Mistress of Winter

by Giles Carwyn

  Brophy swung at her blindly, kicking, screaming. His fist bounced off her pale flesh as if it were stone.

  They hurtled into the sky, higher and higher. Light flashed all around them.

  He spun upside down in her grip and slammed both heels into her chin. Again, light flashed, and his blow bounced aside.

  “Hush, Brophy,” she said. “Calm yourself. It is almost over.”

  They hurtled into the black clouds. “No! I can’t! I can’t wake!” he screamed, punching her with all his might. “You can, Brophy. You will.”

  The darkness engulfed him.

  Brophy’s body twitched violently in the grips of the nightmare, and Baelandra bent over him in a flutter of concern. She held Shara’s palm in one hand and Brophy’s in the other as if the power of her worry could hold back black emmeria.

  Issefyn glanced at the Carrier twenty feet distant and chose her moment. With sweat beading on her forehead, Issefyn slid the containment stone across Shara’s stomach until it was nearly touching the back of Baelandra’s hand. The corruption began to spread across Shara’s body once again. Issefyn closed her eyes and brought the full power of her mind to bear. Instead of pulling the corruption out of Shara and guiding it into the Heartstone, she latched on to Baelandra’s wrist and shoved the stone against her hand, funneling the hungry malice straight into her.

  Baelandra’s eyes shot open, and she tried to yank her hand away, but Issefyn clung to her like a bird of prey.

  “What are you doing?” Baelandra gasped, jumping back like a jackal. Issefyn fell on top of her, pinning her to the ground.

  She fought. Oh, it was delicious. The plump, redheaded matron fought for all she was worth, but she was not the Sister of Autumn anymore. The Heartstone no longer lent her strength, if it even had any strength left to give.

  The black tendrils shot up Baelandra’s arm, groping like black worms. She screamed in despair, and it was the sweetest music. Issefyn leaned close, put her mouth near Baelandra’s quivering ear.

  “This is how Physendria rewards betrayal.”

  Baelandra grabbed the Sword of Autumn and lashed out, striking Issefyn across the temple with the pommel. She fell back, and Baelandra scrambled to her feet.

  Krellis’s whore clutched the sword to her arm as if that would stem the flood. Her wide-eyed horror made Issefyn laugh.

  Corkscrew spikes sprouted from the bubbling black skin of Baelandra’s arms. The emmeria sensed the trembling heart of its victim, the birdlike shaking of her limbs, so desperate. So fragile.

  Arefaine’s bodyguard rushed up behind the beast and cut her down. But the flawless strike bounced off the scales that had grown across Baelandra’s back and only knocked her to the ground.

  Baelandra dropped the sword and leapt upon him. Long claws burst through her shoes, and she raked the Carrier’s belly with them while holding tight to his shoulders. He roared and staggered to his knees. His sword fell from nerveless fingers. She spilled his entrails across the grass and turned away, blood splattered across her torn gown.

  The Carrier gaped like a fish, and died.

  Baelandra spun around, her smoldering red gaze locked on the Heartstone.

  Issefyn scrambled to her feet, the containment stone still in hand. “Not so fast, my pretty,” she whispered. “The stones are mine.”

  The corruption had not taken Baelandra’s face yet, but her features were twisted in rage. She hissed, staggered closer, crouching low.

  Issefyn reached out with her magic, grabbing hold of Baelandra’s fragile mind.

  The bitch froze, struggling. Her arms bubbled as she resisted.

  Issefyn hurried forward and pulled the box of containment stones out of harm’s way. She pulled them to the Heartstone and crouched over her prize.

  Baelandra hissed, struggling against the mental bonds. The helpless bodies of Shara, Brophy, and Arefaine lay between them. “You smell their flesh, don’t you?” Issefyn hissed. Baelandra snorted, her hair hanging over her red eyes. “You’re hungry, aren’t you? Feast, my beauty. Feast on them.”

  Baelandra looked from the sleeping idiots to Issefyn. With a long hiss, she reached for the Sword of Autumn and wrapped her claws around the hilt.

  Issefyn sucked in a breath, as she felt her control lurch. “Too late for that,” she said. “You’re mine now.”

  Baelandra kept the sword tight in one claw. A thrill of terror rushed through Issefyn. Half of Baelandra’s body was twisted into a blistered and blackened beast, but her face was still human, except for the red eyes that swirled with pure malice. She leaned over and sniffed Brophy’s hair. With a mewling roar, she broke free.

  She lunged forward, slamming into Issefyn, snarling and clawing.

  They rolled to the ground, and Issefyn gave a powerful Lowani shriek, stunning the feral Sister for an instant. Issefyn scuttled backward and stood up, clutching the single containment stone to her chest. Baelandra crouched between her and the swirling black Heartstone. Issefyn had lost her prize. She had to get it back.

  She grabbed hold of her rage and flung it at her enemy, hammering the bitch’s mind with her will. Issefyn had to finish the job. Arefaine and Shara were helpless. She would never have a better chance to kill them both.

  With a snarling grunt, Baelandra broke the spell again. A fierce grin spread across her lips, and she leapt after Issefyn. Again, Issefyn used the Lowani shriek to halt her; but Baelandra fought her like a demon, creeping closer and closer.

  Issefyn’s gaze flicked to the blackened crystal clenched in her fist. One is enough for now, she thought. When I master this, I will come for the rest.

  Channeling her power into her legs, Issefyn ran.

  Baelandra charged after her.

  Arefaine found Shara broken and bleeding on a dock at the edge of the Market. Her body was crushed, her skull cracked open. Corruption covered her naked body from neck to midthigh, and unseeing eyes stared at the black clouds far above.

  Barely able to draw breath, Arefaine knelt next to Shara’s twisted body. She touched the Zelani mistress’s hair, soaked with blood.

  “Well done, my child, well done.”

  Arefaine turned toward the familiar voice behind her.

  He looked exactly as she remembered, bare-chested in a shimmering green sarong. His graying hair was cropped close, and she could see him smiling between his thin mustache and long, pointed beard.

  “I have waited for your return,” he said, his light blue eyes sparkling. “How beautiful you have become.”

  “Father…” she murmured, and rushed into his arms.

  “Now, now, child, our time here is short. You’ve done well. Brophy awakens as we speak.”

  “But…What will happen to her,” Arefaine asked, pulling back from his shoulder. “What about Shara? Is she dead?”

  “How can she be dead? This is only a dream.”

  Arefaine nodded.

  “You can take her with you when you go.”

  She nodded again, “But what—“

  Her father held up a hand for silence. “I know you have questions. All will be answered in time, but for now, I need you to listen very carefully.”

  Arefaine looked over at Shara. “Please, Father. Just a moment.” She knelt beside Shara, placing a hand on her friend’s lifeless flesh. Reaching out with her magic, she found the flicker of ani locked within Shara’s shattered body. Shara’s tortured spirit clung to the illusion of death, unable to find its way back to the light. Arefaine lent her strength to Shara’s feeble life force, drawing her out of the darkness and setting her free. Shara’s corpse slowly disappeared as she was released from the dream.

  The simplicity of the spell wrenched Arefaine’s heart. How many other souls were still trapped in nightmare, lost in despair, when the tiniest speck of magic could lead them back home? There were so many wrongs she could make right.

  Her father knelt by her side, placed a warm hand on her shoulder. “You must bring the Sleeping Warden to Efften. We will need m
ore young people like him if we are to rebuild our city.”

  “I will, but we must get you out of here. Why have you lingered so long?”

  “That is a question for later; right now I need you to do exactly what I say.”

  She paused, then bowed her head, and said, “Yes, Father.”

  Brophy woke up screaming. He leapt to his feet, scrambling away from the bodies that lay on top of him. He was ready in an instant, ready to run, ready to kill.

  There were corpses scattered all around, but this was different. All different. And that meant…

  He backed away, looking to the sky overhead. A night sky, but no storm. And his sword was gone. Where was his sword?

  Brophy spotted the glowing red pommel on the grass a few feet away. He leapt upon it, clutching the weapon to his chest. Was it too late? Had he failed?

  He winced at the pain in his shoulder and looked down at his wound. There was no sign of corruption anywhere on his body. Where were the corrupted? Where was the foul wind destroying everything in its path?

  He looked around and saw the woman from his dream lying on the grass, her pale face turned to the sky. A second woman’s features were hidden by a curtain of black hair. With a hammering heart, Brophy reached out, pushed the hair away, then snatched his hand back.

  It was Shara. Or what Shara’s mother might have looked like. The hair slowly fell back across her face. Was the black emmeria loose, or was this another twisted dream concocted by the Fiend?

  The familiar howl of a corrupted shattered Brophy’s hopes.

  Snarling, he rushed after the noise. They weren’t far. Behind a stand of trees, two corrupted creatures battled in the darkness.

  Brophy leapt upon them. He lopped the head off the first one, and cocked back for a follow-up thrust for its friend.

  “No!” the woman cried, holding an arm up for defense. A normal woman. Gray hair at her temples, wrinkles, not a monster.

  Brophy’s brow furrowed. His heart thundered in his chest. His head hurt. He waited for her to change, waited for her to leap upon him, but she just fell backward and scrambled away.

  Something rustled behind him. He spun around, bringing the Sword of Autumn up. The gemstone pommel flared as the thing lurched out of the trees.

  Brophy attacked.

  CHAPTER 22

  Astor and his father had just left the Citadel when Galliana found them. At first he feared an attack on another part of the city, and ran to greet her. She breathlessly told him about Shara’s fears, and Astor left her at a full sprint. Father would send a full squad, but Astor wasn’t willing to wait. If someone meant to harm the Lost Brother, Astor had to get there first.

  He was nearly across the Night Market when a sudden terror gripped his chest. The ever-present voice in the back of his mind had gone silent. The Heartstone had stopped singing.

  He doubled his speed, taking the steps up the Wheel four at a time. His joints ached; his muscles felt like jelly by the time he rounded Scythe’s statue and headed for the Hall of Windows. The torch still burned on top of it, but that was all he could see.

  Sweat dripped from his cheeks, and his chest pumped like a bellows. Something moved to his left, and he instinctively grabbed his sword hilt, stumbling away. Trees rustled, and Astor’s sword rang against the sheath.

  No Silver Islanders lunged from the shadows. It was a squirrel, or a rabbit, or maybe just the wind. Gritting his teeth, he slammed his blade back into the sheath and ran on, willing his feet to keep pounding the gravel path.

  The thought of running to kill another person made it even harder. As an Heir of Autumn, Astor had practiced swordsmanship for years. He’d fought battles beyond the wall. But Astor had never even struck another person in anger. Could he actually look another man in the eye and swing his sword if he needed to?

  He flinched at a guttural roar off to his side. He swerved from the path and headed for the sound. Another howl shattered the night, more gut-wrenching than the first. He swerved around a fountain and burst through a copse of trees. A woman cried “No!” just ahead of him.

  Astor slashed his way through a flimsy hedge and burst into the open. A huge figure blocked his path. He was the biggest man Astor had ever seen, wreathed in a burning red glow. Astor tried to stop, slipped on the grass, and almost went down.

  The glowing sword flashed toward him, deadly and unerring. Astor snapped up a quick parry, but the crushing blow knocked his blade back into his own chest and drove him to the ground.

  Astor gasped at the pain, rolled away. The figure loomed over him, raising the burning sword again.

  “No!” Astor yelled.

  “Stop!” Another voice charged the air with undeniable force. Astor froze. So did the fearsome warrior standing over him.

  Shara limped into the glade, holding together the tattered edges of her torn dress. Her face was a mask of pain. “Brophy!” she cried. “It’s over, my love. It’s over.”

  Astor looked up at the bestial man towering over him and saw his own face, tortured and twisted.

  “It’s all right,” Shara murmured, staggering up to him. She put a hand on his shoulder—

  Brophy’s heartstone flared crimson. In the sudden light, Astor saw that Brophy’s eyes were as black as night.

  He lashed out, his fist smashing into Shara’s head. She flew into a tree and dropped like a sack of wet meal.

  Astor gasped, suddenly free from Shara’s spell. Brophy turned back around, raising the sword above his head. Astor scrambled backward.

  “Cousin!” he blurted, preparing to die.

  But the strike didn’t fall. Brophy hesitated, staring at something on his hand. He lowered the sword, looking at the back of his knuckles.

  He glanced at the prone Shara. Astor couldn’t tell whether she was alive or dead. Was she breathing?

  “It’s red,” he breathed, looking back at Astor. “The blood is red.”

  Astor’s heart thundered in his chest. Should he try to run? Could he hide?

  Those black eyes peered at Astor, and slowly they cleared, revealing the whites and Brophy’s green irises.

  “Your blood is red.”

  Astor nodded dumbly.

  “By the Seasons…” He choked out the words.

  All the fury left Brophy’s face. He looked at Astor, and for the first time Astor saw deep, horrible fear in his cousin’s gaze.

  “What have I done?” Brophy murmured. “What on earth have I done?”

  He dropped the Sword of Autumn and sprinted into the night.

  Astor watched him go, the sound of his own breath roaring in his ears. He nearly threw up, but forced himself to crawl over to Shara.

  “Thank the Seasons,” he breathed as he found her pulse. She was unconscious, but at least she was alive.

  Astor staggered to his feet, not sure what to do, how to find help. He squinted into the darkness. Another prone figure lay a short distance away.

  He stood there for a long moment. That dress. He knew that dress, even torn and smeared with dirt and blood.

  He lunged forward, tripping over something in the dark and fell to his knees next to the headless body. No. Oh no. He rolled it over. Delicate, wrinkled hands. His mother’s hands.

  The front of her dress had been ripped open, exposing the white scar where her heartstone had once been. Bile surged up his throat. He leaned over his mother’s body and retched into the grass. He couldn’t feel his face. Couldn’t feel his hands.

  Turning slowly, he looked at what he had tripped over. It was his mother’s head, one eye closed. The other eye was open, staring blankly. The ends of her fiery red hair were stained dark, and her face bore a frozen grimace of pain and rage.

  His plaintive yell swelled into a heartrending scream.

  CHAPTER 23

  The smell of the rain had already faded, and the swirling dust returned, stinging Phanqui’s eyes. The storm had come and gone as quickly as a glimmer of hope. The parched earth of Physen devoured the moisture, ta
ntalizing her populace with a moment of stolen joy, the promise of better days that never arrived.

  Phanqui remembered a time when the rains had left happiness in their wake, but memory was Phanqui’s curse from the Nine. He recalled everything, every moment of his life in exquisite detail, over and over again.

  He limped along the King’s Highway, flanked by his Summermen bodyguards. He had given up trying to speak to them a decade ago. The guards’ names changed, but their faces stayed the same. They were the dustborn, the peasants of the Summer Seas, and the only people lower than them were Physendrians. All of his guards were sullen young men, sailors by craft and blood, exiled to a foreign desert. Phanqui’s protectors hated him. They hated Physen, hated the entire country of Physendria.

  At first the occupiers had just been soldiers, hired swords trying to force order down the throats of a shattered people. But subduing a foreign land had changed the Summermen and the would-be liberators became reluctant tyrants. The last few years had been the worst, ever since Lord Vinghelt was named governor. Only the lowest sort of men were recruited to serve under him, and the reluctant tyrants were gradually replaced by vicious thugs.

  Phanqui hobbled forward, dodging a pile of offal and trying not to think about it. Golden chariots once bore Physendrian royalty swiftly down the wide trench that shaded them from the brutal sun, but now the King’s Highway was a midden heap. Back then, no one would have dared throw garbage into the path of the king. Those were the days when there still was a king. Phandir had been a terrible monarch, a brutal man who led them to ruin. But he had been their king. One of their own.

  Phanqui stumbled, the old wound in his leg cramping suddenly. He paused, wincing, and massaged it so that it would work again.

  “Get your ass moving,” one of the dustborn growled, warily scanning the edges of the trench. He was right to worry. The King’s Highway was not safe for Summermen or their Physendrian lapdogs at this time of night.

  “A moment,” Phanqui said, working the muscle roughly. The wound had never completely healed after Phee had stabbed him through the thigh in that last Nine Squares competition. It might have, but all of Physen’s physicians had gone north with their king and died with him there. Phanqui had been left to heal on his own, battling an infection that had nearly taken his leg.