The Snow Queen's Shadow (11 page)

Another man tumbled out of the yards, crashing to the deck with a scream.

“Can you protect another living thing from that heat?” Danielle asked.

“I think so,” said Gerta.

Danielle flung her blanket at a pair of wasps, which darted to the side to avoid it. She sent out a silent call as she gripped her sword with both hands, watching the wasps to see whether they would attack or seek another target.

Another swing of Hephyra’s oar sent them away, toward the helmsman. The wasps had adopted a new tactic, joining together to attack in groups. Seven of them swarmed over the poor helmsman, stinging his hands and face. Other crewmen tried to help him, and the wasps flew up out of reach, gathering in a small cloud as they searched for another victim.

A blur of black fur streaked up from belowdecks. Claws scratched the deck as Stub raced toward Danielle. His fur was raised, making him appear twice his usual size. He hissed at one of the wasps that came too close.

“Cast your spell on him,” said Danielle, urging Stub to wait.

Stub’s tail lashed from side to side, but he sat patiently while Gerta worked another spell. He even began to purr.

“I think he likes the heat.” Gerta smiled as Stub rubbed his face against her hands. “It’s done.”

“Go,” said Danielle.

Stub tore away. His missing leg slowed him hardly at all as he crossed the deck and clawed his way onto one of the tarp-covered boats. From there, he jumped onto a crewman’s head. The man stumbled forward, hair smoking from the heat. Stub pounced. His distance was limited, but he managed to catch a wasp in his front paws. By the time he hit the ground, the wasp’s wings were gone, and he was already scrambling after another.

Gerta winced. “Be careful!”

“That cat is mad,” Hephyra said.

Danielle wasn’t sure which definition she meant, but she agreed regardless. Even from here she could hear Stub hissing and growling as he chased the next of these flying creatures who had dared invade
his
ship. His pounce missed, but the heat was enough to start to melt the wings. The wasp’s flight wobbled, and another sailor smashed it with an iron pan.

Down on the main deck, several of the men had gathered sailcloth to trap and crush the creatures. Stub continued his crazed hunt, bringing down the rest. He also set one of the sails on fire, but the crew managed to extinguish the flames before they spread too far.

Danielle caught Gerta’s arm. “Are you hurt? Did they cut you?”

“I don’t think so.”

Danielle searched the exposed skin of Gerta’s neck and face, then inspected her own. Neither of them appeared to have been cut. She hurried toward Hephyra. “Make sure none of your men touch the remains with their bare hands. A single cut from the broken glass is enough to enchant them.”

Hephyra nodded and called out, “Anyone bloodied by those damn things, fall in on the main deck. You’re relieved of duty until further notice. If you’re cut and try to hide it, I’ll feed you to the sharks myself.”

“You’ll have to confine them.” The warning came from Talia, who was shaking as she pulled herself over the rail to collapse on the deck. Gerta grabbed one of the blankets and wrapped it around her.

Danielle swallowed. “Jakob?”

“I tried.” Talia slammed a fist into the rail, hard enough to crack the wood. “He’s alive and safe for the moment. He was chained below deck. I dealt with the guards, but Snow . . . she can see through their eyes. She was controlling them, like puppets.”

Danielle sheathed her sword, forcing herself to accept the news. “Are you hurt?”

“Frozen and mad as hell, but nothing worse than some cuts and bruises.”

“Oh, damn.” Hephyra was staring at Stub. The cat favored his front left paw as he crossed the quarterdeck. Each step left a bloody print on the wood. “What will that curse do to him?”

“It depends.” Gerta was sitting cross-legged on the deck, studying the crushed remains of a wasp. “The magic in these creatures is beyond anything I could do. Even beyond what Snow should be able to do.”

“She’s sent her mirrors away before, animating them like insects of glass and wire,” Danielle protested.

“Not like this. Not so many.” Gerta leaned down until her nose nearly touched the deck, and Danielle worried she would cut herself. “I touched the splinter she left in Armand. This latest attack is different.”

Danielle’s stomach knotted. “Different how?”

“She’s getting stronger.”

CHAPTER 9

T
HREE MORE DAYS AT SEA BROUGHT SNOW to the border between Hilad and the nation of Allesandria. From there, it was another half a day’s ride on horseback to reach the city of Melavin, capital of the Allesandrian province of Yador and home of Ollear Curtana, Lord Mage Protector of the city.

One by one, she stripped away the outer protections of the antiquated tower where Ollear made his home. “The man is clever enough,” she said to the white songbird on her shoulder. “But he lacks depth. He layers his magic instead of interweaving the spells to strengthen them.”

The bird gave a frightened chirp, but it was preferable to the whining. She had transformed Prince Jakob before leaving the ship. With his wing feathers trimmed, he had no means to escape. If he did run away, he would be quickly devoured by a wild animal, or simply crushed underfoot.

Snow thought briefly of Talia and Danielle as she climbed the steps, absently sending her wasps ahead to deal with any servants or human guards. She closed her eyes, peering through those men on the
Phillipa
who had been touched by the demon’s magic. They were confined in darkness, but their presence told Snow the ship was still under sail, far from shore.

So strange to be home once more, to hear the tongues of Allesandria instead of the grating cacophony of sounds that passed for language in Lorindar. Before the mirror’s destruction, Snow never would have dared return. Nor would she have taken Jakob, or attacked Talia and Danielle. She held no illusions about the way the power of the mirror had changed her. There was a presence within her, helping to strip away the lies of the world, as well as the lies she once told herself.

Snow had been selfish, hiding away in Lorindar, squandering her magic on minor errands for the queen. She might as well have donned blinders, hiding from past and future, from those obligations that called to her from Allesandria.

Obligations like Ollear Curtana.

At the top of the stairs stood a construct of red stone, a magical guard carved in the likeness of the Lord Protector. It moved as smoothly as a living creature, drawing a stone sword as it advanced toward Snow.

She smiled. The sliver lodged in her eye had already shown her the key to the statue’s false life. It had been born of mud blended with a rather complex potion, one brewed from the blood of the caster mixed with that of a loyal servant. She wondered idly if the servant had known the potion would require every last drop of his blood.

Snow pulled her own knife. The steel was razor sharp; she barely felt the cut as she slid the edge over her left palm. She clenched her hand in a fist, then flicked the blood at the approaching statue.

Given time, she could have wrested control of the statue, turning it against its creator. But there was too much to do. Instead, she simply willed the statue to return to its component elements.

The statue swung its sword at Snow’s head. Snow raised an arm, and the blade splattered red mud over her arm and jacket. Its face contorted in a melted parody of confusion. Depending on how much of the caster’s own blood flowed through the mud, it should have just enough awareness to realize something was wrong.

Fingers slid free of dripping hands. Snow sheathed her knife and smiled as any last resemblance to Ollear Curtana sloughed away. It gathered itself and lunged in one final attempt to smother her. Jakob squeaked and flapped his wings in alarm as Snow jumped back. The statue fell, splattering itself over the stairs.

Even as she trod through the mud, it clung to her boots. Its loyalty was impressive. Ollear must have improved his formula.

The wooden door atop the stairs was locked, but a quick spell swelled the wood until the planks split and fell away to reveal the grotesquely lavish bedroom of Lord Curtana.

The walls within were enchanted to be clear as glass, giving him a full view of the surrounding land. Dark clouds blotted the stars overhead, haloing the moon in silver. The same illusion blanketed the furnishings, turning them translucent. The wardrobe, the desk by the far wall, even the bed, where Ollear Curtana was busy with a woman far too young and attractive to be his wife. His scalp and face were clean-shaven, glistening with sweat. Like most nobles, he doubtless shaved each day, burning the hair to prevent it from being used against him by a practitioner of sympathetic magic.

“Hello, Uncle.”

Both Ollear and his mistress bolted upright. They each wore a light robe of slavesilk. The thin material was naturally gray, but anyone with a hint of magical talent could change it at will, turning it clear. Snow kept a gown of the stuff for special occasions. The trick was to maintain your concentration as things grew more . . . distracting.

“Who are you?” Ollear looked past her. Searching for his guards, no doubt. His lips pressed together. “You look familiar.”

Snow frowned, and both robes turned black. “I was hoping to talk to you about my father.”

“Your . . .” He paled. “Princess Ermillina?”

Snow gave a slight bow. “Uncle Ollear. I go by Snow now.” The years had worn away all but the faintest resemblance to the strong, handsome statue who had guarded Ollear’s door. He appeared shrunken, with wattles of skin at his neck. Only his hands were as Snow remembered, thin and permanently stained from his potion work.

“You’ve aged so much.” Old he might be, but he had never been stupid. “What magics have you been toying with, Princess?”

“I’ve done what was necessary.” Snow glanced at the young woman beside him. “A student?”

“A member of my household.”

A servant, then. Had she been magically skilled, politeness would have required Ollear to introduce her by name.

With one shaking hand, Ollear took a stiff black wig from the bedside table and positioned it on his head. He had to know he was outmatched. Snow had penetrated his tower and destroyed his guards. “Laurence told us you were dead.”

“Not
King
Laurence? Such disrespect for your sovereign, Ollear. Where are your manners?” Snow strode around the room, looking out at the city below. Her feet sank into the white-furred rug. “I remember when my mother elevated you to your chancellorship at the university. Strange . . . to fall from such a position to this small border province.”

“I serve as the king wishes, Your Highness,” Ollear said carefully.

“The king is a fool to waste someone of your talents. I remember your visits to the palace. The potions you brewed for my mother.”

“What do you want?” His gaze was openly calculating now. Snow was alone, but she was the daughter of the most powerful queen Allesandria had known in centuries. His fear was fading, replaced by hunger for the opportunities she might present.

“You’re not the only one to be wronged by our new king. I mean to see justice done for those crimes.”

“You
do
have a legal claim to the throne,” he said cautiously. “Yador is merely a border province, as you said, but I retain my seat in the Nobles’ Circle. I could—”

“What would you ask from me in return?” Snow interrupted. “What cost to betray your king?”

“Nothing, Your Highness.” Ollear stood, his hands spread. In other lands, it would be a gesture of peace, but in Allesandria, where every noble learned magic even before they mastered their letters, the lack of a weapon meant nothing. He stopped at a polite distance. “I ask only to help you correct an injustice.”

And to place Snow in his debt.
His lies wormed into her stomach, leaving her nauseated. “Do you remember my father, Ollear?”

“I do.” The wariness had returned to his voice, though he kept his eyes averted. In Allesandria, to stare too long was to invite a magical confrontation. “He was strong in heart and mind, but his body failed beneath the demands of the throne. Your mother summoned me often to try to ease his pain.”

“I was so young when he fell ill.” Snow paced the circumference of the room, watching the lamplights below, the mountains in the distance. From this height, she could just make out the guard towers on both sides of the border. “I’ve spent years studying the healing arts, Ollear. I’ve yet to find a single malady that strikes with the same symptoms that took my father. Stealing his voice, withering his body, but also robbing him of his magic. A strange ailment, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Your parents were powerful practitioners,” Ollear said carefully. “They did much to expand the boundaries of magic, but as you know, all power carries a price.”

“What was the price of your chancellorship?” Snow asked. “To prepare a draught which could slip past my father’s charms against poison? One which would weaken him over time without attracting suspicion to my mother? Your skills are unmatched. You’re the only one she would turn to for such help.”

Ollear’s companion edged toward the door. Snow waved, and the bedsheet leaped out to entangle her feet. The other end of the sheet knotted itself to the bed. Snow stepped into the doorway, blocking their escape. Jakob chirped softly, burrowing into her hair as if trying to hide.

“Your mother had many allies,” Ollear said. “If you mean to rule Allesandria, you would be wise to follow her example. You will need friends.”

“I loved my father,” Snow said softly.

Ollear lunged for his desk. He snatched what appeared to be an inkwell and flung the contents toward Snow.

Snow might not have had Talia’s fairy-blessed reflexes, but her missions for Queen Bea had honed her reactions both physical and magical. By the time the sickly green liquid reached Snow, her magic had frozen it into a series of rippled icicles and droplets. She caught the largest icicle in her free hand, maintaining her own magic to prevent the heat of her flesh from melting it.

Ollear watched as though entranced as the ice in Snow’s hand changed, growing paper-thin wings. The other pieces had broken when they hit the floor, but they too responded to Snow’s will, forming insects the size of flies and gnats.

Sweat beaded Ollear’s brow. “I can help you.”

Snow pursed her lips and blew. A wasp the size of her hand shivered and flexed its wings. “I already have help.”

Ollear fought well, destroying more than half of her insects before one slipped past his guard to sting his ear. Skin sizzled, and he screamed. The pain cost him his concentration, and soon the battle was over.

It wasn’t a quick death, but as he had intended the same for her, she felt no remorse. Nor did she take any joy from his end. Death wouldn’t undo his crimes, wouldn’t restore her father to life. This was but the beginning.

“Look.” She wrapped her fingers around Jakob’s fragile body, tugging him free. She held him toward Ollear’s twitching body. “No matter what lies we tell the world, death reveals the truth. Ollear Curtana was a traitor and a coward. The ugliness of his end matches the ugliness of his soul.”

She turned to his friend, who was cowering behind the bed. “And how did you serve the Lord Protector, aside from the obvious?”

The girl’s voice shook. “I’m his scribe, Your . . . Your Highness.”

Snow returned the trembling bird to her shoulder and reached into the pouch at her belt. A scribe was a lowly enough position to go unnoticed, particularly in the chaos which would follow upon the discovery of Ollear’s death. “Give me your hand.”

She bit her lip and shook her head.

With a sigh, Snow slid a needle-long sliver of glass from the pouch. “This will hurt.”

The sheets tightened, holding her in place long enough for Snow to jab the glass into the girl’s neck. She screamed once, and then her struggles slowed as the tip snapped off within her flesh. Snow removed the rest of the sliver and wiped the blood onto the sheet.

“You will be questioned about Ollear’s death. Either by the local mageguard, or perhaps by the king’s Storm-crows.” Snow pressed a larger shard of glass into the girl’s hand. “Begin with them.”

Danielle reread the note. This was the second message she had received from King Theodore. The queen’s funeral had been held three days ago, under heightened guard. And Danielle hadn’t been present.

She closed her eyes. Grief could come later. For now, better to maintain the dam, to focus on what needed to be done.

Tymalous and Father Isaac had made no progress at freeing Armand and the others from Snow’s curse. They had managed to find the few remaining shards of Snow’s mirror around the palace, and were spending every moment studying them for answers, but with no significant progress.

A soft quack made her jump. She smiled at the duck that had delivered the message. He was small for his breed, a black-and-gray-dappled bird with a smoke-colored bill. He ruffled his wings but settled down, waiting.

Danielle sipped her tea, grimacing at the medicinal taste, and returned to the letter she had begun writing to the king. She had described their failure to save the prince, and the futile search that followed. Danielle’s dolphins hadn’t returned, and Snow had evaded their pursuit since that night. Gerta suspected she was using the infected prisoners to track and avoid the
Phillipa
.

Seven men had been cut, along with Stub the cat. Stub was now confined to a small cage in the chartroom, and the infected crewmen were locked in the hold. Even if Snow looked through their eyes, she should see nothing to reveal their plans.