Mistress of Winter

by Giles Carwyn

Three pasty-faced Ohohhim rushed out of the mist toward the noise. Brophy held up a hand and shook his head, a fierce look in his eyes. The Ohohhim stopped, but they didn’t leave. Others rushed up to join them.

  Astor stabbed left, spinning along the statue and coming around right, flushing Brophy into the open. Astor’s heart leapt, and he charged, stabbing the sword through cloth. Brophy’s tunic ripped, but the sword didn’t pierce flesh.

  Astor stumbled, catching his balance on another sculpture. He glanced at it and was suddenly struck by what he saw. It was his mother. Young, slender, tired but still beautiful, cradling her broken wrists to her chest. He looked around. There was Shara-lani, kneeling, with Brophy’s head in her lap. And Scythe on the verge of death. Mother Medew cradling a crying baby. What was this place?

  Brophy backed away, keeping his hands between them. “I loved her, too, Astor.”

  “You cut her down from behind!” Astor yelled. “You slaughtered her like a pig!”

  Astor snarled and rushed at him. Brophy caught his wrist and twisted. With a cry, Astor stumbled, falling to his knees. He turned to slash at Brophy’s legs, but his cousin stomped on the blade. Pain fired through Astor’s fingers and jolted into his shoulder. The Sword of Autumn clanged across the rock floor.

  Astor leapt for the blade, but Brophy snatched up the sword and tossed it into the mists. It clanging to the ground far away.

  Astor charged, driving his shoulder into Brophy’s belly. They tumbled to the ground.

  “Astor,” Brophy said in a hoarse voice. Astor punched him in the jaw, slamming his head to the side. Pinning one of Brophy’s arms under a knee, Astor hit him again with all of his strength. And again. And again. Jolts of pain shot up his forearms with each blow.

  “Monster!” he spat, grabbing Brophy’s other arm and pinning it. He groped for one of the scattered stones, raised it over his head, and brought it down in a crushing blow.

  Brophy yanked a hand from under Astor’s knee. The rock smacked against his forearm, deflected away. Brophy’s heartstone flashed and, one-handed, he twisted the rock from Astor’s grasp.

  “No!” Astor smashed a fist into Brophy’s face. Brophy’s head snapped sideways, and Astor hit him the other way, hit him again, and again. One fist, then the other, then the other.

  “Why,” Astor yelled. “Why did you kill her!”

  Brophy’s left eye was cut and bleeding. His nose was broken, his lip split. His breath whistled through mashed nostrils. “I’m so sorry,” he slurred softly, spitting blood with each word. “I’m so…so sorry.”

  Astor kept hitting him, and Brophy let him. Why? Why didn’t he fight back? Finally, Astor collapsed forward onto one hand, staring at the ruin of Brophy’s face. There was blood everywhere. Brophy’s golden curls were drenched in it.

  Brophy reached up, wrapped an arm around Astor. Astor batted him away, slammed a fist into Brophy’s bloody face. “Why!” he screamed. “Why did you do it?”

  Brophy pulled him down into a fierce embrace. Astor shuddered against his cousin’s chest. Through cut lips, Brophy mumbled. “I’m sorry. I am so sorry. Hit me as much as you want. Hit me as much as you need.”

  CHAPTER 36

  We got trouble.”

  Lawdon hopped off the bed and hurried over to the curtained window Mikal was peering through.

  “That’s her,” Mikal said. “Natshea.”

  Lawdon ducked below him and put her eye to the gap in the curtains. Someone in a dark cloak skipped past a guard on the closest gangplank of the adjacent ship. She headed for an open hatch in the center of the ship. “Are you sure?” she asked.

  “Yup. I can tell by the way she walks.”

  “That’s the last thing we need.”

  “One more won’t make a difference.”

  Lawdon had to agree. Four of the Summer Princes had agreed to join her raid on Glory of Summer. To her surprise, they had even agreed to arrest Vinghelt himself. Each prince was sending twenty men to make sure there wouldn’t be a struggle, or if there was, it would be a short one. With the handful of Reignholtz’s men that Lawdon had been able to gather, that was almost a hundred swords against the four men guarding Vinghelt’s gangplanks and the eight more playing dice in the forward compartment. A hundred against twelve. And Natshea. And a fat magician. Lawdon liked those odds.

  She and Mikal had kept an eye on Vinghelt’s ship all day, making sure nobody, especially nobody carrying suspicious bloody bundles, left the ship. She had two men on the other side doing the same thing, and ten more wandering the decks in shifts.

  The four princes would send their men just before dawn. In a few hours, this would all be over.

  “She’s gone belowdecks,” Mikal said.

  “Good. Let’s hope she stays there.”

  Mikal had become such a solid presence in the last few days. Quiet, reserved, intense. But he still managed to come up with a joke, usually at his own expense, exactly when she seemed to need one. She had to admit, she liked him a lot better when Shara wasn’t around.

  Lawdon heard a faint sound coming from Glory of Summer. “Did you hear that?” she asked.

  Mikal nodded. “It sounded like a scream.”

  He headed for the door. “No, wait,” Lawdon said, but he was already through the door and down the hall. She followed him onto the deck of Dancing Dolphin.

  The guard on the closest gangplank was looking toward the center of the ship. The eight men in the forward compartment rushed onto the deck.

  “What was that?” one of them shouted.

  “Don’t know,” the man at the gangplank shouted back. “Go look.”

  Before the men could respond, a deep “whump” shook the deck. Half the portside windows shattered, and tongues of flame shot up between the ships.

  “Fessa’s tail!” Lawdon hissed, flinching away from the flying glass.

  Mikal rushed forward. A figure emerged from the central hatch, just ahead of a column of flames that shot up into the rigging.

  “Go ring the fire bell!” Mikal shouted, running toward the other ship. “Go!”

  “What about Shara?” she called running after him.

  “I’ll get her. You ring that bell. This whole place could go up!” He followed the gangplank guard onto the ship.

  Lawdon whipped around, looking for Dancing Dolphin’s fire bell. She couldn’t see one, but there was a huge silver one on Glory of Summer’s aft deck, reflecting the shifting flames.

  She sprinted in that direction.

  Natshea shook the last of the flames off her boots and looked at her blackened and blistered hands. Her vision wavered as the pain rushed through her. She drank it up like wine poured straight down her throat.

  A man in black and gold ran up to her, put his hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She whipped her sword out of its sheath and sliced his hand off. He screamed and fell to his knees, collapsing against her legs. Her knee snapped up under his jaw, and he flew three feet backward. “Don’t you touch me!” she screamed, the sound strangely muffled as voices howled in her head.

  Natshea’s gaze snapped up as another man ran toward her, a naked blade in his hand.

  “What are you doing?” he yelled, and she recognized him immediately. The new champion had arrived to rescue his whore.

  Natshea raised an eyebrow and spun her sword around. “Is that a challenge?”

  “What?” Young Heidvell shook his head and moved toward the burning hatch, shielding his eyes. “How many people are still below?”

  She slipped into her dueling stance and said:

  “As naked steel cuts naked soul

  I reclaim the title that you stole

  We’ll dance until my name is sung

  And know who—

  “Shut up, you crazy bitch! People are dying in there!”

  The voices in Natshea’s head howled, and she scissor-stepped forward, lunging for Mikal’s heart, but he was already moving. Spinning, he blocked her stri
ke and moved to the side, knees bent, feet stepping lightly.

  “Are you mad?” he cried.

  She struck at him again. Sword clanged off sword. Mikal matched her, his teeth clenched in rage as he narrowly countered each strike.

  Natshea spoke again as she fenced:

  “Death is more than she deserves

  And the foul master that she serves

  They’ll feast on flesh and flame tonight

  As I’ll wash them clean from my sight.”

  Pain surged through her burned skin and blistered hands as she drove the upstart back. He would pay for what he’d done. They would all pay.

  Shara shuddered, but held herself in check. The haze of overwhelming pleasure hovered around them like mist, but she didn’t embrace it. Not yet.

  She lay atop Jesheks, one hand splayed on his chest, one tucked between her feverish thighs. They looked into one another, eyes open. Skin on skin. Hearts so close.

  The ani swirling around them could have enthralled an army, but Jesheks still resisted, and Shara would not surrender to the cresting wave without him. Every sensation that rippled through her body she funneled into his chest, into his heart.

  Faltering in his breathing, Jesheks clenched his eyes shut and turned his head away.

  “Keep them open, my love. Keep them open,” Shara gasped, feeling as if the waves of pleasure would rip her apart, but she held them, rode the crest of that wave. He was close, so very close. When he finally let go, she would give it all to him, but not a moment before. The man’s defenses were crumbling, shivering with every bit of energy she gave him, but his walls were still bound to the core of his being.

  “Show me what you see,” she whispered breathlessly, sliding against him. “Show me.”

  Forcing his head back up, he opened his eyes and gave it all to her, let it flow freely. Her breath came suddenly, and she entered his mind.

  The cabin swirled away. Time slipped away, and Shara was back in Jesheks’s room with the crackling fire. She looked down the length of her arms, tied again to the iron loops above the fireplace, but this time with thick links of chain. The flames were searing hot on her face, breasts, and belly. Sweat dribbled down her naked body.

  A cool hand touched her shoulder, and the smoke from the fire stung her eyes. She blinked and turned.

  Jesheks stood behind her, but not the Jesheks she knew. He was slim and muscled, with broad shoulders and skin that shone like ivory. His ridged stomach glistened, stacked squares in stark relief in the flickering light. A silver river of hair cascaded down his back, spilling over shoulders and arms that were smooth and unscarred.

  He grabbed her waist in powerful hands and lifted her off the floor.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes…”

  His muscled stomach pushed against her butt. With a grunt, he slid his ivory cock into her.

  She gasped, shuddering as it filled her, stretching her to the brink of joy and agony.

  “Yes,” she cried as her control slipped. “But let me face you. Let me look at you.”

  Her chains dissolved, and she pulled away, the loss of connection heart-rending. She slipped around in his embrace, slick with sweat. His hands were frantic, bestial. He picked her up, spread her legs, and shoved himself inside her again.

  The power rocked her, and she shuddered. Not yet! Not yet! Her back bent, and she grappled with his neck, wound his silver hair in her fist. He slammed into her again, and again.

  “Not yet,” she moaned, to herself or to Jesheks, it didn’t matter. “Not yet. I want you. I want you. The real you.”

  Using a thin fraction of the power that surged through the room, Shara changed the dream, slowly. Oh so slowly.

  The silver hair became lank and white. The perfect man thrusting into her became round, soft, covered with scars.

  In the distance, a bell rang.

  Jesheks continued moving inside her, every thrust jolting her entire body.

  The bell rang again, urgently.

  “All the way,” Shara said. “All the way.”

  His cock disappeared, but her hand continued to move between her legs.

  “Like this,” she whispered. “Like this.”

  The vision faded altogether. Shara still lay atop Jesheks, her legs squeezing him. He stared at her with eyes wide-open, astonished. Their sweat mingled, and his breath came in little gasps.

  “What…” he huffed. “What is this? What are you doing?”

  Shara grinned.

  “That feeling? What is…”

  “Rush into it,” she said. “Rush into it, my love. You are close. So close.” She leaned into him, and he did not flinch away. “Look at me.” He gazed into her eyes, and her heart welled over. “Look at me.”

  Her fingers moved faster, harder, in time with the distant bell. The smoke continued to sting her eyes, and a tear fell from her face, splashed on his cheek.

  Let me see you. Let me love you. All the way—

  A loud bang jolted her. Her breath faltered. Jesheks turned away.

  Another bang reverberated through the room.

  Someone was shouting. “Get out here! Get out here and save us!”

  Disoriented, Shara turned to look at the door. She could hardly see through the smoke in the room.

  Another loud bang and a crunch this time. The door flew open, rebounding against the wall.

  Vinghelt stumbled through, an axe in his hand. A bloody wound marred his face, and smoke billowed in after him.

  “Jesheks! Get us out! Get us out! We’re trap—” He stopped in his tracks when he saw them, his jaw hanging open. His face curdled like sour milk. “Fessa of the Deep!” he cried in revulsion.

  Jesheks threw her to the other side of the bed and leapt to his feet, his whole body quivering in rage.

  “That’s disgusting!” Vinghelt gasped, his nose wrinkled high.

  With a roar, Jesheks launched himself at the Summer Prince.

  Lawdon slammed the hilts of her daggers against the fire bell, one after the other. It seemed a lifetime before she heard the resounding answer to the aft, then to port and starboard. She continued hammering at it until the entire Floating Palace was a cacophony of bells.

  She turned to the madness on the deck below. Mikal was fighting furiously with Natshea as the rigging burned above them. The woman was insane! What could she possibly be trying to do?

  Cocking back a hand, Lawdon threw a dagger. She barely missed, just behind Natshea’s back. Her blade tumbled across the deck and disappeared over the side. She drew back to throw the other one, but Natshea shifted, moving so Mikal was between them.

  Lawdon turned, ready to run and help him when another gout of flame spurted skyward from Lord Munkholtz’s ship, three over.

  “What—” she murmured, squinting. Another flicker erupted to the north. Lawdon spun. And another to the west.

  What was it? Some kind of attack? For an excruciating moment, Lawdon stood paralyzed. How could they fight off that much fire? How could…

  She could hear Reignholtz’s voice in the back of her mind.

  “Keep focused. Only a fool tries to sail the entire ocean. One wave at a time. You ride a storm one wave at a time.”

  Flames soared out of the open hatch and through the open windows on the lower decks. How in the world could it be burning so fast? She had never seen a fire like this before. If she didn’t do something, the entire Floating Palace would go up. Mikal would have to fend for himself. She’d have to trust that he could take care of himself long enough for her to put out this fire.

  “You!” she shouted at the stunned guards on Vinghelt’s deck. “Find buckets! Get help! Start a chain!” She ran to starboard, shouting at the small group of spectators standing on the next ship over, mesmerized by the flames. “You, start cutting lines! Separate this ship!” She paused, looked around. “No, wait, separate all of the ships. All of them! Do you hear me? Spread the word! Free the Floating Palace!”

  The twelve of them just st
ood there, staring dumbly at her.

  “Now, you morons! Get axes! Go! Go!”

  A gray-haired woman was the first to move, and the rest followed right after her.

  Lawdon paused, gazing at the roaring flames. Too fast. The fire was moving too fast. Buckets weren’t going to do it. They needed more water. An entire sea of water.

  Running to the rail, she looked down at the dark waves below. They had all the water in the world, but how did she get it up where it was needed?

  The “thunk” of an axe sounded, and she glanced along the rail to see one of Vinghelt’s men cutting lines. She squinted behind her. Natshea and Mikal’s battle had moved beyond her sight, obscured by people and smoke.

  She turned back to the task at hand, thinking hard. They could breach the hull, let in the water that way. If they had enough axes. If they could rig a sling to lower someone along the hull. She squinted back at the blaze, roaring skyward.

  No. It had to be something else. Something now. Ram it with another ship?

  No time. Not enough time! She couldn’t possibly separate the ships and bring any of them back at speed soon enough.

  They needed a storm, a wave to heel the ship on its side, swamp the ridiculous windows on this hulking pleasure barge.

  She stopped, stared up at the rigging. If they could set the sails, catch a cross gust…

  The sky was clear overhead. Stars blinked back at her through the haze of smoke. No storm. No wind at all. She growled in frustration, staring at the mainmast. If it were a toy boat, maybe she could…

  Wait!

  She spun around, her gaze flicking toward Dancing Dolphin to the starboard, then back to Vinghelt’s mainmast, staring up the long pole.

  Yes, she thought. It might just work. It would have to work. There was nothing else. She just hoped that Vinghelt had bought good rope.

  Very, very good rope.

  Natshea followed Heidvell across the smoky deck, reveling in the moment. He reached the forecastle and spun around to face her. Mikal shuffled sideways, desperate for an escape route. The scowling idiot didn’t seem to realize that he was completely outclassed. He hadn’t made a single attack that had come close to touching her, but he was proving infernally hard to hit. She lunged, going for a thigh, but he danced aside, his sword sliding between them just in time.