especially his own, that Traven was, quite literally, going to save the world.

  Traven snorted again, causing his stallion’s ear to twitch. Everyone would be a tad disappointed if they saw him now. Perhaps it was best that Granny had not lived to see this day.

  Because you see, Traven was twenty-three. An outlaw, exiled and hounded onto the Northern Plains during the bitterest winter any old codger could remember. Traven was cold, numb, and despite Granny’s assurances, there was not a Fold in sight.

  ***

  Crystalia tried to shield herself from the stench and din out in the commons by making herself busy in her father’s storeroom. Everyone was supposed to turn out for the Mid-winter sacrifice, but Crystalia tried to keep her mind off of the commotion by dutifully counting the jars of ginger, cinnamon, and orange essence.

  Unfortunately, the walls of their small chutney shoppe were thin, and Crystalia could easily hear the bleating of the tiny kid and the cries of its nanny goat. The poor thing wanted only its mother, but the priests kept it tied in the middle of yard, awaiting the Garrison Commander. Nothing in Last Hitch could happen without his approval — not even the yearly sacrifice to the Winter King.

  Desperate to forget the horrible events outside her little shoppe, Crystalia abandoned counting bottles to imagine far-off lands. Ah, to leave the snow and mud behind. She yearned to see the towering pines of Courageous Stand or the crashing waves along the Cliffs of Mourning.

  How she longed to travel the world. She had dreamt of it every night and could not count the number of times she’d ridden across the Flowering Meadows. Crystalia yearned to strike south and travel until her eyes feasted on enough green to wash away every memory of endless snow.

  She frowned. Even that dream was crumbling. Rumors from the scraggly traders bore solemn news. The frigid winds were sweeping farther and farther south. Even the Narrow Valley had been kissed with snow last winter. Talk of evil omens and dire prophecies sprinkled the conversation of even stalwart churchgoers.

  Crystalia cared for none of it. If these silly sacrifices were to appease Father Winter, why did they have yet another year of record snowfall? If the old god liked baby goats so much, why had he prevented a full Thaw last summer? Crystalia found it all very silly. The girl was quite certain that they could slaughter all the livestock in town, and the snow would keep falling.

  A shout came from the other room, “Crystalia!” Her father jerked the storeroom’s door open. “What are you doing? The priests are preparing the whetting stone.”

  Crystalia became nauseated just thinking about the huge knife they used to sacrifice the poor baby goat.

  “Papa, I’m checking our supplies —”

  “It can wait. I won’t hear how this family doesn’t support the Brotherhood. You wouldn’t want them all blaming us for this weather would ya?”

  Her father did have a point. The townsfolk had become fickle and capricious since the heavy snows lay in. Last Hitch had never been a spot on any minstrel’s map, but they had always treated the wanderers and trappers with respect and hospitality, after a fashion.

  Now, anyone who dared enter the town’s walls was subjected to interrogation from the garrison and the Brotherhood. The whole town suspected foul play and demons under every rock. Something or someone had to be blamed for the hostile weather.

  “Put on your good dress and meet me outside.” Her father walked into the shoppe proper. “If you’re not there by the sacrifice, I will know the reason why.”

  Crystalia bowed her head and assured her father she’d hurry. Digging through her hope chest, the girl fished out her “fancy clothes.” Seldom did she get to wear her blue dress, but it had to be for such a miserable occasion. It simply wasn’t fair.

  After slipping on the garment, Crystalia looked at herself in the bronze mirror. She imagined the dingy dress was really a gown made of expensive silk, like her friend Viola’s. Crystalia had the better figure for such a shapely garment anyway. Viola was petite, nearly a sculpture of a budding young woman, but Crystalia’s bosom was a tad more developed. She’d heard the smith’s apprentice telling his friends about it.

  Oh, how grand her dress would be with lace at the collar and pearls as ornaments. Gold combs would pull back her mousy hair. Or perhaps a lady from a far-away court would mix exotic dyes to make her hair as golden as Viola’s cascade of curls.

  Crystalia frowned. Why did she get endowed with such lackluster hair? Her family lineage dated back to the first settlers out on the Northern Plains. Each one of them had a golden hue to their hair. Why did she have to be the throw back to her ancestors’ days out on the savanna? Her brown eyes, even though flecked with gold, were a rarity amongst the blue-eyed Northerns. Her whole life, she’d stood out like some kind of freak. But with a gown like the one Crystalia imagined, dancing at a ball in the Southern Kingdoms, she would be renowned for her beauty.

  Her nose cringed at the stench of burned meat filling the air. The Guilds must have performed their own sacrifices and were already cooking the meat. These winter-hardened people did not waste a scrap of food.

  “Crysty! Crysty! Crysty!” A cry came from the front of the shoppe. By the high pitch and joyful tone, it could only be Viola.

  “I’ll be right out!” Crystalia said as she hurried so her friend would not see her dingy room. But, as always, Viola ignored anyone else’s instruction and burst in. Mischief turned the blonde's beautiful features radiant.

  “Oh, this is a most wondrous day! Can you believe it? Could we be so lucky?”

  Crystalia finished the last button on her gown and scowled. “What? Are they going to sacrifice two goats this time?”

  By Viola’s wounded look, she knew that she’d been too harsh. Her sweet friend was even more shaken by these ritual killings than even Crystalia.

  “I’m sorry, Vi. What is the news?”

  “You must come!” With those words uttered, Viola grabbed Crystalia by the wrist and dragged her out onto the cobblestone street.

  “Wait. I need to lock the shop!”

&nb
sp; “Why? Everyone’s out in the square!” Viola’s was almost too excited to speak. “Father has grown tired of waiting for the commander. He is going to pass out favors! If we don’t hurry, we’ll miss the best ones!”

  Crystalia slowed her frantic pace. She loved Viola dearly, but the girl had a soft spot for trinkets and gifts. It sometimes seemed Viola’s mind was as light and airy as her bountiful curls. Crystalia was not so easily swayed. Besides, Viola’s father would never deign to give a shoppe keep’s girl one of his precious good-luck favors. Those were always reserved for the town’s gentry.

  “What are you doing? Hurry!” Viola urged as she elbowed them through the crowd.

  Which was no small feat. It seemed the entire town was packed into the common square. This was the best showing for the Sacrifice that Crystalia could remember. Everyone she had met or even heard about was here — with the possible exception of Madame Hesper.

  Viola dropped Crystalia’s hand as she rushed forward. It seemed Mr. Lannister was already passing out his goodies. Hesitating, Crystalia took a peek over her shoulder to glance at the Madame’s huge mansion. No one looked like they lived there, let alone cared that the Solstice Sacrifice was about to commence. Shivering, and not just from the cold, Crystalia turned back and entered the jostling crowd, looking for Viola.

  Before she could find her friend, an object sped towards Crystalia. She only had time to duck. The object hit the tips of her fingers and fell to the ground. Several women scrambled for the small package, but it scooted beneath Crystalia’s skirt.

  Under the harsh gaze of the older women, Crystalia knelt down and picked up the tissue-wrapped gift. A red bow tied the package together. The girl was afraid to open it. Afraid someone would come and tell her that it was not for her. Glancing about, Crystalia noticed that Viola was just a few steps away, her hands overflowing with dainty trinkets.