The Icefire Trilogy

by Patty Jansen

  “I have used it.” Loriane raised her chin and stalked past him back into the warmth of the central room.

  Tandor spoke in a low voice. “Is that really what you think? That I have hidden all these young girls for my own fun and they’re carrying my children?”

  Loriane looked away. The accusation sounded silly when he spoke it aloud. She knew what the Knights had done to him, and if he’d been able to restore himself with icefire, he would have done so.

  Tandor pulled out a stool from under the bench and sat down.

  For a while no one said anything. The yelling and laughing of partygoers drifted in from outside.

  Then Tandor said, “The father of Myra’s child is a young man called Beido. He’s fifteen, like her, and one of my oldest charges. When the Knights came to Bordertown, he was taken with the others to the palace dungeons. Myra is very upset about it.”

  Loriane saw nothing except the flapping light.

  Oh, she had been such a fool. Such an incredible stupid, jealous fool. She turned away from him, straining to hold back tears. They came anyway.

  His arms closed around her.

  “Sorry, Tandor, I’m so sorry. I’m just a big emotional fool.”

  She leaned against his chest, listening to the heavenly sound of his heart beating. He stroked her hair. Everything was all right now. Things would be as they were before.

  “Loriane, did you think I had abandoned you?”

  “I shouldn’t have, but I did. You were away so long.”

  “I know, but I’m here now. I’m not leaving you anymore.”

  She turned and faced him, meeting his royal blue eyes.

  “I love you,” she said.

  “I know.”

  His lips tasted salty with her tears.

  Chapter 8

  * * *

  AT THIS TIME OF THE YEAR, the land of the south knew no night. Day bled into dusk and slightly deeper dusk and then, slowly, the sun rose again.

  Sick of watching Loriane sleep, Tandor had gone outside at the first hint of sunlight.

  The drunken festival crowds had gone home, surrendering the streets to the humdrum of business: melteries replenishing their stocks of ice and distillates, cooks from the Outer City’s eating houses haggling over the last vats of saltmeat, because certainly, it would be the worst of shame to ask one’s customers to eat only tubers and beans, with the only sniff of meat that of the lard used to cook the pancakes.

  No. Must not think of food. His stomach had felt queasy for two days in a row.

  He yearned for freshly baked bread, and fruity muffins. Chevakian things. The food of his youth. He had become soft, corrupted.

  In the chaos of the markets no one paid attention to a noble roaming the stalls. Tandor pretended interest in the wares offered for sale, but he listened for anything that might be of use. From merchants, he learned that there were no games on today that Knights were likely to enter. It looked like they were right, because the eagle pens remained empty.

  Yet, he had to find a way to talk to Isandor, because without Isandor, he would need one extra Imperfect for his plan to get into the palace. There was no way he could get his hands on the other girl.

  He lingered at a stall where two men were warming their hands in front of a grill sizzling with battered pieces of saltmeat while discussing swimming races which would be held today. One man said that girls would win because they suffered less in the freezing water, to which the other man argued—

  “Excuse me, do either of you know what’s on tomorrow?” Tandor asked.

  Both men turned to him, eyebrows raised.

  “You’re not from here?”

  Tandor cringed. His accent always gave him away. I’m a blasted Chevakian. “I’ve been away.”

  “Good time to return,” one man said.

  “Tomorrow’s going to be a big day,” the other man added. “There’s the long distance race for the Apprentice Knights, and the choosing of the Queen’s Champion.”

  So— Isandor was likely to be back here tomorrow. He must find some way to talk to the boy and offer him something he could not refuse. But he had to be careful. He was not as young and strong as he used to be. As soon as he asked Ruko to help, Isandor would be suspicious. He was a trained Knight, and knew how to defend himself. On top of that, Isandor would be able to see Ruko very well, and with his interest in old books, Isandor might even know what Ruko was. Few books said good things about servitors, and fewer still fully understood the concept. That was one thing he would have to change, once he had his victory.

  Meanwhile, securing Isandor’s cooperation was going to be hard enough. Damn Loriane for allowing the boy to join the Knights. No, Tandor hadn’t forbidden it, because the thought that Isandor would want to join the Knights had never even entered his mind. Why would a Thilleian do such a thing? Did he have so little regard for his heritage?

  By the skylights, all his children were in prison, weakened, like Myra, or corrupted, like Isandor, and even Ruko.

  What a mess.

  Tandor arrived at the second-hand bric-a-brac stall that was run by a man who was an ordained member of the Brotherhood of the Light. Last time he visited the stall, probably a few years ago, the man had sold him some interesting material from the old royal family, which had probably come out of the palace. He still remembered showing his mother the purchases. She had gone all misty-eyed over a small bronze statue. I can still see it standing in his study. That statue now stood on her desk in Tiverius.

  “Can I help the dear sir?” a man asked.

  Tandor started and looked up into the bearded face. The stall owner had gone grey in those years, but this was indeed the Brother.

  “I bought something interesting from you a while ago,” Tandor said. “A bronze statue that belonged to the royal family.”

  The man obviously hadn’t recognised him before, but he so did now. His lips formed the letter O, but his eyes showed an emotion not quite so indifferent. Surprise? Fear? It was hard to tell.

  “Do you have anything new for me to look at?” Tandor kept his voice low.

  “No, no. I don’t have anything like that. It’s illegal. The Knights took all I had. I should have handed it in before—”

  “What sort of things?”

  “All sorts. The usual knick-knackery, plates, cups, some napkins with the royal crest. All gone.”

  “Books?” Those were the most precious. Those books should not fall into the hands of Pirosians.

  “Yes, there were books, but they’re all gone.”

  “You have nothing left?”

  “Nothing, nothing, nothing. It’s a disgrace. I’m an honest businessman. What harm can a few cups and some forks do anyway? I mean—without the old royal family’s stuff, what would we have to sell? Nothing good’s been made since the Knights came to power. Nothing that people want to buy.”

  “Shhh.” Tandor waved his hand. “I agree with you, but saying it aloud is dangerous.”

  “Not here at the markets it isn’t. In most of the Outer City, it isn’t. Many people are fed up. We’ll no longer live in poverty while the Knights and nobles get everything. We’ll no longer have any children taken away from their mothers’ arms.”

  Tandor was surprised by the anger in the man’s voice. He didn’t know the resistance against the Knights had grown so much and was delighted with this turn of events. Maybe he didn’t need to go as far as snatching Isandor away from the Eagle Knights’ eyrie. There might be other Imperfects in hiding.

  He clasped his live hand in his claw behind his back, feigning a relaxed pose.

  “So,” he said and licked his lips. “If I were to tell you that someone who’s sympathe
tic to your cause might be looking for a person with a certain . . . imperfection, is there a chance I’d find such a person in the Outer City?”

  A shrewd expression crossed the merchant’s face. “There might be.”

  “Could you tell me?”

  The merchant glanced aside.

  “The Knights have been rather keen to investigate us. I was searched recently, and things were taken. We fear . . . a raid, maybe. We might be . . . interested if someone were to offer this person shelter . . . If there is a certain . . . remuneration.”

  “An Imperfect?”

  Another glance aside. “There’s a boy. He’s eleven years old. I’ve been expecting the Knights to get word of him soon. Rumour goes that you saved . . . others.”

  “This boy of yours, he’s in the Outer City?”

  “Yes.”

  “In your compound?”

  The merchant gave a single nod.

  Tandor considered his next response. At eleven, the boy was too young to be of much use, but it might be all he could get. He attempted some provisional calculations, but he couldn’t concentrate under the merchant’s hawkish gaze.

  By the skylights, it had been so long since he had found an Imperfect, and for one to spring up just when he needed one so desperately could be a trap.

  Tandor let the silence linger for a little longer before he put his hand in his pocket and drew out a golden eagle, which he deposited carelessly on the table amongst the second-hand jumble of cookware. Then he picked it back up. The merchant watched every move. Oh, he was keen to have the money all right.

  “I’d be willing to pay, but I’m not sure if this boy is worth my money.”

  The man gave an indignant sniff. “I have not deceived you, have I?”

  “No, you haven’t, but there is a first for everything.” He grabbed some strands of icefire, which came so readily, and found and held the man’s gaze until the merchant looked away.

  “Don’t stare at me like that. It gives me a headache. If you’re going to stare me into revealing lies, you can stare all you want, because I don’t have no lies. I won’t lie about the money either. I’m broke.”

  Yes, Tandor was sure of it now: the man had felt icefire and had Thilleian blood. He took the coin out of his pocket again and put it on the market stall. “Tell me who this boy is and where to find him.”

  “You must promise you’ll do him no harm.”

  Where did these people get the idea that he was out to kill everyone? “Would I harm one of my own kind?”

  “Then come to the compound. But be careful, Brother, I can sense the Light in you. The Knights will sense it, too.”

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  “May the Light guide you.”

  Tandor found it hard not to walk too fast from the markets, since it would only draw attention, but there was energy in his step that he hadn’t possessed before. He pushed his way through the crowd waiting outside the door of the meltery. The shouting and bawdy music was audible even around the corner where Tandor stopped.

  A cloaked and hooded figure came to his side, oozing out of the shadows between the limpets. Tandor tugged off his glove and parted the sides of his cloak. His hand of flesh and bone met Ruko’s, blue and ice-cold.

  Ruko, go and find me that boy.

  There was no reaction, but he knew Ruko had understood. Moreover, Ruko was glad to have something to do. Without meeting Tandor’s eyes, he pulled his hood further over his face and strode down the street.

  Total obedience, that was how a servitor worked. It seemed Ruko’s errant behaviour had been brought under control for now.

  Chapter 9

  * * *

  JEVAITHI PICKED AT HER DINNER, shoving bits of meat around the plate with a golden fork. They were perfectly cooked to her personal taste, but today even those morsels tasted bland. A feeling of pressure, an underlying thrum, coursed through her, a singing excitement she didn’t understand. She couldn’t say when it had started, only that she had first noticed it yesterday. All too easily, when she flexed her fingers on her left hand, did sparks leap off them. Those sparks her mother said no one must ever see.

  Eyes unfocused, she stared out the window, where the glare of the light on the horizon silhouetted the buildings of the city. Directly before her, but lower down, was the Eagle Knight’s eyrie. If she squinted, she thought she could see the great birds moving within. In the past few years, there had been days she had watched the Knights fly out and wished she could be one of them, but these days the sight of them just filled her with bitterness because she knew she never would.

  She pushed her plate away.

  “Not hungry, Your Highness?”

  She glanced up at the dry sound of the male voice. Supreme Rider Cornatan stood a few paces from her, in the middle of her tower room. He was grey-haired, stiff and reedy, his short-haired Knight’s cloak held together with golden clasps in a never-ending display of status. Why did he always have to be here? Chaperoning her, watching over her as if she were his possession.

  He was the regent, not her father.

  “I have enough of children’s meat.” She put her fork down with a clunk to illustrate her point, then counted the heartbeats before he would say something about her childishness.

  One . . . two . . . three . . . four—

  “You are still a child as I am sure I do not need to remind you.”

  Five. That was a poor score. He must be distracted. He deserved to work a bit harder for his presence here.

  “It’s almost my birthday.”

  “That’s true, but until that day, you are a child and you will not eat any organ meat. We must consider your health. You know that, Your Highness, and you need not bring it up. Your birthday will come soon enough.”

  A chill crept over her back at his sideways glance and the change in the tone of his voice: from harsh to something she couldn’t fathom. One thing she knew: after her birthday, nothing would be the same.

  For one thing, she didn’t think Rider Cornatan was going to give up his power as regent so easily, the power he had since she was ten and her mother died. Rider Cornatan devoured power and twisted it. He sat at the table of the Knights’ Council, his chair before the empty throne, and rebuked anyone who challenged him. He thought he ruled the world. Jevaithi wasn’t even allowed to attend the meetings. Too young, he said.

  Just look at the smug expression on his face. He thought she was dumb; he never made a secret of that. He thought she would let him continue as before.

  “Rider Cornatan, I would like to discuss my attendance of the Newlight celebrations.”

  “Your attendance of the—No, Your Highness. I don’t think it’s appropriate for a girl of your age.” Through clenched jaws. Good.

  Now she put on her most innocent voice. “It is not appropriate that I want to show myself to the good people of the city who celebrate in my name?”

  “Your Highness, there are far too many inappropriate things going on at the Newlight celebrations.”

  “All I ask is to take part in the traditions of my own people.”

  “Traditions?” His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat.

  Jevaithi straightened her back; he knew perfectly well what she meant.

  She was no longer a girl; she was a virgin, blooded three moons ago. He knew that. He had stood, straight-faced, as she came out of the bath chamber screaming, with blood on her hands. He had stood by the door as his own elderly mother explained to her what it was all about.

  “You weren’t seriously thinking . . .” His voice was indignant. “Your Highness . . . the men in the Outer City . . .”

  “The men of the city who are celebrating are deemed u
nsuitable to take my blessed innocence as they do with every other newly-blooded girl at the festival?”

  “If you want to put it that way . . . Your Highness.” His cheeks had gone red. “But I’d rather that you didn’t—”

  “Then, Supreme Rider Cornatan, tell me what the Knights have in mind for me, because surely the matter of my fertility—or not—must have come before the regent, and it is a matter that must be attended to as soon as possible. There must be an heir to the throne.”

  He nodded. “Yes, there must be.” Dry-voiced and stiff-faced.

  “If a young Learner Knight or an Apprentice isn’t suitable for me, not even if he comes from the best family, then tell me, do I get a choice in this matter? Maybe we should discuss it?”

  “Maybe.” He sounded like he wanted anything but.

  “Or maybe I should take it to the Knights’ Council.”

  A shudder went over him. Oh, this was delicious. They had discussed it, she was sure. She was also sure that none of the Eagle Knights wanted to repeat the mess that surrounded her mother’s succession. A virgin until twenty-nine, the Eagle Knights had squabbled over who from their midst would have the right to father her children, until they found that an unknown stranger had already done the job. But by that time Maraithe had been visibly pregnant, and in the face of the cheering citizens, all the Knights could do was smile with their teeth clenched.

  “I don’t think the Knight’s Council should bother itself with such things,” he said.

  He turned to her, his expression now more soft. “But maybe we could organise an excursion for you to the festival.”

  Oh glory, he was giving in already. The threat of the Knight’s Council must give him panic attacks. She must remember that.

  “However, I insist that you would need to need to be suitably attired.”

  “Is anything wrong with the way I look?” She held up her arms, letting air breeze through her dress.