Shield of Winter

by Aaron Hodges

  An icy cold slid down his spine. The woman he’d encountered in the bedchamber above had been Alana—he couldn’t deny it. Yet it had also not been her. There had been a hardness about her, a stony cold to her eyes that allowed no emotion.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” he muttered to himself.

  “In my long life, I’ve found little really does,” an ancient voice replied from across the cell.

  Looking up, Devon found the eyes of the old man on him. The man lifted himself from the floor and propped himself up against the wall, his emaciated limbs seeming to hardly have the strength to move him. His clothes were little more than dishevelled rags, and his skin was so pale that Devon could see the thin blue veins beneath. Weeping sores covered his arms and legs, while a long white beard reached almost down to his waist.

  “How long have you been here?” Devon whispered.

  To his surprise, the old man smiled. “Not so long,” he murmured, his voice sounding weary. “Thirty years, forty?” His eyes flickered closed as he rested his head back against the wall. “What does it matter?”

  Devon suppressed a shudder. “How have you survived?” The old man’s laughter echoed through the cell, and Devon frowned. “Why do you laugh?

  “Because in my long life, I have faced death many times. It has stalked me through all these years, a constant companion, waiting for me to make a mistake, to take me. And yet here in this dungeon, far from sword and monsters and Magickers, you ask me how I have survived?”

  “I only meant…”

  “I know what you meant,” his companion sighed. He shook his head, and for a second Devon saw the despair lurking behind his eyes. “In truth I never expected to see fifty. Yet here I sit, creeping slowly towards an unremarkable end. I never imagined this would be my fate.”

  “You were a warrior?” Devon now noticed the thin white streaks of scars on the old man’s arms, threading their way between the filth and sores.

  His cellmate nodded. “A warrior. A Magicker. Once upon a time.”

  “A Magicker?” Hope stirred in Devon’s chest, before cold hard reality returned to crush it. If the man could have used his powers to escape, he would have done so long ago… “Can you not use your powers to escape?” he asked anyway.

  The old man smiled. Lifting his hands, he shook the bracelets he wore on either wrist, fashioned from silver and studded emeralds. “Not with the Tsar’s gift,” the man said.

  “They block your magic?” Devon asked.

  “That, and more.” The man turned his eyes on Devon. “You must be a dangerous man, to end up in these dungeons. Once they were used to contain the vilest of creatures, though the old kings refashioned them after the fall of Archon. The Tsar only keeps his most dangerous of enemies here.”

  Devon shrugged, but before he could answer a groan came from across the cell. His heart skipped a beat as Kellian sat up, and he stared at his friend, searching for some sign of recognition. Kellian blinked in the dim light, his gaze finally settling on Devon. Frowning, he touched a hand to his head, and groaned again.

  “You always bring me to the most interesting places, Devon…” he murmured.

  Relief swept through Devon, and he swept his friend up into a hug. “You’re back!”

  “Ugh, Devon, get off! My head feels like you hit it with your damned hammer,” Kellian said as he tried to disentangle himself from Devon.

  Chuckling, Devon released him, though he gave his friend an extra thump on the back for good measure. Kellian winced and quickly retreated across the cell, only slumping back to the ground when he was well out of range. He winced, pain still etched across his face.

  “What the hell happened? Where are we?” Blinking, he seemed to notice the old man for the first time. “Who the hell are you?”

  The old man laughed. “I could ask the same of the two of you.”

  “Devon and Kellian,” Devon replied quickly. “Former soldiers, current renegades.”

  “Names…” the old man sighed. “How little meaning they have now. Down here we are nothing, our lives extinguishable at a whim.”

  “I don’t plan on staying long,” Devon growled.

  The old man did not reply, but his eyes said it all. In the corner, Kellian was still holding his head. “How did we get here, Devon?” he asked. “The last thing I remember was finding Alana…”

  Devon swallowed. The words were slow to come, and when he spoke his voice was taut with pain. “Alana betrayed us.”

  Kellian looked up at that. “What? How?”

  “She said she was the Tsar’s daughter.”

  “I remember…” Kellian said after a moment. “But how is that possible?”

  “The Tsar’s daughter, you say?” The old man said. Devon shivered as he found the ancient eyes on him. “Not a pleasant woman, from what I’ve overhead from the guards.”

  “It’s not true,” Devon snapped.

  “Perhaps,” their cellmate replied carefully, “but I have heard of her power. An Earth Magicker, capable of manipulating human minds.”

  “I…” Kellian frowned, looking at Devon. “She touched me, and everything went black. What happened, Devon?”

  Devon looked away, his hands curling into balls. “You attacked me, old friend.”

  The colour drained from Kellian’s face. “I don’t remember,” he murmured. A strained silence stretched out before he added. “I guess we finally answered the question of who’s stronger though…”

  “I wasn’t exactly fighting for keeps,” Devon growled, but his heart wasn’t in it. He turned back to the old man. “You were talking about her power?”

  “Yes,” he sighed. “She’s able to manipulate people’s minds—their thoughts, memories, actions.”

  “That explains how she was able to control me,” Kellian said, “but…not why she was so different from the woman we knew. She was like a completely different person.”

  The old man looked thoughtful. “It is strange, but perhaps…perhaps she used her power on herself.”

  “Why would she do that?” Devon demanded.

  “Who could say?” the old man shrugged. “There’s only one person who can answer that—and by the sound of it, she’s not interested in talking with you any longer.”

  “You’re saying the Alana we first met…was a completely different person from the who attacked us?” Devon pressed.

  “As I said, it’s possible, but only the girl herself could tell you for sure.”

  Devon sucked in a breath, struggling to comprehend the old man’s theory. “If that’s true…how can we know which was the true Alana? The woman we helped…” he trailed off, his mind turning to the night he’d spent with Alana in the moonlit springs south of Fort Fall. The image faded, replaced by one of her sneering down at him. “Or the one who had us imprisoned as traitors?”

  “I’m sorry, my friend,” their cellmate replied, his eyes soft, “but from what you say, her old personality has reasserted itself. Perhaps some of the woman you knew remains, but her true self? That can only be the one able to manipulate her magic. And from what you’ve told me…” Devon didn’t need him to finish.

  Tears burned in his eyes and he looked away, a lump catching in his throat. An awful weight settled on his chest. Alana was gone, her existence snuffed out as though she’d never been. In her place was a stranger, a hard and unforgiving woman who hadn’t hesitated to set his friend on him. She may have spared their lives…yet what did that matter when they were imprisoned in the Tsar’s dungeons? Sooner or later, the man would send for them, demanding retribution for stealing away his children.

  “Devon…” said Kellian from across the cell.

  Devon shook his head, raising a hand to fend off his friend’s words. “Just…leave me, Kellian,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Just…leave me.”

  And hanging his head, Devon began to sob.

  Chapter 26

  Alana’s footsteps echoed loudly on the stone floor as she wandered across the
andron, the large adjoining chamber set behind the throne room. Royal guards lined the room, their golden helmets gleaming in the morning sun, while in the centre stood a great table of gilded oak. Whispers carried across as she approached, though the men and women seated at the table had yet to notice her.

  The Tsar sat at the head of the table, his hands clasped before him as he listened to his advisors. Alana dragged out an empty chair and sat. Silence fell around the table as the advisors to turned to stare at her, but she ignored them. Leaning back in her chair, she lifted her legs and rested them on the table.

  “Daughter, how nice of you to join us,” the Tsar murmured. “How are you this morning? I heard your night was…disrupted.”

  Alana snorted. Her eyes flickered around to the gathered advisors, enjoying the sudden fear that had appeared behind their eyes. To the Tsar, she raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes, and I trust our unexpected guests have been settled into appropriate accommodation?”

  The Tsar scowled. “They have been seen to. I will question them later, when more urgent matters have been dealt with. Perhaps we can then ascertain how they were able to get so far inside the citadel.”

  “You should look to your guards, father,” Alana replied with a smirk. She sat up suddenly, her boots slamming back down on the hard floor. The others at the table flinched as she stood, but she barely spared them a glance. She strode across the andron to where the ring of guards stood. “I fear some of your men have grown fat and lazy.”

  Striding down the line, she studied the face of each man, finally coming to a stop before one she recognised. She stepped in close, and smiled as he looked nervously from her to her father.

  “You, what is your name?”

  The guard swallowed. “An…Anthony, princess.”

  “Anthony…” she said. “Tell me, do you remember me?”

  He stared blankly at her. “Remember you from where, princess?”

  “The Firestone Pub, I believe it was called,” she murmured. “I suppose you don’t, considering you were lying unconscious in a pile of garbage by the time I arrived.”

  The guard blinked, uncomprehending. “What?”

  Alana stepped in close, so that their faces were only an inch apart. “I was there, fool. The night Devon knocked you unconscious, I saw you. If only you weren’t such an incompetent warrior, you might have seen me too, might have recognised me. Alas, you allowed a drunken coward to knock you on your ass.”

  “I...I…I’m sorry, princess,” he stammered.

  “Don’t be,” she hissed.

  Quick as lightning, her hand flashed down, dragging the dagger from his belt. The guard cried out, scrambling uselessly for his sword hilt, but she buried the blade in his throat before he could draw it. Gasping, he staggered back, his hands clutching uselessly at his throat. A dull gurgling noise came from his chest as she tore the dagger loose. Blood gushed from his neck as he staggered back two steps, then sagged to the floor.

  Alana tossed the bloody dagger on his dying body, her gaze turning to the other guards and councillors. Every man and woman in the room stared back at her, open terror on their faces. She laughed.

  “Relax, boys and girls!” she shouted. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Smiling, she wandered back to the council table and resumed her seat. The Tsar’s advisors continued to stare at her as she lifted her feet back to the table. Folding her hands in her lap, she let out a long sigh.

  “I feel so much better,” she said. Seeing the blood on her hands and let out an exasperated snort. She tugged a handkerchief from the breast-pocket of a stunned looking councillor and used it to clean them. “I needed to calm my nerves,” she explained to the terrified man as she returned the ruined cloth.

  Beside her, the Tsar chuckled. “You truly are yourself again.”

  “Did you doubt it?” she asked.

  “Quinn mentioned you’d been having…trouble with your former self.”

  “She’s under control,” Alana snapped, her irritation with Quinn redoubling. Since taking him to her bed, he always seemed to be around, meddling in her affairs. Their argument the night before had only been the latest in a series of growing nuisances. And now he was informing on her for her father…

  The Tsar stared at her for a long moment before nodding. “Good. Devon and Kellian’s capture will be a blow against Enala. She will have to surrender your brother now, or her beloved Northland will face annihilation.”

  At the mention of her brother’s return, Alana shivered, the hackles rising on her neck. Something tugged at her memory, a fleeting fear that shouted for her to denounce her father. She clenched her teeth, fighting back against the emotion, knowing it was only that other part of her. After a moment it faded, and she brushed a lock of golden hair from her face.

  “You think so?” When the Tsar nodded, she smiled. “It will be good to see him again.”

  “Yes.” Her father’s voice was distant. “This…delay to his training is unseemly. He should have been ready for his final examination by now.”

  Unconsciously, Alana’s hands balled into fists. A faint anxiety tugged at her, and she stared into space, waiting for the sensation to fade once more…

  “Alana?”

  She blinked, and found her father staring at her. There was a pause before she realised he’d asked her a question. “Apologies, father, my mind was elsewhere. What did you say?”

  He frowned, and for a moment she thought he would press her. But he only waved a hand and said. “Quinn tells me Braidon’s power concerns illusions. What else do you know of it?”

  Alana shrugged. “Yes, I…she didn’t know until the end. It was as much our surprise as Quinn’s when we realised at Fort Fall. I cannot remember his power awakening though—my memory of his sixteenth birthday is still lost.”

  “That is the night you both vanished.”

  “Interesting,” Alana mused, turning the fact over in her mind. Magic could only arise on the anniversary of one’s birth. It was curious, that her magic had scoured their minds on the same day her brother’s magic had appeared. Surely that could not be a coincidence?

  Straining, she sought again to lift the fog from her lost memories, but still they would not come. Finally she shook her head. “It might be there is more to his power than illusions,” she said, “but not from what I saw of his wild magic.”

  The Tsar nodded. His brow creased as he looked at her. “You look tired, my daughter.”

  “Yes, well, my strength still has not recovered from my…her loss of control. My midnight guests did not help.”

  “Then you should rest, allow your powers to return. You were lucky you had the strength to stop Devon and his friend. Especially after your little…incident with the woman, Krista.”

  “She was weak.” Alana snorted. “It did not take much of my power to remove her. I am surprised you elected such a poor choice of guardian for the children in my absence.”

  “There were others matters on my mind,” the Tsar rumbled, “but…you are right, I should have dealt with her. Still, your students will not miss you for one morning. I will see that Quinn takes over for the day…unless you would rather he attend to you?”

  Alana forced a smile to her lips, even as the dream from the night before rose in her mind. In the dream, she had taken Devon to spite her other self, to crush her hopes, to show her everything she’d ever loved was hers now. Yet as she’d imagined herself with him, she’d felt the girl’s emotions rising from the void, entangling with her own…

  “No,” she said sharply, her mouth dry. “And I do not want him near my students…But, it shall be as you say. I will rest, and see to the children in the afternoon.”

  Rising, she left her father and his advisors to their boring discussions of governance and war, and found her way back to her quarters. There she threw herself down on the bed, sighing as she burrowed into the soft silk sheets. A memory rose from the depths of her mind, of the mud and dirt and cold s
he had endured on the streets of Ardath.

  Alana shivered. How could she have sunk so low, convinced herself she was nothing but a pauper, a street rat to be crushed by better people?

  Yet as she recalled the abject poverty she’d condemned herself to, the image shifted, and she saw her brother alongside her. As the days had grown shorter and the temperature had dropped, the two of them had taken to sleeping beneath one blanket, sharing warmth to fend off the winter’s chill.

  Watching herself embrace the young boy, tears came to Alana’s eyes, and for a second she wished she were back in the abandoned hovel with her brother. At least they’d been together then.

  She cursed, flinging the thought away and turning her mind to the future. Her brother would return soon, they would be together again. She would no longer be alone.

  Yet imaging him back in the citadel, running through the gardens, she felt only fear. There was something strange about the thought, a wrongness that tickled in the back of her mind. The warmth she’d felt when picturing the hovel was missing.

  Quinn’s words from the night returned to haunt her.

  “And what about your brother? Is that what you wish for him, when he returns?”

  Rolling over, she punched the pillow, cursing herself for a fool. It was the girl! It had to be, working her feeble emotions, her weakness into her every thought. She was like a parasite, eating at Alana from within, no matter how many times the magic burned her.

  Alana sucked in a breath, forcing herself to recall the joy she’d experienced as the guard’s hot blood spouted over her hands. Within, she felt a part of her recoil, and laughed to herself. “This is you,” she whispered to the empty room. “This is who you are, girl. Accept it!”

  There was no voice inside to reply. Finally at peace, Alana closed her eyes, and allowed her weariness to take her…

  In her dreams, Alana awoke, and found herself amongst a great forest. Tree trunks rose around her, so high she could not see their canopies. Craning her neck, she sought out the sky, but in place of blue horizons and light, there was only…nothing.