Frostgrave_Second Chances

by Matthew Ward

  Her sister rounded on her. ‘We’re going inside. They won’t stop us. Not now.’

  As predicted, the heavies parted. Yelen wasn’t sure if that was because they were afraid for their boss’s life, or their own. She couldn’t blame them.

  Mirika shifted her grip on Kardish and half-shoved, half-carried him into the gap. The now- old man took tottering, uneven steps, upright only by dint of the hand on his collar. The thought of him resisting, or even reaching for his sword, was laughable.

  ‘Yelen!’

  ‘I’m here.’ Yelen followed her sister through the gate, expecting a heavy hand to fall on her at any moment. It never did, and soon they were through into Rekamark proper.

  A thin crowd had gathered beyond the gate, drawn by the commotion. They clustered around the ice-crusted fountain, but made no move to interfere. You didn’t, not in Rekamark. Yelen glanced back over her shoulder. The heavies hadn’t followed. ‘We’re clear,’ she muttered. ‘Set him back to normal.’

  They reached the frozen fountain. Still Mirika didn’t reply. Yelen thumped her none too gently in the ribs. ‘Now. Do it!’

  At last, Mirika turned. Her eyes, so lately full of excitement and anger, were wide and haunted. ‘I’m trying.’ Her voice shook. ‘It’s not working.’

  She set Kardish down beside the fountain. He slumped against the rim, eyes staring unblinking across towards the gate. His skin was pale, almost papery in texture. A cold fist tightened around Yelen’s stomach.

  ‘He’s dead.’ Mirika’s face was nearly as pale as Kardish’s. Her voice was little more than a whisper. ‘What have I done?’

  Yelen swallowed to ease the sudden pressure in her throat. Her anger scattered like smoke on the wind. It didn’t matter what Mirika had done, or why. Not now. She glanced back towards the gate. The nearest of Kardish’s heavies bore the creeping frown of a man stumbling towards action. She tugged at her sister’s arm. ‘Come on. Before this gets worse.’

  Mirika didn’t respond, but stared numbly down at Kardish. At her victim. ‘I can fix this. I can. I will.’ She took the corpse’s hand in hers and closed her eyes.

  Yelen squatted at her side. ‘Rika. He’s gone. You’re not a corpse-twitcher. And if we don’t get going, his friends will send us to join him.’

  Mirika nodded mutely and rose to her feet. With a sigh of relief that did nothing to ease the tension in her gut, Yelen took her sister’s hand and led her away into the crowd.

  They’d just reached the alleyway when the first scream rang out.

  * * *

  Mirika walked in a haze, her footsteps guided through Rekamark’s tumbledown alleys and reclaimed streets by Yelen’s insistent tugs. External sights and sounds blurred together with the red rush in her head, and the frantic pounding of her heart. How could she have done it? She didn’t kill. That had been her rule from the first, and now… And now…

  But hadn’t Kardish deserved it? He’d been ready to injure, perhaps even kill. And not just her, but Yelen too. How many beatings lay at Kardish’s feet? How many deaths? What did it matter?

  Of course it mattered. What had she been thinking? Mirika couldn’t remember. There was only the rush as she’d manipulated Kardish’s tempo; the texture of the rushing timeflow deeper, richer than it had ever been. A symphony of harmonies, where before there had only been a thin, thready melody dancing from moment to moment. She’d heard more. Distant, tantalizing notes whose memory faded the more she grasped for them. They’d cut off as Kardish began screaming.

  Mirika’s breathing shallowed, but her pulse kept racing. Not with guilt, but excitement. Fulfilment. She had the sense of standing on a precipice, staring out across a golden future. Yes, Kardish’s death had been a mistake, but she’d learn from it.

  ‘Mirika?’

  Yelen’s urgent enquiry dragged Mirika from her introspections. The world snapped into focus, the last elusive notes vanishing from her senses. The sheer, austere embankment wall stretched away below. Ahead, the turgid ice flows of the Nereta River eddied about the timber skeletons of the abandoned wrecks choking its northern waters. Poor Yelen. As worried about her as ever. Didn’t she see that it was alright?

  Mirika met the watery blue stare head on. ‘I’m fine. You don’t have to worry.’

  ‘I don’t have to worry?!’ Yelen flung out a hand. The extended finger trembled. ‘You killed him.’

  The spark of guilt returned. Mirika smothered it. Strange how that became easier the more you did it. ‘People die around here all the time.’ Not only that, she didn’t say, but they often died under unusual circumstances. It was expected, with so many wizards having made their homes in Rekamark, and with dozens more constantly passing through.

  Yelen’s cheeks flushed. ‘It’s not normally my sister who kills them!’

  She didn’t understand, Mirika realised. She wouldn’t. Not until she calmed down. Then they could talk about it properly. Once there was time to explain. ‘Were we followed?’

  ‘What do you think? You know what this place is like. They’re probably fighting over the contents of his pockets as we speak.’

  It was an unkind assessment, Mirika thought, but not cruelly so. The line between delver and scavenger was a fine one. Not all employers were as generous with their coin as Master Torik or Cavril Magnis.

  ‘Please tell me you’ve got the orb,’ she said.

  ‘Me?’ Yelen looked away, incredulous. ‘Get your head together! I couldn’t take it even if I wanted to, you’re clutching it so tightly!’

  For the first time, Mirika realised she had her hands clutched across her chest, the smooth, hard shape of the orb pressing against her breastbone and wrists. Slowly, reluctantly, she eased her grip, and let the haversack dangle by its straps. ‘I forgot.’

  Yelen shook her head. ‘Flintine won’t, not once he hears. What are we going to do?’

  Mirika winced, but Yelen was right. ‘I’ll sort it.’

  ‘How? How will you sort it?’

  It was a good question, and one to which Mirika didn’t yet have the answer. ‘Don’t worry about it. I said I’ll sort it.’ She drew in a breath of the salty, riverside air. The last skeins of confusion parted. ‘The important thing is to get home and let Torik work his cure. And then…’ She paused, reluctance at the coming lie softened by necessity. ‘Then we’ll talk about how we get back to Karamasz.’

  Yelen’s expression softened. ‘Okay. Have it your way. But we’re not done talking about this.’

  Mirika nodded. ‘I know,’ she said softly. ‘I know.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘How do I look?’

  Yelen sank back against the wall and considered her response. Truthfully, Mirika didn’t look like Mirika any longer. The red silks of the time walker’s robes were just a touch too ostentatious, and clearly designed for warmer climes – not revealing as such, but figure-hugging in a way that cold weather gear could never really achieve. Then again, there was no need for furs, not with the fire crackling in the hearth of Mirika’s bedchamber. Well, save for the bearskin rug beneath Mirika’s naked feet.

  ‘You look… Impressive.’

  Mirika grimaced. ‘Then why do you say it like that?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like you’re trying to swallow something unpleasant.’

  ‘Perhaps I don’t see why you have to play up to him like this.’

  Mirika peered into the mirror – unlike the one in Yelen’s own room, this one was whole, and bounded by an ornate wooden frame – and fiddled with the golden clasp that kept her braids in their top-knot. ‘It doesn’t do any harm. And the happier Master Torik is, the better this will go. Besides, I think it looks splendid.’

  Yelen sighed, as much at herself as at her sister’s showiness. She knew she was hiding in their bickering. It was familiar, comfortable. Not like the conversation that forever loomed on its periphery. The one in which they discussed the man Mirika had murdered.

  She stared out of the window and acr
oss the Nereta River. A pale afternoon was shaping up to be a foul evening, with crowded skies promising heavy snows.

  ‘I don’t see why you’re so upset, poppet,’ said Azzanar. ‘It wasn’t like he didn’t have it coming. And it was accomplished with such flair.’

  ‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t find your approval comforting,’ murmured Yelen.

  A honeyed chuckle dripped across her thoughts. ‘I can’t help it if you’re jealous.’

  ‘Jealous?’ But that was part of the problem, wasn’t it? If she set aside Kardish’s death – and Yelen was just practical enough to accept it wasn’t any great tragedy in the grand scheme – part of the emotional tumult beneath was driven by envy. Mirika’s talent soared to new heights, while Yelen was on the cusp of giving up the only thing that made her special. She couldn’t even time walk without her sister. She’d be normal. Ordinary. No better than any of the other hirelings that crowded Rekamark’s tangled squalor, or died in droves amongst Frostgrave’s untamed districts. The truth was, without Mirika, Yelen Semova wasn’t anything special. She hated that, she realised. Almost as much as she hated the demon bonded to her soul.

  Yelen bunched her fists. No. She couldn’t think that way. It was exactly what Azzanar wanted. How did the saying go? Better a queen of the damned than a servant of the chaste? Something like that. It was a fool’s consolation. Azzanar’s promises were fleeting, and the price was an eternity as an empty voice in her own body. She’d be glad to be rid of the demon.

  But why then was she starting to feel Azzanar was more a kindred spirit than her own sister? At least the demon was always honest. Increasingly, Yelen had the impression that Mirika was anything but. Had she meant what she said about going back to Karamasz? Yelen wanted to believe, so much so that she didn’t dare press, in case the offer vanished like morning mist beneath sunshine. If it was true, it was true. If it wasn’t, then that would only lead to an argument, and she wasn’t sure she could face that. After all, she hadn’t exactly been forthcoming herself, had she? Otherwise she’d have told her sister just how often Azzanar tiptoed through her waking thoughts…

  ‘Jealous?’ Mirika turned from the mirror, brow knotting.

  Yelen shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter, just make sure you rein in the dramatics for Torik’s guests.’

  And guests there were. She’d peeked in through the arras before creeping up the back stairs. Torik had been in full flow, his rambling diatribe punctuated with the gesticulations of his right hand, and the crystal decanter bobbing dangerously back and forth in his left as he refilled his guests’ goblets. An elementalist and his apprentice, judging by their singed robes and lurid facial tattoos. From their stoic expressions, they were every bit as bored as Torik was in his element. But few turned down an invitation to the Guttered Candle. There was always a nugget of wisdom buried in the spoil heap of Endri Torik’s gruff digressions.

  ‘You’re not coming down?’ Mirika plucked the orb from its resting place on the battered dresser and rolled it lightly from hand to hand. ‘He’ll be too pleased to finally get his hands on this to say anything else.’

  Yelen stared down at her wrist. At the sliver of pale skin amongst the black. ‘No. It’s not worth the risk. We’ve no idea how long this cure of his might take. I can’t afford to upset him until afterwards.’ And then I might just set this whole place ablaze, she didn’t say. ‘I’ll get some sleep, only… Mind if I stay in your room? It’s not as draughty as mine.’

  Mirika smiled. ‘I suppose not. At least until I get back.’

  * * *

  The soft murmur of unfamiliar voices cut off as Mirika pushed the arras aside.

  Master Torik beckoned her forward. ‘Ah, my dear. Join us.’

  She obeyed, crossing the tapestry-hung hall. As ever, the banquet table was set for a score of guests, even though Master Torik was alone save for two others. Reaching the table’s head, she offered him a shallow bow – more of a nod, really. ‘Master. I hope I’m not interrupting?’

  ‘Of course not.’ The power of Master Torik’s voice always surprised Mirika. By all appearances, the man was more billowing robe than flesh and bone, his hunched posture suggesting he’d snap if a gust of wind caught him unawares. But the voice had the solidity of the roots of the mountains. ‘Kasrin and Molok were on the point of leaving anyway, though I’m glad to have the chance to introduce you. Gentlemen, this is my apprentice, Mirika Semova. My apprentice, and my heir. She is my voice. Please, always treat her with the respect owed to me.’

  Mirika stifled a scowl at the latter title. Not that she wasn’t flattered, but Master Torik clearly saw a longer association than she did herself. Especially now she knew the truth about how he treated Yelen.

  The taller of the two elementalists – the most senior, if the firebrand tattoos and the better cut of his robes were anything to go by – inclined his head ever so slightly. His bushy eyebrows and thicket of a beard couldn’t begin to hide his disappointed scowl. He certainly didn’t look like a man who’d been on the point of leaving. ‘Miss Semova. A pleasure.’

  She returned the gesture, noting that the apprentice said nothing. Possibly he was forbidden to say anything at all. Some wizards took a dim view of their pupils speaking out of turn.

  The creases on Master Torik’s face shifted into a satisfied smile – or to the closest he ever came to such largesse. ‘Let me show you out.’

  After a heartbeat’s reluctance, both visitors rose – the apprentice with a sidelong glance at his unfinished goblet of brandy. No wonder. When Master Torik had purchased the Guttered Candle, he’d inherited the finest cellar in Rekamark, for whatever that was worth.

  Skeletal hands tight around the head of his walking stick, Master Torik eased himself upright, free hand clutching at the table for support.

  Mirika started forward. ‘Stay, master. I’ll do it.’

  Master Torik shook his head, his sparse white hairs brushing at his collar in time with the jerky movement. ‘Nonsense. You’ve had a long journey, and on a difficult road, I’ll wager.’ He gave a small dry chuckle. ‘Sit. Eat. Let these old bones make themselves useful while they may.’

  Mirika took a reluctant seat as her master shuffled his way towards the tavern’s entrance hall, guests in tow. There was still enough untouched meat and bread on the table to leave half a dozen souls with stuffed bellies, but she found the horror – and the excitement – of the afternoon had left her with no stomach for it. The servants would have their fill when they arrived in the morning. Instead, she plucked an empty goblet from the table, and decanted a generous measure of the brandy. The sharp, sour flavour rushed over her tongue, the warmth of it welcome even before the roaring banquet hall fire.

  By and by, Master Torik returned, his gait as shuffled and awkward as ever. Mirika made to stand, but subsided at his insistent wave.

  ‘Sit. Sit. I meant it.’ He sank back into his chair, letting the walking stick fall to rest alongside. ‘Kasrin’s such a bore, but one must observe the formalities. Used to be a student of mine, not so very long ago.’

  ‘He was your apprentice?’

  ‘Nothing so formal.’ The wrinkles shifted into an unreadable pattern. ‘A shared interest, that was all. Long before I came to Felstad. How such a stolid fellow came to bind his fate to the wildness of flame, I’ll never understand. Perhaps he bores it into submission, eh?’

  The words dissolved into laughter, and the laughter into a frenzy of coughs.

  Mirika leaned forward, concerned. Whatever the old man had done to her sister, he’d shown her nothing but kindness. Besides, Yelen still needed him. ‘Master?’

  He waved her off, and dabbed his mouth with a handkerchief. ‘It’s nothing. I feel the chill more than I used to, that’s all.’ He leaned closer, his rheumy eyes gleaming, and his words taking on fresh urgency. ‘Do you have it?’

  Mirika withdrew the orb and set it on the table, the golden skin appearing almost molten in the firelight.

  Master To
rik extended a hand towards the orb. He checked the motion, his hand still an inch or two away, and pressed his fingers to his lips. ‘Oh, my dear.’ He laughed softly. ‘I knew you’d not fail me.’

  ‘I regret that the reliquary broke,’ Mirika said, the brief memory of the barrow enough to provoke a shiver even in the swelter of the banquet hall. ‘We had a few problems along the way.’

  A touch of winter crept into Master Torik’s tone. ‘Your sister’s influence, no doubt.’

  ‘It was no one’s fault,’ she replied. ‘The Gilded Rose…’

  ‘Magnis? Hmphh. Must he keep dogging my steps?’ Rising anger collapsed into a paroxysm of coughing. ‘No matter. It’s here now. As is your sister, I assume?’

  ‘She is.’ That was the closest Master Torik ever came to asking after Yelen’s health, Mirika realised. How had she not noticed before? ‘But… There was a complication at the gate.’

  Master Torik’s gaze didn’t leave the orb. He stared at it as if transfixed, as if he sought to imprint its every detail on his mind. ‘Yes. Flintine’s people have been making trouble for a few days now. I presume you handled it?’

  Mirika winced, but there was no going back now. ‘Kardish died. I… killed him. I didn’t mean to. I lost control.’

  He broke away from the orb, pale eyes meeting hers. ‘No, you didn’t. You took control. Of your talent. As I’ve taught you to.’ A thin, wheezy chuckle escaped his cracked lips. ‘I always knew I’d chosen wisely.’

  Mirika frowned, not at his assertion, but because the expected reprimand had failed to arrive. ‘But I’ve put you in danger. When Flintine finds out what happened…’

  Master Torik waved the words away. ‘Flintine will understand. It’s the game he plays. I’ll sprinkle crowns into his thuggish palms, and he’ll quieten. A small enough price to pay for this.’

  His gaze returned to the orb, the accompanying expression almost hungry.

  ‘And you’ll use it to cure my sister?’ Mirika leaned forward, searching his face for any trace of a lie. ‘Her tattoo’s all but black. The demon almost has her.’