Mistress of Winter

by Giles Carwyn

  The bed ground against the flagstones. The door cracked inward again, just as it had when Caleb came to her.

  “By the Seasons, what a stench!” one of the soldiers said.

  Issefyn let go.

  She landed on the ledge. Her knees buckled, and she fell on her belly, half-in, half-out of the window.

  With a grunt of effort, she scrambled inside as the soldiers flooded her room above.

  Victeris was sitting on a chair by the door, the black stone at his feet. “This won’t save you, Mother. You cannot run from that many. You must fight them. You need me to fight them.”

  Issefyn snatched the containment stone away from him. Its sharp edges bit into her breast.

  “Enough, foul shade! I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone.”

  Muffled voices drifted from the chamber above.

  “I could defeat your enemies for you. Just open your heart to me, and we’ll destroy them together.”

  Issefyn ignored him and centered herself, breathing deep as she gathered her power. She would run for now, flee the city, and return when she’d mastered the black emmeria. This was a temporary setback, nothing more.

  She sent power into her legs, into her eyes and ears. She must be ready for anything. She grabbed the door handle and sent her awareness into the stairway outside. She paused, finding something curiously delicious waiting for her.

  Baelandra’s daughter, Baedellin, crept up the stairway on all fours trying to see what was happening up above.

  Issefyn stepped through the door and crept up behind the girl.

  “Baedellin,” Issefyn whispered. “Sweet child, come here. Auntie Iss has something to show you.” The girl spun around, wide-eyed and trembling. She started to run, but Issefyn reached out with her ani and held her.

  “Sweet child…” Issefyn said. “Touch this black stone for me.”

  The little redhead reached out a trembling hand, a slave to Issefyn’s will. The girl’s fingers touched the stone, and a wave of bubbling blackness swept up her arm.

  “Good, very good,” Issefyn cooed as she watched the girl transform, her blackened flesh contorting and elongating as she swelled to three times her former size. “Now, sweet child, there are a few people I need you to kill for me.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Glory of Summer was easily twice the size of any other ship in the Floating Palace, and she still could not contain half of Vinghelt’s guests. The crowd spilled onto the surrounding ships, and a small army of servants dressed in gold and black rushed around trying to please everyone.

  The prince’s ship was built to weather banquets, not storms. She rose four stories above the waterline, the top two decks were open to the night on all sides, and the two lower levels bled torchlight, music, and laughter through their wide-open windows. The highest deck was little more than an ostentatious balcony looking inward on the vast dance floor/dueling space on the level below. The entire ship was dripping in black and gold banners, and every square inch of her was packed with revelers.

  Shara and Mikal had found a little spot of calm near the heart of the storm. They leaned against the inner rail on the uppermost deck, surveying the entire party below them.

  Shara watched Vinghelt work the crowd. His entire retinue hovered around him, courtiers vying for his attention and bodyguards coolly watching for danger. One woman in particular stood out. She was tall and lean with a light brown braid hanging past her waist, and she seemed thoroughly bored. Shara caught her heavy-lidded gaze for a half second across the distance. The woman’s eyes narrowed, and Shara smiled.

  The woman was a panther, a stalker, and her bored gaze was all for show. Her emotions swirled with thoughts of Shara. Curiosity and jealousy. The woman knew of her.

  “Who is that, and what am I eating?” Shara asked Mikal, indicating the hors d’oeuvre he had just given her.

  He chuckled. “Let us answer the easy question first. This delicacy”—he held up the fish—“is fried sea trout. You can only catch them at the eastern edge of the Summer Seas, where the crystal rivers wed the dancing waves.”

  “But on a stick?”

  “Only during formal balls, milady. For the ease of dancing and eating at once.”

  “I see. And how does one eat it without getting a mouthful of bones?”

  “Gently, milady. Gently. If you have a delicate tongue and a light bite, you can strip the flesh without taking the bone. Like so.” With a practiced motion, he slid the fish meat into his mouth, began chewing.

  She tried it. It was the best fish she had ever tasted, crisp on the outside and succulent within.

  “And my first question?” Shara asked.

  “That stunning creature you so easily noticed is Natshea Vystholtz, the reason Lord Vinghelt has won every challenge ever issued to him.”

  “And what do you think of her?”

  He laughed. “I think she is quite lovely.”

  Shara kept watching him, and he sobered for a moment, breaking gazes with her. He took a bite of fish. Then, inevitably, he turned his blue eyes back toward her, his lips twitched in a half smile. “And she is regrettably good with a blade. Very very good.”

  “I would guess so. She looks tightly wound.”

  “Natshea?” Mikal said. “The woman is liquid grace.”

  “That is certainly what she would have everyone believe.”

  “But she is…” Mikal trailed off, then let out a sigh. Shara followed his glance and saw Mikal’s mother moving through the crowd, waving her handkerchief at them.

  Mikal pushed away from the rail. “I shall return in a moment. In the meanwhile, enjoy the fish and this idyllic spot while I conspire to prolong my own disinheritance.” He headed for the lower level to intercept his mother.

  Shara turned her gaze back on the crowd, feeling a cool touch on the back of her neck, a light breath of wind before a storm. She kept her eye on one specific person, a shocking blot of black and white among the colorful, strutting Waveborn. He was the only one who had truly piqued her curiosity.

  She followed the albino’s progress through the crowd as he struggled to follow Lord Vinghelt up the stairs to the highest deck. With much grunting, the albino pulled his vast bulk to the top, his chest pumping like a bellows.

  Shara left the rail and started toward him. She walked past Lord Vinghelt and the small cluster of guests who were hanging on his every word.

  Vinghelt spotted her and made a welcoming gesture. “Dear Shara-lani—” he cut himself off awkwardly, hand in the air as she breezed past him and stopped in front of the black-clad albino. His ani swirled around him like a cloud. The painful exertion of his climb seemed to bolster his strength, even as it tore at his body. A small smile curved the corner of her mouth.

  “Good evening,” she said. “I noticed you last night, but never found a chance to meet you.”

  He nodded, still recovering his breath. It was difficult to tell on a man of his size, but it looked like his face was swollen. She delved deeper into his ani and discovered that he was in excruciating pain. Something raced through his body like strands of red fire, but he reveled in it, and the fog of power around him grew stronger.

  “And I noticed you,” he finally replied, speaking slowly and carefully. He had the voice of a child.

  “You’re a Necani,” Shara said.

  He shrugged, his red eyes like tiny fires peeking over the bulge of his cheeks. Heat spread through Shara’s chest. By the Seasons, this man wore his power out in the open for anyone to see. It was a startling change from young Arefaine, who was as tight as a drum.

  “And you are Shara-lani,” he said.

  She curtsied. “I have that pleasure.”

  “And many others, I suspect,” he said with a slight grin.

  “Are you ill? You seem to be in pain.”

  He nodded. “The price of power,” he slurred, “is the acceptance of pain.”

  “Only in certain disciplines.” She glanced down at his body. The high voice.
The weight. Of course. He was a eunuch. “Some disciplines require pleasure.”

  “And is that why you have come so far south? For pleasure?”

  “There is much in the world that I must see. It was a journey long overdue.”

  “Of course it was.”

  “May I have the pleasure of your name?”

  “Jesheks san Rivvul.”

  “Kherish?”

  He shrugged, and Shara noticed Vinghelt break away from his cluster of admirers. With two bodyguards in tow, he made his way toward them.

  “A pleasure, Jesheks,” Shara said, giving him a curtsy.

  “Yes,” he slurred, nodding. “It will be.”

  Shara turned and came nose to nose with Lord Vinghelt.

  “I see you have met my personal physician,” he said. Jesheks smiled politely and bowed his head. “If you are ever in need of my servant’s assistance, I would be happy to send him to you.”

  “That is very kind of you. I’m sure your servant is a master”—she took a sip of her wine—“physician.”

  Vinghelt’s eyes went wide, and she saw his friendly façade crack for the first time. His lip curled, and anger blossomed in his chest, but he quickly covered it up with a smile.

  “This has been a lovely, intimate gathering,” Shara said. “You seem to have the best friends that money can buy.” She smiled and handed Vinghelt her empty wineglass.

  She turned to Jesheks and nodded. “I look forward to tomorrow’s duel. It will be nice to see how two great men solve their differences on the Summer Seas.”

  Jesheks said nothing, but his red eyes watched her as she left Vinghelt behind, holding on to her glass with a rigid hand.

  She headed down the steps and met Mikal on his way up. He glanced over her shoulder at Vinghelt, then took her arm as she slipped through the crowd toward the edge of the ship.

  “You seem to have made quite an impression on Lord Vinghelt,” he whispered discreetly into her ear.

  “Did I?”

  “I thought you said he wasn’t your enemy.”

  “He’s not. I’ve just decided to hate the man, that is all. I don’t like his smile.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Another sunrise crept over the watery horizon. Brophy had seen three sunrises since the last time he slept. The few times he tried were brutally short, and he awoke again and again with the Fiend whispering in his mind.

  Unable to sit quietly in his claustrophobic room, he spent the entire journey at the ship’s prow, pacing the deck night and day.

  Thoughts came and went through a haze of fatigue, but the flood of Brophy’s emotions was an unending cascade of anger and desperation. He had to keep walking, had to keep ahead of the flood, or it would overwhelm him, and someone else would die.

  The rising sun grew brighter, and Brophy turned his head to shield his eyes.

  He stopped. That wasn’t right. The sun should be behind him, to the east. Fighting to make sense of his foggy thoughts, he looked at the sails. They’d been running straight downwind for days, but now they were cutting across the wind on a broad reach. If the sun was dead off the starboard rail, that meant…

  With a growl of frustration, Brophy stormed across the forecastle, leapt the rail, and yanked open the storm door leading belowdecks. He went directly to Arefaine’s cabin and pounded on the door.

  The door opened a moment later, and a line of Arefaine’s six attendants filed past him, their eyes locked on the ground.

  “Please come in, Brophy,” Arefaine said, barely loud enough to hear.

  He strode into the room and slammed the door behind him. “Why are we headed north?” he demanded.

  Arefaine sat at her dressing table in a black robe. Her hair had been arranged, but her face was not yet powdered. A tub of cooling water sat in the center of the room. She rose to her feet, carefully retying her silk robe.

  “We turned north during the night at the suggestion of His Eternal Wisdom. There is something on the Cinder he would like you to see.”

  The voices in Brophy’s head surged, and his knuckles cracked as he clenched his fists. “You said you were taking me to the Opal Palace.” His father’s little red light took off from his shoulder and began to fly around his head.

  “And we will, after a short detour.”

  Brophy fought the urge to lash out, smash her skull against the shiny black walls. He strode back to the door and yanked it open. “I have no desire to return to that place,” he said through clenched teeth.

  Arefaine nodded. She had been a constant presence since they left Ohndarien. Even when Brophy couldn’t see her, he knew she was near. She continued to try to befriend him, to teach him techniques she swore would help him to sleep. But all of Brophy’s energy was focused on keeping the Fiend’s thoughts out of his mind. Her endless hovering just made it worse.

  Arefaine followed him across the room, touching him lightly on the arm. He wanted to swat her hand away, crush her tiny hand in his fist.

  “I felt the same way when the Emperor brought me back here,” she said, her voice was soft, smooth. “It was part of our agreement. For many years I have wanted to accompany him to Ohndarien, but he would not agree to take me unless we journeyed to the Cinder along the way.”

  “Why? What is there?”

  “Why don’t you ask me that question?” the Emperor said from behind him.

  Brophy whirled around, and two Carriers of the Opal Fire stepped between him and the Emperor. He twitched, nearly threw them backward. His arms vibrated as he held back.

  “Would you join me in my chambers?” the Ohohhim leader asked, so utterly calm that Brophy wanted to rip the powdered flesh off his face. “I will answer any question you wish to ask.”

  Brophy breathed heavily through clenched teeth. His father hovered around his head, and Brophy snatched the little light out of the air and held it to his chest. “Good,” he said, when his emotions were finally under control.

  With a brief nod to Arefaine, His Eternal Wisdom began walking toward the back of the ship. His two bodyguards interposed themselves between Brophy and the Emperor as he led them down the narrow hallway. Brophy watched the Carriers of the Opal Fire with a hunter’s eyes, seeing their weaknesses.

  Two more Carriers stood guard at the entrance to the Emperor’s chambers. They wordlessly opened the double doors. The room was nearly empty. Its unadorned wooden walls were lacquered to a mirror shine. An elegant throne stood on a dais at the back of the room, and a silver cabinet stood to one side.

  The Emperor sat on his throne and folded his hands into the sleeves of his robes. “You may leave us,” he said in his quiet voice to his bodyguards.

  The two that had followed them into the room removed themselves. A third appeared out of the shadows of the long red draperies surrounding the thin window at the back of the room. He moved silently past Brophy and shut the door behind them.

  “I would have kept them in here, if I were you,” Brophy said.

  “I have no reason to fear you.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Brophy’s hand kept clenching and unclenching, aching for a sword.

  “I already know the day I will die,” the Emperor said. “Today is not that day.”

  Brophy said nothing. He suddenly longed for the cool, clear air abovedeck. Despite the elegance of the room, everything seemed too small, too vulnerable.

  “I am sorry for the need for secrecy,” the Emperor continued. “But everything will be explained in due time.”

  “No,” Brophy snapped. “It will be explained now!” In the back of his mind, the whispers grew louder. His father’s light fluttered in his fist, unable to escape.

  “There are some things I have kept from you,” the Emperor said quietly. “The trip to the Cinder was one.”

  “What else haven’t you told me?” Brophy asked in a menacing voice, trying to push back the whispers. “I don’t like being kept in the dark.”

  The Emperor nodded. “The other secret
I have kept is inside that cabinet.”

  Brophy stormed to the bureau and flung open the doors.

  A blackened gemstone the size of a head lay nestled within, resting on a bundle of padded red silk.

  “That’s the Heartstone,” Brophy roared.

  “Yes,” the Emperor confirmed. “We brought it with us from Ohndarien.”

  Brophy snatched up the stone and spun around. Roaring of voices flooded his thoughts, drowning out all other sounds. Brophy strode over to the Emperor, raising the stone above his head, ready to cave in the little man’s skull.

  Such treachery. Such deceit. He deserves to die.

  Brophy paused, his clenched fingers white on the black stone. The little light of Brophy’s father’s soul zipped around his head, annoying and insignificant.

  “Turn the ship around,” Brophy rasped in a guttural voice. “We go back to Ohndarien.”

  The Emperor was still as a statue. “That would not be wise. Oh has shown me the future of the Fortress of Light. In a very short time, the Heartstone will no longer be safe there.”

  “What do you mean!”

  “I am sorry, Brother of Autumn, but Ohndarien will soon fall to treachery from within. There is nothing that either one of us can do about that now.”

  “I don’t believe you,” he yelled. “It’s all lies! Lies within lies!”

  Crush the thief’s skull. Smash the arrogance from his face.

  Five Carriers of the Opal Fire burst into the room, swords drawn. The Emperor held up one hand, and they held back, waiting for his order.

  Brophy teetered in indecision, his arm shaking with the desire to crush the Ohohhim’s head to a bloody pulp.

  End this now, and we will return to Ohndarien.

  The Emperor watched him but did nothing else. “Look at yourself, Brophy,” the Emperor said. “Look in your eyes.”

  Brophy felt his father’s warmth again, frantic, insistent at the edges of his mind. Slowly, he lowered the Heartstone. Walking stiffly back to the cabinet, Brophy stared into the polished silver doors.

  His eyes were pitch-black.