Summerfall: A Winterspell Novella

by Claire Legrand

  “This criminal will be imprisoned, here in Wahlkraft, in one of the tower cells, until her child is born. At that time, the creature will become property of the Seven mages and my royal physicians. I suggest, Rohlmeyer, that you use this opportunity to learn as much as you can about whatever faery magic the creature may possess . . . by whatever means necessary.”

  Even Rohlmeyer seemed surprised, blinking several times. “Yes, my king.”

  “When they are finished with it . . .” Alban began. Then he paused, and Rinka, through her shock, saw his free hand clench and unclench, and clung to the sight with everything in her as evidence that Alban—her Alban—was still somewhere inside the monster saying these words.

  “When they are finished with it,” he continued, his voice hard and full of anger, “the creature will be executed. As will its mother.”

  14

  RINKA WAS PUT into a cell in a low, wide tower on the western side of Wahlkraft. The room was windowless and cold, as though inside this space, winter had already begun.

  The first night, she sat immobile and did not sleep, or cry. She simply stared into the darkness. No one could see her, so it didn’t really matter, and yet she felt that if she moved, she would cry, and if she cried, she would be the most awful fool. She had brought this upon herself, hadn’t she?

  But the next morning, when her breakfast was shoved through the slot in the door, something changed. For the two seconds the slot was open, and torchlight illuminated the pan of cold gruel, everything came back to Rinka. She realized that her belongings had been seized, that she wore a threadbare, shapeless gown that had no doubt clothed other prisoners before her. She thought of Garen and the others, and what might be happening to them.

  She thought of Alban and the vicious words he’d thrown at her. How she had seen nothing of him since that day and was unsure she ever would again. How he had called their child a creature.

  She scooped up a handful of gruel, ate it, sat in silence for a moment or two, and then was promptly sick on the floor.

  In the silence of her cell, she drew herself into a knot and lay down on the cold stone, her arms around her belly, and sobbed.

  * * *

  The days dragged on, and became weeks. Rinka understood the passage of time by counting her meals—breakfast, lunch, dinner. At first she thought it was generous of them, to provide her so much food. She doubted all prisoners received such treatment. Them—the Drachstelles, Queen Liane. Even Alban, forced to pretend. Perhaps forced to pretend.

  Wasn’t he pretending?

  The more time passed, the less Rinka could be sure of that. She began wondering if everything between them had been a dream.

  But then she realized—of course.

  The food wasn’t for her, no. Not really. None of her captors cared if she survived.

  But to keep the creature alive—that was the thing.

  Of course.

  She ate her dinner that day, and forcing it down was like swallowing sand, but she ate every speck of it. She licked the platter clean.

  She was Rinka, daughter of Kaspar of the faery Council.

  If they wanted to keep her baby alive, then they would. She would see it done, and maintain her own strength as best she could. It wouldn’t be long now, before they came to take her child from her. Most faery babies were born after six months, and somehow she thought this particular baby would arrive sooner than that.

  And when they did come, Rinka decided, she would make them wish they had killed her instead.

  * * *

  It was early November, if Rinka had counted correctly. Perhaps a bit later. It was becoming difficult to hold on to her sense of things.

  To keep from losing herself completely, she had begun to tell her daughter stories. She knew it would be a girl. She had come to know her child quite well by now, with no one else for company. Her movements and moods, her personality.

  Her daughter would be a warrior. She knew that, too.

  So she told her stories—of blessed Ebba, and the sea wind who had loved her. Of the faeries who had ventured beyond Cane, exploring the Whispering Sea. As the legend went, they had been swept off to another land across the great ocean, too far to be reached by natural means, and would someday return with power unimaginable.

  Rinka told her human and mage stories, too—of the rider and the pirate queen, the mason and the fiddler. Of lonely Mira and her vengeful winter.

  Of the young king who had dared to love a faery.

  * * *

  Then, one night, heavy and in pain, Rinka heard movement at the door.

  She stared blearily at it, waiting. It wasn’t time for a meal.

  And yet the door opened. There was a rustle of movement, a torch, a silhouette.

  “Rinka,” came a voice, and Rinka thought she must be hallucinating. It would not be the first time, here in this cell. Arms were helping her into a sitting position, gathering her against a warm, broad chest. Someone was kissing her forehead. Someone’s wet cheeks were against her own.

  She did not understand, and said so.

  “I’m sorry, darling,” the voice said again, ragged, and then the voice registered, and Rinka pulled back to see his face.

  He was crying; he desperately needed a shave.

  He was here.

  “Alban?” she whispered.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t come to you sooner,” he said. “They’ve been watching me, and your cell. I wanted to come to you, but I couldn’t risk defying the Drachstelles again. I couldn’t risk civil war.” He searched her face, brushed her sticky, unwashed hair back from her eyes. “Rinka, I never stopped loving you. I was trying to save you—”

  “I know.” She remembered the look that had passed between them, that awful day. Her need for him to understand. “I know what you did. Where . . . what happened to Garen and the others?”

  His hold on her tightened. “They were imprisoned, kept separated. I’ve kept the worst from happening to them, but the Drachstelles continue pushing for execution. We can’t trust any of them now, they say. First one faery bewitches the king, another blackmails a mage, and then what? More will follow. And Rohlmeyer agrees, of course . . .”

  Rinka tried to sit up, winced. “Execution? Alban, no—”

  “It’s all right. They’re fine. My guards are freeing them as we speak, escorting them north to the forest. They’ll be waiting for us there.” He kissed her head, pressed his cheek against hers. “I’m getting you out of here, tonight.”

  The shock of his presence was settling inside Rinka slowly. She realized anew her pain, her filthy clothes, her fear. She let out a gasping sob and seized Alban’s coat.

  He tucked her head beneath his and held her as she cried, whispering how he loved her. There were tears in his voice, and Rinka relished them. They reassured her that he was still her own.

  “How are we leaving?” she whispered.

  “Garen and the other faeries will be waiting in the forest, ready to leave. The rest of my guard will arrive soon, and escort us to meet them. No one will hurt us, and then you’ll be on your way home.”

  Home. It seemed a strange concept now. Rinka pressed her cheek to Alban’s chest, struggling to think. “But you said you would kill me, in front of everyone. That you would kill . . .”

  His hold on her tightened. “The Seven mages, and my physicians, will testify that the child died shortly after birth, and that you did as well. I will make them.”

  The words chilled her. “Who will believe that? And Rohlmeyer—”

  “Rohlmeyer knows nothing, and he won’t ever,” Alban said, his voice tight with hate. “I haven’t included him in this, nor any other mages who might think as he does. A few of the Seven are still loyal to me, and they have helped—and will continue to—as best they can. I trust them, and have forbidden them from saying anything to Rohlmeyer. And as for evidence, Leska is friends with a faery sympathizer in the Kingsmarch whose aunt recently died in childbirth. The baby too. She’s b
ringing their bodies back now and will help me disguise them. They’ll . . . they’ll look close enough.”

  Startled, Rinka said, “But Leska, they’ll—”

  “No one knows of her involvement—not even those among the Seven whom I trust—and they never will. Leska is in no danger.”

  Nevertheless, it was too gruesome, too risky. There were far too many ways in which this plan could fall apart.

  “You cannot desecrate that poor woman’s body,” Rinka began.

  “Leska’s friend assures me that the woman would have wanted us to. She was an eccentric, and she was passionate about peace. And it is only a body now.” A pause, and then he said thickly, “Do not tell me I can’t do this thing, this one thing that can save you.”

  She could not stomach it. It was vile. She felt she might soon be sick. And yet . . . she put a hand on her belly.

  “We’ve made a mess of things,” she said at last.

  “We have. I wish I knew a better way to fix it.”

  Sounds came to her—two of Alban’s guards, waiting outside. Her fellow prisoners, crying out, mumbling.

  “How long until the rest of the guard arrives?” Rinka whispered.

  “An hour, perhaps,” Alban said, and laced his fingers with Rinka’s, across the swell of her belly. “Not long.”

  She closed her eyes and listened to the sound of his breathing, and together, in her cell’s dark corner, they waited.

  15

  RINKA FELL INTO a light sleep and startled awake to find Alban lying beside her, her back against his front.

  “It’s all right, you fell asleep,” he whispered against her hair. “My guard should arrive any moment now. I’m here.” He kissed her temple. “I’m here.”

  Rinka settled back into the warmth of his embrace. If she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend they were in her bed, back in her chambers, windows open to the stars. Alban gently shifted their position so he could put his ear to Rinka’s belly, feeling their child kick. He laughed, looked up at her.

  “She’s moving,” he whispered.

  Rinka smiled to see the wonder on his face. “She? You think so?”

  “I don’t know, of course. But I think she might be.”

  Despite everything, Rinka found herself beaming at him. She let her eyes fall closed again, focused on Alban’s hands beneath her, cradling her. She could almost, almost pretend . . .

  Then a soft weight in the air, a slight scent of bitterness, drew their attention to the floor beside them, where a single envelope manifested out of nothing.

  Alban reached for it, hissing as the magic coating it bit his fingers. Cold magic; mage magic.

  Rinka sat up, instantly alert, a pit of horror opening inside her.

  Alban opened the envelope, pulled out the paper inside, and went still.

  A dragon, stamped in red.

  Rinka stared at Alban, wordless and frozen, and then—from the hallway, from the stairs, came the sounds of swords clashing, men screaming, great weights being thrown against walls.

  Alban sat up. “My guard . . .”

  The other prisoners screamed, pounding against their locked doors.

  The doors, the walls—shaking. Somewhere deep below them—in the bowels of the castle itself?—something groaned, shifted, gave way.

  A pulsing, slithering wave of cold magic. Mages. Rinka thought she tasted a flavor in it—murky, colorless—that reminded her distinctly of Lord Rohlmeyer.

  “They’ve come for us,” she whispered.

  The paper began dissolving in Alban’s hand. He stared at the silver ash on his palm.

  “They were waiting until you came for me. They knew you would. It was only a matter of time, and somehow they knew, and—” Rinka shook him. “Alban, they’ve come.”

  He reached for her, helped her rise. Shielding her with his body, he hurried with her out the door of her cell, and turned left—up the climbing stairs. The guards at the door had run toward the sounds of fighting below, and had not returned. Mage magic snaked up the stairs and nipped at Rinka’s heels.

  “There’s a window, up there,” Alban instructed, pointing ahead of them to the next landing. “We can get out that way, climb onto the roof.”

  Rinka reached the window and froze, looking out. The window was narrow, the height tremendous.

  No sooner had Alban slammed the landing door shut behind them than crude fists of mage magic smashed into it. The door splintered, buckling.

  Alban put Rinka behind him, shoved her toward the window. “Rinka, go. Hurry.”

  She stared out the window; the world swayed. “I can’t.”

  “I’ll turn the mages around. I’ll order them to stop. They have to listen to me. They’ll have no choice. It’ll give you some time.”

  Rinka was not convinced. If that were the case, why were his mages breaking down the door? She wondered, with a thrill of terror, if hate could overpower even the blood magic of their binding.

  Ottmeyer, flinging himself out his tower . . .

  Alban had moved closer to the door, shouting something. Commands to stop, to obey him. He was their king.

  “Go, Rinka,” he hissed.

  “They’re not listening to you.” And then a great sadness burst in her heart, because she saw his expression and what he meant to do.

  No.

  Not now, not after everything.

  She grabbed Alban’s arm and pulled him with her toward the window. “Come with me. We can both go. We’ll head for Geschtohl with Garen and the others. My father will—”

  Alban was frantic, watching the cracking doors. “There’s no time, Rinka,” he said, and when she opened her mouth to protest, he silenced her with a kiss—his hands in her hair, his lips bruising hers. When he let her go, grief twisted his face, and Rinka sobbed, reaching for him, but he pushed her toward the window.

  “Go. Darling, go!”

  But she couldn’t; she wouldn’t. She held her belly, frightened and reeling. She couldn’t possibly. The landing was coming apart, the stone ceiling raining dust. Mage magic flickered through the air like cruel tongues, seeking her.

  Alban. Alban. She shook her head; she found his hand, brought it to her lips.

  “No, Alban,” she choked out. “No, please.”

  Then, with a tremendous crash of wood and a rush of magic, they were inside—Rohlmeyer, the other mages of the Seven; the Queen’s Guard.

  And the Drachstelles, dark and triumphant in the torchlight. Steffen gave a sweeping bow and intoned, “Long live the king.”

  But Alban had already stepped before Rinka, shielding her.

  “Stop this madness at once,” he commanded, and three of the mages paused. They lowered their hands, they collapsed to the ground as if in horrible pain. The room stilled; the torchlight blazed high, and then dimmed.

  Rohlmeyer, though—Rohlmeyer would not stop. He took step after impossible step, each one a battle. Blood trickled from his nose in silver rivulets—from his eyes, from the corner of his mouth.

  “Lord Rohlmeyer, stop,” said Alban, putting out his hand. “I order you to stop.”

  A wave of authority emanated from Alban, its origins far below them in the earth itself. Rinka felt the force of his connection to Cane as though it were a chain stretching from his heart to the kingdom’s, deep underground.

  But Rohlmeyer would not stop. He began to scream, screams to tear the world in two, and still he did not stop. He flung his fist at the king, held out his dark stone. Magic surged out from it, imprecise, ragged, and Rinka pulled Alban back by his collar. The magic grazed Alban’s arm, so cold it set Rinka’s nose burning. Then he turned before Rinka could protest, and pushed her toward the window, and out.

  Momentum forced her on. She cried out, slid onto the sloping white roof, found purchase on the gutter and steadied her footing. There was a storm, and the stone was slick. By the time she heard the sounds of struggle from inside—men fighting, magic slamming into stone—she had already scrambled to safety
, to the elevated walkway bordering the western courtyard. Gargoyles, spewing rainwater, leered at her as she continued across the rooftops, but she did not falter until she heard Alban scream in pain—scream her name—and then fall abruptly silent.

  She nearly fell, rain and tears making a mess of her vision, but she did not stop running—across walkways and down gutters, cutting through courtyards and the stable yard. She held her useless pendant to her like a treasure, and she ran, even though something was following her now—mages.

  Arrows began flying after her, mage magic cutting into her skin like lightning. She made the mistake of turning, and an arrow pierced her side. Mage magic sliced off the skin of her scarred thigh like paper, leaving frostbite behind. She ran, and she did not stop—until, stumbling through the forest behind the castle, slipping on the slick grasses, she ran straight into Garen, waiting for her.

  He caught her in one arm. Rinka saw the other five appointed faeries behind him—cloaked for travel, bruised, emaciated, huddling frightened in the storm.

  “Garen,” she sobbed, weak with pain. “It’s Alban, they’ve—” She couldn’t say the words.

  Garen’s eyes widened. A realization seemed to cross his face—the gravity of what had happened, and what would happen next.

  Then he said, “Rinka, I’m sorry,” and she even thought he meant it.

  She watched in dull astonishment as Garen used his other arm—the one bearing his bretzhenner band—to thrust his palm into the air and then draw it back while closing his fingers, all in one brutal movement.

  A wave of scorching magic blasted back into Rinka’s face. There was a rippling of soft, uneven light, and Garen stepped through it, bringing her with him. The others followed, and they emerged on the other side of the lights in a quieter part of the forest.

  Rinka looked feebly behind her to see the lights of Wahlkraft—now farther away. They must have stepped through a Door. She understood now. Of course, talented Garen could have managed to open a Door.