Fire & Ice

by Patty Jansen

  But more Knights were coming up to her, all older men with lots of gold on their collars.

  “How wonderful of you to grace us with a visit,” a Knight said. She couldn’t see his face because he bowed so deeply.

  “Thank you for receiving me.” She had to stay polite and formal, oh so boring.

  “I have had the honour of being appointed as your guide, Your Highness. What would you like to see first?” He was still speaking to the snow at his feet.

  “I should like to see the flying races,” Jevaithi said.

  “The eagle race pens are on the other side of the festival grounds,” the Knight said.

  “Then I shall walk there.”

  Rider Cornatan bent to her, whispering, “Your Highness, I don’t think—”

  “Walking is healthy.”

  He didn’t dare protest.

  “Lead the way, my good Knight,” she said to the guide.

  The guards cleared a path through the crowd. People crowded along the sides. Burly merchants, mothers with children, all chanting, Jevaithi, Jevaithi.

  Jevaithi smiled and waved. She stopped to admire a young mother’s baby, stroking the little head with hair soft as fur. A young man—the woman’s older son?—stood, red-faced, slaving over a vat of steaming oil. Whatever he sold, the smell made her mouth water.

  “Rider Cornatan, I’d like to have some of what he’s cooking.”

  “It’s saltmeat,” he hissed at her shoulder. “You can’t eat that, Your Highness.”

  “Why not?” She breathed the delicious scent that rose from the pot. The young man blushed furiously. He was perhaps only a few years older than her. Did he see her feather?

  “Yes, I will have some,” Jevaithi said in a clear voice.

  The man scrambled to ladle a spoonful of steaming meat into a bag. Jevaithi reached forward, but a Knight had already taken the bag.

  “With the compliments of my family, Your Highness.”

  “No, I won’t have that. I’m a decent person. Pay him, Rider Cornatan.”

  He did. Unfortunately, Jevaithi couldn’t see the look on his face.

  The Knight held the bag for her while she slipped the glove off her left hand to pick up a piece of meat.

  “Do you want some?” she asked him.

  His face radiated distaste. “Your Highness, you may want to be careful what you eat. This is the Outer City, and it’s not as clean as—”

  She put the meat in her mouth. It was very salty and crispy, but hot and spicy. The taste exploded on her tongue. The taste of freedom.

  “I shall be just fine.” Anything that was this salty couldn’t possibly be contaminated anyway.

  By the time the group had made their way across the chaos of the festival grounds, the bag was empty. She had eaten half of it, and offered the other half to children along the way. Those children now followed the parade, along with hundreds of other people. Some came up offering her presents. A young merchant boy ran up to her and gave her a shawl made of thin silk. It was a beautiful thing, and he insisted that she keep it and that he didn’t want to be paid for it. If his mother, who wove the silk, heard that the queen was wearing her work, the light might return to her eyes.

  Jevaithi found it hard to keep her composure. These people loved her more than she had loved them. These were her people, not the Knights.

  They arrived at the eagle pens.

  Hemmed in by a frame of temporary metal fencing stood at least fifty eagles, magnificent creatures with gleaming white feathered heads, bright-yellow beaks and strong tawny wings. The beasts fidgeted and flapped, no doubt sensing the tension and activity around them. Each eagle was being attended by its young Knight. Most of them were Apprentices, boys of between fourteen and seventeen years of age. As old as she was. What would it be like, to fly on the back of an eagle? Did girls ever do that? They should have female Knights. Enough women in the city were infertile and lived as grumpy old maids. She should propose that, the first time she attended the Knight’s Council. That would get those old men talking.

  To the left of the pens was the official starting point, a square arena outlined by red paint in the snow.

  Someone had made a viewing stand out of pieces of fencing. There were two benches, covered by bearskins and even a frame for a canopy, in case of snow.

  This was where Rider Cornatan led her. Jevaithi felt embarrassed. Someone had made this just for her? She sat down, wrapping the furs around her legs. The Knights stood at attention. Rider Cornatan remained standing next to her.

  A cheer went up around the pen. Eagles flapped and squawked, disturbed by the noise, which prompted their handlers to pull on their reins while ducking out of the way of flapping wings.

  “What are the rules for the race?” she asked the Knight guide.

  He bowed. “The contestants had a preliminary race the day before yesterday.” She wished he would stand up straight and look at her. “The Knights you see here are the ones who came through that selection, the finest in the land. They fly in teams of two where they have to pass a message cylinder between them twelve times, and be the first team back here. If they drop the cylinder, they’re out of the race. If they make an improper change, they’re out as well. They’re flying a distance of twenty miles. Part of it will be over ocean and dangerous terrain—”

  A blast from a horn drowned out his words.

  Something was happening in the pens. Each young Knight had untied his eagle and was leading his bird forward by the reins. Some birds walked stately, others found it necessary to snap and hiss at their neighbours. Silver coins glistened on the birds’ harnesses. Bells tinkled on the reins. One Knight had painted gold spots on the bird’s beak.

  Jevaithi had been to the eyrie a few times, but she had never seen the birds so magnificently attired. Each Knight was dressed in a thick short-hair cloak and immaculate red tunic. They had keen eyes and proud faces, the sons of the city’s nobles.

  As they filed past, and lined up in the starting area, a young man amongst them drew Jevaithi’s attention. He stood straight-backed and proud. His glossy black hair was tied in a plait. He wore no jewellery, unlike most other Apprentices—nothing that wasn’t part of the uniform. His hands were red and rough from riding; his gaze was serious. He didn’t wave at parents or wink at girls.

  As she watched, a single strand of golden light snaked over his right leg.

  She realised with a shock. He’s Imperfect. How was that possible? All her life, she’d been told Imperfect children were killed after birth.

  And there he was, looking at her, as if he knew . . . or felt . . . or saw what she hid, just like she saw what he was trying to hide.

  The Knight next to her was still explaining the rules, but his words slid past her.

  The Apprentice was about her age, teamed up with a boy taller and broader than him but much coarser in features, although this boy also stared at her, and at Rider Cornatan. Rider Cornatan even winked at him.

  An older Knight blew a whistle. All the riders mounted their birds. Some put their foot in the stirrup and swung the other leg over. Some, like the Imperfect Apprentice, let their eagles crouch first. He definitely had only one leg, although it was cleverly concealed by a boot on the end of what she presumed was a wooden peg. Now that she was aware of it, she noticed the golden glow around his leg more clearly. Clever. Even his trouser leg stood up as if there was a proper lower limb inside. No one would notice. No one but her.

  A second whistle sounded. Eagles poised, their wings spread. The crowd grew quiet. The Knights gripped their reins. The Imperfect rider glanced at her. Jevaithi couldn’t contain a smile. He met her eyes squarely. He had heavy eyebrows, high cheekbones and full lips. His skin was pale with a tinge of red excitement. One corner of his mouth curled up, leaving a dimple in his cheek.

  Jevaithi slid her hand up to her throat, pulling the feather out from under her cloak, but at that moment, there was another blast of the horn and the Knights were off with a flurry
of flapping wings.

  “It will be a while before they return,” Rider Cornatan said, while Jevaithi looked after the eagle silhouettes which were fast getting smaller. “We could meet some of the Senior Knights.”

  “Let them come here,” she said. “I’ll wait.”

  She’d wait however long was necessary to see that young man return.

  Rider Cornatan raised his eyebrows.

  “If I am to choose a Queen’s Champion as you said, I’d better watch the riders.”

  Rider Cornatan seemed happy with that response. She guessed it made protecting her easier for him. He sat down next to her, and said in a low voice, “On the subject of the Queen’s Champion, Your Highness, I should point out to you which Apprentice has the highest points score.”

  “You already know that? Before the race has even finished? That’s not how it should be done. I read the rules and it says the Queen or her representative can choose from all participants, as long as they completed the race and made all twelve changes. It is the tradition that the Champion is chosen from the first five, although my mother chose a different Apprentice on at least one occasion. The Queen’s Champion is about fairness and skill.”

  He gave her a sharp glance, opened his mouth, but closed it again. “Yes, that it true, Your Highness. You read the books well.”

  “I thought I had better check the rules for what I’m supposed to be choosing.” And it was not as if she had so much else to do.

  She leaned back in her seat in mock-relaxed fashion. Her heart was hammering in her chest. She’d been openly defying and needling him since she left her tower room. Would he punish her when they returned?

  A wry smile played over Rider Cornatan’s mouth, also not a pleasant expression. “Pardon me for taking liberties, Your Highness. I should have said I can give you some good suggestions.”

  Oh, indeed. “Go ahead, and give me the suggestions, then. I don’t know any of these Apprentices by name.”

  So she listened to a string of middle-ranked Knights extolling the virtues of the young Apprentices who had just gone out to race. The name of the Imperfect boy was Isandor, and he was a native of the Outer City. Even the name made her shiver. She very much wanted to ask about him, but she didn’t, and the Knights volunteered little information. Her mother had always said, If you want something that’s not in your power to have, keep quiet about it until it is. Several times, she found the question on her tongue, but one glance at Rider Cornatan stopped her.

  She didn’t want to bring the Apprentice in danger with her questioning, but she had to speak to him. No one, not even her mother, had mentioned that there were other Imperfects.

  Chapter 16

  * * *

  ISANDOR HELD the reins tight and gazed at his destination over the bobbing head of the eagle. Even though he wore goggles and a facemask, his face was numb from the cold. There was no sun today, only a mass of dull white clouds. Darker clouds on the horizon promised more snow.

  Isandor and Carro led a group of eagles which had detached from the main body of competitors about the halfway mark. One Apprentice had since dropped the cylinder in the frigid waters of the sea, disqualifying his team. Now they were on the home leg, the cylinder had passed from Isandor to Carro and back ten times. They still had two changes to make.

  The other riders, led by Jono and Caman, were uncomfortably close. Carro wasn’t flying well. He was using the reins too much to balance. He’d barely said anything since they got up this morning; he’d looked tired but wouldn’t answer questions about what he’d done last night.

  Carro’s eagle was fidgety and snappy, probably tired, too. What had Carro been doing? Yesterday was meant to have been a rest day.

  They had to win; they just had to. The winners would be presented to the Queen, and her gaze still burned in Isandor’s mind. Those eyes were true royal blue. Her smile was more beautiful than he had ever seen.

  The second last exchange of the cylinder was due. A Knight on a lazily circling eagle patrolled the change point. Isandor steered his eagle into a circle and swung the cylinder. It flew through the air, catching the light. Carro caught it neatly. He grinned, although his face was hard with fatigue.

  “Now, come on!” Isandor yelled and pulled the eagle out of the spin. “We’ve almost done it.”

  Jono and Caman were now circling the change point, only a few wing beats behind, but Isandor could already see the festival grounds, and on the edge, the stands where the Queen was waiting.

  Come on, come on, come on.

  He saw her cheering—no not cheering, that was too undignified for a Queen—but clapping. He saw himself walking up to her to receive his medal as Queen’s Champion.

  No, he’d better keep his mind on the job. The Senior Knights always decided who would become Champion anyway, and they always chose a boy from the noble families.

  Stop daydreaming. Do you know how much power one fifteen-year-old girl has over an age-old institute of men? Tandor’s words came to haunt him.

  The last change point. He brought his eagle into a tight spin so it circled Carro’s.

  Carro raised himself in the saddle. He was shivering, Isandor could see that even from his position. He lifted his arm and threw the cylinder. It flipped through the air, catching the light.

  Short.

  Isandor reached as far as he could, but his hand grasped thin air.

  No.

  For one horrible moment he stared at the twirling cylinder plummeting towards the gleaming ocean and the ice floes.

  No.

  Another moment and he had pulled the reins hard. The eagle screeched protest, but it pulled in its wings and dived. It went hurtling towards the ground. Isandor’s stomach lurched. Freezing air cut into his face as the ground came up fast. His vision blurred from his watering eyes, but he focused on the tumbling cylinder.

  Down, down, faster, faster.

  He plummeted past the Knight who patrolled the change point. The man yelled out but Isandor couldn’t make out the words.

  He was not going to make it. He was not going to make it. The eagle couldn’t dive fast enough.

  Stop, stop, stop!

  Golden light snaked out of the air. It wrapped around his hands, cocooned the eagle and caught the falling cylinder, freezing it in mid-air. Just a moment, and then Isandor had reached it and clasped his hand around the cold metal. A sharp pull of the reins brought the eagle soaring into the air again, its immense wings flapping. It gave a piercing cry.

  Isandor stood in the saddle, balling his fist around the cylinder.

  Yes, yes, yes!

  “By the skylights, how did you do that, Isandor?” Carro shouted from his beast. His eyes were wide, pleading almost, scared. His lips were blue with cold and he shivered worse than ever. Isandor on the other hand, was hot and glowing from his victory.

  Isandor smiled, but felt uneasy. Carro couldn’t see icefire. But one day, Tandor said someone would see it.

  “Never mind that, I’ve got it,” he shouted at Carro, trying to sound careless. “Just don’t fall off until we get there, all right?”

  Carro returned a sharp look, and something flickered over his face. Worry?

  Isandor didn’t like to think about it. He had to concentrate, or he would fall off himself, as shivers overtook him.

  The eagle flew lower, spread its wings and stretched out its yellow feet. It landed in the snow with a thump. People were cheering, but he barely heard it. The truth hit him hard. He had just used icefire to win the race, not just to bend it to hide his missing leg, but use it to his advantage. The old king used to do that, the old king, who had been the worst murderer the southern land had ever known.

  In his mind, he heard Tandor’s voice. The Thillei blood is strong in you.

  No, he didn’t want this. He wanted to be a good Knight.

  The crowd had swelled since the start of the race. People were clapping and cheering. Isandor spotted his uncle in the crowd, waving wildly. He waved back,
but felt sick. He had failed them all.

  Isandor let himself slide from the saddle, clutching the cylinder against his chest. His heart was still going at a crazy rate. There was no escape. The bird handlers were hustling him and Carro out of the arena to the holding pens, where young boys threw steaming hunks of meat at the birds. He didn’t dare look at his friend. Carro had the right to be angry. They’d lose all their points. Isandor didn’t even want to contemplate what the Knights would do to him when he got back to the eyrie later today. Carro would never forgive him.