The Icefire Trilogy

by Patty Jansen

  He clutched the medallion in a white-knuckled hand. He’d been stupid, stupid. “I won’t let you down. I’ll find our Queen.”

  Rider Cornatan’s face hardened. “Listen, son. I’ll tell you another secret. Jevaithi isn’t our Queen. When the Thillei emperor was deposed, the people didn’t want another dictator, so the Pirosian clan offered our female heir, since it was agreed that we should only have queens.”

  “Does that mean you are Jevaithi’s father?” I am royalty?

  “No, and that is where the problem lies. But we need to go further back than that. After the people had ousted the old king and instated the Pirosian queen, the Thilleians were desperate to recapture the throne. First, an agent infiltrated the palace and raped our queen. She fell pregnant, but the palace midwives managed to safely get rid of the child before it was born.”

  A visible shudder passed over him. “That was probably just as well. The child was . . . not normal.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you heard of the legend of the crossbreed? The children of the purest Pirosians and the purest Thilleians?”

  Carro did remember from the books. Old prints showed demon-like figures with claws and wings. He nodded. “But I thought those were all stories.”

  “Some of it no doubt is untrue, but when we have the time, I will show you a sample preserved in a jar in the palace birthing room. It’s not just any sample, but this very child, as big as your hand, but already showing its animal nature. Old measuring equipment showed that the creature—I won’t use the term baby to describe it—attracted an inordinate amount of icefire. It even used the evil power to change its appearance into shapes too horrible to contemplate, before it had left its mother’s body.”

  “The child was alive?”

  Rider Cornatan nodded, once, pressing his lips together. “When the healers took it from the poor queen’s womb, yes. It took five people to kill it.”

  Carro felt sick.

  “Anyway, after that disaster, the Queen was shaken of course. We chose one of us to father the queen’s child as soon as she recovered. It was done, and she gave birth to a healthy girl. However, we had never caught the Thilleian agent who was the father of the abomination. Soon after the birth of our princess, he, or someone else, came back and took the newborn baby, replacing her with another of the same age, who looked exactly like her, but grew up nothing like the Queen. You do know that Maraithe’s mother killed herself?”

  Carro nodded. Performers in the melteries still sang about the tragedy.

  “That was because she couldn’t live with the hatred she felt for her baby daughter, a baby that wasn’t hers. You hear? Maraithe was a Thilleian impostor, but none of us realised. We thought we had eliminated all Thilleians.”

  But, Carro thought, that meant—

  “Maraithe grew up normally, and never showed any sign of who she really was. We relaxed and, at that time, still suspected nothing. Things were good; the evil had been ousted. But then Maraithe reached maturity and we needed to find a father for her child. We thought to consider all possible candidates fairly. Some Senior Knights were engaged in battles of words and occasionally swords. Maraithe demanded a say in the matter as well.”

  Was that usual? Carro wondered, and then realized that there was no “usual”. The system hadn’t been in place long enough.

  “Anyway, it was all a very lengthy process, and while we were debating a suitable father for Maraithe’s children, time passed, and passed. Maraithe was twenty-nine, and all of a sudden, she was pregnant. She had said nothing, and one day she came into the Knights’ Council and in a tight dress that was stretching around her belly.” He shuddered with the memory. “We put on a brave face, since it was much too late to ask the midwives to abort the child. The people had noticed her pregnancy, and you know how popular the queens are. For all we knew back then, it didn’t really matter who the father was. But it did. Maraithe gave birth not two moon cycles later. Early, the midwife said, but she was carrying twins.”

  “Twins?”

  “Yes. Jevaithi and a boy.”

  “What happened to the boy?”

  “He was left on the ice floes.”

  “He was . . . Imperfect?”

  “Yes. So is Jevaithi. That is the dreadful secret we keep. Jevaithi hasn’t a drop of Pirosian blood in her veins.”

  Carro’s head reeled. Queen Jevaithi Imperfect and no one had ever noticed? No wonder why the queen hardly ever showed herself. Here was another betrayal. He’d sworn his allegiance. To protect her with his life. As many Knights did, he’d dreamed of her many a night, wanted her in his bed.

  Rider Cornatan continued, “Now it appears that our enemies have taken Jevaithi back. I don’t know what they plan to do with her, but with the potential of icefire, they could destroy everything and kill us. I don’t think she’ll have any hesitation in helping them. She hates us badly enough. That’s why we must act now, before she has a chance to learn to use icefire. You must bring her back to calm the people. We must have her back here to control her. That’s why I’m sending you. I trust no one else.”

  Carro wasn’t trusting himself at that moment. Jevaithi was a Thilleian? A betrayer? A feeling of sickness welled up in his stomach.

  “And the hunters?”

  “My special team. You’ve met Farey.”

  “Yes.” Carro fought to restrain a blush. Then he had another thought: every man in the Knighthood had known who he was all along? Now he understood the remarks the Tutor had made about his status.

  “Find her and bring her back here, son, before it’s too late and the evil spreads. Promise me.”

  Carro straightened his back. If he was highborn and Rider Cornatan said he was trustworthy, he must be. He’d sworn allegiance to the throne not to Jevaithi.

  “I promise.”

  What about Isandor? Capture him too? His friend?

  If that’s what it took to get his father’s approval . . . Isandor was not his friend anymore; he shouldn’t be.

  Rider Cornatan looked into his eyes. “Can you say the word to me, just once?”

  “I promise, Father.”

  Rider Cornatan let go of his hands and closed his arms around Carro’s shoulders.

  “I love you, son. Never give up. The City of Glass belongs to the Pirosian House.”

  Chapter 26

  * * *

  THE EAGLE STRETCHED OUT its feet, flapped huge brown and white wings and landed on the snow-covered hillside.

  Isandor uncramped his stiff arms to release Jevaithi. She slid from the saddle into the snow, stretching her arms and stamping life into stiff legs. He unclipped his harness and followed her down, drinking in the silence after the roar of wind in his ears for so long.

  The surrounding landscape bathed in soft pastel tones: pale blues of pristine snow, the golden light of the sun low above the horizon, and pink and orange hues of the sky.

  Isandor squinted into the sunlight. The mountains rose at his back, and long shadows cast the valleys between the foothills in blue shadow. The City of Glass was well out of sight, almost a day’s flying distance away, but he felt its constant pull inside him. The City of Glass was his home, it was Jevaithi’s home. She was the queen and all the people should listen to her. They should go back and get rid of the Knights. They should . . .

  A soft sound yanked him from the uninvited thoughts.

  Jevaithi ploughed through knee-deep snow to a wooden hut half-hidden by a stand of gnarled trees. She pushed open the door—it creaked, and caused a big slab of snow to slide off the roof—and looked inside.

  Anything? He was still feeling shaken, wanting to be rid of that need to return. He didn’t want to return.

 
She shook her head. There’s cooking things, and a bed.

  We’ll stay here tonight. Anything except to go back there.

  Why would people build this hut here?

  It’s a camp for highsun herders. They brought their goats up here in the short period that the meadows weren’t covered in snow. Isandor had seen the herders with their salted meats in the Outer City markets.

  Jevaithi tracked back through the snow. Her blue-marbled form was not as substantial as it had been when they escaped. He could see through her. With the weakening icefire, their bodies would gradually disappear.

  That was why the force of icefire pulled him back to the City of Glass. From here on, that feeling would become stronger, until it had grown into a physical pain in his ghostly body.

  It was time to turn both of them back to normal.

  He took the pouch from his pocket. To his eyes it was a solid black object that made him shiver. He closed his eyes and forced himself to put the bag into the palm of his hand. The hearts thudded, sucking in icefire with every beat. And with every beat, warmth in his hands grew.

  Isandor had to fight the urge to fling the bag down the mountainside, to be rid of the thing and live without hunger and pain forever.

  But he couldn’t let this feeling win. Hands shaking, he gathered a fold of his cloak into a basket and upended the bag into it.

  Both hearts beat strongly, pumping hard to keep the icefire going, to keep the illusion alive. Jevaithi stood with her hands over her mouth.

  Both hands; she would lose a hand if he put the heart back. She was perfect in her current state; she would never be any more perfect than this . . .

  He would have to separate the hearts and they looked so perfect next to each other, beating in unison.

  No.

  Isandor closed a hand around his own heart, and lifted it to his chest, trying to absorb its warmth, but feeling repulsed by it. How could one be repulsed by life?

  Here. He held it out to Jevaithi.

  It lay, pulsing, in her hands. Both her hands.

  Her eyes widened. This is your heart.

  I know it’s mine. I want you to have it. And he wanted it to be done quickly, before the urge to return to the city, or do something else stupid, became too strong.

  You would forever be my servitor.

  Isandor bent forward until the hand with which he still held Jevaithi’s heart touched both their chests. He let his lips brush hers. She stiffened but did not withdraw. The tingle of frost made his blood stir. And you would be mine. I want to be yours.

  I want you, too.

  Her breath tickled over his skin. He sought her lips, teasing her with the most fleeting of kisses. She laughed and pulled him closer, pressing her mouth full on his.

  A jolt of icefire bit through him.

  Isandor withdrew. If he’d had a need to breathe, he would be panting. His need for her was so desperate, he would have ripped off her clothes and taken her in the snow, but that was not the sort of treatment she deserved.

  He said, If we take each other’s hearts, we will be each other’s servitors, but we will be whole at the same time. We can go beyond the influence of icefire, yet no one can ever make us servitors, because we already are.

  If I die, then you would die, too.

  But you can’t die unless I die. He smiled at her ethereal face. Unless someone kills both of us at exactly the same time.

  A bright smile crossed her face. A glitter in her midnight-dark eyes, dimples in her cheeks. How he loved her.

  She handed him back his heart. Here. I want you to put it in.

  He took it and handed her heart back to her, his hands trembling. You do it for me, too. Are you ready?

  To illustrate her readiness, she untied her cloak and unbuttoned the top of her dress, showing ethereal blue marbled skin, the fabric pulled back enough to show soft mounds of her breasts.

  He pulled his tunic over his head. Ready?

  She nodded, her mouth set. They both slid each other’s hearts in their chests. Icefire blossomed in the sharp burst, snaking out over the snow-covered landscape. Strands turned from black to golden.

  Isandor’s vision blurred. Pain tore through him like he’d been dipped in boiling water. He opened his mouth and screamed. The sound echoed in the mountains. His voice had returned. Then he stood there, panting. Jevaithi had fainted in his arms, but she was already opening her eyes, blue once more, and put her left hand on his bare chest, whole and pink again, and her right hand missing again.

  He kissed her, now warm and breathing. She gasped, clinging onto him, her breath warm over his cheek.

  “Can you feel it?” She took his hand and placed it on her chest, between her breasts.

  Their hearts beat in perfect unison. “I love you. I love you so much it hurts.”

  They stood motionless for a number of heartbeats. He let his hand slide under the cover of her dress. The skin on her breast was softer than he could imagine, but the nipple grew hard and erect under the touch of his fingers.

  She giggled. “Your hands are freezing.”

  “Maybe we should go inside.” He let a smile play around his lips.

  She smiled back, nervously.

  “Do you know how to make a fire?” he asked. “I need to look after the eagle.”

  “I’ll try. I’ve seen people make fires.”

  “Up in your tower room?”

  “Yes.” And then she smiled again. “Imagine. I’m free. I can do whatever I want. I’m free!” Her voice echoed against the mountain. A bird screeched a reply.

  Isandor gave her a last kiss on the lips before she ploughed through the snow back to the hut. Even the sight of her back, and her messy hair over her shoulders, made him feel giddy.

  Jevaithi. He mouthed her name, like sweets on his tongue. Jevaithi, Jevaithi. And then, she’s mine. Unbelievable.

  He tied up the eagle, rubbed it down and gave it a chunk of meat from the saddlebag. The meat was frozen solid and the bird gave him a baleful stare. It didn’t bother him. His wooden leg didn’t bother him. His blood sang, his mind flew, deep breaths of freezing air made him feel dizzy. He was free.

  When he went inside, a fire roared in the hearth. Warmth fell on him like a blanket; it made his cold-stiffened fingers tingle. Jevaithi came to the door to help him out of his cloak, her eyes bright.

  “This hut is well-organised. I found some saltmeat and flour and—”

  He stopped her words with his mouth. Her one hand strayed up his chest, fumbled with his tunic, while he peeled the dress from her shoulders with trembling hands. Dizziness threatened to overwhelm him; he felt like he wasn’t here, wasn’t doing this, like he was on fire.

  She broke the kiss. “Should we go . . . over there?” She glanced at the wooden bed in the corner.

  He picked her up and carried her to the bed which had straw poking out and a bearskin cover that released a cloud of dust under the weight of her body. She laughed. Isandor slid the silk finery off her until she was entirely naked except for the leather strip and the gull’s feather. Her gaze still meeting his, she reached behind her neck and undid the knot. The leather strips fell over her breasts. She passed the trophy to him, her eyes twinkling. “Yours.”

  His. So beautiful. He sank down on the bed on his knees, awkwardly. He untied his wooden leg, put it on the floor, and then unbelted his trousers with trembling hands. The last of his clothing fell to the floor with a soft thud. She was watching him with wide eyes. Scared? Had she ever seen a naked man before?

  “You’re sure you want it?”

  She nodded. A vein pulsed in her neck. Yes, she was scared.

  He chuckled. “I don’t know much either
.”

  “What? You mean you’ve never . . .”

  He shook his head.

  “But I thought you Outer City boys all knew so much more than me.” She laughed, but then her face grew serious. “Do you want it?” and when he laughed, she added, “What? It’s a fair question.”

  He bent over her, supporting himself with a hand on each side of her shoulders and whispered in her neck, “By the skylights, I do.”

  “Well, that’s settled then.” She shifted her legs apart.

  He could feel his heart going like crazy in her chest.

  Isandor lowered himself, blood roaring in his ears. Naked skin whispered on naked skin. Oh boy, it was awkward. She had to wriggle her hand underneath to guide him to the right place. When he finally got the right position, she was so warm and so tight that the first time he pushed deep, he spilled himself in an uncontrollable shudder. Oh, by the skylights. He rested his head on her shoulder, still panting.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” But in her voice he heard that it did. She was disappointed, had expected more.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again. “Did I hurt you?”

  She shook her head, but he didn’t miss the blood-streaked slime on the bedcover.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “Girls bleed, the first time.”

  Isandor thought of his mother and the horrific stories she sometimes told about births gone wrong. “It’s not fair. Girls get to take all the bad things.”

  He got up, filled the pot and set it to boil. In the future, he would have to do better than that. Look after her, love her better.

  Jevaithi sat down on the bench while he stoked the fire. It was comfortably warm inside, and he was giddy with the feeling of love and independence. They could do this. He might be awkward, and she might not know much, but they would learn. They never needed to listen to anyone again.

  He found some bowls and a pot and made hearty soup out of strips of saltmeat and herbs which he found on the shelf above the stove.