Mistress of Winter

by Giles Carwyn

  “Did you just impugn the greatest prince the Summer Seas have ever known?” the man asked.

  Brezelle smiled as she replied, “If you think drowning simpleminded thugs in blood-flavored wine makes a great prince, then yes, I have impugned him. With relish.”

  The drunk spat at her feet. “This from the idiot child of a father so craven he would have us run and hide from a few desert rats.”

  Brezelle drew her sword in a flash. The crowd gasped as she slapped the man across the cheek with the flat of her blade. His eyes flew wide as a thin trickle of blood ran across the steel where it had broken the skin. Brezelle held her blade perfectly steady, watching him with her deep green eyes.

  “If you have something to say to me, or to my family, please speak up. I would like everyone to hear.”

  The thick-faced thug had several friends with him, all wearing Vinghelt’s colors, gold and black. Three of them moved forward slowly, hands on blades.

  “Dust lover,” one of them spat.

  Brezelle turned her deadly gaze on the man. He hesitated.

  “Draw your blade, and we’ll see the truth of this matter,” Brezelle said. “Make the challenge, and you will find me eager, I assure you.” The man swallowed. His hand stayed glued to his sword hilt, but he did not draw.

  “Brezelle,” Mikal stepped forward. “Why don’t we leave them to their sorry seriousness? There are other delights to be savored this night.”

  “I am simply giving these fine men an opportunity to test their mettle,” Brezelle said. She searched the eyes of each man who had stepped forward. They said nothing. “But I can see that they would rather wait for another day.” She snapped her sword back, stepping away in one graceful movement. She plucked a blue handkerchief from her pocket and cleaned her blade with a deft swipe, then returned it to her sheath.

  “Reignholtz scum,” the man spat, wiping the blood off his cheek, but he couldn’t match Brezelle’s icy stare. “Come on,” he said to his friends. “No point in cutting this one. Nothing but sand would spill from her veins.” The four men faded into the milling crowd.

  The disappointed onlookers started to disperse when an earnest young man in a bright orange vest and black breeches crashed to his knees in front of Brezelle.

  “Lady of the moons and the stars shining bright

  For a woman like you I would give up my sight

  You’ve taken my heart with words of soft steel

  I must taste the lips that bring thugs to heel.”

  As though born to a stage, Brezelle took one dainty step backward and put her hand over her heart, then said:

  “My dear thug-hating moon-loving fool

  Why conjure an image so bloody and cruel?

  There is no need to put out your eyes

  To taste of my lips, or even my thighs

  If you wish to sample my steely soft verse

  Then I suggest you start something perverse

  Bring yourself here, my bold bantam cock

  And we’ll see if you can do more than just talk.”

  The crowd cheered her response, and the man stood up, stunned into silence. Brezelle fell into his arms, giving him a long, deep kiss. The crowd erupted again into cheers and clapping. Boots stomped the deck as the kiss went on and on.

  “You’ve created a monster,” Mikal whispered in Shara’s ear.

  “No. I just set one free.”

  “She’s a child.”

  “Really? Were you a child at her age? Did you go chastely to bed at sundown?”

  “No, but I am a freak of nature.”

  “Well, so am I,” Shara said softly. “And so is she. Just look at her. She is exquisite. I could make her queen of these waters within a year.”

  Mikal raised an eyebrow at her. “That’s funny; I thought we were here to prevent that sort of thing.”

  Shara stood on the tip of a long, narrow bowsprit looking out over the sea. A delightfully cool wind blew across her sweaty skin, raising gooseflesh. She and Mikal had been dancing, and she had lost him in the crowd. Now she was hiding from him, seeing how long it would take him to find her.

  A cool draft swept across her bare legs. Shara loved the slight burn of the rum that lingered in the back of her throat. She loved the skirt she was wearing with nothing underneath. She loved the Waveborn, their Floating Palace, and their Summer Seas. This night had been everything she ever wanted as a little girl.

  “Beware your step, my lady,” Mikal said, coming up behind her. He walked halfway up the bowsprit and lay down facing the other direction.

  Shara smiled. “I have no intention of falling.”

  “I am delighted to hear it, though I fear the sharks will be disappointed. It is not every day they have a chance to nibble on such exquisite legs.”

  “Sharks?” Shara turned lightly on one foot and nearly lost her balance. She hadn’t drunk this much in years. It was delightful. “And here I thought we might go swimming later.”

  “I would not recommend it. The waters of the Summer Seas are perfect for swimming, but the Floating Palace creates a lot of garbage, and a lot of garbage attracts a lot of sharks.”

  “I thought sharks were predators, not scavengers.”

  “Well, the little ones patrol for food scraps. The larger ones, however…They wait for drunk young women to stand too close to the edge.”

  Shara laughed, almost slipping before she caught her balance again. A middle-aged man in an elaborate sea dragon costume paused at the ship’s rail to relieve himself.

  “Care to get her down for me, good sir?” Mikal called to him. “She promised to come down for a kiss, but I must admit I am afraid of heights.”

  “Ah, my young lord, I must decline. I was once shark food in love like the two of you.” He patted his round belly. “But I fear those years have passed me by.”

  “Then I suppose I shall have to do it myself,” Mikal said, standing up as the man tied his trousers and continued on his way. Mikal walked to the end of the bowsprit, stopping just in front of Shara.

  Behind them, the party continued unabated. None seemed to notice the pair of them precariously balanced over the water, or they were so used to such things, they didn’t even bother to look.

  “The Eternal Summer was much colder before you arrived,” Mikal said.

  “If I had known how delightful the Summer Cities were, I would have come south long before now.”

  “And now that we have you, we must never give you cause to leave us.”

  “Ah.” She laughed. “Keep the future where it belongs, my lover, and you shall never be sad.”

  Mikal frowned, staring at her as she balanced on the very tip of the bowsprit, just out of his reach.

  “Kiss me,” she said. “Kiss me and never stop. Kiss me until we turn to dust and float away on the summer breeze.”

  Shara sent her ani out to him, enveloped him. She could feel his desire like a bonfire raging between them.

  Mikal raised his hand to rub his chin. “No,” he said. “I don’t think I will.”

  Shara smiled. “Are you defying me?” She let the tendrils of her magic caress him. “You know I love it when you defy me,” she said, grabbing his hands, pulling herself closer until her breasts brushed against his chest. “Defy me harder,” she murmured, feeling his pulse begin to race. “Defy me right here, right now, in front of everybody.”

  He swallowed, his hands shaking slightly. “What kind of man do you take me for?” he whispered. “I would never ravage a lady in public….” A small smile broke across his lips. “…before midnight. How gauche.”

  Shara laughed and leapt into his arms. He barely caught her, slid down the bowsprit, and jumped to the deck.

  Mikal surprised her more every day. Their first week together he’d followed her around like a lost puppy. She was almost ready to move on when he began to change, capturing her attention once again. It was a new experiment for her. What would happen to a man if he was flooded with limitless raw Zelani magic and l
eft to his own devices? What would emerge?

  “What about the crow’s nest,” Shara said, pointing with her chin. “Is that private enough for you?”

  Mikal turned and glanced at the tiny platform atop the distant mast. “What about my fear of heights?”

  “I’ll help you get over it,” she said, taking him by the hand and leading him toward the mast.

  She weaved her way through the crowd, brushing against the bodies of strangers, enjoying their eyes as they followed her across the deck. A hundred people would see them climb the mast together, and she didn’t care. She was already halfway up the rope ladder when a flutter of strong emotions caught her attention, and she turned.

  A middle-aged woman in a rather conservative brown dress stood near the rail, waving a yellow handkerchief at them. Mikal’s gaze followed Shara’s, and he frowned. Pretending not to have seen the woman, he continued climbing. His conflicted emotions flowed out of him like a strong scent.

  “Old friend of yours?” she asked.

  Mikal sighed, knowing by now he couldn’t hide anything from Shara. “You might say that. I am afraid that is the first woman I ever loved.”

  Shara glanced dubiously at the woman for a moment, then smiled. “That’s your mother?”

  “She has that privilege.”

  “What a pleasant surprise,” Shara said, starting back down. “Come, introduce me.”

  He sighed. “As you wish, my love.” They climbed back down to the base of the mast, where Mikal’s mother was waiting.

  “Oh, my dearest Mikal!” she fawned, touching his face with both hands. “I am ever so angry with you. You’ve been away so long, and I wouldn’t have even known you returned if Lady Munkhelt hadn’t told me. Last I heard you had gone north with Lady Amalitz. I did so like her, but I have been so worried about you.”

  “If you hadn’t disinherited me, I would have had no need to be on Lady Amalitz’s ship.”

  She tittered, flushing. “Come now, dear, there is no need to bore your friend with such things. This is a party.”

  Mikal returned her smile, but Shara could feel the swell of anger caged inside him.

  “Well…” his mother said in a small voice, clearing her throat. “The least you could do is introduce me to your lovely companion that the entire Floating Palace has been talking about.”

  Mikal looked away briefly, the muscles in his jaw working, then he gave a half bow. “My apologies, Mother. This is Shara-lani, mistress of the Ohndarien Zelani.”

  “Oh my!” Mikal’s mother said, acting surprised. “Why didn’t you tell us we had such an august person on the Floating Palace?”

  “We were having fun.”

  “Yes, you are very good at that,” she said sweetly. “Of course you know that you must both come and stay with me on Wavedancer. It would do the Heidvell shiphome a great honor to have such an…august person stay with us.”

  Mikal started to shake his head, but his mother raised a hand to cut him off. “No excuse, now. I’ll send a runabout and crew so you can show your friend the sights before joining me tomorrow night.”

  “I don’t want your boat, Mother.”

  “But you are Lord Heidvell’s son. You should travel under your father’s colors.”

  “For all the world to see?”

  She nodded. “How else, dear?”

  “Especially when I’m conspicuously staying with one of the most powerful Summer Princes, who despises you and everything you stand for?”

  Lady Heidvell giggled, swiped a hand gently toward Shara. “He does go on. If I didn’t send a runabout for him, he would joke about that, too.”

  Mikal’s hand curled into a fist, but Shara put a hand on his arm.

  “Lady Heidvell, it was delightful to meet you,” she said. “We’ll be sure to come visit you as soon as we possibly can.”

  “Oh!” She simpered. “Thank you, my dear. How sweet.” She turned to Mikal. “I do so like her. Tell her she absolutely must stay forever.”

  “You absolutely must stay forever,” Mikal parroted in a monotone.

  “There’s a dear.” She patted Mikal’s cheek.

  “I live to please my mother.”

  “Oh, I know that you do. Your actions speak louder than words ever could.”

  They were interrupted as a buzz went through the crowd. A young boy sprinted past them, clipping the back of Lady Heidvell’s legs and nearly knocking her down. A little girl followed right behind him. The two children leapt from rail to rail between two ships, not bothering with the planks. The crowd surged in the same direction, packing the narrow causeways.

  “What is it?” Shara asked.

  Mikal grinned. “A duel, no doubt. Word travels quickly on the Floating Palace.”

  Mikal grabbed Shara by the hand and led her away. “Please excuse us, Mother. Shara-lani has never seen a duel.”

  “Of course, dear. Of course,” Mikal’s mother called to their retreating backs. “You go do what young people do.”

  “Come,” Mikal said. “We don’t want to miss the beginning.” He grabbed her hand and led her around the crowd that was stuck at the bottleneck between the ships. “Think you can keep up with me?” he asked, breaking into a sprint and heading straight for the ship’s rail.

  Shara matched him stride for stride as he jumped the gap between the ships.

  They landed, hand in hand, on the far side and kept right on running. Shara reveled in the freedom of her daring skirt and the feel of her bare feet on the polished decking. They dodged around loose rigging, bewildered musicians, and overloaded banquet tables across three more ships.

  Mikal slowed as they neared their destination. The next ship over was packed with eager spectators. There was not a single inch of available deck space. He paused at the rail, catching his breath.

  “What now?” Shara asked.

  Mikal grinned, and pointed up. “I fear we shall have to make an entrance.” He led her into the rigging, climbing quickly to the crow’s nest, where a rope connected this ship’s mast with the one next door. “Hang on to me,” Mikal said, pointing at his shoulders. He drew his sword, hooked the handguard over the rope, and grabbed the pommel with both hands. The naked blade hung in front of his face as Shara wrapped her arms over his shoulders.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “Always.”

  He kicked away from the crow’s nest, and they slid the length of the rope. Three young boys were perched on a narrow ledge around the far mast with a perfect view of the two duelists already accusing each other.

  Mikal shouted ahead, and the boys scattered out of the way, one tumbling halfway down a rope net to be caught by his friends. Mikal struck the mast expertly with his feet, unhooked his sword with one hand, and caught the wood with the other. He swung around the mast to kill their momentum and Shara spun into his arms. He kissed her, lingering in the dramatic pose.

  Claps and whistles arose from the crowd gathered below. Mikal and Shara shared a grin before twirling into exaggerated bows, each hanging on to the mast with one hand.

  “Excuse me!” a tremendously fat man in the crowd shouted. He was perched on top of a tool locker and held a pitcher of wine in each hand. “I hate to interrupt, but these noble gentlemen were about to engage in an epic struggle of life and death where that man’s thunderous tide of honor was about to wash the foul stench of that man’s villainy from the face of the earth!”

  “My apologies,” Mikal shouted back. “Please continue.”

  The crowd turned back to face the small open space in the center of the deck where two duelists squared off against each other. The first was short, with wispy brown hair receding from his forehead. His opponent had a long queue of blond hair, tied back with a leather thong, and was slightly taller than the first. Both of them seemed on the verge of bursting into giggles, and Shara raised an eyebrow.

  “They don’t look much like swordsmen.”

  “Ah my lady, poet duelists are unlike any swordsmen in the world.�
�

  Shara laughed. “They’re fat.” One of the men stumbled backward, tangling himself in his coat as he tried to whip it off with flair. “And clumsy.”

  Mikal chuckled. “They’re drunk. And I hope their words are not as inept as their feet, or the crowd will certainly turn on them.”

  Shara laughed and watched the beginning of the duel. The short duelist threw his sword at the other man. It stuck, barely, in the ship’s deck, wobbling back and forth at such an angle that the pommel hit the wood a couple of times. Shara winced.

  “Was he supposed to do that?”

  Mikal nodded. “Of course, my lady.”

  “Seems a poor way to treat a sword.”

  “Allow me to elaborate upon the unfolding events. It is, indeed, a good way to bend or even snap a blade. But it is also the first test of the prowess of the combatants.”

  “Ah.”

  The taller duelist threw his sword, which landed about four feet from his opponent at a better angle. It wobbled only a little, obviously the superior throw.

  “The throwing of the blades indicates a formal challenge. Once a sword leaves a duelist’s hand it can never be taken back.”

  “What if you hit them?”

  “Sacrilege, my lady! You are booed off the ship, thrown overboard for the sharks.”

  “Perhaps that would be a blessing for these two.”

  Mikal chuckled. “Watch. They are already engaged in the traditional voicing of grievances. We’ll see what sport is to be had.”

  “…poxy face offends the very deck upon which you stand!” the shorter duelist shouted, pointing a finger at the man with the ponytail. “Your honor is as black as the bottom of a cur’s feet. Your wife rolls with baseborn dusteaters to find the pleasure she lacks, and your children avoid you in shame. You are a vile miscreant who uses loaded dice in a fair game, and if you ever tried to drown yourself in shame, Fessa herself would spit you back from the water.” He reached for his sword, realized he had already thrown it, then said, “Which I will prove now…with my steel.” He waved a hand at his nearly horizontal blade sticking out of the deck. Only a couple of halfhearted claps followed his diatribe.