Winter Witch

by Elaine Cunningham

  The man took the maps with avid glee. “This is the lot?”

  “For now.” Basha sent a furtive glance in Declan’s direction. “But I’m hoping to acquire more from the same source in the near future.”

  “Send word when you have them, and I’ll race your messenger back to the shop,” the man said in a jovial tone. He tipped his hat to Basha and gave Declan an amiable nod before rushing out of the shop.

  After the door shut behind him, the map merchant turned to Declan. “About that map ...”

  “It was one of mine, wasn’t it?”

  Basha raised both hands and shook them as if importuning the gods. “How in the name of Abadar did you find an Osirian treasure in the Mindspin Mountains, thousands of miles north of Osirion?”

  “I haven’t a clue,” Declan said. “But if those other maps turn up something interesting, let me know.”

  “Why would I keep such a thing from you?” Basha said, eyes wide with feigned innocence. “Surely you know that I would embrace any opportunity to pay you twice your current rate.”

  Declan picked up the old coin bag and dropped it into Jamang’s satchel. “I’m off then.”

  “A real map,” Basha reminded him. “And don’t delay. The caravan leaves at dawn tomorrow.”

  The merchant held his smile until the door shut behind the young man. He raised his hands high and away from his body, as if to indicate that he held no weapon.

  “Well done,” said a feminine voice behind him.

  Basha slowly turned to face a small woman and her sharp sword, which she held with its point a few inches from his belly. “Was he right?” he asked. “Will others be looking for that book?”

  The woman shrugged. “Maybe, but no one has reason to look for it here. Unless, of course, you give them a reason.”

  “I won’t speak of a word of this,” he babbled. “Any of it. This whole episode is already forgotten.”

  “Then we’re done here.”

  As she strode past, Basha impulsively reached out to stop her. “That treasure map,” he said. “Is this about the map?”

  A thoughtful expression crossed the woman’s face. “You know, I think it might be.”

  Chapter Six

  The Last Goodbyes

  The clack of a wooden loom beckoned to Declan long before he reached Isadora’s shop. He paused in the open doorway for a moment to watch the weaver at her work. Slim and pale, her dark hair pulled back from a round, pretty face and tied with a bit of ribbon, she didn’t look much different from the girl who’d tagged along at Asmonde’s heels for as long as Declan could remember. And since he’d done a great deal of tagging after his brother himself, Isadora felt more like a sister to him than a friend.

  “One shadow, two parts,” he said.

  The woman’s gaze darted to his face, and a welcoming smile bloomed on her own. She immediately pushed away from her work and ran into Declan’s arms.

  He held her close, overwhelmed with a familiar sense of relief and gratitude. She could have hated him for what his brother did to her, or refused to have anything to do with him. That she did not was a constant marvel to Declan, and a blessing.

  “You’re smothering me,” she said into his chest.

  Declan released her and stepped back. “Where’s my little girl?”

  “Sleeping.” The word came out on a sigh.

  Declan noted the shadows under Isadora’s eyes. Her daughter had always been wakeful at night and difficult to rouse during the day. Declan had never heard that this was common among hellspawn children, but it seemed logical to him that infernal blood might result in a deep affinity for night.

  “You can’t sleep when she does, and work while she’s awake?”

  A wry smile lifted one corner of Isadora’s lips. “That would be difficult with any five-year-old, much less a hellion like my Rose.”

  She spoke matter-of-factly and with considerable affection. It seemed to Declan that her description of Rose was nothing above what any fond and harried parent might say.

  “Can I look in on her?”

  Isadora tipped her head toward a curtained alcove in the rear of the shop.

  He didn’t bother to walk softly. If the thump and clatter of a loom didn’t wake the child, footsteps were unlikely to disturb her slumber. He edged the curtain aside and gazed at the stocky little girl sprawled on the cot.

  Some hellspawn could pass for human, but a single glance told the truth of Rose’s heritage. Her broad face reminded Declan of an unfinished sculpture, all sharp angles and hard planes, and her skin was a deep pink that verged on crimson. Long, glossy curls of the same hue spread across the pillow. Except for her coloring and her strangely beautiful hair, Rose would not look out of place crouched amid a roofline gallery of stone gargoyles.

  Isadora came up behind Declan and rested her chin on his shoulder. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

  From most people, such words might have been ironic, or at best, a plea for reassurance. Isadora meant what she said.

  Declan let the curtain fall. “She’ll never outshine her mother, but who could hope to?”

  “Liar,” Isadora said in his ear.

  “I prefer ‘charmer.’”

  “Same thing.”

  She stepped away and poured two cups of water from a sweating pitcher. Declan accepted his, drained it gratefully, and held it out for a refill.

  Isadora lifted one eyebrow. “Long night?”

  “Very, but debauchery played no part in it.” He emptied the second cup. “I’ll be going away for a while, Izzy.”

  The woman nodded and raised a hand as if to tuck a stray lock of hair behind one ear. She caught Declan watching her. Too late, he smoothed the pained grimace from his face.

  “I keep forgetting that ear is gone,” she said lightly.

  Declan would never forget. Nor would he ever forgive. “Sometimes I regret that Asmonde is dead—”

  “I always regret it,” she said. “I always will. And that is all that needs to be said.”

  There was no time to tread this path again—and, Declan had to admit, there was no point. He accepted her sentiment with a nod and reached into his pocket for a small red leather bag he’d purchased on the way.

  “This is for Rose.”

  Isadora took the gift with a smile, which froze when she heard the chink of coins within.

  “We’re doing just fine, Declan. I don’t need your money.”

  “I hope you’ll accept it anyway.”

  The woman huffed out a sigh. “You’re not responsible for me and Rose. You’re not responsible for your brother.”

  Declan wasn’t so sure about that, but he responded with a shrug and an easy smile. “I had the money, and it pleases me to give Rose small gifts from time to time.”

  “You will spoil her.”

  “Spoiling Rose is entirely within my rights as her uncle.”

  This coaxed a reluctant smile from Isadora. “In that case, thank you.”

  “It’s not much, but there should be enough for a wooden practice sword and five or six lessons with my old sword master. If Rose takes to the sword as I think she will, he will happily teach her all he knows and never ask for another copper pinch.”

  “That would suit her.” She paused for a fleeting smile. “It might even reconcile her to a few hours of daylight. Again, thank you.”

  Declan accepted a sisterly kiss on each cheek and left the shop. The gray stallion raised his drooping head to send Declan a reproachful glare. Whatever enthusiasm the horse had held for the unexpected midnight exercise had long since faded.

  He patted the beast’s neck. “Just another couple of errands, and we’re off to find the merchant caravan. It won’t leave until tomorrow, so you can have a good long rest.”

  The horse blew and stamped as Declan
swung into the saddle, but he trotted along briskly enough. He even had enough energy to eye with interest the matching pair of roan mares hitched to the guest carriage waiting at the gate of the Frisky Unicorn.

  Declan tied the stallion to the rail a safe distance away and started down the flower-lined walk. He nodded to the large, fussily dressed matron who sailed toward the carriage, a small pelisse clutched in one plump hand.

  She drew up just short of Declan and flapped her free hand at him in a shooing motion.

  After the first startled moment, Declan realized she was looking past him. He turned to see Skywing perched on the iron fence.

  “One of the Unicorn’s resident house drakes,” Declan assured the woman. “This is Skywing. He’s harmless.”

  “He’s a thief,” she sputtered. “All of them are. I’ve no idea why this...this rookery came so highly recommended.”

  Good cheeses here, Skywing noted. Plenty of mice, too.

  Don’t help me, Declan pleaded silently. To the woman he said, “Are you missing something?”

  Her expression snapped tight with haughty annoyance. “I don’t see how that’s any of your concern.”

  Declan bowed. “My father, Nagashar Avari, wants to hear of any trouble a guest might experience.”

  Or create, Skywing added, echoing Declan’s own thoughts.

  “I’d be happy to escort you to him. If there’s cause for complaint, the matter will be handled, I assure you.”

  The guest’s gaze darted toward the carriage. “That will not be necessary. If you would be so kind as to let me pass, I’m expected at the Kendall.”

  “You may wish to consult your calendar,” he said. “Yesterday’s midnight performance of The Scarlet Raven was the last. There are always a few days between, to allow for scenery changes and rehearsals and so on. If something of yours has gone astray, there’s plenty of time to check your room. I’ll summon the housekeeper to assist you.”

  Before she could protest, Declan reached past her for the bell pull hanging on the shaded porch. Immediately the door opened. A middle-aged woman with iron-gray hair and the eyes of a tax collector came to stand beside Declan. He got the distinct impression that she’d been on her way well before his summons.

  “Allow me to take that for you,” the housekeeper stated as she reached for the pelisse.

  The guest handed it over. Declan was not surprised. He’d met sea captains whose presence aboard their own ships was less commanding. If the Frisky Unicorn’s housekeeper told a Hellknight to hand over his armor, he’d probably strip down to his smallclothes before he thought to question her.

  “Now, is there something I might help Madame with, before she settles her account?”

  Resignation flitted over the guest’s round face. “No, nothing.”

  As the housekeeper herded the would-be skip into the inn, Skywing flew over to perch on the ornate wooden trim that fell like lace from the roofline of the porch.

  Can’t find Silvana, he mourned.

  “I think I know where she was taken. Tomorrow morning, I head north.”

  The dragon leaned forward, ready to leap into flight. Want to come.

  Declan shook his head. “The trip will be long and dangerous.”

  Want to help, Skywing insisted.

  “You can keep an eye on things here for me.”

  The little creature arched its wings and hissed. Declan grimaced.

  “You’ve already helped,” Declan said, “chasing off the imp, dealing with the city guard. I don’t know what I would have done without you, but I think I can take it from here.”

  Skywing did not form a comment, but the doubt that washed over Declan’s mind was far more eloquent than words. The dragon leaped from his perch and winged up toward the inn’s turret.

  “The benefit of low expectations,” Declan grumbled as he climbed the stairs, “is that one so seldom disappoints.”

  The familiar scent of polished wood welcomed him to his childhood home, and as he hurried down the hall he caught the spicy aroma of the cakes for which the Unicorn was famous. The cook’s latest creation stood on a flower-decked table just outside of the dining salon. A thin layer of fondant, artfully cut into a design that mingled flowers and stars, overlaid the dark icing. It was a far cry from the edible art his mother used to fashion, but still fine enough to carry on the reputation she had established.

  He walked quietly past the study and on to the narrow, circular flight of stairs that climbed to the inn’s single turret. Out of long habit, he counted the stairs as he climbed. The dust began to collect around fifty-three. No one, not even the inn’s otherwise fearless housekeeper, could find a compelling reason to enter the drakes’ lair.

  Skywing awaited him there, along with several drakes Declan had known since boyhood. Most of them basked in a patch of afternoon sun, but a few raised their heads and sent silent greetings. One, a little red female, hopped to the floor and spread her wings protectively over a small heap of shiny objects.

  Didn’t steal, she said defensively. But mine now.

  Declan looked toward Skywing.

  Courting, the drake said matter-of-factly.

  There was no time for a lecture on house rules. Declan removed an empty nest from one of the window seats that ringed the turret room. He raised the lid to reveal the small wooden chest inside. As he’d expected, the lock on it had been broken.

  He opened the chest and stared at the contents, a single book. It was small enough to slip into a pocket, inexpensively bound in boot-quality leather and secured with a small strap and lock. In short, it was the sort of thing a traveler of modest means might use to jot down his observations, or a young girl her romantic daydreams. This lock, too, had been broken.

  Declan reached for the little book and rifled through the pages. There were more spells than he remembered inscribing, but still hardly enough to interest a wizard nearing the end of his Acadamae training. A wizard’s spellbook was his most valuable possession, yet when Asmonde had looted the chest of assorted detritus Declan had accumulated during his years at the Theumanexus, he’d left his younger brother’s spellbook behind. Asmonde had found the animated flipbooks of greater value.

  Declan wondered whether Jamang had killed Asmonde for these books. Unlikely, he decided. Most likely Jamang was simply the first scavenger on the scene. Asmonde’s ambitions were too high, and the risks he took too large. Declan had little doubt that his brother’s fate, whatever it had been, had come down to drinking the ale he’d brewed.

  Wizard book, Skywing observed, his silent words rounded with surprise and respect. Yours?

  “Not anymore.” Declan tossed the book back into the chest. “I’m not going down that path again.”

  The path that leads to Silvana?

  The dragon’s comment was not, Declan suspected, either as arch or as accusing as Skywing could have made it. Even so, it hit him between the eyes.

  He sank down onto the window seat and dug both hands into his hair.

  No more magic. He’d sworn a private oath the day he’d found Isadora, nearly dead from what happened in the aftermath of Asmonde’s botched summoning. That his brother would attempt such a binding was bad enough. That he would abandon Izzy when it failed was unthinkable.

  Declan reminded himself again that he was not the same as his brother. For one thing, he didn’t have half of Asmonde’s talent. The study of wizardry was never easy, but Declan had struggled with it as he never had with any other discipline. If great temptation came only with great talent, he should be safe enough.

  And even if he was not, wasn’t the end worth the risk? For that matter, it seemed to him that turning away from Silvana to save himself would destroy any remnant of the virtue he was trying to safeguard.

  A conundrum, Skywing agreed.

  Declan glanced up sharply. “I wasn’t talking to y
ou.”

  How could I know that? You were thinking very loudly.

  “Since we’re discussing this, do you have an opinion?”

  A prediction, the dragon said. You will do what you need to do, whatever that is.

  Declan could find no argument for this impromptu aphorism. He retrieved the spellbook from the chest and slipped it into his pocket.

  He retraced his steps to the main floor and tapped on the door of the study. His father glanced up from the ledger he’d been contemplating.

  Most people would consider Nagashar Avari a handsome man. Tall and solidly built, he possessed an abundance of wavy black hair and a strong face dominated by a proud aquiline nose. He was also an older, slightly thicker version of his elder son. Declan reminded himself that it would unreasonable to hold this against him.

  The study was a tidy room, the opposite of those in which Declan’s teachers had made their lairs. While the wizards and astronomer were masters of clutter, their desks surrounded by pinnacles of stacked books and ruins of knick-knacks and half-eaten lunches, Nagashar’s chamber was both clean and spare. On his desk lay only an accounts ledger and an inkpot upon a blotter. The room’s sole lamp hung unlit above the desk, but sunlight poured in from a high window to reveal that every corner of the room was free of dust and cobwebs. Against the wall stood a closed sideboard where Nagashar kept the inn’s records and his personal papers.

  The only nod to decoration was a pair of exquisite papercraft landscapes, each framed and mounted under glass upon a field of dark silk. Each was composed of hundreds of hand-torn paper scraps that Declan’s mother had made by boiling discarded ledgers, contracts, and letters. Every piece was a different shade of white, often with a fine thread or speck of slivered glass mingled with the reconstituted paper. The art was in the selection and shape of each hand-shredded strip, pasted and layered upon a background of pure white vellum. Both landscapes depicted snow-swept hills that grew more ethereal in the distance. Declan felt a shiver each time he looked at them. They were the finest things in the inn.

  “I’ll be leaving the city for a while,” Declan told his father without preamble.