by Patty Jansen
“Are you sure?” She stared at him.
He nodded. “Please. Do it. Now.”
She hefted the dagger, her hand trembling.
Isandor closed his eyes. They should have practised on the Legless Lions more. They should have . . . No time, no time.
He held his breath. “Do it, please.” Before I change my mind and I get scared.
Impossible. He was already scared. Terrified. About to piss himself.
He felt, rather than saw, how her arm descended. The blade bit into his chest. A brief shot of intense pain. His scream died in his throat as ice cold invaded him. Silent wind whooshed out the hole in his chest. His life, seeping away from him. Death awaited him; he was—
Floating in the wind—
Everywhere and nowhere at all—
You are mine now. The voice was soft, but insistent. I think I’m going to like it.
He opened his eyes. The world had turned inside out. Shadows were white. The light against the wall was dark. Everything the opposite of what it should be.
There was only Jevaithi, holding his lifeblood in her hands. Her hair gleamed silver against her skin which was deep golden brown. Her eyes were rich magenta. She was so beautiful it hurt inside. He wanted to speak but couldn’t. I’ll do everything for you.
Here, take this. She passed him the dagger, while unbuttoning her dress. He stared at the dark skin, wanting to touch it, caress it—
Take my heart.
He didn’t question the order; he was hers. He hefted the dagger and stabbed. Her face turned white even before he had the heart in his hands. It pulsed strongly, but it now looked dark in his eyes.
There was no time to contemplate the reason for the changed colours.
Here, hold this. He handed her the other heart. She cradled both in her single hand against her chest, his heart and hers, together. Oh, how he wanted to kiss her. Her eyes were dark and full of longing. Her voice echoed in his mind. We’ll kiss later.
Yes, later, when they were safe.
He walked to the door and pushed his hands against it. Material bent around them. He pushed his arms further in, then a foot . . . He drew back, staring down at his two healthy legs. Two feet! In his mind, he was running over the snow plain, he was jumping over cracks in the ice, he—
No, he couldn’t get distracted.
He pushed further through the door. Blurred shapes moved around him, and chilled him.
His leg came out into the clear air of the alley, followed by his hands. He pushed his head out. There was no one in the alley, so he pulled the rest of his body free of the door. Jevaithi moved in the darkness behind the little barred window.
Give me the hearts.
A white-blue hand passed through the window grille, holding an object that was too black for him to see. It fell heavy in his hands, ice-cold but pulsing. Safe. Then the other one.
The wall shimmered and Jevaithi walked through slowly, feeling her way with her hands. Both her hands. She stopped. Black eyes blinked at ten slender fingers, pale blue. The colour of her skin and eyes mattered nothing. She was so beautiful.
I’m free.
Her joy made him glow. He wasn’t cold anymore. Tandor was right; he would never be cold anymore.
In two steps, he crossed the distance between them. He didn’t stop to consider how he had never done what he intended to do; he bent and closed his mouth over hers. Her lips were soft and warm and willing. Her elation almost hurt.
I love you, I love you, I love you. Her inner voice sank deep into every fibre of his body.
He had to tear himself from her grip. We must go. They weren’t safe yet.
Yes, I know that. Her gaze wandered to the hearts. Will we put them back?
He had intended to do that as soon as they got out, but he shook his head. Like this, they were strong. Like this, most Knights couldn’t see them, and like this, Tandor couldn’t make them his servitors. No, he had a much better idea, but that would have to wait until they were truly safe. He slid both hearts in his pocket.
Come.
They ran. The Legless Lion that was still outside hobbled along with them, even though the animal was now free. Or was it? Isandor felt in his pocket where he still had that animal’s heart.
He ran, like a real person. His leg was whole and propelled him forward as if he flew. The joy, the elation, her warm hand in his—he was never going to let her go. He was going to rule the world, and put all the injustice right. He was—
Careful. Jevaithi’s thought came like a shout.
She had stopped and yanked him back with tremendous strength. The Legless Lion couldn’t stop quite so quickly and it slid into the street on its belly before finding grip with its flippers and hobbling back.
What is it?
Knights.
Isandor peeked around the corner and he could see them, too, a group of four.
They can’t see us. He made to move into the street.
Wait.
What? He turned to her, to see worry crossing her face.
Don’t you feel it?
Yes, he did. A pulling sensation that made him shiver.
Look. She pointed.
Black threads moved against the light blue sky, tendrils of mist streaming towards the Knights.
What is it? The pulling became stronger, as if threads were stuck to his skin and refused to let go.
Icefire.
Yes, in this state icefire looked black. Leading to the Knights?
The group of Knights had come closer. Their voices sounded far off, but the warmth in their bodies was close.
There were four Knights, and one, at the front of the group, held an object that attracted icefire, which wove over the Knights’ heads.
Even through the tangle of black strands, Isandor recognised this Knight.
Carro. He was the one who held the object, a metal staff, poised as if it was a sword, with icefire streaming towards it.
“Which way?” one of the other Knights asked.
Carro waved the staff, his gloves covered in rime. “Something is very strong here.” His voice sounded hollow.
He looked into the street where Isandor and Jevaithi stood, straight past them, and then moved the staff slowly so that it pointed at them.
No!
Jevaithi’s shriek cut into Isandor’s mind. She stood frozen like some grotesque ice statue. Dark strands of icefire flowed from her hands to the staff. The outlines of her right hand were already fading. Icefire flew from his body as well, dissolving skin into the air.
Oh, the pain. Like boiling water over his skin.
With all the force he could muster, Isandor shoved Jevaithi into a porch, out of the path of the black braid of icefire. Now it hit him at full force. Pain exploded in every part of his body. He wanted to, but couldn’t, scream.
With immense effort, he picked up a lid from a composting bin and flung it at the Knights as hard as he could. It crashed into one of them, sending the young man toppling into the fellow next to him.
Carro yelled, “Watch out!”
The device had lost contact, and in that moment, Isandor covered the ground between them.
You betrayed me.
Carro couldn’t hear him of course. He was wildly waving the staff, which made contact with Isandor again. White-hot pain flared.
He was dimly aware that a shadow leapt up between him and Carro. Something snarled. The next moment, the Legless Lion had thrown itself at the group. Carro stumbled and fell. The staff flew out of his hands, twirling and tumbling until it hit the ground.
Carro sat there, dazed, white-faced. His mates ran off down the street.
Isandor sat on hands and knees, panting.
The Legless Lion lay in the snow. It had jumped up to save him and had injured itself by touching the staff. Its body lay still, but when Isandor ran his hand through the rough fur, one flipper twitched.
Isandor flinched with the animal’s pain. It lifted its head and blinked at him. He reac
hed in his pocket and brought out the animal’s heart.
Go, he told it as he slid it back into the hairy chest. You have done enough. The animal’s fur shivered as it returned to its normal state.
The Lion let its head sink back onto the ground. Sleep.
Isandor rose. The animal would recover.
Jevaithi had come out of her hiding place and walked towards the staff which lay on the ground, absorbing lazy tendrils of icefire. Now that Carro wasn’t holding it anymore, it had lost much of its power.
Don’t touch it.
She bent over it, shuddering visibly.
Carro had retreated against the icy wall of a limpet, his eyes wide, trembling. He was looking at the Legless Lion, which had raised itself and slowly hobbled down the street.
Isandor grabbed the front of Carro’s cloak, heaving him up until his feet came off the ground. His friend, taller than him, weighed no more than a sack of flour.
Carro’s eyes bulged, still focused on a point behind Isandor. He gave a tiny squeak. “Where are you?”
Isandor hesitated. What would he do? He could easily slam Carro into the wall and kill him. He could break Carro’s neck with a single snap. His hands ached to do just that. Carro had betrayed him. Carro had destroyed his life, his chance to be respected.
I would have been discovered anyway.
Isandor looked down into Carro’s face. There were tears in his eyes. His lips were blue and shivering. One cheek was dirty from where the lid of the composting bin had hit him. A trail of blood ran over his face from a cut above his eyebrow.
He’s just a coward. Carro did what people told him to do; he had always been like that.
Isandor got no pleasure out of killing cowards.
Prove yourself a real soldier, and we’ll fight over this later.
He tightened his hold on Carro’s cloak, swung his arm back and let Carro fly from his hands. His friend slid across the street like a rag doll, slammed into a heap of snow and remained there. For a moment, Isandor was afraid he’d used too much force, but then Carro raised his head.
Run, Jevaithi.
He took her hand, before he changed his mind, before he could no longer control his lust for blood. They ran through the streets, across the markets, where the merchants were guarding their stalls, eying a group of youths who stood outside the meltery. Isandor wondered if it was the same group he had joined briefly before rescuing Jevaithi.
The youths held sticks and shovels and stood together talking in low voices. Most of them had pulled their cloak collars over their faces. Acrid smoke billowed through the streets.
No one noticed Isandor and Jevaithi crossing the square. No one followed.
They went down the slope to the plain and the festival grounds, still bathed in the blue glow of eternal dawn. Aisles between tents were deserted, the previous day’s activity only hinted at by the trampled snow.
Two Knights guarded the eagle pens, standing in silent reflection, hidden in the warmth of their cloaks. Neither stirred when Isandor led the way through the pens.
The guards might not have seen anything, but Isandor’s eagle certainly did. It lifted its head and gave a series of clicking sounds that signified alertness.
Shhh. Isandor lifted the saddle off the fence and slung it on the bird’s back, checking several times over his shoulder to see if anyone noticed. The Knights were chatting to each other, facing the other way where people were shouting and flames rose above the roofs. He fastened the clasps and stepped into his riding harness, belting it up across his chest
Ready?
Jevaithi nodded.
Isandor hefted her onto the eagle. Hold on. She grabbed the handholds on top of the saddle. He untied the eagle’s reins and jumped up behind her, whistling at the bird. It spread its wings and with a whoosh of wind and flapping of wings, launched into the air.
There was a shout below them. A couple of Knights ran onto the snowfields, waving their arms. Too late.
All they would see was a riderless eagle flying over the moonlit landscape.
But down there, just entering the festival grounds was Tandor, running and shouting. He could see what Isandor had done, but there was no way Tandor could stop them.
Isandor laughed. He had fooled them all. He clutched Jevaithi to his chest, guiding the bird with his knees. He didn’t need to hold on. He didn’t need to breathe. The cold wind didn’t bother either of them. They ruled the world.
Chapter 24
* * *
LORIANE GASPED and stirred, lifting her head off something hard that hurt her ear. She sat, to her surprise, on the floor of Isandor’s sleeping shelf, leaning on the chair by his bed. One leg had gone numb and her ankle hurt where it pressed into the floor.
The fire in the stove downstairs had died to a pitiful glow that barely lit the furniture.
She must have fallen asleep, although she couldn’t remember sitting down. Myra slept in Isandor’s bed, her mouth open, her arm twitching by her side.
Loriane heaved herself to her feet. She did remember giving Myra the sleeping draught which had stopped her pains. The girl was too tired to continue, not having slept for two days, and all the hard work was still ahead.
A soft noise drifted up from downstairs, the sound of scrabbling on wood. If she was not mistaken, there was someone at the door, and now she guessed that the knocking had woken her op.
As quietly as she could, Loriane went down the stairs, across the main room, into the icy hall. On the way, she glanced at her own bed, but it was empty. Where was Tandor? He hadn’t said anything about where he was going.
She opened the outside door a tiny crack. Against the faint light of the midnight glow above the horizon, she could just make out a dark figure.
“Mistress Loriane?” A male voice, young. She didn’t recognise it. The man was much taller than her and wore a cloak. A Knight? She didn’t know any Knights except Isandor.
“Who is it?”
“Please, I need help.”
Loriane hesitated, registered that he hadn’t answered her question. Illegal business? Something to do with Tandor? She wanted to say He isn’t here, but that might betray Tandor.
“Please,” the man said again, and she heard a wobble in his voice. “I’m injured. I don’t know where else to go. The post at the festival grounds is closed, and you are the only healer I know. . . .”
No, Isandor wasn’t the only Knight she knew. He had a friend who had gone to the Knights with him, a son of a fabric merchant, a pale and pasty boy. This might well be him.
Slowly, she undid the chain and opened the door.
He stepped into the hall, where the feeble light allowed her to see the young man better. She thought this was indeed Isandor’s friend. He wore a short-hair Knight’s cloak, wet and dirty. His face was covered in blood, which had plastered his hair against his forehead and run into his eyes.
“Thank you. Sorry for . . . waking you up. ’S too much fighting . . . in the street t’ go . . . somewhere else. Don’t want to go home.” He needed to breathe through his mouth because dried blood blocked his nose.
She ushered him into the main room, motioning for him to be quiet, and gestured for him to sit down next to the stove. “I have a patient asleep upstairs,” she said in a low voice.
She grabbed a clean cloth, wet it with water from the jar that sat on the stove, and passed it to him.
“Here, wipe yourself with this. Wait here. I’ll be back.”
She rushed up the stairs to get her bag. What a bit of luck that she had taken her kit from the medical tent in the festival grounds this afternoon.
The sound of her footsteps woke Myra. She jerked up and coughed.
“Myra?”
It was hot and stuffy up here with the simmering fire, but Myra was shivering. Her eyes were wide and distant and her breath came in shallow gasps.
“You’re having pains again?”
Myra nodded and the next moment vomited all over her stomach. It wa
s mostly water, since she hadn’t eaten anything all day, but her nightgown was drenched.
“Oh!” Myra cried. She wrestled herself free of the blankets, rolled out of the bed onto hands and knees and sat there, alternately coughing and gasping and retching.
“Myra, Myra, calm down.”