Mistress of Winter

by Giles Carwyn

  A sudden spike of panic rushed through Lawdon. She clutched the sheath hidden in her sleeve. The blade was gone. She clutched at the other arm. Also missing. Her flood of panic boiled into rage as she realized what happened. The kisses. That traitorous thief had lifted them when he kissed her.

  Fuming, she looked around the crowd for another blade she could steal. There were a few, but it wouldn’t be easy. She glared back at Mikal playing the fool for the crowd. What the hell did he think he was doing?

  Mikal fumbled the daggers and charged from the cleared area, and the crowd made way for him as he climbed up the forecastle steps and jumped to the railing overlooking the dueling area. He grabbed a cup of wine from a startled gentleman in a green doublet, and balanced on top of the rail. The boy on his back squealed in delight, almost dropping the sword into the crowd as Mikal wobbled on the narrow bar. Wine sloshed on the people below. Clearing his throat, Mikal began to walk the rail, arms out to steady himself as he spoke:

  “My throat is parched, my muscles sore

  As my man and I march off to war

  But I’ll drink this wine, he’ll drink the blood

  Of foul Physendrians facedown in mud.

  We’ll share this salty cup with everyone

  We’ll proclaim our greatness, outshine the sun

  Look how the boy loves a sword in hand

  Shall we send him to war and make him a man?”

  “Shut up and duel!” A black-and-gold-clad man shouted above the cheers of the crowd. He stepped forward quickly and shoved Mikal from behind.

  A woman screamed as Mikal’s foot shot off the rail. With a shriek, the child dropped the sword. It clattered to the deck below. Mikal twisted in midair as they fell, trying to protect the child with his body. They crashed to the planks, and Mikal’s head cracked on the wood.

  The crowd gasped and surged forward. Lawdon fought her way through them, desperate to see what had happened. Practically crawling between their legs, she forced her way to the front.

  Mikal lay stunned on the deck. The wide-eyed boy was sprawled on his legs. A frantic woman burst through the crowd and snatched the boy away.

  Leftblade sauntered over to Mikal’s sword, flipped it up off the deck with his boot, and snatched it out of the air with the curled fingers of his left hand. With a wry smile, he spoke:

  “This chasing with swords and nasty words

  Is leaning toward the rank absurd

  The time has come to bow and yield

  And face the awesome truth I wield.”

  Leftblade whipped both blades around, crossing them at a point just under Mikal’s chin. A long length of blade extended past Mikal’s neck on either side. One flick of the wrist, and his throat would be sliced open.

  With a grunt, Mikal slowly sat up. Leftblade followed him, keeping the blades a precise inch away from his flesh.

  The mirth had fled from Mikal’s face. His blue eyes flashed and he spoke loudly:

  “I do not yield, good sir. I will never yield

  Naked, I fight with the truth as my shield.”

  Leftblade nodded, his blades slowly withdrew from Mikal’s neck, then with a sneer and a flick of his wrist, Leftblade slashed him across the ribs with Mikal’s own sword. Mikal cried out, falling back, hands at his side. Blood leaked between his fingers, flecking the deck as he rolled to his knees. Leftblade’s lip curled in a sneer, and he said:

  “I claim the call of first blood

  Undeniable in its flood

  This farce is over, the matter decided

  This poor fool was lost, misguided.”

  The crowd stayed deadly silent as Leftblade lifted his head with a smile, waiting for applause that did not come. His smile soured. With a furrowed brow, he spoke to the crowd:

  “The Waveborn heart beats ever true

  Together we’ll see the matter through

  Together we shall rise as one

  And fight until our battle’s won.”

  Mikal rose to his feet, clenching his teeth and gripping his side. The boy who’d ridden his shoulders rushed to help him, but his mother grabbed him by the shoulder and held him back. Mikal walked forward, breathing evenly, and stood right in front of Leftblade. In a low voice that carried to the entire silent crowd, he said:

  “Cut me again, and I will concede

  Cut me again, and your war proceeds

  Cut me again, and this matter’s done

  Cut me again, and I’ll say you’ve won.”

  As Mikal’s words trailed off, the cry of distant seabirds floated over the silent, expectant crowd. Lawdon could even hear the boats creaking and waves lapping between the ships.

  Leftblade stood very still, hesitating at the deathly quiet crowd, at the intense look in Mikal’s eyes.

  “Give him back his sword!” someone shouted.

  “Let him duel!”

  “Give him back his sword!” another called, and the crowd took up the chant.

  “Sword! Sword! Sword! Sword!”

  Leftblade’s knuckles were white on both hilts. He gave a thin smile to Mikal, then tossed the blade to him. Mikal caught it deftly with his right hand and let go of his bleeding wound.

  “Enough words,” Leftblade snarled. “Let’s finish this thing.”

  Mikal said nothing. He merely saluted.

  And charged.

  The crowd drew back with a gasp. Leftblade withdrew, defending the flurry of blows that Mikal rained upon him. The grand master tried a riposte and almost lost his hand for it. He retreated several steps, his eyes going wide. The crowd parted behind them as the duelists fought their way across the deck.

  Mikal pressed the attack, his brow furrowed, his blue eyes flashing. Leftblade tried another counterattack, and Mikal smacked his outstretched arm with the flat of his blade. Leftblade gasped, fumbled his sword, but Mikal did not cut him.

  Leftblade attacked again. For an instant, he advanced a step, pushing back Mikal’s onslaught, but then he gasped and stumbled back. Mikal’s sword was everywhere. A strike here. A strike there, always with the flat of the blade. Murmurs ran through the crowd.

  A fierce sally brought a cry from Leftblade as Mikal smacked his hand again. The legend’s sword clanged on the planks. With a snarl, Mikal scissor-stepped forward and kicked his former idol full in the chest. Leftblade crashed to the deck and smacked his head against the forecastle. He sat up quickly and froze. The tip of Mikal’s blade hovered an inch from his throat.

  “Cut me, damn you!” Leftblade hissed. “Just cut me and end it!”

  After a long, breathless moment, Mikal’s deadly expression split into a smile. He took a half step back, whipped his sword around and skewered Leftblade’s hat, picked it up and twirled it around the tip of his sword.

  “No,” Mikal said. He tossed the hat in the air and slashed at it with his sword as it fell. The white feather drifted lazily. He plucked it out of the air with his left hand and tossed his sword over his head with his right. The sword stuck into the deck at the edge of the cleared area, wobbling back and forth.

  “No one else will bleed today,” Mikal said.

  He tucked the feather behind his ear and turned his back on Leftblade. He addressed the mesmerized crowd, his voice seemed to carry across the entire Floating Palace.

  “You all know the next words I’ll say

  Though they’re old-fashioned and cliché

  They’re carved upon my heart and soul

  They fill me up, they make me whole

  And if our hearts and souls agree

  Then speak these final words with me.”

  Pressing both of his hands against the bleeding wound in his side, Mikal then raised the red palms over his head, showing them to the crowd, and cried:

  “May I be the last Waveborn with blood on his hands”

  Several voices from the crowd took up the famous words of Salice Mick, spoken so long ago when the Summer Cities first set aside their warring ways.

  “May I be the last
Waveborn to set foot on the land”

  Mikal continued the historical lines. A thousand voices rose up to join him:

  “From this day forth all talk of war shall cease

  From this day forth these waves will know peace

  An Eternal Summer is ours to seize

  With this last drop of blood spilled on the Summer Seas.”

  The cheers were deafening, and the crowd surged forward, picking Mikal up on their shoulders. Musicians began playing, and they bore Mikal around the deck.

  In a panic, Lawdon looked around for Vinghelt, but the man was gone. He must have snuck away while no one was watching.

  Lawdon tried to catch Mikal’s eye, but the crowd carried him away from her. She was jostled by the surging bodies for a few moments before someone recognized her, and two men lifted her up on their shoulders as well.

  She and Mikal locked eyes across the flood of people. He gave her a weak smile like a small pocket of sorrow amidst a roiling sea of fierce joy.

  CHAPTER 27

  Jesheks clapped quietly, peering through a window of the prince’s stateroom. The crowd carried Mikal from Vinghelt’s ship, parading him across the entire Floating Palace. Cheers and laughter engulfed the procession, and in a few minutes, the only people left on Glory of Summer were those in Vinghelt’s employ.

  Jesheks shook his head. He had always enjoyed the Waveborn and their duels. They were quaint, like the rest of the Summer Seas, as if the entire culture grew up locked in a velvet box, protected from the rest of the world. This nation knew nothing of pain. It made them endearing in a pathetic sort of way.

  Jesheks smiled, listening as Vinghelt stormed through the adjacent rooms, knocking over furniture, breaking glass.

  This second duel had been unexpected, and it would make the next few days much more interesting. The outcome was still not in doubt, but the journey would certainly be more spectacular.

  He could not remember being so pleased. The previous evening with Shara had been everything he had ever hoped for and more. She had truly been remarkable.

  Jesheks felt Vinghelt’s approach as the summer prince grabbed the door of the stateroom and yanked it open. “There you are,” he spluttered. “This is all your fault!”

  “I suppose it is,” Jesheks replied calmly.

  “If Natshea had been here, this would never have happened,” Vinghelt fumed, picking up a rum decanter and smashing it against the wall.

  “We have already agreed that it is my fault.”

  “I should bury you for this,” Vinghelt hissed, stalking up to Jesheks and leaning over him.

  “You could do that,” Jesheks said, feeling the taller man’s rum-tainted breath on his face. “But I still have so much more to teach you.” He laid his white hand delicately on Vinghelt’s arm, tapped his skin with the spiked golden pinkie sheath. “Perhaps we should discuss this on my ship?”

  The color left Vinghelt’s face. He swallowed. His mouth lay open, but no words came out.

  When Jesheks first arrived at the Summer Cities, he briefly entertained the idea that Lord Vinghelt might become his apprentice. This hope was dashed after one lesson. The man crumbled before any blood had been spilled, and the memory of that moment still left the prince petrified.

  As if I would ever again waste my talents on this pretentious fool, Jesheks thought as he pushed back his cowl, letting his thin, white hair fall down.

  “I admit that this is a setback. The crowd was definitely with young Heidvell,” Jesheks said, releasing the lord from his power.

  “It’s a disaster!” Vinghelt spat, backing away.

  Men like this destroy themselves, Jesheks thought. They need no help from anyone else. If Jesheks ever put a crown on Vinghelt’s head, the fool would lose it within a year. Even the petty warlord who had taken Jesheks’s manhood was ten times the king that Vinghelt could ever be.

  “Not so, my lord,” Jesheks said. “Did you think I would leave our plans vulnerable to Mikal Heidvell and Reignholtz’s adopted daughter?”

  Vinghelt’s brow furrowed. “The goddess promised me a crown. The Waveborn should be crying for Physendrian blood! They are ready to launch another Eternal Summer out there.”

  “True, but yesterday they were ready to turn over all their fleets to you. The mob is fickle, easily swayed. The reins of summer are still in your hands. All we must do is implement our alternative plan.”

  Vinghelt’s face darkened. “That’s just what you wanted all along.”

  Jesheks shrugged. “You wished to win through the duels. Or rather, you wished to bask in the glory of the duels.”

  “What? You dare—”

  Jesheks fixed him with a stare, and Vinghelt paused, then looked away.

  “You know very little of what I would dare, my lord,” Jesheks said simply. “And I think you prefer it that way. Save your false dignity for your countrymen. You want to become the Summer King. I want to help you. Why tempt me to change my mind?”

  Vinghelt looked fiercely out the window.

  “I suggested this course of action from the beginning,” Jesheks continued. “But you would have none of it, and I indulged you. I was content to see if your words had wisdom. They did not. The duels are not what they once were, despite the flamboyant legends that surround them. Even with Natshea’s many victories and her crushing defeat of Reignholtz’s daughter, that crowd was ready to root for the young fop today. They gave him every opportunity to be their favorite. And when he won, which of them remained near your banner? Only those whom you finance. Does this sound like a people who are aligned with your purpose?”

  His mouth a tight line, Vinghelt glanced briefly at Jesheks but didn’t say anything.

  Jesheks waved his hand, shuffling over to the table. He sat down slowly in one of the chairs, savoring the painful ache in his knees, transforming it into a brief rush of power.

  “But it doesn’t matter. Crowds flip one way, then another, as I said. There is no need to surrender after a single defeat. The twigs are stacked neatly, the tinder below. All we need is a spark, and it shall burn.”

  “It is easy for you to say. This ‘alternative’ plan costs you nothing.”

  Vinghelt would never grasp the notion that something easily won was worthless. Jesheks had given him Natshea. He had nearly given the man the Summer Fleet, and still Vinghelt wanted all rewards and no investment. “I promised to make you the Summer King,” he said. “I did not say it would come without cost.”

  Vinghelt shifted, edging closer to the window. He put his hand on the sill. The prince couldn’t stand to be in the same room with Jesheks for long. What did it say about a man that the fountain of his power was something from which he wanted to flee?

  “I don’t know why Fessa chose you to be my steward,” Vinghelt said tightly. “But I shall have to trust her judgment. Make the arrangements for tomorrow night.”

  “The day after tomorrow would be better.”

  “Fine! Whatever.” Vinghelt waved his hand, but still did not look at Jesheks. “Just leave me in peace.”

  Jesheks levered himself to his feet. “As my prince commands,” he said, smiling. He shuffled to the door and left the prince to his weighty thoughts.

  CHAPTER 28

  Lawdon kept to the shadows, waiting for the wine to do its inevitable work.

  She raised the annoying mermaid mask she was wearing and wiped the sweat off her face. It was an overly warm night, and she’d been running on very little sleep. She had suggested that Lady Gildheld throw a masquerade ball on her cottage ship so she and Mikal could move among the crowd unrecognized.

  She and Mikal, mostly Mikal, had been the toast of the Floating Palace for the day and a half since the duel. Mikal’s victory seemed to snap the Summer Princes out of a daze. Evidence was being gathered to prove Vinghelt was behind her lord’s death. A fresh, sizable gouge had been found on the prow of one of Vinghelt’s smaller ships. Dozens of people were coming forward with reports of his transgressions in Phys
endria. And the jokes were already flying about his cowardly retreat from the duel before he could be tossed overboard. Once that man’s hull was breached, it started springing leaks all over the place. The Waveborn still liked to talk much more than they liked to act, but Vinghelt’s ship was foundering. The man would be buried alive before the end of high summer.

  Despite her grief, it raised Lawdon’s spirits to see the heart of the Waveborn reassert itself. Reignholtz would eagerly have given his life to preserve the Eternal Summer. Seeing the tidal wave of change his death had caused somehow made the loss more bearable.

  Lawdon was ashamed by how eager she had been to spit in the face of her lord’s beliefs, stooping to the violence he abhorred. But luckily Mikal was cut from nobler cloth. For the first time, Lawdon started wondering if there was some truth to Reignholtz’s faith in the blood of the Waveborn.

  With the Summer Princes back in command, that left Lawdon and Mikal free to look for Shara. It had been two days since she left with Vinghelt’s men. Her whereabouts were a mystery, but Lawdon knew how to find the weak link when you wanted to break a chain. And that weak link was headed right her way.

  The man walked past her hiding place, headed for the privy. Lawdon paused only a moment, nostrils flaring as she looked at his gold cotton doublet, his black belt, his narrow shoulders.

  With a twitch of her wrist, the dagger fell into her hand. She hurried to catch up with him, grabbed the back of his collar, and stuck the blade between his legs, tight up against his crotch.

  He squeaked, dropped his wineglass, and tried to lurch away, but she spun him around and pinned him against the wall.

  “Wait, please…!” His long mustache quivered as he craned around, trying to see her. Lawdon slid the dagger slightly forward, just enough for the tip to bite through cloth and break skin. “Oh Fessa…” the man whimpered.

  “Cry out, and I’ll trim you to match your master,” she said.

  “M-My master?”