by Jim C. Hines
One by one, she stripped away the outer protections of the antiquated tower where Ollear made his home. “The man is clever enough,” she said to the white songbird on her shoulder. “But he lacks depth. He layers his magic instead of interweaving the spells to strengthen them.”
The bird gave a frightened chirp, but it was preferable to the whining. She had transformed Prince Jakob before leaving the ship. With his wing feathers trimmed, he had no means to escape. If he did run away, he would be quickly devoured by a wild animal, or simply crushed underfoot.
Snow thought briefly of Talia and Danielle as she climbed the steps, absently sending her wasps ahead to deal with any servants or human guards. She closed her eyes, peering through those men on the Phillipa who had been touched by the demon’s magic. They were confined in darkness, but their presence told Snow the ship was still under sail, far from shore.
So strange to be home once more, to hear the tongues of Allesandria instead of the grating cacophony of sounds that passed for language in Lorindar. Before the mirror’s destruction, Snow never would have dared return. Nor would she have taken Jakob, or attacked Talia and Danielle. She held no illusions about the way the power of the mirror had changed her. There was a presence within her, helping to strip away the lies of the world, as well as the lies she once told herself.
Snow had been selfish, hiding away in Lorindar, squandering her magic on minor errands for the queen. She might as well have donned blinders, hiding from past and future, from those obligations that called to her from Allesandria.
Obligations like Ollear Curtana.
At the top of the stairs stood a construct of red stone, a magical guard carved in the likeness of the Lord Protector. It moved as smoothly as a living creature, drawing a stone sword as it advanced toward Snow.
She smiled. The sliver lodged in her eye had already shown her the key to the statue’s false life. It had been born of mud blended with a rather complex potion, one brewed from the blood of the caster mixed with that of a loyal servant. She wondered idly if the servant had known the potion would require every last drop of his blood.
Snow pulled her own knife. The steel was razor sharp; she barely felt the cut as she slid the edge over her left palm. She clenched her hand in a fist, then flicked the blood at the approaching statue.
Given time, she could have wrested control of the statue, turning it against its creator. But there was too much to do. Instead, she simply willed the statue to return to its component elements.
The statue swung its sword at Snow’s head. Snow raised an arm, and the blade splattered red mud over her arm and jacket. Its face contorted in a melted parody of confusion. Depending on how much of the caster’s own blood flowed through the mud, it should have just enough awareness to realize something was wrong.
Fingers slid free of dripping hands. Snow sheathed her knife and smiled as any last resemblance to Ollear Curtana sloughed away. It gathered itself and lunged in one final attempt to smother her. Jakob squeaked and flapped his wings in alarm as Snow jumped back. The statue fell, splattering itself over the stairs.
Even as she trod through the mud, it clung to her boots. Its loyalty was impressive. Ollear must have improved his formula.
The wooden door atop the stairs was locked, but a quick spell swelled the wood until the planks split and fell away to reveal the grotesquely lavish bedroom of Lord Curtana.
The walls within were enchanted to be clear as glass, giving him a full view of the surrounding land. Dark clouds blotted the stars overhead, haloing the moon in silver. The same illusion blanketed the furnishings, turning them translucent. The wardrobe, the desk by the far wall, even the bed, where Ollear Curtana was busy with a woman far too young and attractive to be his wife. His scalp and face were clean-shaven, glistening with sweat. Like most nobles, he doubtless shaved each day, burning the hair to prevent it from being used against him by a practitioner of sympathetic magic.
“Hello, Uncle.”
Both Ollear and his mistress bolted upright. They each wore a light robe of slavesilk. The thin material was naturally gray, but anyone with a hint of magical talent could change it at will, turning it clear. Snow kept a gown of the stuff for special occasions. The trick was to maintain your concentration as things grew more . . . distracting.
“Who are you?” Ollear looked past her. Searching for his guards, no doubt. His lips pressed together. “You look familiar.”
Snow frowned, and both robes turned black. “I was hoping to talk to you about my father.”
“Your . . .” He paled. “Princess Ermillina?”
Snow gave a slight bow. “Uncle Ollear. I go by Snow now.” The years had worn away all but the faintest resemblance to the strong, handsome statue who had guarded Ollear’s door. He appeared shrunken, with wattles of skin at his neck. Only his hands were as Snow remembered, thin and permanently stained from his potion work.
“You’ve aged so much.” Old he might be, but he had never been stupid. “What magics have you been toying with, Princess?”
“I’ve done what was necessary.” Snow glanced at the young woman beside him. “A student?”
“A member of my household.”
A servant, then. Had she been magically skilled, politeness would have required Ollear to introduce her by name.
With one shaking hand, Ollear took a stiff black wig from the bedside table and positioned it on his head. He had to know he was outmatched. Snow had penetrated his tower and destroyed his guards. “Laurence told us you were dead.”
“Not King Laurence? Such disrespect for your sovereign, Ollear. Where are your manners?” Snow strode around the room, looking out at the city below. Her feet sank into the white-furred rug. “I remember when my mother elevated you to your chancellorship at the university. Strange . . . to fall from such a position to this small border province.”
“I serve as the king wishes, Your Highness,” Ollear said carefully.
“The king is a fool to waste someone of your talents. I remember your visits to the palace. The potions you brewed for my mother.”
“What do you want?” His gaze was openly calculating now. Snow was alone, but she was the daughter of the most powerful queen Allesandria had known in centuries. His fear was fading, replaced by hunger for the opportunities she might present.
“You’re not the only one to be wronged by our new king. I mean to see justice done for those crimes.”
“You do have a legal claim to the throne,” he said cautiously. “Yador is merely a border province, as you said, but I retain my seat in the Nobles’ Circle. I could—”
“What would you ask from me in return?” Snow interrupted. “What cost to betray your king?”
“Nothing, Your Highness.” Ollear stood, his hands spread. In other lands, it would be a gesture of peace, but in Allesandria, where every noble learned magic even before they mastered their letters, the lack of a weapon meant nothing. He stopped at a polite distance. “I ask only to help you correct an injustice.”
And to place Snow in his debt. His lies wormed into her stomach, leaving her nauseated. “Do you remember my father, Ollear?”
“I do.” The wariness had returned to his voice, though he kept his eyes averted. In Allesandria, to stare too long was to invite a magical confrontation. “He was strong in heart and mind, but his body failed beneath the demands of the throne. Your mother summoned me often to try to ease his pain.”
“I was so young when he fell ill.” Snow paced the circumference of the room, watching the lamplights below, the mountains in the distance. From this height, she could just make out the guard towers on both sides of the border. “I’ve spent years studying the healing arts, Ollear. I’ve yet to find a single malady that strikes with the same symptoms that took my father. Stealing his voice, withering his body, but also robbing him of his magic. A strange ailment, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Your parents were powerful practitioners,” Ollear said carefully. “They did much to expan
d the boundaries of magic, but as you know, all power carries a price.”
“What was the price of your chancellorship?” Snow asked. “To prepare a draught which could slip past my father’s charms against poison? One which would weaken him over time without attracting suspicion to my mother? Your skills are unmatched. You’re the only one she would turn to for such help.”
Ollear’s companion edged toward the door. Snow waved, and the bedsheet leaped out to entangle her feet. The other end of the sheet knotted itself to the bed. Snow stepped into the doorway, blocking their escape. Jakob chirped softly, burrowing into her hair as if trying to hide.
“Your mother had many allies,” Ollear said. “If you mean to rule Allesandria, you would be wise to follow her example. You will need friends.”
“I loved my father,” Snow said softly.
Ollear lunged for his desk. He snatched what appeared to be an inkwell and flung the contents toward Snow.
Snow might not have had Talia’s fairy-blessed reflexes, but her missions for Queen Bea had honed her reactions both physical and magical. By the time the sickly green liquid reached Snow, her magic had frozen it into a series of rippled icicles and droplets. She caught the largest icicle in her free hand, maintaining her own magic to prevent the heat of her flesh from melting it.
Ollear watched as though entranced as the ice in Snow’s hand changed, growing paper-thin wings. The other pieces had broken when they hit the floor, but they too responded to Snow’s will, forming insects the size of flies and gnats.
Sweat beaded Ollear’s brow. “I can help you.”
Snow pursed her lips and blew. A wasp the size of her hand shivered and flexed its wings. “I already have help.”
Ollear fought well, destroying more than half of her insects before one slipped past his guard to sting his ear. Skin sizzled, and he screamed. The pain cost him his concentration, and soon the battle was over.
It wasn’t a quick death, but as he had intended the same for her, she felt no remorse. Nor did she take any joy from his end. Death wouldn’t undo his crimes, wouldn’t restore her father to life. This was but the beginning.
“Look.” She wrapped her fingers around Jakob’s fragile body, tugging him free. She held him toward Ollear’s twitching body. “No matter what lies we tell the world, death reveals the truth. Ollear Curtana was a traitor and a coward. The ugliness of his end matches the ugliness of his soul.”
She turned to his friend, who was cowering behind the bed. “And how did you serve the Lord Protector, aside from the obvious?”
The girl’s voice shook. “I’m his scribe, Your . . . Your Highness.”
Snow returned the trembling bird to her shoulder and reached into the pouch at her belt. A scribe was a lowly enough position to go unnoticed, particularly in the chaos which would follow upon the discovery of Ollear’s death. “Give me your hand.”
She bit her lip and shook her head.
With a sigh, Snow slid a needle-long sliver of glass from the pouch. “This will hurt.”
The sheets tightened, holding her in place long enough for Snow to jab the glass into the girl’s neck. She screamed once, and then her struggles slowed as the tip snapped off within her flesh. Snow removed the rest of the sliver and wiped the blood onto the sheet.
“You will be questioned about Ollear’s death. Either by the local mageguard, or perhaps by the king’s Storm-crows.” Snow pressed a larger shard of glass into the girl’s hand. “Begin with them.”
Danielle reread the note. This was the second message she had received from King Theodore. The queen’s funeral had been held three days ago, under heightened guard. And Danielle hadn’t been present.
She closed her eyes. Grief could come later. For now, better to maintain the dam, to focus on what needed to be done.
Tymalous and Father Isaac had made no progress at freeing Armand and the others from Snow’s curse. They had managed to find the few remaining shards of Snow’s mirror around the palace, and were spending every moment studying them for answers, but with no significant progress.
A soft quack made her jump. She smiled at the duck that had delivered the message. He was small for his breed, a black-and-gray-dappled bird with a smoke-colored bill. He ruffled his wings but settled down, waiting.
Danielle sipped her tea, grimacing at the medicinal taste, and returned to the letter she had begun writing to the king. She had described their failure to save the prince, and the futile search that followed. Danielle’s dolphins hadn’t returned, and Snow had evaded their pursuit since that night. Gerta suspected she was using the infected prisoners to track and avoid the Phillipa.
Seven men had been cut, along with Stub the cat. Stub was now confined to a small cage in the chartroom, and the infected crewmen were locked in the hold. Even if Snow looked through their eyes, she should see nothing to reveal their plans.
Gerta was probably right, but what more could they do, short of throwing the prisoners overboard? They were victims, innocents who had fallen to Snow’s magic under Danielle’s command.
Bells clanged from the deck. The duck squawked and beat his wings in alarm. Danielle hastily signed the note and rolled it tight, sliding it into a leather tube. She smeared wax over the seams to protect it from the elements, then bound it to the duck’s leg. “Thank you. Please take this to the king as quickly as you can.”
She tossed her cloak on over her nightgown and grabbed her sword belt. The bell continued to ring out as she opened the cabin door and stepped into the cold night air. Captain Hephyra was shouting orders, which the crew scrambled to obey. She waited for the duck to leave, then hurried over to join Talia.
“We’ve an escort,” Talia said. Gerta was close behind, smothering a yawn. Talia pointed to the two ships which had emerged from a thick fog in the distance.
Gerta squinted. “They fly the royal banner. Inspectors, I’d guess.”
“Do inspectors normally greet visitors with gunports open?” Danielle asked.
Gerta gave a half-shrug. “Not usually, but we don’t know what’s happened in Allesandria these past few days . . .”
They had passed the northern coast of Hilad two days before, and were now in Allesandrian waters. By Hephyra’s estimate, they should reach their destination tomorrow morning.
But Snow could be almost anywhere by now. What had she done to Jakob? Was he still locked away in the hull of her stolen ship? How long would her patience last as she tried to unravel the mysteries of his power? Or had she already—
No. Jakob was alive. He had to be.
“Stop that,” Talia said.
Danielle blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Your eyes give you away. Jakob is alive, and we will find him. We’ll save them both. If you want to worry, worry about what those inspectors will say about us arriving in a fairy vessel.”
Danielle pursed her lips. She had studied the histories of Lorindar and its neighbors, including Allesandria, where the fairy folk had been ill-treated for centuries. Most had fled to friendlier kingdoms. Many of those who remained were destroyed or enslaved. Rose Curtana, Snow’s mother, had paid a bounty for every fairy head, believing their magic to be a threat to her rule. King Laurence had reversed some of those policies, but after so many years of hatred, Hephyra would not be welcome.
“She will remain with the Phillipa,” Danielle said. “She should be safe enough here. Anyone who comes aboard to harass her deserves whatever they receive.”
Talia smiled slightly at that, but said nothing.
“They know we’re coming.” Danielle rested a hand on one of the lines running to the foremast. “Theodore has been in contact with King Laurence, and warned him about what happened.”
The approaching ships spread out to flank the Phillipa.
“You’re certain you can find this witch who helped Rose Curtana create her mirror?” Danielle asked.
“I . . . I think so.” Gerta stared into the distance. “I was young and, well, not real.”
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br /> “Assuming the witch is still alive,” said Talia. “Assuming she exists at all, and this isn’t some game Snow planted in your mind.”
Gerta’s face went blank, and she turned away. “Talia’s right. It feels like a true memory, but how would I know?”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Danielle. “If not Noita, we find someone else. Allesandria claims to be the birthplace of human magic. There must be others who can help us free Snow from this demon and rescue my son.”
Unbidden, the memory of the Duchess’ offer pushed to the forefront of her mind. She could call right now. Perhaps fairy magic might succeed where Talia’s rescue attempt had failed. Had the Duchess asked for anything else . . .
“What is it?” Talia asked. “You tensed.”
“I was thinking of the men possessed by Snow’s wasps,” Danielle lied. The effects of Snow’s magic were obvious. Stub hissed and clawed at anyone who came near. As for the men, when they deigned to speak at all, their words were venom. The hatred and disgust on their faces was even worse than Armand’s had been, back in Lorindar.
From the Allesandrian ship on the port side came a shout. “This is the Farrion, sailing under King Laurence of Allesandria. Identify yourself.” The words were heavily accented, a thickening of the words that reminded Danielle of Snow.
Hephyra jumped onto the rail at the bow. She stood as if rooted, unaffected by the wind or the sway of the ship. Cupping her hands to her mouth, she shouted, “This is Captain Hephyra of the Phillipa, out of Lorindar.”
The wind and fog made it harder to hear the response from the Farrion. “Reduce your speed and prepare to receive inspectors. We’ll be escorting you into the harbor. If you resist, we’ve orders to sink your ship.”
Hephyra’s response was short, obscene, and hopefully not loud enough to carry to the other ships.
“We have no proof they are who they claim to be,” Talia pointed out.
Hephyra jumped down from the rail. “If they were pirates, they’d have struck farther out.”