by Joseph Lallo
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 reached 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 shivered. 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, which 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 if anyone noticed. The Knights were chatting to each other, facing the other way, where there were shouts and where 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 on the snow fields, 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 shorthair Knight’s cloak, wet and dirty. His face was covered in blood. It had plastered his hair against his forehead and had 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 was 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.”
But the girl wasn’t listening. Loriane wrestled the sodden nightgown off and stumbled to Isandor’s cupboard to find spare clothes.
Where was Tandor? He could have helped her with the young Knight downstairs.
She yanked a nightgown out of the cupboard. Myra was crying. She was drenched in sweat, and, Loriane realised with a shock, pushing. Was she ready yet?
“Come, Myra, let me examine you first.” She managed to get Myra off her knees but before she was back on the bed her waters broke, with fluid exploding all down her legs. Myra screamed. “Let me go. Don’t touch me!”
She grabbed hold of the back of the bed with white-knuckled hands and pushed until she was red in the face, gasped for air and pushed again. More fluid dribbled down her legs and puddled at her bare feet.
Loriane’s heart thudded. She had given the girl a lot of sedative; she couldn’t have gone from sleep to this stage so quickly.
“Myra, just calm down. Breathe deeply. I only want to check you.”
“I know about this checking of yours. It hurts. You keep away from me.”
Loriane put a hand on the girl’s shoulder. It was slick with sweat. “Myra—”
“Keep away, I said.” Myra lashed out and hit Loriane. Her nails bit into the skin of her arm.
“Ouch!” Loriane stepped back. Red scratches welled on her wrist.
The brat! She felt like hitting the girl in the face, but she knew that sometimes women in extreme pain reacted like that.
She schooled her voice to calmness. “Very well. I will leave you. I have another patient anyway.” She started down the stairs.
“No! Don’t go,” Myra screamed. “I wasn’t serious.”
“But I was. I’ll be downstairs.”
And strode down, feeling raised welts on her face from where Myra had hit her. Oh, if Tandor came back . . . She balled her fists. Tandor, Tandor, all her trouble could be traced back to him. He came here, dumped this uneducated nutcase on her, and he spent all day gallivanting about town.
Oh, if he came back, she was going to tell him to pack up his girlfriend and leave her alone.
The young man still sat next to the stove, holding the towel to his face. His eyes met hers and a twinge stirred in her. Just briefly, the way the light played over his cheekbone, she was reminded of a young Knight in the meltery, many years ago. He was strong and handsome, and as they danced by the firelight, he’d enclosed her gull feather in his fist and yanked it hard and sharp, so the leather strap broke. His intense eyes said, you’re mine, and she had been delighted. With this Knight, a Learner like the young man sitting next to her kitchen stove, there was no fumbling in freezing warehouses. He’d rented a room in one of the Outer City’s inns, a room with a large bed and a blazing fireplace. She had bled, just a bit, but he had been gentle, and he’d let her sleep next to him. In the morning, he’d given her a card with how to contact him, should that prove necessary. Which it did.
Never again had she carried a child for a Knight. Never again had she seen the young man, nor her baby boy with the face all squashed from birth. She very much doubted she would recognise either if she saw them again.
She set her things on the table next to the young Knight and proceeded to clean up his cheek, gentle around the edges of his cuts. She saw the handsome Knight’s face, lit side-on by the fire. She felt his weight pressing on her, his warm skin against hers.
Once more, she was in the sled, with her father driving it through the snow storm. She sat in the back wrapped up in furs, and every bump in the ice had cut through her belly like a hot knife. She’d been petrified of giving birth out there, on the snow-covered plains between the Outer City and the palace, but the child had taken a whole agonising day of pains to arrive.
Wails from Myra drifted from upstairs.
“What’s with her?” the Knight asked, concern on his face.
“Well, you know I’m normally a midwife . . .”
He raised his eyebrows, and then a look of understanding came over his face. “Oh. If I’m keeping you from your work . . .”
“Not at all.” Loriane cringed and tried hard not to feel guilty for walking out on Myra. For once she was going to be tough like the midwives in the palace birthing rooms. Those women slapped misbehaving girls in the face, like that old hag had slapped her, not once, but three times. Myra would have to learn on the job what it meant to be a breeder. You only scream when it’s bad.
She dabbed at the young man’s face, dislodging clots of blood from his nose. Strangely enough, he didn’t smell of bloodwine. “Well, someone certainly gave you a good beating.”
A tiny shiver went through him. The shiver became a spasm. His muscles tensed up.
“Are you all right? Are you feeling sick—”
But he didn’t react to her. His gaze was far off and his breath came in shallow gasps.
Loriane grabbed his wrist. His pulse raced like crazy.
Before she could do anything, he blinked and shook his head, meeting her eyes. Was there shame in them?
“What was that?” she asked.
He shrugged and looked away.
“Is there anything you’re not telling me? Do you have a problem?”
H
is mouth twitched. He hesitated. “Well, I get these . . .” Then he stopped, shook his head again.
“These what?” she prompted.
But he would say no more and seemed reluctant to meet her eyes. She rinsed out the bloodied cloth, weighing up the risk of what she was about to say. She had seen little spells like this before, but he was a Knight after all, and Knights weren’t supposed to be inflicted like this. But the condition could be quite dangerous.
“You know,” she began. “Physical imperfection isn’t the only type of defect caused by icefire. Some people have imperfect minds. They seem to find it hard to see the difference between a real experience and things that have happened in the past. They keep re-living memories, sometimes from long ago—”
“I’m not crazy.” His voice was much too forceful.
“I’m not suggesting that at all.”
“I’m fine.”
“I’m sure you are.”
A silence followed, broken only by Myra’s moans. Loriane had washed all blood off his cuts, which were deep and nasty. What by the skylights had he done to himself? The cut had collected half a bag’s worth of sand. It looked like he’d been dragged along the street. But his injury was not what concerned her. This young man had serious mental trouble, and he was in denial about it.
She took a deep breath, gathering courage to speak again. “Just in case I want you to know ichina will help.”
“Ichina?” He faced her now. “But that’s for girls trying to . . .” His cheeks flushed.
“Ichina is a powerful medicine that will do much more than help girls conceive. It also helps a number of other conditions, although they’re not common.”
“So that’s why we only hear about girls taking it?” He sounded relieved.
“Yes.” She let a small silence lapse and then she asked him, “Do you want some?”
He hesitated. “If, say, a boy needed to take it for—uhm—other reasons, would that boy also have trouble getting a girl pregnant, you know, before he takes it?”
Loriane had to restrain a snort. Oh, these adolescents were so transparent sometimes. What had he been doing? Fooling around above his station, and now he was afraid his family would have to foot the bill?