Declan walked among the mills, searching for someone who seemed to be in charge. A number of men carried shallow boxes in which they made notes after conferring with the workers. Those were likely the overseers, but there were so many of them that Declan suspected they themselves must report to a superior.
“Collection or appointment?” asked a man Declan had not noticed arrive beside him. His voice was muffled under his scarf, but he spoke in words Declan could understand.
“Sorry?” said Declan.
The stranger pulled the scarf down to his neck. “Are you here to collect a vial? Or are you arranging for one to be made?”
Declan realized he stood beside a mill through whose open doors he spied tables full of black felt shadow boxes. In each tiny nook rested a ceramic jar similar to the one his father wore around his neck. If these were the same as the one Nagashar Avari wore, then they surely contained the bones of the departed. Declan had found the practice distasteful when his father explained the nature of the memento, but to see them produced in such quantities was even more unsettling.
“Um, neither,” said Declan. “Inquiry, I suppose.” His mind was awhirl with possibilities. He had always known his mother was from the north, but his father had never offered specifics. Declan had assumed she was Shoanti, but his recent travels had opened his imagination to the possibility that she came from the Ulfen or Kellid people. Never had he imagined she could be one of the jadwiga.
“Yes?” asked the man. He had fair skin and high cheekbones, but he lacked the thick musculature of the stereotypical Ulfen. Here was a man bred to life in the city, not the wilds. Declan searched the man’s face for some similarity to his own, but saw none. Perhaps if he could remember his mother’s face better, but she had died when he was still just a boy.
“Silvana,” said Declan.
The man threw an exasperated gaze to the sky and let loose a puff of frosty breath. “Of which family?”
“Oh,” said Declan. “I don’t know. It would have been in the past two months or so.”
The man shook his head. “Silvana is a common enough name,” he said. “Without the family name, it would be difficult.”
“I see,” said Declan. The man turned to go, but Declan said, “What about Avari? Pernilla Avari.”
“Avari?” the man said. “I am certain there is no such family in Whitethrone.”
“No, of course not,” said Declan. “She took her husband’s name.”
“Oh,” said the man. “In that case, let me consult the ledger. When would this have been?”
Declan did the arithmetic. “About fifteen years ago.”
The overseer stared back at him, gaping.
Declan dug into his purse for a bribe, but the man frowned at him, as if insulted by the gesture. “I’m sorry,” said Declan. “She was my mother.”
The man considered that information. “And your name?”
“Declan Avari.”
Again, the man hesitated, weighing choices in his mind. At last he said, “All right, come with me. This could take a little time, but we can at least step out of this wind.”
Inside the building containing the little urns, the overseer showed Declan into a side chamber. There he fumbled with a lamp until Declan, impatient, reached over and lit it with a cantrip.
“Ah,” said the man. “Thank you, sir. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He made a little bow as he departed.
Declan noticed the change in the man’s tone. Before, the overseer had been indulging him at best, but now Declan sensed he meant to please him. If Declan were half-jadwiga himself, and the natives of Whitethrone revered witches, then he could probably use that to his advantage. Perhaps he could persuade the man to make the effort to inquire into all Silvanas.
As he waited, Declan considered his next steps. If he should turn up no evidence that Silvana had been “rendered,” as Majeed had so callously put it, he could be more or less assured that she had found employment as a servant. It could take days or weeks to find her, even if he were able to draw a decent likeness of her from memory—and his failure to conjure her face with the charcoal so far made that doubtful. It occurred to him then that he should do the same for Ellasif, and perhaps for her sister, whose image he had drawn from Ellasif’s description.
He had had the foresight to bring along his satchel. It wasn’t that he expected the servants to steal his spellbook, but he felt more comfortable having it near since he had been casting spells so much more often lately. Besides, after his magical drawing followed Ellasif’s teleportation to Whitethrone, Jadrek had thought it best for Declan to have his drawing materials close at hand.
He removed a sheet of parchment and the last nub of his charcoal from the satchel and set to work. Within a few minutes he had a decent likeness of Ellasif on the page, but he continued to add detail, smudging lines and painting contours with his fingers. He lavished pigment on the tight braids of her hair, and he redrew her mouth twice, unsatisfied until he had captured the proud triumph he had seen when she drove off Jamang’s imp.
The memory reminded him that he had not seen Skywing since the inferno at Szigo’s grove. He had hoped the little drake had arrived in Whitethrone with him, but he had not heard so much as a psychic peep from him.
Skywing? he tried to call out with his mind. Where are you?
He received no reply, but as he finished the drawing of Ellasif and began one of Liv, he tried again. This time he thought he picked out a distant sound. It was not even a word, just a sensation of feeling lost and wishing to rejoin family.
Skywing?
Declan felt a pang of loneliness, and couldn’t be sure whether it came from the dragon or himself. He did not miss his father, not exactly. He loved the man and their extended family of servants back at the inn, but he loved Isadora and Rose just as much, if not more. All the same, so long as he knew he could see them again one day, and help support his brother’s family with a little money now and then, he was content not to see them soon. He felt a certain fondness for the friends he had made at the Theumanexus and the University, but his life would not be so very hard if he never saw them again.
But Ellasif was another matter. He wanted to see her again, and soon. He needed to be sure she was safe, and that he did all he could to reunite her with her sister, whom he knew Ellasif loved more than anything else in the world. If he could see them happily reunited, he would know he’d done a good thing.
Yet if he were very honest with himself, he hoped it would not end there. He would like Ellasif to remain a part of his life somehow, and that couldn’t happen until he found her.
He finished the sketch of Liv and frowned at it. It was much harder to know how well he’d captured her image, since he was working from a memory of what he’d sketched from Ellasif’s description. He decided the result looked like a younger, softer version of Ellasif, perhaps a little skinny but with a shy, girlish beauty. It might be enough to evoke memories of people in Whitethrone who had seen the girl in the past year or so. He wished he understood more about the situation that had brought her here. Ellasif had been stingy with details, and Jadrek and Olenka even more elliptical in their answers when he had asked them.
It must be one hell of a story, he decided.
Skywing? he tried again.
He heard a distant reply. Stay there. Coming.
Smiling, Declan stood and opened the door to peer into the mill. There was no sign of the man who had promised to help him. If this was going to take much longer, perhaps he would leave and return later. He decided to wait until Skywing arrived, then to fetch Jadrek and Olenka and go off together to inquire about Ellasif and Liv.
In the meantime, he tried once more to sketch Silvana’s face from memory. He traced the outlines, but then he realized he could not remember how she wore her hair. It was long and fair as spun flax, but had it fallen loose over her s
houlders, or had she tied it in the back? He left that alone and tried to give the eyes some definition. That was even worse. Disgusted with the results, he scratched out the image to start again.
Here, sent Skywing.
Declan could feel the dragon was nearby. Shouldering his satchel and picking up his sketches, he left the waiting room and walked out of the mill. As his eyes adjusted to the daylight, a tall shadow loomed before him.
She was a woman of forty years, perhaps more. She was tall, but the shadow that had surprised him came from the head of a long staff carved to resemble the head of a bearded warrior, complete with a horned helm.
“Declan Avari,” she said.
“Yes,” he replied lamely.
Behind the woman, Skywing dove toward Declan. He veered away suddenly with a little screech.
Run, the drake sent.
“Why?” said Declan, repeating the question mentally as he tracked Skywing’s path through the air.
The woman turned with a start, her gaze following Declan’s. She hissed when she spied Skywing, her hand straying to her hair, as if checking to ensure he hadn’t struck her with any droppings.
Silvana is gone, sent Skywing. Run!
Declan took a step back from the woman. “Who are you?”
“A friend,” she replied. “My name is Mareshka Zarumina, and I have long looked forward to our meeting.”
“Mareshka Zarumina.” Declan recalled both Majeed’s mention of the name and Skywing’s earlier use of it in the altercation with the guards. “The wizard from Korvosa!”
The woman frowned, puzzled. “I have been to Korvosa, but my name is not known there. And I am no wizard but a witch.”
Declan must have flinched at her last word, for she lifted a hand to wave away his fears.
“You are in no danger,” she said. “Your well-being is paramount to me.”
“Thank you,” he said, fumbling to stuff the pages he had been drawing into his satchel so he could once more hold his cloak shut.
Mareshka noticed the drawings. “What are those?”
“Just sketches,” he said. “Portraits of some friends I've been seeking. Well, two of them, anyway.”
“May I?” she asked. Before he could answer, she plucked them from his hand. She nestled the staff in the crook of her elbow, and Declan realized she was completely unaffected by the bitter wind. He wished he knew a spell to protect himself from the cold. He knew such charms existed; he had simply never bothered to learn one.
“You say you are searching for these people?” Mareshka asked. She studied Ellasif’s picture with a frown of concentration, then placed it on the bottom to look at the image of Liv.
“I’m looking for the first one,” he said. “She arrived in the city only yesterday. She is searching for the second woman, her sister.”
“You have met the sister?” said Mareshka. She raised one arched eyebrow in surprise.
“No,” admitted Jadrek. “I drew that from Ellasif’s description.”
“Really?” said Mareshka. “You have a remarkable talent. The resemblance is striking.”
“You know Liv,” said Declan. His heart was pounding with sudden hope. “Do you know where to find her?”
“Indeed I do,” said Mareshka, turning to the third drawing. Her expression fell as she saw the scribbled-out image of Silvana. “What is this?”
“It was a mistake,” he said. “I was trying to draw a picture of my master’s kitchen maid.”
Mareshka managed to look down her nose at him, despite the fact that he was a few inches taller. “I see,” she said icily.
“I can look for her later,” he said. “I need to find Ellasif. Can you please tell me where to find her or her sister?’
Mareshka’s good humor had evaporated, and looking past her Declan saw the reason why. A pair of blue-skinned trolls approached. Between the brutes shuffled Jadrek and Olenka, their wrists and ankles bound by manacles and chains of ice.
“I can do better than that, Declan,” said Mareshka. “I can take you to them both.”
Chapter Seventeen
The Crooked House
Mareshka did not return to them that night, but a captain with astonishingly blue eyes arrived with a contingent of six guards to escort the sisters out of the palace. When Liv demanded to know where they were going, the jadwiga politely explained that he had orders to convey them to comfortable lodgings in the city, where they would meet tomorrow with Mareshka Zarumina. He requested with equal politeness that Ellasif surrender her sword. She did not bother weighing her chances of winning past seven armed guards in the Royal Palace of Whitethrone. After their long conversation, she knew she could not count on Liv to aid in an escape. She only hoped the captain would remain nearby, so she would have a chance to reclaim Erik’s flying blade.
Outside, Ellasif saw the courtyard of the fabulous ice palace. Its gleaming walls contained a galaxy of colorful lights, most of them dancing upon the curtain wall but others carried on batons like torches by servants of the jadwiga. The captain ushered them into a carriage drawn by four dappled gray draft horses, their shaggy fetlocks concealing their hooves. His men perched on the footman’s steps while he escorted the vehicle out of the courtyard and onto the long bridge that sloped gently down from the palace into the city of Whitethrone.
Ellasif found herself gaping through the carriage window. The sight of the lighted city from above captured her breath. At such a distance, even the most monstrous denizens appeared as tiny planets moving among a thousand stars. She wondered what Declan would make of the sight, the reverse of his frequent stargazing.
For Ellasif’s benefit, Liv named the landmarks as the carriage wheels clattered over the skulls of the Bone Road: the Floes, the four islets between the city and the palace; the Spring Palace, which Ellasif had first seen from the inside; and the market square with its surprising array of colors. Wherever they encountered foot traffic, it parted for them. Ulfen thralls and goblins knelt as they passed, and even some descendants of Baba Yaga doffed their caps and bowed toward the carriage. Ellasif saw Liv smile as she rotated her wrist in a tiny wave to some of the more elegantly attired residents.
They crossed the city core and entered the Twohill district, where the carriage climbed the winding path to the top of the first, lesser hill. Upon its crown stood the largest wooden building in all of Whitethrone, the Crooked House.
It was, Liv told Ellasif, home to the greatest woodworkers of Irrisen. While other lands might view their carpenters as mere laborers, no nonmagical craft was held in higher regard in the land of perpetual winter. In Irrisen, no felled trees could be replaced without significant effort, so the witches had to import most of their lumber. Once the commodity became precious, however, the demand grew even higher and more particular. Thus, in Whitethrone—with the notable exception of the palace itself—there was no greater sign of wealth than a house constructed entirely of wood.
The Crooked House appeared to have run amok and consumed a hundred lesser houses, adding them to itself as it sprawled over the hilltop and spilled down onto the slopes with extensions and annexes, all in different architectural styles. The one element common to every wing and nook, however, was the style known as gingerbreading. The multi-layered carvings that decorated so many of the city’s homes were a point of pride among city residences, and only the poorest shared the same design with others. Most of these were first created by the master carvers of the Crooked House.
“Why is she sending us here?” asked Ellasif.
“Mareshka is a close friend of the mistress of the Crooked House,” said Liv. She explained that she had visited the place many times, but she too was surprised they had come here. Mistress Tatyana Rekyanova had left Whitethrone weeks earlier on a journey to Magnimar, in Varisia. The master woodworker often went on such trips so that she could personally select the fine
st lumber to bring back to Whitethrone.
When the carriage arrived, the woodcrafters of the house welcomed the captain as if expecting their arrival. The guards led Ellasif and Liv inside and through a bewildering maze of halls and corridors until they reached a sumptuous bedroom deep within the house.
“Perhaps she thinks we’d never find our way out of such a labyrinth,” Ellasif mused. Liv stuck out her tongue, and the expression reminded Ellasif how much her sister was still a child. Until the treacherous day at White Rook, she had lived a sheltered life, without benefit of the discipline Ellasif had gained from her warrior’s training.
At last they were left alone with a pair of guards standing outside their door. Ellasif noted there were no windows, and one glance up the chimney flue was enough to realize they could never squeeze through that narrow aperture.
Not that Liv had any intention of leaving Whitethrone, at least not yet. Ellasif assumed she had until morning to persuade Liv on that count, but first she endured her younger sister’s tour of the clothes that had been left for them. The nightgowns looked comfortable enough for sleeping, but Ellasif had no interest in trying on the white and pastel dresses she had seen on the women of Whitethrone’s streets. Liv might feel like a princess here, but Ellasif would rather walk about in sackcloth than look like one of these witches.
At least she relished the hot bath the servants had prepared. She sank down to her chin in the steaming water while Liv sat nearby and told tales of her arcane studies, the queer customs of the jadwiga, and comic anecdotes about servile goblins and ogres. Ellasif could hardly believe her ears. These were monsters, the same savage beasts that had harried White Rook all of her life, foes she had trained to kill before they could reach the mothers and children. She hid her disgust, but could not stand to listen to such foolish prattle. She nodded occasionally, pretending to listen to the rest of Liv’s stories as she concentrated on a course of action.
Winter Witch Page 24