by James Stone
She’d watched her uncle die, his head loosened from his shoulders, and no matter how many times she tried to shake it free from her mind, it just kept happening over and over. There was no warmth left inside her—the snow had seen to that.
She tried to call out and scream, but nothing came out save for silence and empty gasps while she raged and flailed against the monsters above. They opened her mouth and forced her to eat, pressed incense up her nose and dragged metal needles through her skin. The sourness of it all had turned her eyes nimble and dim, yet there were dry fires behind them, and she heard herself spluttering, ‘I’m Magmaya Vorr—I’m heir—gods! I’m…’ alive.
But then, all the strength left her like the last breath of a dying man, and the hours passed into silence. She could almost feel the Dew of the Honey coursing through her veins still like a sickness.
Strength returned to her slowly, and then as a landslide.
And with the passing of the hours, the room had emptied, save for the stains, so she forced herself up and pushed her way out of the room, finding a complex of endless freezing corridors leading into oblivion.
In each one, a thousand different mirrors and a thousand different choices stared back with coals for eyes. She must have collapsed a thousand times, but in the end, she found a girl in a white bodice ambling out the snow and into the light.
Damn this cold, she thought. Did Orianne not know how to even light a fire?
Magmaya stopped, felt something wet, and watched her drapes turn a deep black. She was holding herself like a new-born, and yet, there was a rush of zeal spiralling through her head, and so she ran, tripping over her own footsteps.
And suddenly, there was a stairwell before her, spiralling up to the palace above. Hours appeared to have passed, and her head was pounding by the time she reached the top, and when she did, it was only to meet the outstretched spears of a dozen brassy guards, the embezzled roses on their armour blinding her.
‘Stand down,’ one of them called through the snow. ‘Do you know where you are?’
‘Let me through,’ Magmaya hissed. ‘The Mansel are coming—I must—you know me, yes? Magmaya Vorr?’
‘My lady, my apologies.’ One of the sentinels lowered his spear. ‘The chancellor sent notice to the people—he wanted to see you…’
‘Good,’ she jabbered. ‘I wanted to see him too.’
She held her gut and followed the beads of blood as they ran down to her hands, filling the crevices in her bony thumbs. Magmaya turned to the sentinel and trailed drunkenly into the palace. She felt naked in the dust and chalk of her home; she might as well have not even worn her drapes.
The guard’s plate clanked about the hall and seemed to bend in the light from the braziers above, and Magmaya began to feel a little more unwell. Keep a hold of yourself, she scorned, but her head was warm and dizzy. She was surprised she was able to think at all.
They soon arrived at the boardroom and peered in to see Kharon Vorr standing at the balcony, watching the snow float through the wind like it was trapped in an hourglass. ‘Kharon.’ She started over to him, but her head was dizzy. She almost tripped over that damned table leg again.
‘It seems not all Vorr are so easy to kill,’ he muttered.
‘They’re coming for the gates,’ she crooned. ‘Why did you summon me?’
‘You think I don’t know that?’ He took a seat by the window, waved a hand at the sentinel and watched him leave.
‘You can’t stand idle when a monster is out there trying to burn our city,’ she scorned. ‘Take the fight to him.’
‘Stupid girl,’ he murmured. ‘There’s no fight. The Mansel are prepared for a raid, not a siege. They’ll all starve before a single drop of blood is spilt.’
Magmaya shook her head and took the seat opposite his. Sitting made her feel calm, and besides, the chair was draped with several of Kharon’s discarded garbs, and even they were warmer than her bloodied gown.
‘You’re in a state, girl,’ he droned on.
‘I know. But you wanted me here all the same.’ She began to slip one of his tunics over her head; it was far too big, but it was warm, and that was all she needed now. ‘If you can’t tell me why you wanted me here, then let me go to the gates,’ she said and eyed the shimmer he had left on the table behind; it was the shimmer of Moonbeam, the blade of Orianne.
And then she turned back to the chancellor and found him quiet—she’d never seen him so silent. Or sober.
But then, as if in response, Kharon moved to a chest of drawers and plucked a wine glass up between his fingers. He took a sip, and he was a different man.
‘There’s fighting at the gates, still.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Siedous has gone to hold them, but—’ he coughed. ‘Besides…’
‘Besides what?’ She put on his trousers.
‘Magmaya,’ he hushed her. ‘Just… just be quiet.’
‘Why did you send Shalleous and me to Mansel?’ she asked at last. ‘You claim it was to showcase the pride of the city—’
‘No more!’ He turned and, all of a sudden, he seemed to notice she was getting changed, and his eyes glowed red.
Damn him, she thought. If only he’d boarded that damned ship and fled south while he still could’ve, then none of this would’ve ever happened. Then she could’ve been chancellor and—well, it was best not to consider that.
‘So be it,’ Kharon snapped. ‘Nurcia has betrayed us.’
‘What?’
‘We’ve reason to believe so.’ He sighed. ‘She was meant to be tending to the hospice, but we’ve reports of her going down Low Path to bow to Tul.’
Magmaya got up and dusted herself off, but her hands became slick with blood. The bodice they’d given her had only appeared to encourage her bleeding, and she’d sullied Kharon’s garbs too.
‘How do you know she will?’ she asked at last.
‘She stabbed Kaladeous on her way there,’ he murmured. ‘Seven times.’
‘But she was your advisor…’
‘Yes, I am quite aware,’ he groaned. ‘But she made it no secret that she and Tul had history. He sacked her home before she even flowered. Seems likely she turned her tail in fear it would happen again.’
As far as Magmaya had always remembered, Nurcia had been a devout and quiet woman—and she’d betrayed the city? She had been so beautiful…
‘She’s too scared to see through this,’ she cursed. ‘What now, then?’
‘I said there would be no fight,’ he began. ‘But if she tells the Mansel where the thermals are…’
‘She’ll lead them right into the city…’ She nodded. ‘Send out guardsmen, then. Take her back before she can reach the front.’
‘I’ve sent out a contingent to find her,’ he said, ‘but if she knows we’ve discovered her betrayal, she might just run a little faster.’
‘None of this makes any sense,’ she remarked. ‘I knew that woman, she…’ Magmaya sighed. ‘I’m going after her.’
‘What?’
‘You said it yourself. When your contingent arrives, she’ll flee. If I can go down and approach her…’
‘You will die, and she will run.’
‘I can talk some sense—’
‘No,’ he roared, and he was certainly the man she knew again. ‘I’m the chancellor. Not you. You will not decide what happens in this city.’
‘You sent me to represent Orianne, now let me act like it.’
‘You can scarcely fight.’
‘I can swing a sword.’
‘No, you can’t.’
‘Siedous taught me all I needed to know. I can swing one hard enough, harder than you can,’ she spat. ‘I’m no use here.’
‘What are you going to do?’ He laughed. ‘Take her in?’
‘I’ll kill her if I have to.’ She gripped her abdomen as a flash of pain blinded her, but she felt some strength course through her still.
She rem
embered that night at the forest when she’d found Albany lying dead. The Mansel had sent their message then, and I had run away. That wouldn’t happen again.
Kharon threw his head back. ‘You storm in here, and you speak to me like a fool, you steal my clothes—’
‘Your discarded clothes.’
‘Quiet!’ he stammered. ‘Siedous will go. You, to the hospice.’
‘Siedous is at the gate. You said that yourself.’
‘You’re going to lose us this fight—’
‘There is no fight,’ she crooned. ‘Now, thank you.’ Magmaya couldn’t quite believe the words she was saying. ‘For telling me.’
‘Go and kill her, then,’ he snapped. ‘Take a sword from some dead man and bring her head back here.’
I will. She turned, and there was Moonbeam.
‘Time is fragile.’ Kharon sat, reaching for a glass that was empty. He was looking away into nothing. ‘Almost as fragile as you, you damned piece of shit.’
As Kharon Vorr threw his head back, Magmaya Vorr caught herself smiling. She crept over to the table and took the leather of the sheathed sword between her fingers. It was heavy—heavier than any sword she’d held before, and if she’d held it any closer, she swore it would have blinded her.
The air outside reeked of iron and sweat. The night was breaking in again, and the last of the cold sun’s rays were seeping beyond the horizon. And as Magmaya strode away, she couldn’t help but want to collapse. She didn’t want this! Ranvirus was a small, insignificant realm far away from anywhere that mattered. She was nothing; this was nothing, and no matter which way it all ended, no one would weep for her.
I would weep for them, though, she thought. If the south fell and I never saw it, I would kick myself until the day I died.
She’d always told herself there would be a day when all the ice would melt, and she would feel the green grass beneath her feet, but that thought was quickly becoming a fleeting thing. If she were to ever feel a warm sun beating down on her back, she would spare her new self the pleasure of a heart. Perhaps she would rip it out and replace it with something cold.
She turned a corner, and without warning, a hailstorm of crossbow bolts fell from above. Magmaya threw herself to the ground, feeling them spear the earth around her.
Once the metal rain had fallen, she tossed herself aside. The crossbowmen above began to reload, but not before they shouted out to her, ‘My lady!’
‘We thought you were that traitor…’ another called.
Magmaya coughed and pulled herself up from the carnage, scowling. She dusted herself down and turned away. She wanted to vomit again, but by the time the sickness had left her, all her energy had too, and she found herself collapsing into an alleyway.
A large, empty building awaited her, broken windows shimmering in the new-born moonshine. It scattered haloed saints and broken angels into the shadowed snow and for a moment, the night seemed silent.
Magmaya rose and approached the edifice as if something was drawing her in. Somehow, it felt colder inside; mist clung to her skin and ate away at her eyelids. It was sparse and quiet with a bruised checked floor that glistened under invisible braziers above.
And when she looked up, she found humming arches and grey pillars staring down at her. Her strength was leaving her quickly, dying like the setting sun, and she was forced to remind herself, Not yet. She told herself, You can die later.
She carried on and prepared the words between her lips: I’m looking for a woman by the name of Nurcia Vyce. She works for the chancellor. I’m afraid she’s in terrible danger.
That ought to get someone concerned. She had the face of any common girl now, too. No one will mistake me for Magmaya Vorr.
When she left the building through the other side, the winds returned, and the snow started falling again, filling the streets. She looked around, and there was Low Path—a trail of broken cobblestones and abandoned market stalls sweeping down the rocky crag of the Silver Mountainside. The path had often been where the commoners had bartered, but now, it was empty, save for a quiet chitter-chatter about the streets.
She could make out the street’s end about a hundred yards away, but from there, the path would just twist and turn, continuing on until it reached the gate. She just hoped she’d find Nurcia along the way.
One day, this will be all over, she told herself. There was another sun out there, and it shone like gold and yellow and warmed those who stood in its light. When the winter ended, and the clouds cleared, the whole world would know of spring and dance in the flower fields—she could look forward to that, at least.
It was even said there was a whole continent across the seas called the Summerlands where girls worshipped the light. There, people were truly free and bore their own fruit, as priestesses and valiant witches prayed for good harvests under their holy bells that gave them rain and fire. Perhaps across the seas, she might feel warm at last—she just had to make her way to the shore…
And then there was a sound, and her fingers felt for Moonbeam. She was awake again.
But each winding stair she struggled down seemed gnawed away at her chest, and though she couldn’t feel the pain, the pressure on her navel felt as if it would snap her in two. She hadn’t even realised her palm was wet either—a token from one of those crossbow bolts no doubt—what a pitiful way to die!
Not yet, not yet, she told herself. Find Nurcia; that’s all you have to do. Not a drop more of blood needs to be spilt.
But the path ahead was choked with fog. Another step forward would plunge her down into a maze of clouds, and then she and Nurcia might be lost forever. There would surely be no chance of her finding the traitor anymore.
She carved her way through the mist anyway, until she was but a sound amongst the dark of the city streets. A number of burning braziers and glowing candles speared through and caught the corners of her eyes, but they were just noise to the hum of the moon above.
‘Magmaya,’ she heard someone croon and turned to the open air behind her. But as she scanned the streets, she found herself alone again—holding herself and cold—oh so cold.
And then sounded the grizzly snorting of horses and with it, a faint neighing. But Orianne didn’t have horses. Only reindeer.
‘Surely not…’ she whispered to herself and found Moonbeam.
I’m looking for a woman by the name of Nurcia Vyce. She works for the chancellor. I’m afraid she’s in terrible danger. The words were nothing now.
Magmaya peered through the fog and continued on. Each alleyway led to another like an impossible puzzle, and at the heart of it, eclipsed in the light of the moon, stood Nurcia, waiting about the streets.
Now what? she asked herself and sank back into the shadows. She could still make out the neighing of horses and Nurcia whispering to herself, muttering something strange about the darkness.
‘The old knight still rides,’ she heard her say.
But then, another voice said, ‘Dead by sundown’—and a chill went up her spine.
The voice was cold and brittle; it was part of the falling snow. And when she peered out again, she found the figures of perhaps a dozen Mansel, hunched in barbs and fur.
Five
Nurcia smiled like she knew when the world would meet its end. Her horse cantered quickly through the desolate streets, wisps of ice beginning to nestle in its fur, coughing and whinnying in a pale effort to free itself from the cold.
She was a skilled rider (that much was clear), and as she rode, her blue drapes beat behind her in the winter winds, and a look of disdain spread wide across her lips. The scarred Mansel strode tall by her side, quite at odds with her snowy white skin. Soon enough, the fog began to spread, and she disappeared into the dark again. There was no longer any sign of her or the Mansel, let alone the tall spires that seeped into the heavens above. Magmaya was alone.
‘Once this is done, take your leave, my lady,’ one of them echoed through t
he fog.
‘Of course.’ She heard Nurcia say, ‘But I will triumph still when my lord takes the city. And soon, he shall sail for the south. It has been prophesied in the sea star that moves.’
‘Yes, my lady,’ a pair of the Mansel answered.
A humming of metal rang out, and one of them grunted, ambling about the stone streets. Another drew his blade and tightened his fist before a couple others followed suit.
‘Someone’s here,’ he said. ‘There’s someone in the fog.’
‘No one’s here,’ Nurcia scorned. ‘Mount. Vargul will be at the palace in time.’
Vargul at the palace? Magmaya wondered. Was it better to fall back and warn Kharon? Or kill Nurcia before she let anyone else in? She feared she’d already made up her mind. Besides, she could hear something too. There was something more barbaric coming.
There was silence for a moment. And then one of the Mansel buckled. His legs tightened, and his chest cracked as he let out a final, breathless moan and toppled into the gutter. Magmaya clasped her hand over her mouth. It was all she could do not to scream.
Nurcia’s horse reared up and tore itself away, but she rallied the mare, stared down her foe and drew a dagger. But she wasn’t a fighter; she never had been.
‘Leave the shadows, whoreson,’ the turncoat called into the dark.
But it wasn’t a whoreson, Magmaya soon learnt. There were twenty.
Kharon’s contingent arrived. Nurcia disappeared into the fog. But the Mansel weren’t so quick; four were struck down before the chancellor’s daughter moved an inch, and another two were slain in the ensuing skirmish. And then began the haunted chiming of locked blades, ringing out through the mist.
Magmaya could do nothing but dart from cloud to cloud until there was a Mansel beside her, already engaged with one of Kharon’s men. Without a thought, she ripped Moonbeam from its sheath and drove it through his back.
