Winterspell (46 page)

Bo bowed, flourishing her cap. “Thank you, sir, for your good opinion.”

Ralk sighed. “Well?”

Clara was the first to speak, with only some hesitation. “My mother was a Lady named Leska,” she began, and Ralk's look of surprised recognition gave her courage, as well as a painful swell of pride. She told him everything, never leaving Nicholas's side. When she spoke of the Summer Palace, she kept details scarce. Godfather watched her closely.

There were things to tell him that she would not tell the others, things she felt desperate to say.

“. . . and she chased us here.” Clara took a deep breath, her throat raw from talking. “I wasn't sure how to enter Rieden, but I thought, being a mage, I should be able to simply by virtue of my blood. And it worked.”

Nicholas stirred uneasily. Clara took his hand in hers, and a cautious happiness bloomed in her when he seemed to calm in response. She would not stop to examine the danger of that happiness yet, not while he lay so near death.

After a long moment Ralk said quietly, “I don't want to believe you, but I do. I know he is a Drachstelle. I feel the land responding to him.”

Clara nodded, remembering Nicholas singing to Bo in that alleyway, ages ago. The thought encouraged her, and she almost asked Ralk if he would help them, having now heard the whole wild story. Godfather shot her a warning look; it was not time for that yet. When Ralk had gone, and Bo, too, she was at last left alone with Godfather, who smiled at her.

“You drifted away from me just now,” he said.

She squeezed his hand apologetically. “I . . . have much to think on.”

He settled on a chair and drew her down beside him. “Tell me.”

For a moment Clara considered shutting away forever the secrets of her time in the Summer Palace, but then they spilled out, hushed and fevered. She began with Nicholas's betrayal that night on the tundra—to which Godfather, to his credit, did not respond with anything but a
terrible hard look in his eyes. He did not, as Clara had often imagined, leap to his feet and help her beat Nicholas to a pulp. He simply held her hands and listened as Clara spoke of Anise.

Part of her was horrified to say how lovely Anise had been, how there had been moments when Clara had found herself entranced and willing. But she could not deny it, when such wistful regret and confusion, such longing remained in her heart.

“I think,” she whispered at last, “that we might have been friends, she and I, were it not for . . . everything.” She looked up at Godfather, afraid. “She taught me things about myself, things no one else ever had.”

He seemed thoughtful. “Like what?”

Clara flushed, thinking of how best to say it. In the end she decided there was no delicate way. So she put it simply: “Girl things.”

At first Godfather looked flustered—and then his face fell. “You have missed your mother.”

“You loved her,” Clara blurted. She had suspected it for years, and with so many truths pouring out of her, she could not hold this one in. “Didn't you?”

“What does that matter?” Heartbreak, heavy in his voice.

“You could have stopped trying to free Nicholas.” It seemed a cruelty to say such a thing while he lay before her being eaten alive. “If you had stopped, Anise would have left you alone.”

Godfather sagged into his chair. “Yes. And I think I would have stopped, if I could have.”

“Your bond with Nicholas. Your blood compelled you. That's what he told me.”

“You could say that. ‘Coerced' would be my word of choice.”

In that moment, as the word “bond” lingered in the air, a thought came to Clara, or the beginning of one, too terrifying and thrilling to say aloud—and too shameful as well, considering everything that had happened to her.

“Godfather,” she said instead, rising to her feet before he could read her too closely. “Do you remember what we used to do when we were angry, or one of us had had a particularly awful day?”

“Cognac? Fashion devil figurines for hours? Chase children on the street?” He clucked his tongue. “Oh, wait a moment—that was me, not you.”

Their banter was fragile and achingly familiar. “We would fight. We would practice.”

“Ah, of course.” A sad smile ghosted over his lips.

“I've learned only a little about my magic. I could stand to learn more.”

His eyes lit up. “My magic is weak now. Corrupted.”

“So your skills are diminished, but I assume your knowledge is intact? Or has your mind gone weak as well?”

“Insolent girl,” he said approvingly, and hobbled to his feet. “Let's see what you can do.”

T
hey practiced through the early hours of the morning until Clara could no longer stay awake, and then through the next day and night, pivoting and whirling, striking and evading—with arms, with fallen branches, with magic. Godfather's magic
was
weak, polluted from years of dissecting Anise's curse. It shone a dull silver when he used it to strike her instead of his fists, and the effort of using it taxed him so severely that he had to stop every few minutes to regain his breath. Despite this, Clara's heart soared. The strength was coming back to her limbs.

She felt the purity of the country here, untarnished as it was by Anise's angry magic and clogged cities. Discarded heaps of metal sat here and there among the trees—remnants of the war, she supposed—but the piles were still and silent. She found the anchors of breeze and moonlight and wet earth, used their stability to steady herself, and grabbed hold of them with her mind. It was difficult, like chasing after shadows, but when she did manage a decent grip, she was able to use these anchors, these solid, real things, to direct her magic more finely, control the intensity more subtly. She had much to learn. Yes, there was power inside her, but it still needed incredible refinement, and that frightened her. Without control over her magic, how was she to defend herself against Anise—or rescue her father when it came to that?

Ralk came out to watch them during the deepest part of their second night in Rieden. A few of his compatriots accompanied him, watching suspiciously. The impatient woman with fierce eyes seemed torn between dislike and admiration as Clara knocked Godfather back with a wall of cold force that rippled through the air.

“It will not be so easy in Erstadt,” Ralk said, “if you plan to go after your father.”

Clara wiped the sweat from her brow. “Of course I plan to go after him. I thought that much was obvious.”

Ralk worried the ends of his hair between two fingers. “The land there is . . . not well. We can see the capital from the forest's perimeter.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Anise buried the country there in her magic. There more than anywhere else.”

Godfather chuckled darkly. “Of course she did. It was the seat of her enemy for many years.”

“She has twisted it into a brittle place. Layers upon layers of faery magic make up structures deep into the earth, and the air is rank with sugar and iron residue and endless storms. Even for her it is a difficult place to live. She hardly ever seems to go there. She leaves it for the faery elite, who choose to stay there and do with it as they will.”

Clara felt that same horrible pull in her heart and smiled sadly. “She prefers the Summer Palace.”

Godfather put a hand on her shoulder. “If that's so, it will be difficult to use magic in Erstadt, for any of us. If we had more time . . .”

“Us?” Ralk cleared his throat. “An odd assumption, Drosselmeyer. But then, perhaps you misspoke. You have, after all, been through a great ordeal.”

An awkward silence came over them. Of course Godfather had assumed his mage brethren would jump to help them, and of course Ralk would be loath to risk losing the meager safety that he and his people had worked hard to maintain since the war.

Clara kept silent with enormous effort, though the idea that had grown within her since arriving in Rieden nearly burst from her lips. She could not blame these mages for not jumping at the chance to help with the personal errand of rescuing her father, but perhaps she could use this idea to coax them out of hiding and into battle—if not for her, for themselves.

Godfather inclined his head politely, though his frown betrayed his irritation. “Perhaps I did misspeak.”

“He knows what he said, Ralk,” snarled the fierce-eyed woman.

“Kora.” Ralk turned. “Walk with me.”

Kora obeyed, muttering. Some of the mages followed. Others remained behind, considering Clara pensively.

“They don't trust us,” Clara whispered to Godfather. “They won't help. The Prince's Army might, but not them.”

He scoffed. “Army indeed. What good will a group of bedraggled humans do against whatever Anise has waiting for us in the capital? No. We need more than that. We must convince Ralk to help us.”

Godfather seemed deep in thought even as they resumed sparring, and Clara wondered if he had reached the same conclusion she had. If he had, surely he was unhappy about it, and as frightened as she.

* * *

When Clara returned alone to the cottage where Nicholas slept, something different hung in the air.

“Where have you been?” a voice croaked from the shadows.

Clara paused at the threshold. “Nicholas?”

He rose from where he'd been crouched in the corner. His face came into the light, and it was at once familiar and strange, as was his voice. Something rippled across his body, something sinister and sly.

“Where's the old man?”

Clara shut the door behind her. “He went to get us some food.”

“Dinner.” Nicholas's tongue flicked out to wet his lips. “Or is it breakfast? I've forgotten.”

“Breakfast, I suppose. It's nearly dawn.” Clara felt suddenly wary. “How are you feeling? Still feverish? Let me see you.”

“No.”

There, in that petulance, rang a familiar note. Her senses sharpened with fear. “Let me see you, Nicholas.”

After a tense moment he moved farther into the light. “Clara,” he whispered, and his voice changed, and was purely him again. Feeble, uncertain, but him. “Something's wrong.”

She inspected his body. Dark metal curls gleamed amid lines of fresh blood. The lattice of ironwork across his torso had grown more elaborate. “You've gotten worse. We shouldn't have left you here. Godfather theorizes that my presence slows the curse's effects somewhat. Maybe if I stay near you, it will—”

“No, Clara. You don't understand. Something is
wrong
.”

He surged toward her, grabbed her wrists. His grip twisted her skin painfully. She wasn't sure if he was trying to push her away or rip her apart.

“There's something . . .
inside
me,” he said against her cheek. He pinned her arms to her sides, fingernails of steel digging into her flesh. Clara gathered her strength and shoved him away.

“I'm sorry.” He moved away, unsteady on his feet. “Something's wrong. She's . . . Clara, I can hear her. I can
feel
her. And she's so angry. I can't make her stop.”

Clara took one stunned step back. “Anise?”

“I can feel her inside me. She whispers your name, over and over. She thinks murderous thoughts. Or
I
think murderous thoughts.” Nicholas dragged his hands brutally through his hair. “I'm not sure what the difference is.”

“That can't be possible,” Clara murmured, even as she remembered the strange voice from the tunnels, the one urging her forward:
Soon.
Nicholas had heard it too, right before the mechaniks had attacked.
His face had flickered oddly. She had thought it a chill then, but now she knew:

Anise was speaking through her own curse.

That was the dark feeling in the room—another presence besides their own. Anise was here, at least in part.

Nicholas looked up at her at last, his eyes haunted. “Did I hurt you?”

He nearly had, but she did not say that. “No.”

“You mean, not this time—not
yet
.” He stalked away. “You shouldn't be near me.”

“I'll be wherever I like.”

His eyes were flint. “I won't let her make me hurt you, Clara. I've done enough of that on my own.”

“You won't hurt me again, not if your grand speech at the party is to be believed.”

“If I ordered you to stay away from me, as my subject you would have to obey me.”

His words sent a thrill of recognition through her blood. Her idea turned slowly in her head, crystallizing. “I can't believe you would say that after what you did to me.”

He wilted with shame. “Clara, if I tell you it's unsafe to be near me, you should believe it.”

“Unwise? Yes. Unsafe?” She forced herself closer, unblinking. “I could easily stop you.”

“You
should
stop me. Now, before it gets any worse.”

“Oh, please spare me such martyr's dramatics. You've a kingdom to save.” Another step. “But I'm not sure you deserve it.”

He looked up at her, his face half in shadow.

“How am I to know you won't be another Anise, letting your hate get the best of you, turning violent toward those who are different?” A final step. She was electric with anger.

“You don't know,” he said quietly. “There's nothing I can do to prove
it to you, other than my own word that I want to be a different man than I was raised to become.”

“Your word is tarnished of late.”

“Calling it ‘tarnished' is a kindness, considering how I've treated you.”

She had met him in the middle of the room, the table's edge pressing against the side of her thigh. Even as a mere human, Nicholas towered over her as the statue had, and his eyes were hot. But Clara was not afraid. She knew—and he knew; she could see it in his eyes—that she could strike him at any moment, that she could make him suffer. She was blinking back tears thinking once more of what he had done, of the new rift between them and if it could ever be bridged. It was painful to think of such things, but she did it anyway, for her hurt was a new kind of strength against him.