When the time came, she would drag Liv out of this wretched place whether or not she had come to her senses. They would set a course straight for the Grungir Forest, and if Lady Luck had ever heard their names, they would spy Declan coming from the opposite direction. It would take days, at least, before he could reach Whitethrone from Szigo’s grove, but there was no point in waiting for him to arrive. Ellasif did not wish to spend an hour more than necessary here.
The warm water soothed Ellasif’s sore muscles, and her eyes drooped shut. She woke to the sound of Liv’s laugh. “Sif! Wake up before you turn into a dried prune!”
The hot water had leached away the last of her strength, what little had survived her captivity in the cannibal’s house. She stepped unsteadily out of the bath and let Liv dry her with towels so soft and warm that they could have been the first breath of summer. By the time she donned a nightgown and lay her head on the pillow beside Liv’s face, she was fast asleep.
Ellasif awoke to the feeling that an intruder approached. She leaped out of bed so suddenly that she nearly caused one of the two chambermaids who had arrived with fresh linens to die of fright. Even after the shock subsided and she realized she had slept for hours past dawn, Ellasif fought fiercely to retain her clothes, which she suspected the fastidious maids intended to burn. Her one concession was to accept a thick woolen cloak of deep crimson. It was warm, and at least it wasn’t white.
Liv and Ellasif dined on pickled herring and biscuits. The bread was so dense that after a single bite, Ellasif set hers aside, trying not to think of the stories of witches grinding bones to make their meal. Even the damned food in Irrisen was white, she thought. Her feet itched to run away from this ghastly place. She let Liv finish her food before broaching the subject of their escape.
Before Ellasif could say a word, the door opened and the guard captain informed them that they had been summoned. Fearing that she had missed her best chance for escape, Ellasif followed the man down another serpentine confusion of corridors and up three flights to what appeared to be the top floor of the house. She eyed Erik’s sword, which hung at his hip in a new sheath beside his own sword. She wondered whether he carried it as a trophy of her capture or for some other purpose. Perhaps he meant to turn it over to Mareshka.
They entered one of two doors near the end of a long, oval hall flooded with light spilling in from spacious windows and skylights. To one side was a grand double door, and across the hall another pair of doors similar to the ones through which they had entered. Before them lay a white bearskin rug, the huge head of the beast pointed toward the windows; its twin sprawled on the floor on the other side of the room. Between the rugs, a dark rectangle on the wooden floor showed where a table usually stood, the ghost of the shadow that preserved it from the bleaching sun.
Between the windows hung framed landscapes of meadows overflowing with wildflowers, waterfalls that spilled into deep green pools surrounded by sun-dappled ferns, and deep forests in which bright fungus ringed the trunks of mossy trees. The illustrations were not painted but composed of many fragments of paper, hand-torn and pasted to a framed board. Much of the paper was coarse, with prominent threads of striking color running through the pulp, but somehow the artist had selected the conjoining pieces so carefully that they formed the effect of a unified shade even though each piece separately looked a different color. Other scraps were dyed in bright colors, apparently undiminished by the ample sunlight in the room. The lands depicted in the papercraft were of no place near Whitethrone, and each conveyed a feeling of longing for an as-yet undiscovered place. A fairy grove. A promised land.
The captain offered Liv the comfort of a plush divan, one of many throughout the room, all situated to offer the best view of the mounted artwork. He directed Ellasif to stand at her sister’s side nearest the door. Suspicious, Ellasif walked around to the other side of the divan, but the captain seemed satisfied.
“Wait here,” he said. “Do not approach those who enter from the other doors, and do not speak until you have been addressed.”
“You mean now?” said Ellasif.
“What?” The man looked more perplexed than cross.
“You just addressed me, so shall I speak?”
Liv giggled, and for a moment Ellasif felt as she had in the years before they had both left White Rook. Then Liv had been as much a daughter as a sister to her, and nothing delighted Ellasif so much as the sight of Liv’s smile or the sound of her laughter. Liv would be angry once Ellasif took her away from this illusion of happiness. Yet in time, Ellasif knew Liv would forgive her, knowing she had done what was best.
The captain did not waste his breath on a reply. He only frowned at Ellasif before walking across the room and opening one of the far doors.
In walked a tall blonde girl just a few years older than Liv. It took Ellasif a moment to recognize her as a servant from the house of Declan’s master in Korvosa. It took a few seconds longer to recall her name, which she had learned only after Declan had mentioned it. It was Silvana.
“What are you doing here?” asked Liv. Ellasif was surprised that Liv recognized the servant, and more surprised still that Silvana answered by raising a finger to her lips. She smiled at Liv as if enjoying a secret that would soon be revealed, but when her gaze passed over Ellasif, the smile vanished. At a sound from the double doors, she put her smile back in place and smoothed her pale green skirt.
“Ready, Mistress?” asked the captain. He moved to the center of the room.
Silvana nodded.
“Now,” said the captain.
The doors opened, and two footmen stepped in and moved to either side. Behind them, a pair of guards moved in and did the same. Behind them came Declan Avari. He blinked in the sunlight, and then he caught sight of one of the papercraft landscapes. He stared at them, mouth open and eyes moving from one to the next until his gaze fell upon Ellasif. A broad smile creased his face. He took a step toward her, and she saw her name upon his lips.
Ellasif could hardly believe her eyes. She had thought to find him on the western plains, assuming he continued his journey to Whitethrone. She wondered how he could have arrived so soon, but the explanation seemed less important to her than the proof that he had reached Whitethrone alive and well.
“Declan,” said Silvana before he could speak. He turned, his expression caught between joy and wonderment.
Ellasif scowled when she saw who followed Declan into the room. There were Jadrek and Olenka, the last two people she wished to see again. Her feelings at the sight of them were complicated by the thick manacles of ice that bound their wrists and ankles, and the double rank of guards who stood behind them, swords drawn and pointed at their backs.
After a moment’s hesitation, Declan ran forward and grabbed Ellasif by the arms. “Thank Desna and all your northern gods you’re all right,” he said. “By the time we got inside the house—”
“Declan,” Silvana repeated.
Declan beckoned the girl to join him, still talking and holding Ellasif’s arms, his smile beaming into her face.
Silvana’s voice was insistent, but Ellasif was not interested in her. She looked over Declan’s shoulder to see Jadrek gazing back, his expression a mixture of guilt and some sort of expectation. What was it? Hope that she would forgive his treachery? If that’s what it was, Ellasif thought, he would be waiting a long time for it. Declan kept talking, and Silvana said his name again, this time in the petulant whine of a spoiled girl. All their chatter was becoming annoying, and all Ellasif wanted to do was—
Without thinking, Ellasif grabbed Declan’s hair and pulled his lips to hers. He released her arms and drew her into a full embrace, kissing her back with such unexpected passion that she closed her eyes, releasing Jadrek from the death stare she had cast toward his heart.
Their lips parted for a moment. That should do the trick, she thought, but it was hard to think of J
adrek with Declan’s mouth so close to hers. Then he was kissing her again, and with each second it became more and more difficult to think of spiting Jadrek, or of anything else at all. The clamor of voices in the room faded away, and she and Declan lost themselves to the kiss.
Someone tugged at her arm and kept tugging, and at last Ellasif turned to face the interruption.
“Sif!” said Liv admiringly as she looked up at Ellasif. Then she stole a glance toward Jadrek and exclaimed reproachfully, “Ellasif!”
The room exploded with voices.
“I never should have pulled him from the lake—”
“How could you come all this way only to kiss that—”
“Mistress, how should I—?”
“I told you we should have gone straight back home after the warlock—”
“I’m her sister, you must be Declan—”
“Silence!” The command came from Silvana, but it was no longer the voice of the young girl. Everyone turned to watch as her youthful guise melted away to reveal Mareshka Zarumina, clutching her tall staff in a white-knuckled grip. Her hand shook, and as the staff trembled, thick bony horns grew up out of her scalp to form the rugged peaks of a crown through her silver hair. “I will not be mocked!”
“Who are you?” said Declan. “Are you Silvana? Or are you someone pretending to be Silvana?”
“Yes,” said Liv, shaking her head at Mareshka. “It’s her favorite guise for when we tease the young men at the Spring Garden.”
“You two-tongued cheat,” said Ellasif to Mareshka. “You went to Korvosa after sending me to fetch him. You never intended to honor the trade.”
“Trade?” Declan asked, puzzled. Then his face reddened with sudden understanding. “A trade! You were going to trade me for your sister! I should have realized! It was all too good to be true.”
“Why are you here?” Liv asked Jadrek, ignoring Declan. “Did you come to help Ellasif?”
“Yes,” said Jadrek. Olenka struck him with her elbow. “Well, no,” he said. “Not exactly. I came to explain—”
The guards prodded them forward with the tips of their swords, herding everyone but their mistress onto the same side of the room. Flanking their captain, they formed a line between Mareshka and her guests, willing and otherwise.
“Jadrek was the one who lured me away from protecting you,” spat Ellasif, stepping in front of Liv as if to protect her from him as he approached.
Liv stared at Jadrek in disbelief. “I can’t believe Jadrek would ever do anything to harm—”
“Liv is right,” said Olenka. “Only three people were unaware of what would happen that day: you, Liv, and Jadrek.”
“That’s impossible,” said Ellasif. But even as she said it, she knew it had been completely possible. All that was required was that she be so angry that she didn't care to go back and demand an explanation. All that was required was that she be a fool.
“It was my fault,” said Olenka. “I’m the one who told Red Ochme about the tiren’kii. She asked me to tell her when you and Jadrek would be away.”
“Why?” said Ellasif. “Because you wanted Jadrek for yourself?”
“No,” said Olenka. “Well, yes, I did. But that’s not why I told her.”
“None of these trifling personal dramas interest me in the least,” said Mareshka. She straightened her back and seemed to grow three inches taller. “What is important is that Declan left his home and traveled all this way to be with me.”
“To rescue Silvana,” said Declan. He shot Ellasif a sideways glance and clipped his words, as if afraid more might spill out unbidden. “And Majeed, of course. But there is no Silvana, is there?”
“Of course there is,” said Mareshka. “And I am she. Such is the power of my magic that I can appear in any form I choose.” Her voice lowered, became sultry. “Or that you choose.”
“But this is your real form, isn’t it?” said Ellasif, waving vaguely at Mareshka’s head. She wanted to stand up for Declan somehow, to win back the trust she had lost. But to be honest with herself, she had to admit she also wanted to spite the witch who had kidnapped her sister. “With the ...ah, the horns.”
Mareshka started. She reached up to feel the horns that had emerged from her head. She squinted in concentration, and the horns subsided into her hair. Her voice seethed with disdain as she said, “That is merely an effect of this staff.” She looked directly at Declan. “Your mother’s staff.”
“What?” Declan’s face blanched. “You can’t mean that you’re my ...my ...”
“No!” shrieked Mareshka. “Imbecile! Your mother was my teacher. She bestowed her staff on me when she chose to leave Irrisen. I never saw her again, until your father returned with her bones.”
“You see, Liv,” said Ellasif. “There’s at least one witch who was wise enough to leave this forsaken place.”
“I don’t care,” said Liv, crossing her arms.
“Why have you gone to so much trouble to bring me here?” Declan asked Mareshka. He seemed only then to notice how close he was still standing to Ellasif. He spared her only half a glance as he stepped away, as if avoiding an unpleasant smell. Even in the heat of all the accusations and recrimination, Ellasif felt her heart sink at his reaction. It was all the worse because she knew that she deserved his scorn as much as Jadrek deserved hers.
Or perhaps Jadrek deserved better, if Olenka had told the truth.
“Your mother had a rare knack for both art and magic,” Mareshka replied to Declan. “You appear not only to have inherited her talent, but to have gained something else, some ability that’s like no magic I’ve seen. Ever since my spell captured your master instead of you back in Korvosa, I have watched your progress through my scrying pool, and seen you do things not even your mother could match. Under my tutelage, your abilities could transform the face of Irrisen—and maybe more. Imagine redrawing a raging battlefield so that only one army remained.”
“Could you really do that?” asked Liv. Her voice was tinged with resentment. Ellasif hoped that meant she was jealous of Mareshka’s attentions to Declan. If so, that feeling could drive a wedge between Liv and this witch.
“I’m a map—” Declan began, but then he thought better of it. “I’m wizard, not a witch. Thanks all the same, madam.”
“Madam!” cried Mareshka. “How old do you think I am?” Liv began to answer, but Mareshka shouted, “Quiet!” Her lips quivered with fury. She raised her staff, its eyes glowing frost white.
Liv blurted out a warning.
Ellasif took one look at vain, humiliated Mareshka and laughed in the witch’s face.
Erik’s sword leaped from the captain’s hip, scabbard and all, and flew into Ellasif’s hand. She charged forward, drawing the blade. She made it almost to the line of guards before a wall of ice hissed and crackled into existence before her, sealing the room from wall to wall and ceiling to floor. Ellasif put out a hand to keep herself from crashing face-first into the barrier.
“I can endure no more of this, Captain,” said Mareshka. Her words were muffled through the wall of ice. “Have your men secure the doors behind them.”
“It is done. But madam, the sword—”
“The next person who refers to me by that honorific will spend the duration of Queen Elvanna’s reign frozen in a block of ice in the Floes. Do I make myself understood?”
“Yes, mistress!” the men said in unison.
“What about them?” asked the captain.
“They can cool off here while I consider how best to dispense with these ungrateful ...foolish ...reeking barbarians.” She stalked out of the room, trailing guards. The captain paused for one last resentful look at Ellasif and then slammed the double doors shut.
Ellasif stared after them until the frost from her panting breath obscured the image on the ice. She turned to face the others.
&
nbsp; “This will make it more difficult to rescue Liv,” she said.
“I don’t want to be rescued,” Liv protested.
“We came here to rescue you,” Jadrek said to Ellasif.
“Well you can take that thought and ...” Ellasif let the insult drift off. Could she really have hated Jadrek all this time because of a mistaken assumption? “I can take care of myself. I certainly don’t need you to rescue me.”
Olenka shook the icy chains that bound her hand and foot. “Is there no one here who wants to be rescued?” she demanded.
Declan raised a tentative hand. “I do.”
Chapter Eighteen
The Wolf Gate
Declan concentrated on controlling his breathing while the others dealt with removing the ice bonds from Olenka and Jadrek. They fussed over who would wield Ellasif’s enchanted sword, which, even in his distracted state, Declan recognized was not the same blade he’d seen her with earlier.
When at last Jadrek gave up his demand that Ellasif let him use the sword, he knelt beside one of the divans and laid the chain over the seat. Ellasif severed it with one sharp blow, but the squeal of steel on the magical ice was worse than the sound of chalk squeaking on a slate board. Declan moved away from them, holding his head as he tried to focus his thoughts. The past hour had brought so many revelations that he felt like an overstuffed rag doll, his head swollen near to bursting. He was angry, exhilarated, confused, and most of all frightened.
He was not frightened for himself alone. He had a feeling that he and Liv were in less danger from Mareshka’s wrath, but the others were in serious trouble. The witch seemed particularly displeased with Ellasif, especially after that impulsive kiss. Mareshka had no right to be jealous. Discovering she was a much older woman—well, that was awkward, but the revelation that she’d known his mother made it that much more uncomfortable. It felt like some long-lost aunt had been trying to seduce him. What continued to puzzle him was that she seemed powerful enough in magic that she could have simply transported him to Whitethrone from the start. If that were the case, he didn’t understand why she had instead allowed him to travel all that way on horse and foot. Was it some sick need for validation, for proof of his devotion to her—or rather to her illusory persona of Silvana? Whatever her reasons, from the moment Silvana appeared to him as an ordinary girl, flirting with him, she had misled and manipulated him. How could she possibly expect he would want to remain with her in Whitethrone after that?
Winter Witch Page 25
