A Cavern Of Black Ice (Book 1)

by J. V. Jones

  Beneath Angus’ feet, the bald earth around the elm turned to mud. The raven’s laughter echoed in the last of the tree’s attached leaves. Angus glanced at his house. Inside Cassy would be helping Darra stack the fire before supper, Beth would be rolling dough for the sweet, sticky unnameable pastries that she and Little Moo loved to eat. As for Little Moo . . . well, she had probably keeled over on the rug and was currently fast asleep. That child could sleep anywhere.

  Pain, which had never quite left Angus’ chest, reasserted itself with a single, soft stab. How safe were all his children tonight?

  Tucking the message in a slip inside his waistcoat, Angus pushed himself off from the elm and headed for the warmth of his house. No. He wouldn’t leave his home, not in darkness. Those who sent messages could go to the deepest spiraling hell. He had promised Beth and Little Moo ribbons, and by all the gods, they were going to get them. Yet even as Angus Lok found some satisfaction in defiance, fear settled like dust within his bones. A raven had come, and a message had been received, and the past was now a tightly held fist knocking at his door.

  As quiet as settling dust, Ash March told herself as she slipped through her chamber door. Cool air from the corridor brushed against her nightdress, and Ash had to bite the inside of her mouth to stop herself from shivering. Why did it have to be so cold? She glanced back at the door. Should she have brought an outer robe after all? Suddenly the idea of wandering around Mask Fortress wearing little but a nightdress and a wool tunic didn’t seem nearly as clever as it had earlier. Still, this way, if she were caught, she could at least claim sleepwalking and have a chance of being believed. Wearing a cloak would make things harder. Did sleep-walkers dress before they went outside? Ash didn’t know.

  Looking ahead at what she could see of the gently spiraling corridor of cut and angled stone, Ash listened for the sound of Marafice Eye. The Knife had moved from his post by Ash’s door some minutes earlier, probably assuming his charge was fast asleep. Ash didn’t know where he had gone, had no idea when and if he would return. She just knew that he was sick of spending his nights camped outside her door. She didn’t blame him. It was cold enough to turn breath white, and, discounting watching dust settle and greenwood torches burn out one by one, there was nothing to do.

  Laughter. Ash tensed. The sound came again, down the corridor and off to the right. Katia’s room. Yet that wasn’t Katia laughing. Not unless she’d spent the night swilling hot tar and chewing on gravel.

  “I said blow out the light.”

  Immediately Ash recognized the cold, imperative tones of Marafice Eye. He was in Katia’s room . . . with Katia. Ash shuddered; she didn’t like the thought of that one bit. Katia was so small, dark and tiny like a doll. And Marafice Eye was a huge bull of a man, with arms that took the sleeves of four men to cover them and wrists like iron bars. Slipping into the shadows against the opposite wall, Ash walked quickly ahead.

  The limestone walls were bitterly cold, and Ash avoided touching them as she moved. Both her own and Katia’s chambers were situated in the shortest and thickest of the four towers in Mask Fortress: the Cask. The Cask was the principal fortified structure in Spire Vanis, and its walls were twenty feet thick. A series of spiraling corridors and winding staircases led up from its base like a path weaving around a hill, breaking occasionally for defensive bastions, archers’ roosts, chambers, walled-in snugs, and recessed alcoves with cut stone benches known as graymeets.

  Ash’s chamber formed the heart of the Cask. Directly below her floor, the tower wall was spiked with a ring of fortifications so thick that from outside they looked a like a massive limestone bird’s nest clustered around a tree. The Cask was not a pretty sight. Of the three towers that were livable within the fortress, it was the least graciously set, having none of the wrought ironwork and lead cladding found in the Horn or the crow-step gables and black marble eyelets of the Bight.

  As for the Splinter, the tallest tower in Mask Fortress, capped with the Iron Spire, where high traitors were once impaled at a height of six hundred feet so that everyone within the city could see them and know fear . . . Ash shook her head. No one had been there for years. The Splinter was unstable, uninhabitable, freezing, damp, broken. It was a wonder the whole thing didn’t collapse. One end was said to be embedded so deeply within the frozen bedrock of Mount Slain that the tower shuddered along with the mountain. And the other end soared so high into the clouds that moisture continually ran in rivulets down its walls whether it was raining or not. In winter the entire structure was encased within a layer of rime ice a knuckle thick. Pale, narrow, and twisting, the ice-bound tower had been called by many names: the Winter Spire, the White Thorn, Penthero Iss’ Bloodless Prick. Ash frowned. Katia was always passing along such nonsense.

  Reaching the first set of steps, Ash risked looking back. Katia must have blown out the light as Marafice Eye had bidden, for the space beneath the little maid’s door was now dark. That was good, Ash told herself, moving her mind away from the subject. She didn’t want to think about what might be happening within.

  Solid limestone steps muffled her footfalls as she descended the stairs. Brass hooks, mottled blue and orange with rot and rust, jutted from the stairwall like bird claws, forcing her to walk dead center. Once they had been used to suspend great fire-blackened chains that linked all the Cask’s portcullises to a single lever in the strongroom below. Now they were just one more hazard to avoid, like servants, brothers-in-the-watch, and the raw mountain air.

  Ash rubbed her arms. She was so cold. Freezing. Yet she had thought to wear her thickest nightgown, and her feet were slippered in moleskin. It wasn’t even winter yet, not properly, so why could she never get warm?

  You are not well, almost-daughter. I worry.

  Ash shook her foster father’s voice from her head. She wasn’t unwell in the way he meant. Katia had told her all about what happened to girls when they came into their blood, and nightmares and cold sweats formed no part of it. “You get stomach cramps,” Katia had said, an air of vast superiority warming her voice. “And your mind starts turning to men.” Ash blew air through her nostrils. Men. No, that definitely wasn’t happening to her.

  Something else was. Ten nights in a row she had dreamed of ice. Always she awoke to find sheets damp with sweat twisted around her arms like rope. The dreams were so real, and the voices of the creatures who spoke to her were like nothing she had ever heard before. Mistressss, they murmured, as sickly pleasing as sweet rolls spread with honey and jam, come for us, stretch toward us, reach . . .

  Ash took a deep breath to stop herself from shivering. The thought of returning to her bedchamber was suddenly there in her mind, and it was hard to keep moving forward. Her foster father knew what was wrong with her, she was sure of it. She was also sure he would never tell her the truth.

  He watched her constantly; stealing into her room when she was sleeping, examining her breasts, her hair, her teeth, questioning Katia about the tiniest details of her life. Nothing was too insignificant for him: the contents of her chamber pot, the amount of goose fat left on her plate after dinner, the changing dimensions of her corselet and small linens. What did he want with her? Wasn’t being his almost-daughter enough?

  Ash pushed the hurt away before it reached her. He wasn’t her real father, she had to remember that. He never called her daughter without speaking the word almost first.

  The stairs came to an abrupt halt between stories to allow access to the battlements, then resumed after a short ramp. Ash increased her speed. The light level was rising, and shouted orders and the clatter of steel on steel began to filter up from the Red Forge below.

  Penthero Iss knew something, something about her, her parents, or the circumstances of her birth. Something that made him guard her closely at all times, set his Knife outside her door, and call upon her day and night unannounced, hoping to catch her . . . doing what? Ash shook her head. She might find the answer to that tonight.

  Every evening
in the hour before midnight, Iss left his private chambers in the base of the Cask and went elsewhere. Ash had seen him leave and return countless times over the years, yet she did not know where he went. According to Katia, he seldom locked the chamber door behind him. It was late, and the Cask was secure, and only Ash, Katia, and a handful of trusted servants were allowed access during the night. The Rive Watch garrison, the mighty Red Forge where brothers-in-the-watch struck and cooled their bloodred swords, was situated adjacent to the Cask. No one could enter the tower unchallenged. Iss’ chamber was secure against intruders, but not against someone who was already within the tower.

  All her foster father’s private papers were held within his chamber. If there was any record of the day he had found and claimed her, it would be buried somewhere deep beneath his slate books and ledgers, his onionskin atlases and manifests and lists.

  Ash began her descent of the second flight of stairs, her hand trailing from hook to hook along the stairwall. Iss’ voice followed her like smoke from the greenwood torches. Is this how you repay me, almost-daughter? I clothe you and feed you, and then as soon as my back is turned you betray me like this. You disappoint me, Asarhia. I thought you loved your father more.

  Asarhia. Ash bristled. She was Ash, just Ash, yet no one within Mask Fortress would acknowledge it. Everyone called her Asarhia or Lady Asarhia or mistress. It was yet another thing she owed to Penthero Iss. He had found and then named her: Asarhia because it was a fashionable name given to ladies of high birth, and March because of where she was found: on the very border of the city itself. Five paces farther south of Vaingate, almost-daughter, and you would not have been mine to keep. Protector’s Trove ends within a shadow’s fall of the gate.

  Ash breathed in cold air from the shadows as she paused upon the final landing to listen for sounds of brothers-in-the-watch.

  Vaingate. Why Vaingate? Spire Vanis had four gates, each one facing a cardinal point. Vaingate faced south. South. No roads led from it, no brothers-in-the-watch patrolled it, no carts loaded with wares ever trundled past its posts. Vaingate opened onto the north face of Mount Slain! It had been built purely for show, satisfying some ancient masonic code of order that demanded a walled city have four gates. Who would leave a baby outside a gate that was never used?

  The answer came to Ash with the same sickening pull as always: Someone who wanted their baby dead.

  Voices. Close by.

  Ash stilled herself. She spent hours each day watching fortress cats chase mice and birds in the quadrangle, and one thing she knew for sure was that a cat never pounced unless it saw something move. The trick was keeping your nerve. Mice didn’t, birds didn’t, but some old hares did. Ash had seen them, sitting perfectly still on the archers’ block as brazen as you like. The shadows on the stairwell were deep, slanting, and Ash leaned into them, pressing her shoulders against the limestone wall. The voices grew louder. Footsteps clicked over tile, click, click, click.

  “Don’t hold the bowl out at arm’s length like a used chamber pot, you great moose. It’ll cool in no time that way. Hold it against your chest. Can’t have His Coldness complaining about lukewarm beans—not with them being late and all.”

  “And why not? It’s certainly not him that eats them. Beans is common fare, and we all know how high and mighty the Killhound is. Wouldn’t eat a pork sausage if his life depended on it.”

  “I don’t know nothing about that. Beans in soft butter he’s asked for, and beans he’s going to get. Now deliver ’em sharpish—they’re long past due as it is. And be sure to let him know that no one in the kitchen’s to blame. Furnacemen! Hmph! When I find which of those dog-faced devils killed my stove, I swear I’ll . . .”

  The voices trailed off as the two figures disappeared along the corridor, and Ash pulled back from the wall. It was just Mistress Wence and a manservant. They hadn’t even glanced up as they passed. From the sound of things, they were late delivering food to her foster father. Which meant that Iss was still in his chamber. Annoyed, Ash brushed lime dust from her shoulders. What was she going to do now?

  Matters were decided for her by the sound of booted feet descending the stairs. A brother-in-the-watch, judging from the faint jingle of metal that accompanied each step, so there was no going back. Leaving the safe haven of the shadows, Ash took the last of the steps and moved into the corridor below. The entrance to the Red Forge lay on the south side of the tower, so she took the way north instead, following Mistress Wence and the manservant toward Iss’ chamber.

  At ground level the curvature of the Cask’s corridors was so slight, it was easy to forget they ran in a circuit around the base of the tower. Only a quarter of the rotunda was given over to Iss’ private rooms. The remaining space was taken by state rooms: the Hall of Trials, the Blackvault, and the main entrances to the quadrangle and the Red Forge. Along the entire length of the circuit ran a series of life-size statues hewn from marble the color of smoke: the Founding Quarterlords and Impaled Beasts of Spire Vanis.

  Ash shivered hard as she heard the brother-in-the-watch open the main rotunda door behind her. Cold air pushed against the backs of her legs. She was beginning to wish she hadn’t started this. But then, doing anything these days was preferable to sleeping.

  Dreams woke her every night. Her mind drifted . . . she saw the ice cave, felt the terrible cold breath that steamed from its shining walls . . .

  Another door banged closed, bringing Ash back. Voices again. Mistress Wence and the servant returning from Iss’ chamber. They would be here any moment.

  Panicking, Ash wheeled around. Smooth walls, an iron-plated door that led to the unused east gallery and was kept locked at all times, a lit greenwood torch, and a recess housing a statue of Torny Fyfe, Bastard Lord, swordsman and glutton, and least highly regarded of the Founding Quarterlords, were the only things in sight.

  Mistress Wence’s heels tapped a march against the limestone floor. Her thin nasal voice piped in displeasure.

  Ash ran for the greenwood torch, tugged it from its pewter casing, and rammed the burning end against the wall. The flames died instantly, killing the light. Thick smoke from the charred end curled toward the ceiling as Ash recouched the torch. The smell of burned resin helped clear her head. Turning about, she ran for the statue of Torny Fyfe, squeezing herself behind his great marble thighs and thanking the Maker for every eight-course meal the Quarterlord had ever eaten. The shadow cast by his overhanging belly was enough to provide a team of dogs with shade.

  “Really! Between you and furnacemen I don’t know who’s the dimmest. You were supposed to tell Iss that it wasn’t the kitchen staff’s fault. Not just stand there mumbling a lot of old nonsense about the lumber and the fire.”

  Rounding the curve, Mistress Wence and the manservant came to an abrupt halt several paces short of Torny Fyfe’s likeness. Although light in the corridor was now limited, it was far from dark, and Ash could clearly see Mistress Wence’s sharp nose quiver.

  “Torch has gone out. Take a flint to it, Grice. We don’t want to give His Coldness anything else to find fault with.”

  As Grice slapped his tunic looking for a flint, Ash felt a trickle of cold sweat slide past her ear. Dream or no dream, she was returning to her chamber as soon as this pair was gone. She should never have come here. The whole idea had been a mistake from the start. She’d rather be lying in bed dreaming of ice than wedged behind a marble backside, hiding from the fortress staff.

  Realizing Grice was flintless, Mistress Wence sniffed with venom. “Really! How can you call yourself a man and not carry a flint?”

  “I can relight it from one of the torches, mistress.”

  To Ash’s very great relief, Mistress Wence shook her head, shoulders, and chest. “You will do no such thing, you great oaf. What if Iss came from his chamber and saw you hulking around with a smoking torch in your hand at this time of night?” Three sniffs followed in rapid succession. “He’d think you were a hideclad come to finish him off, tha
t’s what. And sure as rotten apples bring flies, he’d make you pay for it. You’re coming to the kitchen with me and pick up a flint this minute. Move sharpish, now!” With that Mistress Wence and the manservant resumed their journey along the corridor.

  Slumping forward against Torny Fyfe’s shoulder, Ash exhaled softly. A wisp of marble dust spilled down her neck, cold and grainy like powdered snow. Ash shook it away. She was stiff, half-frozen, and her nightgown was plastered to her back with icy sweat. Sucking in her chest and stomach, she squeezed herself free of Torny Fyfe’s shoulders and shuffled her ankles clear of his blocky, base-stone feet. As she stepped into the open corridor, her head jerked back painfully. Turning about, she saw where a lock of her hair had snagged in the Quarterlord’s elaborately worked scabbard. Cursing all fat men with swords, Ash edged back to release it.

  Besides arming Torny Fyfe with a sword long enough to impale a horse, the sculptor had also conceived of a brisk wind to blow at his cape, and sharp folds of marble shaved Ash’s shins as she moved. Letting out a sound halfway between a squeak and a sob, Ash vowed to run back to her chamber and never, ever, venture out again.

  Sss. A door whirred open in the distance, making a faint hissing sound. Ash looked up. The noise came from the direction of Penthero Iss’ private chamber. Even before she could decide what to do, she heard softly soled feet slapping stone. Iss was coming this way.

  Wrenching her trapped hair free, Ash drew herself into the deepest shadows of the recess. Iss would be furious if he found her here. Furious. The time she fixed the bolt on her door was nothing compared to this.

  Before she had chance to settle herself into a position she could comfortably hold, her foster father rounded the corner. Thin, pale, and hairless except for his closely shorn scalp, Penthero Iss had the look of something drowned and then pulled up a week later from a lake. Everything about him was pallid, smooth, and bloodless. His eyes were green, but barely so; his lips and cheeks had the color and texture of cooked veal; and the skin on his earlobes let through light.