Frost

by Mark A. Garland

  That was a more immediate worry, and one Andair had already considered. He had spent years securing his throne, building fealty and hiring soldiers, assembling an army that could challenge anyone in the world—the Grenarii in particular. Kolhol, the Grenarii king, had amassed an even larger force, and though they were reportedly ill-trained, Andair did not like the implications. Such an expensive and unwieldy tool could have only one ultimate use, as far as Andair was concerned. He had no desire to allow an alliance that might cost him half his own army or perhaps all of Worlish in the end. But nothing was ever that simple.

  "If I fall, Worlish falls, and it is Frost's home as well as mine."

  "If that matters to him. Has he any family left?"

  That was a tender subject. "Shassel is his aunt."

  "The old sorceress?"

  "Yes, but she has been quiet these past few years, seldom seen. I do not bother her, and she does not bother me. She knows what is good for her I think."

  "No one else?"

  "There may be a few others. Some friends, perhaps." Wilmar in particular, he thought with some consternation. He didn't want Frost making amends with Wilmar, though that was most unlikely. He doubted Frost even knew Wilmar was alive and living in Worlish again. Then there were the twins. "Something that bears watching," Andair conceded. "For now, leave all of that to me and let us consider other possibilities. I hear Frost is known to appreciate a generous payment from time to time. It could well be that he has come here to sell me the Demon Blade in exchange for something—gold, his family lands and more, or a share of the throne after all. It is safe to say that I am one of the few men alive who can afford to bargain with him."

  "Or he will kill you with the Blade, then take all you have and sell it back to your heirs," Gentaff said, and Andair though he saw a grin touch his face in the dim, flickering light.

  Andair drew a deep breath. "Very well. I will send someone, a messenger. Whatever we learn will likely be of use to us. All we know is that Frost and the Blade have arrived in Briarlea, and have taken to cover among the trees and peasants."

  "A puzzle wrapped in a mystery," Gentaff said.

  A favorite saying. Another quirk that annoyed Andair. "Only for now."

  "I agree. If your messenger does not return, then?"

  "I will send another and another. I have many."

  Gentaff turned to one side as if examining something, though there was nothing there. When he turned back he said, "You should send your messenger, and we will sit idle and wait. But be prepared to learn that this may all have been a waste of time."

  The conversation was becoming a waste of time. Gentaff apparently believed himself the only truly capable one under these or any other difficult circumstances. His sort always did. It had been the demon's own job, but after several tries Andair had finally gotten rid of the last court wizard while he was out hunting—and for similar indiscretions. Of course, he hadn't told Gentaff any of that. He'd taken the head off the spike only two days before Gentaff's much heralded arrival. To be safe he had kept the dried head, hidden of course, as they were known to possess residual powers that could one day be most useful.

  "No matter the Demon Blade, and no matter who and what Frost has become," Andair said, "I managed him once, and I will again. After all, I am not the same man I was then, either. You need take that into consideration."

  Gentaff's shoulders formed a shrug. "I have."

  "You are not impressed?"

  "You have made the manipulation and exploitation of others your hobby, perhaps your life's work. To that extent I am impressed. However, there is more to this."

  Andair noticed Gentaff's eyes had closed. He did it to annoy, Andair was almost certain of it. "You may go," Andair said, "to prepare for the time ahead."

  "As you wish."

  Andair watched the dark-robed sorcerer disappear through the chamber doors into the darkened hall beyond. The heavy wooden door seemed to follow him closed, and as the iron latch struck the catch the lamp beside Andair's bed flickered out. Melodrama, Andair scoffed, shaking his head.

  He was still tired. He wanted to pull the warm covers up and go back to bed, but he knew that wouldn't do. He lit the lamp again and summoned his aides instead. In a very real sense he welcomed the end of the waiting and the exhilaration that came with it, the chance to get on with the challenges he knew would come to him one day, and with it the chance to triumph again—once and for all. That was the way to look at all of this, the only way.

  * * *

  In the third village Frost passed through and less than half a day's ride from the lands that had once been home to him, an old couple turned up, minstrels until their legs and fading health had forced them to give up the traveling, though they were lute players still. Everyone Frost asked said they would know of Shassel if anyone did. He paid the villagers to tend to their horses and went looking for the couple. He found them waiting outside the hut that was their home, a large enough place, but only one room and that shared with the cow on colder nights. They eagerly accepted Frost's meager payment for their time.

  "We remember you and yours," the old man said. "Hard to forget such folk. No one is left to welcome you home, though, not that we know of."

  "Save maybe those twins," the woman said.

  Frost tipped his head. "Twins?"

  "Living further east last I knew," the woman answered, looking to her husband for accord.

  "Driven out?" Frost asked.

  The old man paused in rapt concentration, picking at a hole where a tooth had been, then nodded. "A brother and a sister born of a cousin, one of yours, but the land did not pass to them. They might be gone by now, somewhere far."

  "If you do find them, they will know of any other family about," the woman said.

  "Shassel," Frost said, watching their eyes. "What do you know of her?"

  "We remember her," the husband said, uncomfortable with something about her. "We don't know what might have become of her."

  Frost believed them, but there was more. He decided it would serve no one to menace them into saying what it was.

  "You are welcome to stay in our house tonight," the woman told him.

  "A fine enough offer," Frost said, "but we must go."

  He turned to do just that and drew up short, greeted by the sight of two fully armored soldiers on horseback and one young man, perhaps a troubadour of some sort, dressed in lavish, ruddy colored pleated trousers, a feathered leather bonnet, white blouse and a striking gray and black vest. The trio approached at a leisurely pace and paused finally when they were only a dozen paces away.

  Sharryl and Rosivok stood ready, each exactly two paces to the front and one pace to either side of Frost, weapons up, but making no movement.

  "I am Jons, at the service of his lordship, Andair, King of Worlish at Briarlea," the troubadour said, addressing Frost but examining the Subartans all the while. "If you are Frost, I have a message for you."

  "Does Andair seek audience with me?" Frost asked.

  The man had a narrow face that hid nothing, including his momentary disdain, though he seemed to overcome it abruptly. "No, he does not," Jons said. "Not unless it is absolutely necessary."

  "I can imagine," Frost said, watching the messenger's eyes and manner. He was young and pretentious, and as sure of his sponsor as any fool could be. Andair would have many like this—all incurable.

  "He bids you greetings, commends you on recovering the Demon Blade, and wishes to acquire it. What is your price?"

  A familiar question, Frost thought. "Bring me his head," he answered.

  The young man's brow went up, then a smile crossed his face. "Of course, a joke. I have heard you knew him once, long ago."

  "I did, and I made no joke."

  Jons glanced at the two men-at-arms on either side of him but got no reaction. His brow furrowed in thought, then he seemed to set those thoughts aside. "He is willing to pay you extremely well."

  "I will see him pay, I assur
e you."

  Again Jons paused. He is beginning to catch on, Frost thought, which was bound to limit what little amusement the conversation still held.

  Jons adjusted himself in his saddle. "As you say. Can I tell him your terms?"

  Frost rocked back on his heels. "How are you so sure I have the Blade?"

  "You do. Everyone knows it."

  "I may already have sold it. A very rich merchant in Calienn offered me a fortune for it."

  "Gentaff says you have it. I will ask once more, what are your terms?"

  Frost raised his walking stick and pointed it at the troubadour which, to Frost's satisfaction, caused the young fellow to flinch—an action followed by crossbows being raised. The soldiers intended to protect Jons from harm without question, which meant they were fairly well trained—these few at least.

  "Attempt to harm me and we will defend ourselves," Jons said, lowering his voice. "If you insist, we will kill you and take the Blade from your corpse."

  Sharryl and Rosivok stood calmly, unmoving, while the others focussed on them intently.

  "Yes, yes, of course," Frost said, waving the stick three times. "I am sure you believe all that, but let me tell you what you must accept, like it or not."

  The strange and sudden distress among Jons and his protectors was increasingly evident. They began blinking furiously, then shaking their heads, then waving hands and crossbows about as if bees were hovering. Groping, in fact. They did not cry out, though the urge to do so was evident.

  Frost waved his stick about three times more. "Better?" he asked.

  "I can see again!" Jons said with no small amount of relief, but that expression was quickly replaced by one filled with indignation. "Enough, wizard. Your magic has failed. If you think in your crazed little mind that—"

  "You should be concerned with your own thoughts, and who controls them," Frost interrupted. "As well as your fate, you see, because I choose it. If any of you finish this day alive it is because I choose it. Andair and his sorcerer still live only because I choose it. Leave me in peace and go unharmed. Tell your king as much. I cannot promise to keep that bargain with him for long, but I will offer nothing more, other than to tell him this: The Demon Blade will never be of any use to him, or to Gentaff. Tell Gentaff it will destroy him if he attempts to prove otherwise. That is the truth. There are no terms—there is no price. Now, go."

  Frost lowered his walking stick, eyes locked on Jons' eyes for just an instant. This fellow was basically sound, he was just an ardent, misdirected young herald, largely an empty vessel, easily buffeted and driven off course. Frost had known too many like him, enough to grow weary of them, of trying to teach them something of rules and strategy in a game they barely realized they were playing. He let this one go. He turned and walked away, passing between his Subartans and walking on while they remained where they had been.

  "Where are you going?" Jons called after him. "Hold where you are!"

  "Take his advice," Rosivok said. "Go."

  "Andair will have his say!" Jons shouted.

  Frost moved on, the focus of the entire village's attentions until he passed between the cottages and disappeared from Jons' line of sight. He waited just upwind, near a small shed built to shelter the village hogs. In a moment Sharryl and Rosivok joined him.

  "They have gone on their way and lived," Sharryl said. "Their direction is toward the city."

  They will be back, Frost thought, or others much like them. Though the nature of their mission was bound to change. He decided there was nothing to be done about it. Not until he had completed his journey, and learned the truth.

  CHAPTER SIX

  "Come in," the girl said, stepping aside and pulling the door wide. For a peasant's dwelling it was nearly extravagant, three rooms in all—though the third was small—with two windows in the front, both with heavy shutters. The house was not in the village proper either, which sprawled substantially just north of the eastbound road, but was set off by itself, several hundred paces further north and east. Behind the house stood a thick stand of woods that swept up a low hill and blocked the horizon. A herb garden of some size made up much of the front yard, save the space penned in by a wooden fence and containing a family of pigs, two goats and a few small hens. A well worn earthen walkway connected the house and the village.

  Frost steeped over the threshold out of the sun and into the dark interior, where he waited for his eyes to adjust to the scattered light from the windows. A large hearth, a table and chairs, a long bench, sturdy shelves and a collection of storage chests of various sizes made up most of the room's furnishings. Herbs were hung in small clumps near the fire from strings for drying, and a rocking chair, well made and well padded, rested nearly below them.

  "Welcome," said the other person in the room, a young man in his mid teens, same age as the girl. "I am Dorin," he added, standing back and keeping his distance as Frost was followed through the doorway by Sharryl and then Rosivok, who had to duck to make the opening.

  "Dara," the girl said. As his eyes grew accustomed, Frost could see the resemblance easily. The boy's sister. Fraternal twins, but twins nonetheless. Both were near as tall as Frost, both fit and orderly in appearance, though their clothing was simple peasant's garb, linen tunic and pants, a linen dress.

  The girl's hair was long and straight and very dark, the boy's a bit shorter. Their olive skin had a healthy look, and their features were broad like Frost's, yet fairly well proportioned. An attractive pair indeed, Frost decided, save the boy's nose, which had a kink in it where a break had healed. Either he was prone to accident or he'd been in a brawl or two.

  The girl drew nearer, eyes darting, as she made her way around her new guests and joined her brother. Side by side Frost noticed another resemblance, though more subtle, a part of the past.

  "I am told by others that the two of you are second cousins of mine, the son and daughter of my cousin, Shalee."

  The twins glanced at each other but didn't say anything.

  "Well?" Frost prodded.

  The twins nodded.

  "What became of her?"

  "An illness many years ago," Dorin said, gurgling a little at first, then clearing his throat. "We lived nearer Weldhem then. But you have yet to say your name."

  "I do not give it out so readily. Tell me, how did you come to live here?"

  The twins looked at one another again, then began mumbling. They seemed to arrive back where they'd started. Frost thought to rephrase the question. "At least tell me whose house is this?"

  "It is our great-aunt's," Dorin said. "We have been here since our mother's passing."

  "And what say you of your great aunt?"

  "She is wise, and very kind," Dara said.

  "Not uncommon family traits," Frost remarked.

  "Why are you here?" Dara asked, as if she couldn't hold it in anymore. "What do you want with any of us?"

  "For now, only to find my way, and perhaps to help you find a part of yours," Frost said. "You have nothing to fear from me. If you are the children of the same Shalee I knew, then you are all the family I have left. Except for your aunt, of course. My name is Frost. Now tell what has become of your aunt? Where can I find her?"

  "Frost?" Dorin blurted out, as if he thought it some minor revelation.

  Dara turned suddenly pale, then the twins began looking at each other quite conspiratorially and taking turns glancing sidelong at Frost.

  "Then you know of me?" Frost asked.

  "We . . . we have heard of you, that you might be coming. We did not believe it," Dorin said, more nervous now.

  "Tell us what you want with us?" Dara asked again, trying to sound a bit more stern and doing a fair job.

  "Answers to questions. Your aunt calls herself Shassel, correct?"

  Again neither twin spoke, though between them their eyes sent a flurry of messages. Then Dorin nodded and turned once more to Frost. "If you must know, yes."

  Now it was Frost who stood fast. He had
traveled for weeks and through many lands to find her, or at least someone who knew of her, and here, now . . .

  He glanced first toward Sharryl, then to Rosivok in a silent exchange. He had the feeling something was about to go wrong. He hadn't had the time or opportunity to pay attention to the signs and omens around him these past few days—hadn't so much as scattered the augur pebbles from his pouch. "I hear many things of her," Frost said. "Mostly, I hear rumors that she is dead."

  "There are always rumors," Dara and Dorin said precisely at the same time.

  Frost caught Sharryl and Rosivok in a telling nod; if there had been any doubts that these two were relatives of Frost, or that they knew Shassel, they had been dispelled.

  "She is well?" Frost asked.

  The twins each nodded.

  Frost breathed an audible sigh, and with it felt the tightness in his neck and chest begin to loosen. "Take me to her," he said.

  After another glance: "Why?" Dara asked.

  He moved forward, and drew up less than an arm's length from the twins, then set his walking stick standing up against the table. Now he reached out and took one of their hands in each of his. "You must take me to her."

  "Why should we?" Dorin asked again, narrowing his gaze, trying to pull his hand away. "She has taught us to trust no one, no matter what, though in your case she need not have taught us at all."

  "Dorin!" Dara glared at her brother and he made no attempt to continue, though Frost was not entirely certain why. He understood Dorin's tone, however.

  Both of them tugged, trying to free their hands.

  Frost held his grip. These two had more spunk and muscle than many at their age, which Frost was pleased to note, and they were bright enough, but they seemed less than charmed by his presence. "Tell me because you must. Is there something I should know?"

  "Nothing you do not already know," Dorin said, that tone surfacing again, incensed, tenacious.

  "Really," Frost said, more curious than before.

  "Perhaps he is right," Dara said, though she sounded less than pleased about it. Her animosity toward him was as real as her brother's, though she was better at keeping it covered up.