by Wendy Palmer
Turning out of the wind was relief, and knowing they made distance from the DarkElves behind lent strength to tired legs and was a relief of an altogether different sort, no matter how he held on to his righteous anger at Mizzle.
He wondered about her denial of deliberate harm to Dester. Could that be truth—could anything she said be truth? And she let him slip close to insolence. Was that because she failed to read human intentions and expression or because she was more tolerant than he could think? And would Jarrett come to her again and had he translated right when he heard them speak of theft. And was that why the DarkElves chased her? Not that she planned to steal from the LightElves but that she had already stolen from the DarkElves—far worse and far more dangerous.
He could not stop thinking of her, and it was only when Faustus grabbed him by his elbow and shouted in his ear that he realised the snow came down so thick he was blind and his legs were shaking for walking uphill in snowdrifts for hours.
'We have to stop,’ Faustus shouted in his ear. ‘We need shelter.'
'That's the most sensible thing I've ever heard you say,’ Trick said. ‘Now where, pray tell?’ Does Mizzle agree was the more pertinent question, but she came up on his other side with no demur.
'Don't you know somewhere?’ Faustus looked haggard, shaking in the snow, and clinging to Coal's bridle.
Trick hated the Ullwyns, hated the Ullwyns, but could not in that moment hate his hapless stupid cousin. Mizzle he could be angry at and yet not hate her either. He looked into the flying whiteness, seeing not a foot beyond Bet's nose, hearing not a thing but the wind.
He could only guess where they were on the trail, but that guess said they were near shelter. His Livanian half, superstitious and prone to credulity, shied away from it, but his Bourchian side would never let him freeze for such a reason, and in the cold snow, he couldn't feel Linnet's cold arms any more.
'There's a—’ Gods take him, he had almost said haunted, curse his Livanian father. ‘A ruined castle up ahead. We just follow the track.'
Mizzle looked back down the trail. She could not have seen anything, but perhaps her DarkElvish ears could hear something, or at least trust that if she heard nothing it was because there was nothing to hear. She nodded to Trick and he led them off again, staggering now with the promise of rest as soon as he got them up to the ruins.
'Ride,’ said Mizzle, and she went up on Skye.
'No,’ said Trick. ‘We can't.'
'It is not beyond the horses’ strength,’ said Mizzle, who could not possibly know how far they had to go, and yet perhaps could accurately assess the lifeforce of a creature and perhaps lend it some of her own strength. He had that thought as she went on.
Faustus took two attempts to get into Coal's saddle and went off again because Trick had not tightened the girth strap, not expecting to so burden their horses again tonight. Mizzle went too lightly and Skye too politely for her saddle to slide sideways but Coal gave no such leeway.
While Trick stopped to pull his cousin up, catch the damn ill-mannered horse and straighten the saddle, Mizzle on Skye pulled away and disappeared into the whiteness.
Amazing how much worse the night felt when she no longer stood watchfully by them. And how much worse he felt about trying to spend the night in a strange castle, bane of many a third prince.
He had to walk and had to make his cousin walk. Faustus stumbled hard and Trick wrenched his shoulder trying to keep him up and then shoved him against Bet and made him walk with her for support
'She's leaving us behind, and she's going to kill my horse,’ Trick said, shoulder aching from holding Faustus up, legs aching from pushing through the snow, chilled to the bone despite wearing his new wool cloak over his old one. ‘When she said the horses could make it, I assumed she meant alive.'
Skye suddenly loomed out of the black behind the white, Mizzle standing beside her. ‘Your horse is fine,’ she said. ‘And I cannot leave you behind—we are all going to the same place, are we not?'
'Well, it's nice to see your bastard heritage has not affected your hearing,’ said Trick. It was a blind dart, but how else could she go freely in sunlight without harm to skin or eyes?
She did not so much as blink. He ignored her then, pushing forward to run cold hands down Skye's neck. He was glad to feel angry and not frightened, and no matter it was all due to Mizzle.
'It is fine.’ Mizzle was without interest in the welfare of the horse but Trick made sure of Skye himself.
'It's damn cold,’ said Faustus. ‘Are we there?'
'The gates are here.’ Mizzle walked on, leaving the little mare with Trick.
He gathered up both sets of reins and urged them forward, his cousin leading Coal beside him.
The gates lay on the far side of a wide clearing. Mizzle was half way across. The two men floundered out of the shelter of the trees and into a deep snowdrift.
'Oh, Fortune, that's cold,’ gasped Faustus as the full force of the wind hit them.
'Use Blackie as a windbreak, cousin,’ Trick said as patiently as he could, as if he spoke to a horse and not an Ullwyn. ‘And look for Mizzle's trail, she must be breaking the snow at least a little bit.'
But Mizzle in true Elvish fashion had gone over the snow without leaving a mark. Trick, cursing terribly, pulled Bet into the lead. ‘Single file, Faustus. Follow Bet.'
The big horse swam bravely forward, breaking the crust with her wide chest. Trick clung to her neck, urging her along. Skye followed closely through the broken snow, reins trailing. Faustus and Coal appeared to be holding each other up as they came last.
Finally, they reached the meagre shelter of the walls. There was no sign of the DarkElf but one gate hung open.
'Go on, Faustus,’ said Trick. His Livanian side warned him not to go in there.
'First?'
Trick figured for Livanian blood somewhere in the Ullwyn line. ‘What are you scared of, Faustus? It's only Mizzle in there.'
'Answered your own question,’ said Faustus.
Trick looked at him. ‘Fine time for a sense of humour to show up, cousin.'
'No one's joking.’ But Faustus went through the dark gate, Coal miserable behind him. The other two horses followed and Trick came in last. He tried to tug the remnants of the gate shut behind them.
'Do not trouble.’ Mizzle ghosted up to them.
They both jumped.
'The walls are fallen. There is better shelter within.’ She turned.
Faustus started to follow.
'Thanks for your help out there, Elvish,’ said Trick, not moving. He stopped his cousin too.
Faustus, holding on to Coal's saddle, groaned quietly.
'And I could have done what, exactly?’ she asked. ‘Exhausted myself also? Instead, I found shelter and no threat.'
Trick held his indignation briefly. Then he exhaled. She confounded him with good intention in such a small thing, and let him hang for what he thought of her actions in going through Dester. He let Faustus move and followed after.
She had found them a room with three surviving walls and most of a roof. Trick set himself to collect fallen debris for fuel and then tend to all three horses while Faustus flopped to the ground in the far corner.
But Mizzle confounded him again, pushing him to sit on a block of fallen masonry while she herself went round and gathered wood, and laid and lit a fire.
She did that with a spark of light he never saw the source of. He thought then at least he must get up and see to the horses, but she did that as well.
He took the opportunity to sip at his brandy. By the time she came back to the corner, the fire had already warmed the air so much that he had shed his outer warmer cloak and laid down with it balled up as a pillow. Faustus had taken his off without really waking up, tangling it into the rubble in his sleepy efforts to push it away.
Trick lay with his back to the wall and his face to the fire, watching Mizzle through the flames as she took off her cloak and combed out her h
air. She sat on the most exposed side of their small fire but he knew DarkElves didn't feel the cold as humans did.
Even in the dying embers of his anger at her, he could still feel comforted by knowing that she sat there and did not sleep. He did not fear outside influences and did not let himself fear her. Whatever DarkElvish impulses she might have seemed to be under her control or mellowed by her father's blood, whatever unfortunate human he had been—that was his guess, despite her name. It was a guess he did not quite dare ask her to confirm.
Trick watched her in silhouette, the light catching the angles of her face and the silk of her hair. He felt the pang of the allure touch him and forced it away, until something else caught at him. She did not look so DarkElvish out of her black-and-red with hair loosened and silver eyes shadowed. She was beautiful and unearthly but in an almost human way.
She was in that instant far more threatening.
He shut his eyes. She was not Linnet. She could not pry him from his wife's cold arms.
* * * *
It was not yet dawn when she woke him up, leaning over him, her hair re-braided.
He started away from her, aware of a dream which had not, after all, been of Linnet.
'We need more sleep, Mizzle.’ His voice was hoarse. They had walked most of the night to stay ahead of whatever had befallen Dester, and she could not possibly think to rouse them before the sun went high.
'Your cousin is gone,’ she told him in her smoke and mirrors voice that recalled the dream. ‘He has my cloak.'
He did not know why that was of any consequence. ‘You're in no danger of losing him, Miz.’ Her entrapment had gone deep in his cousin.
She had to catch the implied criticism.
'He has been gone too long,’ she said without a change of expression.
'You want me to go look for him?’ he asked, knowing the answer.
She nodded. Trick sat up and covered his eyes, a brief theatrical gesture for her benefit in case she did not know how inconvenienced he was. The fire had died down and he was cold again. Outside their broken room, the snow had stopped and all was white and black, clear and still. He wrapped his wool cloak around him and got up, wishing he had taken the time to take his boots off. His feet would blister and split for his treatment of them.
And she sent him out alone to look for his cousin.
A disadvantage to run now, without being able to take a horse and leaving clear tracks in fresh snowfall. But it implied a trust of him he surely did not deserve and welcomed all the same.
He took two steps out away from the fire, and stopped. Too often, the Ullwyns had locked him in small dark places. He was Livanian enough, and had heard enough of Jarrett's and pirates’ tales, to be chary of the dark and dark places. For a moment he feared whatever was delaying Faustus as he had never yet feared Mizzle.
She came up beside him. ‘I will search with you.'
He felt his face heat, thinking she knew his reluctance. But she gave no sign of it, and he thought again and doubted she could so read human intention. ‘There's not much point me going out then,’ he said, just to be difficult.
Her silver eyes were unblinking. ‘I do not wish to return with one cousin and find the other gone.'
That idea had crossed his mind, along with taking all three horses just to be sure of his escape. Now he knew the extent of her trust in him, and went with her before she could force him to do so.
They walked away from the dying embers of the fire and through the ruins and rubble of the deserted castle. Mizzle changed their direction on a few occasions and Trick guessed she saw his cousin's footprints in the near-dark before dawn. That keen night vision was all DarkElvish, but to see during the day as she did bespoke of gifts from a human father.
Mizzle stopped abruptly. ‘I have lost him.’ She glanced around. ‘His trail vanishes.'
Trick walked with her a little further, cold and increasingly annoyed with Faustus.
She stopped again. They had come to stairs. A pitiful remnant rose to empty air, but the stairs were solid stone leading down to darkness.
'Can you see anything?’ It was solid dark down there, thick and old. His hand twitched from wanting to reach for his sword.
'No,’ said Mizzle and started down anyway.
'So insanity is contagious.’ He followed her only because that was preferable to being left alone to wait. ‘I'd always wondered.'
She did not answer. At the bottom was a very sturdy and solid-looking door. She tapped it with her knuckles. ‘Young.'
'Younger than the rest of this place,’ he said, which thought alarmed him.
She tried the handle and it swung silently open.
'Why put a new door in and not lock it?’ He was more and more wary of this enterprise, but Mizzle went into the black tunnel beyond and expected him to follow.
He went after her, but immediately stopped. ‘Miz, I can't see a thing. Either give me some light or take my hand.’ In the darkness, he held out his hand.
There was stillness, then a pale red light flared, flickered and steadied. Trick dropped the offered hand, drawing back from her eerily lit face.
'Thanks,’ he said uneasily. Had he thought her less DarkElvish not long ago?
Mizzle nodded and walked on. The tunnel in her pale light ran straight and without deviation. She walked through that darkness as naturally as breathing.
Trick trailed behind with one hand on the wall and his eyes fixed on the light emanating from Mizzle's hand. The walls closed in around him and he heard his own breathing coming hard and awkward. The tunnel did not have enough air.
The DarkElf abruptly turned back to Trick, laid one long finger to her lips and made the light disappear. Trick stumbled forward in the sudden black and caught hold of her.
She pushed him away in the darkness, not roughly, but firmly. ‘There is another door. Be ready.'
The door swung slowly open before them. An empty room lay beyond, illuminated by a faint light. The offer of air and light was too much for Trick and he pushed past Mizzle into the room. A buzzing filled his ears and he turned in time to see Mizzle vanish.
Just as he realised it was not she who had been taken, he landed hard on loose straw and solid dirt. He made a disgruntled noise under his breath.
'Patrick?'
Trick rolled onto his back. ‘That could only be you.’ He forced disgust in his voice, but he was relieved not to be alone. Even if the company was an Ullwyn. ‘Where have you been, you idiot?'
'Here,’ said Faustus, coming over and offering his cousin a hand up. ‘And you're here too, so who's the bigger idiot?'
'You most definitely are.’ Trick took hold of the hand and scrambled to his feet. He glanced around as he brushed himself off. ‘Dungeon.’ The straw scattered across the flagstone were stale and dirty but the dungeon was lighter and airier than he was used to. He could not see the source of either light or fresh air. Mizzle's lighting the fire with a sourceless spark and holding light in her hand flashed through his mind.
'You'd know, would you?'
'Your family threw me in theirs often enough.’ Trick peered through the grate in the solid wooden door. Out there was torchlight and an empty room. A closed door was set in the far wall. ‘That's Mizzle's cloak, you know.’ She had been concerned about it, he'd thought, as far as he could tell.
'Your family too,’ Faustus reminded him, bordering on malicious. ‘And I took it accidentally. It's not very warm.'
Trick glanced around again. He was not looking forward to meeting their captor. He may have danced on the edge of wishing for death, but he had never wanted anything other than clean finish, and instinct told him whatever had trapped them would not deliver it.
'Was she with you?’ Faustus's voice had gone plaintive and fearful, a voice that made Trick want to smack his cousin and swear at Mizzle for her part in it.
Trick slid down the wall to sit in the dirty straw, refusing to answer. Now he had time to think and Faustus had reminded
him of it, remnants of his dream—not about Linnet—flashed through his head and made him guilty while the ghost of his dead wife wrapped jealous hands about his heart. He could not be so easily diverted from his loss. He swore, if they walked away from this, to give up the Livanian brandy, notorious for giving restless and dream-filled sleep. He was not so resolved as to pour the rest of it out on the stinking straw and dirt of the dungeon. He planned to get riotously drunk if dying in a strange dungeon was the fate Fortune left him to.
Faustus, who seemed never to have had a ghost cling to his shoulders or squeeze his heart, was not so easily bribed to dying peacefully. He prowled around the extent of their cell, tapping on stones and squinting at the lock on the door, doing things that one glance around at the walls had told Trick it was useless to do.
'Aren't you a thief?’ he asked. ‘Can't you pick the lock?'
Trick had been waiting for the question. ‘No.’ His flat refusal was designed to annoy his cousin. He took out his flask and took a double gulp, feeling the brandy burn all the way down. It was better to say that than to say, Oh Faustus, I'm Livanian and fear to touch the lock.
'Why not?'
Trick took another mouthful of brandy and said his suspicions out loud. ‘I suspect a Wizard in what took me here and suspect the lock may be warded with more spells.'
Faustus made a noise under his breath but he moved away from the door. He sat on the other side of the cell, back to the wall.
'How did you get here?’ asked Trick. He had almost finished off the flask, and he wished again he had had the foresight to steal more.
'I went out to relieve myself. As I came back, a white light enveloped me and took me here.'
'Glad to know it was after,’ said Trick. ‘That's one less thing to worry about.’ The ruins had to be peppered with such traps. They had merely been lucky in avoiding them for as long as they had.
'Oh, you're so amusing,’ said Faustus, shifting about uncomfortably against the stones of the wall. ‘As if you weren't scared too.'