Winterspell (48 page)

Clara raised her eyebrows at him.
See?

Nicholas stubbornly looked away.

“When I was young,” she said, bringing his gaze back to her, “I imagined you would come alive someday. You would be my friend.”

He was quiet, his gaze passionate. “Sometimes I thought I would go mad in that cage. But then you would visit, and I could breathe again.”

She smiled, memories warming her that would have seemed bizarre to anyone else. “I can endure this, Nicholas. I must, for my family. For Cane. I
want
to endure this.”

It surprised her to say it. After all, she had arrived here only a short time ago, but then again, she had known this place for years—bits and pieces of it, riddles and half-truths, in Godfather's stories. And it was
hers
. It was a home to fight for.

Countless emotions moved across Nicholas's face, and Clara couldn't discern which were his and which might be Anise's. After a long moment he turned away.

“Fine,” he muttered thickly. “Hurry, old man. Prepare us. Instruct her. We begin at dusk tomorrow. Perhaps by then you'll have come to your senses, Clara.” And then he stormed away into the trees and was gone.

T
he forest grew colder throughout the next day. By the time dusk fell, Clara's breath came in light puffs. Hanging from the trees, cascades of white flowers glowed as bright as torches. Thunder boomed in the distance, black clouds roiling above the forest's canopy. The ground moved, and Clara stumbled, catching herself on Godfather's arm.

He steadied her tenderly. “Are you ready?”

They were alone in one of the mages' huts. Beneath her scratchy robe Clara was naked and trembling, but she was determined to hide it.

“Yes. I think so.” Then, remembering his instructions, she closed her eyes and said, “I mean, I
know
I'm ready.”

She had to be totally open to the binding; eager for it but not desperate. Otherwise, Godfather had warned, the binding would not take. It would be corrupted, or tenuous, and with Nicholas's blood already so tortured, such a misstep could be fatal to one or both of them.

She had to want it.

An easy thing,
wanting
. But as Clara followed Godfather through the eerie brambled paths, she found herself struggling to focus on the concept. Nervousness clouded her mind.

“I remember the first time I saw you sneaking around his statue,” Godfather said, as though he could sense her confusion. “You were a
tiny thing, perhaps five or six. You had climbed up on a stool so you could reach his lips and trace them with your finger.”

Vaguely Clara recalled the sensation of the curved metal beneath her hand. “I was so embarrassed when you caught me.”

“An embarrassment I thoroughly enjoyed. And yet you didn't stay away long after that. Your visits to the shop became more and more frequent over the years. I began to suspect it wasn't only me you came to see. And then there was the time I caught you standing on your toes to kiss him.” His voice was careful and light. “I confess I found myself rather jealous, Clara, to have so much of your attention paid to a lifeless object.”

“Even though he wasn't lifeless,” she pointed out.

“Even so.”

She blew out a long breath, but it did not quell her nervousness. “So. You did this with Nicholas, did you? Long ago?”

“
Long
ago. He was a tiny boy, and I was a not-quite-so-old man.”

“Old? Nonsense. You're handsome.”

“Liar,” he scolded, though he seemed delighted at the compliment.

“And you had to be, er, naked then? And Nicholas, too?” That, bizarrely, was still the most disconcerting thing at the moment—not Nicholas's curse, not the idea of opening herself up to something so potentially dangerous, but rather the simple fact that she was naked beneath her robe, and Nicholas would be the same beneath his.

“Unfortunately.” Godfather harrumphed a bit. “Never understood why it was necessary.”

“To symbolize,” Clara said, reciting the words she had practiced earlier, “the complete trust one has in one's bonding partner.”

“I know what the ritual says. I'm just saying it's rubbish.”

Ahead of them a warm yellow glow marked the clearing where the mages had made a fire and erected a makeshift altar from felled trees. Clara saw their dark hooded figures, the tiny shape of Bo leaning against a tree. Nicholas's shrouded silhouette.

She grabbed Godfather's hand, feeling suddenly like a small girl again. “You know I love you, Godfather. You've always been dear to me. No statues or princes can change that.”

His hand closed around hers. “I know.”

Together they moved toward the fire.

* * *

Godfather had instructed her. Nicholas was facing her. The mages surrounded them, and so, farther back, did the Prince's Army. Bo perched, anxious and wide-eyed, in a black tree.

The fire burned. Above, Anise's storms raged.

There was nothing left to do but begin.

They knelt on either side of the altar, Godfather at the head of it.
Like a priest,
Clara thought, feeling overwrought in the silence.
A priest with one eye. A one-eyed witch-priest.

“Clara,” Godfather warned under his breath.

She closed her eyes, willing herself calm.

“Since the first mages met the royal family of Cane,” Godfather began, “there have been bindings. They exist to benefit both humans and mages, both royals and servants. To strengthen and protect, to teach and to promise . . .”

He continued intoning the traditional introduction. At first Clara listened with her eyes closed. The heat of the fire washed over her, and the sounds of popping wood crackled at her ears.

Then she felt a prickling up her spine, across her breasts, and down her belly, and opened her eyes.

Nicholas was watching her. The prickling became a thrill.

Godfather was saying something, but at first she did not hear. He cleared his throat and said it again: “You may now disrobe.”

Hands shaking, Clara stood. Across the pyre Nicholas mirrored her. Her toes burned with the closeness of the fire, but that was nothing compared to the flush of her body as she shrugged off the robe. For a moment she longed to reach for it, but then she thought of Anise,
which was such an incongruous thing to think of at this moment that it almost made her laugh. But the memory of standing on the rooftop with nothing between her and the snow but the night air was, oddly, a comfort.

It's just a body, Clara, the only one you will ever have.

She stood tall, arms at her sides.

Across from her the lean lines of Nicholas's body flickered. In the glamour of firelight the wicked metal encroaching upon him seemed alluring. He smiled softly at her, as if they shared a secret no one else could know.

Godfather placed two daggers on the altar before them. “You may begin.”

This would be the hardest part. To maintain the
wanting
, the willingness, despite the pain. When Clara gripped the dagger's hilt, it nearly slipped away. Her hand was sweating.

Then Nicholas was there, his hands gentle at her waist. She was glad to feel in his touch that he was nervous as well. He whispered “Brave Clara” against her cheek, raised his blade to her shoulder, and cut.

It did hurt, but Clara gritted her teeth past it and continued. Once the first cut was made, the rest had to follow soon after. She cut his right shoulder to mirror her left, and then her eyes rose to meet his.

“My turn,” she whispered.

His eyebrow quirked. “Be gentle.”

She fought an anxious smile. Perhaps smiles were not proper at such a moment. But it tugged at her mouth anyway as she nicked his chest, and he hers; then a thigh each, a cheek each; light scrapes at each other's navel, the cold blades dragging across bare skin. Each cut represented something different: the shoulder, strength; the cheek, words.

When a dozen bright lines shone on each of their bodies, they lowered their knives. Clara smarted all over. The wind bit her, the fire's smoke stung her. The mages seemed to hold their breaths. Even Erik's face had lost its perpetual crossness.

“Now the sharing,” Godfather said from worlds away.

Nicholas sliced a line across the back of his hand, dipped his finger in it, and began tracing each of Clara's cuts. His fingers skated across her body, lingering here and there. As their blood mixed, she thought she could feel his heartbeat sink into hers, and she yearned desperately to kiss him. His lips moved, silently murmuring, “One . . . two . . . three,” counting each wound as if in apology, or prayer. When it was her turn, the first touch of her finger to his body nearly made her scream, or laugh—anything to relieve the tension.

She pressed on, counting. “One . . . two . . . three”—his shoulder, his chest, his thigh. “Four . . . five . . . six”—his cheek, his navel, his wrist.

When it was done, they looked to Godfather. His expression was unreadable.

“Clasp hands,” he said, and they did, the fire licking at them. This was the deciding moment, the one that more than anything else determined the bond's strength.

Clara had to say the binding words, and they had to be the right ones. That was all Godfather had told her, that each bound mage's incantation was different. That it was the one magic done with words, and unspeakably powerful because of it.

If the words were right.

“They should be of your soul,” he had said.

Her soul. As if that were an easy thing to decipher.

She closed her eyes, her hand slippery in Nicholas's grip, and began. Her voice was thin but grew stronger with each uttered word.

“Nicholas Drachstelle,” she said, “I have known you since I was a girl. I told you my secrets when no one was looking. I whispered my fears to you.”

His hand tightened around hers, and she opened her eyes. She did not close them again.

Sweat slid down the curve of her back. Embarrassment and nervousness and sweet, aching anticipation filled her. “You were the one
thing in my life that demanded nothing of me. You accepted me for who I was—a girl searching for a safe hand in the dark.” She paused, smiled wryly. “You were only a statue, but to me you were real. You pulled at me. And now you
are
real, flesh and blood. You hurt me once.” A flinch, across both of their bodies; shame in Nicholas's eyes. “But now, at your most desperate, in your moment of greatest pain, you put my safety before yours. And that is why I bond with you now.”

She nodded, signaling the end. But Nicholas's eyes were full of heat, and he pulled her gently closer so that the full press of his body was against her.

Clara gasped, shifted in his arms at the unexpected contact, at the sheer
pleasure
of it. He was not supposed to do anything else. The ritual was meant to be over. Godfather moved, but Clara raised a finger to warn him off.

“Clara Stole,” Nicholas said, his voice low, “I swear to you on the strength of this bond that I will never use it to hurt or coerce you, to force you to act against your will. I considered it once. I admit that, and I am ashamed of it. But I swear to you I will not do it again. Not even with this bond between us. Not even if it would destroy me to refrain. Not even then, Clara. Especially not then.”

Clara started at that. Could he know what she had planned, should they survive this?

He couldn't.

The words said, something ancient ripped through them, blood to blood. It rattled Clara's bones. Their bodies arched and fell, their hands clasped. A scream formed in Clara's throat, and she choked it back, hard.

A force pulsed out from them, shaking Bo's perch, rustling Ralk's hair.

Nauseated, Clara used the altar to climb to her feet. Her wounds were closed, though blood still shone on her skin. Godfather was there, wrapping the robe around her as Ralk and Bo helped Nicholas.

Overhead, the storms continued. The ground still shook, and Clara could feel it all the more sharply, as though a piece of Cane had embedded itself in her.

“Clara.” Nicholas's voice. Disoriented, she turned to him, dazed in Godfather's arms.

Nicholas fumbled for her hand. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

“A bit.” She smiled. “But it's nothing I can't handle. We two-bloods are made of sterner stuff than most, you know.”

The words drained her. She slumped against Godfather, but not before Nicholas stroked her wrist. “Nothing mere about you, Lady Clara,” he murmured to her, and then Godfather was leading her away, fussing over her robe.

It was finished.

* * *

Clara tossed and turned on her hard cot, the rough blankets abrasive against her oversensitized skin. She hadn't been able to sleep since the binding. Whispers in the night distracted her, things she had been dimly aware of before—leaves dying and breezes blowing and the earth groaning, and Anise's cruel magic tearing through it all like venom.

She worried her fingers over the spot on her navel where the cut had been, where Nicholas's fingers had lingered, and sighed sharply.

Might as well give in to it—she certainly wasn't going to sleep.

She slipped out past Godfather, who had a surprisingly delicate snore, through the black thicket with its rustling flowered briars, and into Nicholas's cottage across the way.

Once inside, she hesitated at the door. But then Nicholas softly called her name, and she shut the door and went to him.

They hurried toward each other and then stopped, awkward. Clara searched for words to say but found none. She heard Nicholas's careful breathing, felt the tension as he held himself back from her. Everything was new between them, or perhaps simply unveiled. She knew him, and she didn't—or she had simply discovered a new part of him.
Distrust lingered in her heart, but he had done much to counter it since finding her at the Summer Palace. She struggled with this inner war of pride and self-respect, of wanting and
need
.