by Lynn Viehl
Frost began to swirl across the walls of mirrors, racing and curling into bizarre shapes as it crystallized on the glass. In each panel Korvel saw a ghostly silhouette of a little girl performing some task, but none of them made sense. In one she herded goats; in the next she crossed swords with a grown man. The ice child picked flowers, threw daggers, hung clothes on a line, and straddled a fallen opponent.
The last panel showed the little girl making a rosary out of her own frozen tears. She looked back at him with her snow white eyes and suddenly moved, crackling as she hurled the rosary at him.
Korvel brought up his arm to protect his face and felt the teardrop crystals stab into his flesh. As he lowered his arm, the panel began to crack, and the ice child knelt down, wrapping her arms around herself until, like the mirror, she fell into pieces on the floor.
“Look at this mess I’ve made.” Simone brought a broom and dustpan over and began to sweep up the child’s remains. “You should go now, Captain. Severance is about to begin.”
He took the broom from her and set it aside. “Simone, come with me. We’ll go back to the flat.”
Her face paled as she looked past him. “It’s too late.”
A faceless ice giant came into the room, his fists hefting two impossibly long swords. “Quatorze,” he whispered, his voice splintering like cracked glass. “You are worthy.”
Korvel tasted death in the air. “Who is that?”
“Helada.” Simone stepped in front of him and spoke to the monster. “You’ve taken everyone I loved from me, Father. You can’t have him.”
The giant flung one of the swords at them, but Korvel grabbed her and spun out of the way. It crashed into the mirrored wall, shattering the panel.
“He’s not real.” Korvel put his arms around Simone and turned her to face him as the giant came rushing at them, raising the ice blade over their heads. “He can’t hurt you unless you want him to.”
The sword stopped in midair and dropped out of the giant’s hand, splashing the floor as a wide swath of water.
“I never wanted this,” Simone whispered. “Any of this.”
“Then let it go.” Korvel removed her head veil and threaded his fingers through the bright tresses, drawing them over her shoulders. “Forget your father and this place. Be with me.”
“I’m not fit to serve you.”
Behind her the giant loomed, his body spreading and absorbing the room itself, stretching high above them as he became a towering mountain of ice and snow. He roared without words, and the world disappeared in a blizzard of fury.
Korvel held on to her. “I don’t need a servant,” he shouted over the screaming wind. “I need you. I want you, Simone.”
The giant bellowed, showering them with needles of ice, but his body shook as several sharp cracks pierced the air. One leg and then the other collapsed beneath the crumbling weight of his torso. One mighty hand reached out, clawing at Simone, only to fall short as the arm attached to it came apart. Dark water began to pour around them in a cold, rushing flood, and Korvel lifted Simone off her feet, holding her above the rising waters as he looked into her frightened eyes.
“I can’t stop it,” she said. “We’re going to die.”
“No, love.” Korvel put his lips to her brow. “We’re going to live.”
As the water closed over his head, he drew up the iron will that had never failed him, and reached for the void, dragging Simone with him, until the nightlands receded and he felt her limp body being moved away from his.
Korvel came back to consciousness in a complete killing rage, ripping out of the ropes binding him and grabbing the first throat within reach. As his eyes adjusted to the glaring light in his face, he inspected the mortal choking beneath his grip and the four other men flanking a metal hatch. “Where is she?”
“Are you looking for your little whore?” someone asked in a pleasant tenor. “She’s here.”
Korvel dropped the now-unconscious mortal and turned to see a smiling priest sitting beside a pallet to which Simone had been tied. The priest held a straight razor poised at Simone’s throat, and when Korvel took a step forward, he pressed the edge into her skin, causing a trickle of bright blood to stain the blade.
“Stay where you are,” the priest advised him, “and I won’t slice through the artery.” He studied Korvel for a moment. “I’m assuming you want her back in one piece. Or if you’d rather I relieve you of this burden—”
“Who are you, and what do you want?”
“You may call me Helada.”
Korvel sneered. “You are not Helada.”
“Oh, but I will be, as soon as you give me what I need. A translation of the Scroll of Falkonera.” The priest nodded to one side of Korvel. “It’s right there on the table, next to the notepad and pen.”
He glanced at the two gleaming gold cylinders of the scroll. “I am not a linguist.”
“The last man who said that to me killed himself. Shortly thereafter I tortured his assistant, who provided a surprising amount of information. I think his employer grossly underestimated the boy’s powers of observation.” The priest scratched the back of his head in a lazy gesture, frowning at some strands of dark hair it left on his fingers before shaking them off. “I know who and what you are, Captain, and how your kind used the night code to communicate with other Darkyn after the fall of the Templars. You will sit down and translate the contents of the scroll for me.”
Korvel could feel the motion of water beneath his feet, and from the dank smell of the compartment he guessed they had been brought to a ship’s hold. He also saw that the priest and his men were wearing nose plugs. “I will do nothing for you until the girl is set free.”
“Then while we wait, we will have to amuse ourselves.” The priest nodded to one of the men, who picked up a long-handled bolt cutter and approached the pallet. “Caesar, start with the toes rather than the fingers. If she survives, she can cover up the stumps with her shoes.”
Korvel knew he could reach either Caesar or the priest before they could hurt Simone, but not both. “Leave her here with me, and I will translate the scroll.” As the priest frowned, he added, “The sun is up. If I am to stay conscious, I have to feed. On her.”
“Very well,” the priest said as he removed the blade from Simone’s throat. “You have until noon.”
Simone waited until the last man had left the compartment and the sound of his footsteps faded before she opened her eyes. Korvel stood beside the pallet, his hands tearing a strip of fabric from the end of his shirt. Dried blood still stained his fingers, but the wounds from the copper net were only dark pink lines on his skin. “You can’t translate the scroll for him.”
“I don’t care about the bloody damn scroll.” He folded the torn fabric into a square and knelt down to press it against the wound Pájaro had left on her neck, blotting it carefully before he bent close to examine it. When she tried to work her hands free he said, “Be still. Pretend I am shouting at you for walking into an ambush.”
“I didn’t know Lechance had settled his debt to my father.” She shook her head. “You shouldn’t have followed me. I can take care of myself.”
He sat back on his heels. “Yes, I can see that.” He lifted his wrist to his mouth, biting into it before he held it against her wound. “The cut is deep. This will help it close.”
A cool, tingling sensation erased the burning pain. “Thank you, Captain.” She wriggled one hand loose and went to work on the knot binding the other while she scanned the compartment. “No portholes. Have you tried the door?”
“It’s barricaded from the outside. He will have men standing guard in the corridor as well.” He removed the rope tying her ankles and helped her sit up. “This priest—Pájaro—he is calling himself Helada. Why?”
“He believes he is, or that he will be, as soon as he kills my father. He doesn’t know he’s already dead.” Light-headed, she gripped the edge of the pallet to steady herself. “My father trained Pájaro.
He deceived him into believing that he would become Helada by assassination.”
Korvel lifted a hand for silence and went to listen at the door. After someone walked past the compartment, he asked in a low voice, “Why did he deceive him?”
“So he would fight me.” She held out her arm, turning it to expose a long scar, until she saw how he was looking at her. “I fought him, and all my brothers, and grown men, and anyone else my father told me to. Every day of my childhood I fought for my life, until I went to live with the sisters.” Shame as well as the dizziness and nausea made her curl over onto the pallet. She knew vomiting would only make her weaker, so she breathed through it until it passed.
Korvel found a dark woolen blanket and draped it over her, tucking it in around her shivering limbs before he brushed the hair back from her face. “We have a few hours before they return. Rest now. I will keep you safe.”
“Don’t translate the scroll for him, Captain.” She wrapped her hand around his wrist. “Please. There is no elixir, and once he knows the location, he’ll kill us both and go after it.”
“After what?”
She closed her eyes. “I can’t tell you.”
Chapter 15
“L
ooks like two on the ramp and three guarding the access points to the hold,” Nicola murmured as she lowered the binoculars. “No sign of Korvel or the traitorous little bitch.”
“We do not know for a fact that she is a traitor.” Gabriel handed her a pair of dark sunglasses before putting on his own. “Korvel may be using her to find the scroll.”
“She’s a nun who’s having sex with him, and she lured him into an ambush, and she’s the sister of the guy who grabbed them.” Nicola shook her head. “You’re right. I’m being too quick to judge. When we’re done with the mission we should invite her over one night to play Pictionary.”
“Be nice.” He went back to the car and opened the boot, removing a colorful tote bag before he returned. “Do you want to wear the red beret or the Mickey Mouse ears?”
She scowled and held out her hand. “Give me the ears.”
Once they were ready, Gabriel walked with her to the pier, where Nicola began to tow him by the arm toward the ship.
“Get a picture of those barnacles, honey,” she said in a loud voice as she started up the ramp. As Gabriel pretended to use the oversize camera hanging from the strap around his neck, she fluttered her hand at the men standing above them.
“Yoo-hoo. Fellas. Has the tour started?” She frowned as she pulled out a phrase book. “Um, I mean, lay tour co-men-say?”
The men looked at each other before one of them said, “Madame, this is a private vessel.”
“Oh, you speak English, thank goodness.” She heaved a sigh. “I failed French in high school. Twice.”
“Madame, I must ask you—”
“Right, right, you need our tickets for the tour.” Nicola opened the tote bag and began searching through it as she pushed between them to step onto the deck. “Honey, did you put them in the pocket this morning like I told you?”
“Sure did, darlin’.” Gabriel took advantage of the distraction to move past the men and slip up behind another guarding the entrance to the hold. He covered the man’s mouth as he plucked the clear plug out of his nose, and the scent of evergreen grew thick and hot.
“Madame,” one of the men said, “there is no tour.”
“Just a sec, sweetie, I’ve got them right here somewhere.” She lifted her head and gave Gabriel a wink before he went around the corner to deal with the other two guards. “I can’t believe how authentic everything looks,” Gabriel heard her say. “You’re even wearing guns, like real scumbags.”
By the time he had knocked out and secured the other guards, the two by Nicola were growing visibly agitated. “You must leave,” one of them told her. “Now.”
“You’re not our tour guide, are you? No offense, but I’d like someone a little friendlier.” She reached out and plucked the nine-millimeter from one of the guards’ shoulder holster. “Wow, this is really heavy.” Before he could react, she relieved the other guard of his Glock. “I think I like this one better. It’s shinier.”
One of the men grabbed at her, dislodging the Mickey Mouse ears off her head. The wind caught the hat and sent it sailing over the side.
“Hey.” Nicola glanced over the railing before she scowled at the guard. “You drowned my ears. You douche.” She straightened, then flipped the guns in her hands, holding the barrels as she used them to pistol-whip both guards at the same time. “I loved those ears.” As the men crumpled to the deck, she tossed one of the guns to Gabriel before she leaned over the unconscious guard. “I ought to shoot you in the head, you heartless Mickey Mouse–hating bastard.”
Once they had dragged the bodies out of sight, Gabriel listened at the entrance to the hold. “Several down below. Korvel?”
She turned around slowly, her eyes glittering before she stopped and pointed at a spot on the starboard side of the ship. “Two decks, maybe three. He’s not alone. ‘Clueless Tourists’ isn’t going to work down there.” Nicola stripped the dark windbreaker and wool hat from one of the guards, and handed them to Gabriel. “By the way, why do I always have to be ‘Helpless Hostage’?”
“You’re the girl.” He exchanged his beret for the wool hat, using it to cover his hair, and shrugged into the jacket.
“So?”
He took the gun from her hand and tucked it into the back of her belt. “When do we ever raid a place with girl guards?”
She sighed heavily as she placed her arms behind her back and leaned up against him. “Well, if we ever do, you have to be ‘Helpless Hostage.’”
“Agreed.” He pressed his gun against her temple and walked down the stairs into the hold.
Gabriel opened his mind to the insect life infesting the ship, using their eyes to navigate through the narrow, dark passages between decks. Nicola walked naturally until they encountered the first crewman, and then her gait changed to a cringing stumble as Gabriel marched her past the man, who didn’t give them a second glance.
“These boys are hard-core,” she murmured, tugging Gabriel around a corner and pausing there to focus on their surroundings. “We’re close, but there are a couple guys near them.” She shook her head slightly. “The scroll is there, too.”
He heard the odd note in her voice. “Is something wrong with Korvel?”
“Not him. The scroll.” She brought one of her hands to her temple. “The treasures and stuff you guys made always call to me, but something about this thing has my radar all fucked-up.”
“Fucked-up how?”
“It feels good to find stuff, you know, like scratching an itch. But this time, it’s not itching.” She tapped the heel of her hand against her head. “It’s screaming.”
Gabriel didn’t understand the other side of her gift, but he had learned to trust her instincts. “Could it be a forgery? Bait for another ambush?”
“No. This is definitely Kyn. Old, scary Kyn.” She gripped his hand with hers. “Come on. Korvel is right on top of the thing.”
Gabriel reached out to the minds of the Many, but none inhabited the deck where Korvel was being held. When he tried to compel a swarm of fruit flies to abandon a crate of rotting lemons in the galley and fly down to the second level, they would go only as far as the stairwell. While he could force them to carry out his commands, Gabriel instead released them. The only time insects resisted his control was when their survival instincts were aroused. The fruit flies, the least discriminating of all winged insects, knew something on the deck would kill them.
When he and Nicola reached the bottom of the stairs, Gabriel breathed in. Along with the scents of the three mortals guarding the corridor came a sickly-sweet smell of a very specific decay: blood rot. The three men shared the same disease.
And all three men were dying of it.
At the turn of the passage Gabriel held Nicola back. “Walk ahead of me to t
he compartment. Do not engage the men. Leave them to me.”
“Don’t worry; I can smell it, too.” She took a quick glance around the corner and then stepped out into plain view. When he reached for her, she shook her head and walked into the corridor.
The three mortals Gabriel had sensed sat unconscious in slumped positions against the walls, their weapons where they had dropped them, their clothes soiled with vomit and blood. Nicola eyed the nearest man, breathing in his scent before she pressed two fingers against his wrist.
“He barely has a pulse.” She scanned the corridor. “What the hell did this?”
Gabriel pressed the side of his finger to his lips, and went to the door of the compartment in the center of the corridor. On the other side he could hear a mortal speaking.
Nicola came and put her hand against the door, and then held up three fingers before she took the gun out of her belt and chambered a round.
Gabriel put his hand on the latch, nodding to her just before he wrenched the door open. They stepped in together, guns ready.
Korvel, whose hair was oddly short and copper-colored, stood by a table, a notepad and a golden scroll in his hands. On the other side of the room a man dressed as a priest held a pale-faced woman in front of him. He had lodged the tip of a stiletto in her ribs, and held it at the correct angle to thrust it into her heart. In his left hand he held a pistol trained on Korvel.
Nicola focused on the weapon. “Copper rounds,” she murmured to Gabriel, before she said in a louder voice, “Nice haircut, Captain. Can’t say I love the color, though.”
“Put down the guns,” the priest said, “or I will kill him.”
“No.” The woman’s green eyes fixed on Gabriel. “Shoot me.”
“No one is going to shoot anyone.” Korvel kept his eyes on Pájaro. “Your men are dead, and you can’t escape. Give her to me, and I will let you live.”
“You’re not a fool. You will do no such thing.” The priest sniffed several times before he suddenly changed his aim and fired, striking Nicola in the upper arm.
