Winterspell (47 page)

“I was perfectly happy,” she whispered, “to never see you again. It might have been better for me and my family if I hadn't.”

He was quiet. Only a sliver of heat separated them. “I can't argue with you there.”

“To think that you wanted to use me in such a way makes me disgusted that I ever entertained the thought . . .” She trailed off, embarrassed, but she did not look away.

“I understand, Clara,” he said, his voice hoarse, miserable.

“And yet I still want you. I've always wanted you.” As the words left her lips, they seemed to open her up, to leave her dangerously vulnerable and unsteady, but a power took their place that was entirely her own. Not of Cane, not of Anise. Not of her mother.

Nicholas was still. “I don't deserve that.”

“No. You don't.” She moved into him; her fingers brushed his wrist. The metal there receded. “But you have it.”

He made a choked sound, said her name. Grabbed her hand and brought it to his lips.

“Clara?” Godfather called out from beyond the door. “I have food, and the mages want to speak with us.”

His voice broke their locked gazes. Clara's cheeks were hot. Even with Godfather waiting outside, she felt herself unfolding toward Nicholas, a mere shift of weight away from wrapping her arms around him and pushing the moment from charged to blazing.

“Forgive me, Lady Clara, for ever thinking to use you like that,” Nicholas whispered against her palm. She felt the soft scrape of his teeth and shivered. “Can you?”

“The prince debases himself once again,” she said. “Asking a mere Lady for forgiveness.”

“There is nothing mere about you. I must ask it of you. I will always ask it, until I no longer have the breath.”

Now she was the one to kiss his hands, his half-alive, half-caged hands. She tried to keep it brief, chaste, but even that small contact was enough to leave her short of breath. The look in his eyes was indecipherable, jumbled, and it followed her out into the early morning light, lingering like a touch against her skin.

T
hey gathered with the mages in a meeting-place of stone and trampled undergrowth. Morning fought its way through the knotted trees, and distant storms rumbled. Storms or something else. Clara imagined a fist of faery magic, blue and writhing black, pounding against the forest wall.

“They've not got much to speak of here,” Bo whispered at her ear as the others drifted into the clearing. Bo had camped out all night, observing what seemed to be the mages' hub of activity. She chomped on the leg of some roasted fowl, and the pungent spice on it made Clara queasy. Her nerves were precariously tangled. “A bunch of scrap, those bows you saw. Some conventional weapons, axes and the like. But,
shike
, that sort of thing won't do much against however many soldiers Anise has got. And the Prince's Army, we've only got our own fists and a few swords.”

Godfather, pacing, thumped Bo on the head. “You're dribbling food on her. Stop it.”

Nicholas sat quietly on Clara's other side. Her body tingled with the awareness of his thigh against hers.

“The metal scraps have potential, though.” Bo gulped down the last shreds of meat and belched. “I could do something with those. Wires in decent shape, circuitry mostly intact.”

“The mages themselves are competent enough,” Godfather added. “Competent but on the whole unimpressive. Better than nothing, I suppose.”

Ralk had come forward to address them. Some of the mages surrounding him were rigid with expectation; others lounged with poised carelessness. Kora paced, agitated.

Clara thought of her father on the Summer Palace's chromocasts, of his horrible confusion, of how he had screamed. Tonight it would be a full nineteen days since her arrival in Cane, and four days, eighteen hours would have passed at home.

She could not think of Felicity. With Bo so near, that was asking for a complete emotional avalanche.

“I've presented both your story and your request for aid to my people here in Rieden,” Ralk said. “We have spoken through the night and voted.” He paused, and Clara knew in that instant what he would say. “But I'm afraid we can't join you in your journey to the capital.”

Silence stretched through the crowd. Beside Clara, Nicholas drummed restless fingers on his leg.

“I can't tell you how much we regret what's happened to your father, Clara, and of course we deplore our true prince's deposed state. But please understand.” Ralk's face was heavy with regret, but determined. “We are all that is left of our race. We have lived here in hiding for many years. We've carved out a safe life for ourselves, however meager it may be. If we fought with you, it might be our end. We would not give up such safety, especially when in all likelihood we would fail at any rescue attempt, any assault.” He ticked off the points on his fingers. “We are outnumbered and undersupplied, and the capital is riddled with Anise's mechanized magic run rampant. We cannot risk such a thing.”

For a moment no one spoke. Clara could feel the disappointment around her—Godfather, Bo, Erik and the Prince's Army, loitering
uncomfortably in the shadows. Nicholas, his skin rippling, sweat shining on his temples.

But Clara was calm with resolve. She took Nicholas's hand in hers, pouring determination into him. He shuddered, his face white with pain, and Clara felt a protective rush of anger.

You won't get him, Anise,
she thought.
You won't get me. Not like this.

Laughter chimed faintly. The mages shifted, and Clara wondered if they had heard the laugh or merely sensed its cruelty.

“You cannot risk it?” Godfather scoffed. “If Anise is allowed to run amok for much longer, your safe haven won't be so safe anymore. Or haven't you noticed?” He threw up his arms at the mottled sky. “The storms never stop raging. The ground never stops quaking. Magic has a limit, and so does Cane. She builds and she destroys and she builds again, and she'll keep doing that until she has whatever kind of world it is she thinks she wants—or more likely, until she cracks it open. Then where will your precious forest be? It's already weakening, and you know it. Your wards won't keep her out for much longer. They were shoddy to begin with, and they're shoddier now. Blasted undisciplined—”

Bo sucked her teeth. “Best not to go insulting them, One-Eye. Or Godfather, or Lord Seven, or whatever I'm supposed to call you.”

Godfather glared at her.

“Or,” Nicholas said, though it clearly cost him some effort to speak, “you could risk it because it's the right thing to do. Because people out there are dying.”

“Mages aren't,” Kora snapped.

“Revenge, then, against the queen who wronged you.”

Ralk shook his head. “We're past revenge, sire. You can't live on revenge.”

Good words, ones Clara hoped Nicholas took to heart—for his own sake.

He persisted. “What about hope?”

Godfather looked at Nicholas sharply, and Clara's breath caught.

“Hope,” Nicholas continued, “for a better future. Hope for a kingdom ruled justly, a kingdom governed by mercy, not madness. Could you bring yourself to fight for that?” He stopped, panting, as a new black tubule slid out from beneath his fingernail and snaked around his thumb, sizzling quietly.

Everyone but Clara moved back.

“Move away from me. Please.” His eyes were frantic on her face, but his voice was even. He drew in a steadying breath. “She wants to hurt you. She wants
me
to hurt you. Clara, please . . .”

“What is it?” said Ralk. “Is he getting worse?”

Kora was livid. “He's infected, is what he is. It'll spread and kill everyone if we're not careful.”

“It won't,” Clara said coolly, and she stood and placed her hand on Nicholas's armored chest. She looked him full in the eye. “I'm fine, aren't I? And I've kissed him. I've touched him.”

Godfather rustled irritably behind her, but she ignored him and turned to face the others. “I know why you should risk it. For country and for a future, yes. But also because you have something they can't fight against. You have me. And I know Anise. I know her mind, I know her weaknesses, I know how she fights. We're alike, she and I, like two sides of a coin that should never have been forged . . . at least according to the laws and prejudices of your country.”

She paused, and some of the mages looked uneasy, as though recalling their past wrongs. It startled her, how familiar it felt to stand before an expectant crowd. For a moment she was simply Clara Stole, the mayor's daughter. She was back in front of the Bowery Hope Shelter. It was Christmas, and limp holly hung on the lampposts, and she was cutting a bright red ribbon for a house of coffins.

“I may not be her equal in finesse,” she continued, “but I am in power. Or I could be.”

Kora was not convinced. “ ‘Could' may not be good enough,
Lady
.”

Godfather let out a soft curse. Of course he had worked out her
intentions. But he wouldn't stop her from saying it. No one would.

It was her decision, and she had had precious few of those.

“The one thing Anise has that I lack is royal blood,” she said, and though the glorious autonomy of her decision thrilled her, it was still frightening to consider, even for a Lady—or, more accurately, a someday-Lady. A Lady-in-training.
Mother, be proud of me.

“Anise was born the bastard daughter of a human king. Because of this, she is linked with the land. She can work her magic through it better than anyone. Destroy it and remake it as she sees fit. If I could do the same, I could match her punch for punch. I could beat her.”

Doubt gnawed at her, but she shoved past it. It was best to lie a little and look brave on the outside. She took Nicholas's hand and faced him.

“I therefore choose to bond with you, Nicholas Drachstelle. To serve you, to fight for you, to win your land back for you. To be your loyal Lady of the North. In exchange I ask one thing of you: that you help me rescue my father.” She turned to the mages. “And I ask that you, brothers, sisters, will help me do the same.”

* * *

An outcry arose.

Bo swore appreciatively, rubbing her hands together. Kora shouted protests, as did many others. Ralk stared in astonishment—and, Clara thought, grudging approval.

Nicholas shook his head, backing away. “No, Clara. I won't. Didn't you hear me before? I won't do that to you. I can't.”

“You will, boy, and don't waste your breath arguing.” Heavily, Godfather turned to him. “If we're to stand a chance, she must bond with you. Otherwise Anise will have an unbeatable edge. We'll never find John, to say nothing of reclaiming your throne.”

“But the other mages—I could bond with them, I could ask for volunteers—”

“These fools?” Godfather waved his hand impatiently at the arguing mages. “They'll be handy as infantry, but they've grown as soft as the
spoiled faeries who tried to confine me. Binding with them might actually do you harm rather than good. And besides, who's to say their blood could even withstand joining with yours, cursed as it is? No. It has to be Clara.”

Clara reached back to find his hand, and pressed gratefully.

“Clara, you don't know what the curse will do to you. What
she
will do to you.” Nicholas squared his jaw, faced her straight on. “I won't do it. I
forbid
it.”

Bo picked at her teeth pensively. “Seems like a bad decision to me, sire. What else will you do? Sit here and rot with the others till the forest falls down on you? Stroll into the capital all by your lonesome and be struck down within five minutes?”

“We'll find a way. We'll make a way.” Nicholas flung a hand at Godfather. “Look what it did to him! For years he hacked away at this curse, and it turned his magic weak and unreliable.”

“And you're welcome for it,” Godfather said, smiling thinly. “He's right, though. We don't know what it will do, Clara. It's a tremendous danger.”

“You would really do this thing?” Ralk approached them. Behind him the mages gathered curiously. “You would bind with him, fight alongside us as a champion?”

“No, she won't,” Nicholas said, desperation tearing his voice.

Clara ignored him, faced Ralk with a calm she did not feel. “I will.”

Nicholas moved before her, cutting her off. “Clara, think of what you're doing. It's service, do you understand? Even without the curse . . . you'd be giving yourself to me, and you'd have no choice in the matter.” He caught her hands, gently, as though afraid to touch her. “You don't deserve that.”

Godfather snorted. “But I do, I suppose?”

Bo hissed at him to shut his mouth or she'd do it for him.

“But I do have a choice,” Clara said, hardly noticing them, “and I've already made it.” One last, cruel jab: “Isn't this what you wanted?”

His mouth twisted, bitter. “Once I did, and I was a horrible fool. My hate blinded me. Not again. Please do not ask me to hurt you like this.”

“But it's my hurt to choose.” She touched Nicholas's cheek. Such a
strange, lovely irony that for years she had imagined the statue would come alive, take care of
her
, banish
her
demons. “My blood is stronger than the others'. I'm a half-breed, like Anise. A two-blood, remember? An abomination.”

He shook his head, horrified. “No. Never.
Never
, Clara.”

“Listen to me. I nearly
am
Anise. What more is there to understand? We're running out of time.” Beside her, Bo shifted her weight. Clara was reminded of Felicity, and a terrible fear stabbed her. “My family is running out of time.”

The ground beneath them shook with sudden tremors. The sky above churned green, and they could see more of it today than they had been able to the day before. Godfather was right. The wards were weakening, the forest was thinning.