Snow (15 page)

When she was done she folded the note in two. She did not hand it to a waiting servant. She continued to smile.

When she was admitted to see him he called her close and embraced her, said she was always a joy to see.

"I may have something for you," she said, and watched as his eyes lit. It was her duty to see him happy. Safe. She'd devoted her life to that, to him.

Later, alone in her rooms, she burned the note and changed. Dressed in drabness she left, rode down into the city. It was cold still, the new season yet to bloom, and her hands were red and white when she arrived at a tavern she'd been to many times before, mottled with cold. She sat down at the bar and signaled with one hand, a careful crook of a finger.

"I'm expecting someone," she said when the bar girl stood before her, head bowed, and slid two shining green coins across the counter. The girl bobbed her head and went back to the bar, rang the bell and announced they were closing early, shooed everyone home.

"I'll have a cup," she said when everyone was gone. The girl nodded and brought her one full of a deep rich wine, one she had them hold just for her.

He came in as she was setting her empty cup down on the bar, smiling in that easy way he had.

She wasn't fooled. She knew him, had trained him, and the look in his eyes told her he had news, perhaps greater than his note had implied.

"I was surprised to hear from you," she said as he sat down. "It's been quite a while."

"Been busy," he said. "Waiting, watching. Wasn't that your request?"

She ignored that. He knew better than to really question. "You said you had news."

"Spent some time with a miner recently. Lives over in their district."

"Behind the tan door." He nodded and she signaled the bar girl for another drink. "You approached him?"

"No. You said to wait, and so I did."

"He came to you?"

"Is it so hard to believe he'd notice me?" He gestured at himself, grinned charmingly at her.

She waited, and his smile faded. "He'd taken wormwood," he said shortly. "And was desperate about something. I didn't do anything more than start a conversation."

The drink came and when he reached for it she put her hand over it. "Henry," she said slowly, warningly.

"You weren't there, Judith. You didn't see him. I could tell something wasn't right. And it paid off." He reached for the drink again and she moved her hand away, watched as he took a sip. He sighed with pleasure, grinned at her again, and she knew now he'd tell her what he thought she'd want to know. "He's with someone."

She laughed. "That's your news? He's filling his head with smoke and sharing his bed with someone? Dear heart, I told you that before I sent you out."

He winced at the endearment. He knew she only used them when she never meant them. "The man he's with--he's not--he's different."

This wasn't news either, but his voice--"Different how?"

"Beautiful," Henry said, and laughed, a hollow sound, then tilted the cup to his mouth and drank deeply. When he put the cup down on the counter she signaled for another. Henry rattled enough to be silent was something she'd never seen before.

When the bar girl placed a cup in front of him he seemed to regain some of his composure, smiled the smile she'd taught him to use. The girl blushed and he said, "What's your name, love?" She'd taught him about endearments too.

"Go," she said sharply, judging Henry's composure to be well enough restored, and the girl bowed her head and left.

Henry looked at her. "Strange," he said slowly, his smile fading away. "Quiet. Lost. Like something out of a story."

"A story."

"Like those told in another country."

Judith sucked in a breath. "One we know?"

"Yes."

"An ally?"

He nodded. "A new and dangerous one, even."

"Go on."

You've heard the rumors," Henry said. "There was a third child in the cold land past the mountains, born of the old king."

"A child who disappeared after birth, who the king never mentioned."

"Like he'd never been. All we heard were stories about how beautiful he supposedly was."

"And cursed," she said carefully.

"Yes," he said, and his voice was angry now. "You might have told me about that."

She took a deep breath. This was not at all what she had expected and she was almost dizzy with it. The possibilities…"It's true, then."

"As to whether he's the old King's son or not? That I couldn't say. But he's cursed for sure." He leaned toward her, head bowed, and even in the dim light of the tavern she could see that a patch of hair on his scalp was gone, the skin the strange mottled color only winter's strongest kiss could bring.

"Froze it," he said. "My hair--it broke right off in his hands. And the room we were in--" He took a deep breath. "Coated in ice, Judith. I saw it form, watched it spread. And he did it. He--"

"And how did you manage to provoke--" she asked and then broke off, shook her head. "Idiot,"

she said, but her voice was almost fond.

"He really is beautiful," Henry said. "I couldn't help myself."

"I'm sure."

He grinned at her, gave a lazy shrug of his shoulders. He knew the news he'd given her held worth. "The miner he's with--are the rumors true?"

She gave him a look and he grinned again, took a sip of his drink. "Just asking."

"Is he still with the miner?"

Henry nodded. "Comes and goes during the day some, but always back at night. Doesn't seem to want to leave."

"He's in hiding, afraid--"

Henry shrugged again and she stood up, not bothering to finish her sentence. She knew all she needed to.

"Be careful," he said as she was drawing on her gloves and she watched him run a hand across his scalp, wincing. "He's--there's something in him. Something--" He broke off and the expression in his eyes made her pause. She'd never seen Henry afraid before.

"I'm always careful," she said, and placed a pouch of coins on the counter. Henry picked it up, weighed it in his hand. He slid it into his cloak.

He didn't speak again till she was at the tavern door. "He's in love with the miner."

She looked back at him impatiently. "What does that matter?"

"Nothing to you or I," he said. "But I think it might to him."

***

David came back from the square late one afternoon, Gladys coughing next to him as they walked up the stairs. She'd needed to buy a length of fabric and David had gone with her, the two of them wandering through a maze of gleaming cloth toward a section of smaller stalls, where everything for sale held no color and was thinly woven, rough to the touch. Gladys had sighed at one point, said, "Sad stuff, this," and looked back at the stalls they'd passed. Then she'd turned to him, a gleam in her eyes.

"Come on," she'd said and grabbed his hand, steering both of them back into the very heart of the square, to a stall where the counters were piled high with cloth of every color. She'd run her fingers longingly over a piece of rose cloth, motioned for David to feel it too. It was soft under his fingers. They'd stayed and looked at it until a stall worker moved toward them, a frown puckering her face. When she'd reached them she tried to pluck the fabric out of Gladys' hands, hissed at her to go away. "Don't want your kind near our customers," she'd said. Gladys had shrugged and let go of the cloth.

"I'm sorry," the assistant had said and her features rearranged themselves into a fawning smile as she turned to David. "I promise you we sell only the finest cloth to only the finest citizens. And clearly you--" she'd blushed a little. "Well. You must be newly arrived. Need a suit for Court, perhaps?" She'd moved the cloth Gladys had been holding toward him and said, "Look how fine the weave is on this," draping it across his arm. He'd looked at her and what she saw in his eyes must have startled her because she'd taken a step back, mouth opening in shock. David pushed the fabric off himself and it fell stiffly to the counter, making a heavy cracking sound, little pieces of it flying up around them.

"Saints," Gladys had said and tugged him back into the crowd, pulling them both all the way across to the other end of the square and then into a tavern where she'd sat them both down and ordered two mugs of ale, frowning when they came and the bar girl named their price. "Wait here," she'd told him and disappeared for a short while, returning with her mouth swollen and a handful of small change. She'd sat down and slapped the coins on the table, drank her ale in one long swallow and then, seeing his untouched glass, drank his.

She hadn't said a word about what had happened until they were walking back and even then all she'd said was, "You shouldn't mind what people say about me."

"It's not--it's wrong," David had said and she'd stopped in the middle of the street and stared at him as if he had two heads.

"It's not anything except the way it is," she'd said slowly, as if she was talking to a small child, and then sighed. "All this and I still didn't get my cloth."

"I'll go get it."

"Oh sure, trust you to bargain and pick out fabric?" she'd said, but she was grinning at him. They went back, circling around to the small stalls and he'd listened to her bargain furiously with a stall owner before purchasing a length of cloth colored a washed-out blue.

They'd walked back quickly, Gladys urging him to move faster, muttering about evening approaching and things she needed to do, and as they'd walked up the stairs she'd begun coughing. By the time they'd reached the top she'd stopped, leaned against the wall, and coughed until her face was as red as her hair.

David took the bundle of cloth out of her hands and motioned for her to give him her key, ran into her room and got her a cup of water.

When he came back out Gladys' color was better and she was staring at his door. "What is it?" he asked. The look on her face frightened him.

"King's messenger has been here," she said huskily. "Look."

He did, saw a piece of paper pinned to door, folded and sealed with a huge gilded crest.

"You best read it straightaway," she said and David went to the door cautiously, touched the paper. It was heavy and the pin that pressed it into the door was finely made, thin but strong enough to be driven clear through the stout wood. "I can't," he said. "Will you--"

She laughed. "You think they teach miners to read?" Then she cleared her throat and fell silent, an uncomfortable look on her face.

"What is it?" he said, crossing toward her and handing her the cup. "Do you want me to make some tea?"

"Alec can read it," she said quietly. "Best take it down and wait for him to come home."

When Alec came in he was whistling, pressed a quick kiss to David's mouth after he took off his coat. "You look a little lost," he said, and grinned at him. David tried to smile back but he knew he hadn't succeeded when Alec said, "David?" concern in his voice. He handed him the note.

"What's this?" Alec said and then he turned it over, saw the seal. For a moment the look on his face was raw, broken. And then he opened the note and read it. David had only heard people read out loud before, prayers at church or proclamations issued in his father's name, but Alec read silently. When he was done he folded the note back in half carefully and then set it down on the table.

"What does it say?" David asked.

"The King wants to see you," Alec said and he wasn't looking at him anymore, was staring down at the floor. "Tomorrow."

"Oh," David said. "Why?"

"David," Alec said slowly.

"He--he knows? About--about--"

"Yes," Alec said. "He knows who you are."

David pushed away from the table, unable to think past the memory of his brother and sister promising him a trip, of how he'd felt when he realized what they'd meant and he'd been left alone in the forest, of his mother's former home whispering thick and bitter all around him, and Alec finally looked at him. "Don't," he said when he saw the look on David's face and stood up too, crossing toward him and pulling him into his arms. "You'll be safe, I promise."

"But--"

"I promise," Alec said. "Trust me?" David nodded.

Alec kissed him.

They didn't eat dinner. They went straight to bed, Alec's face intent as his hands skimmed over him, touching like he was reading him, like he was memorizing this moment, this night. He got up once, returned to bed with a little smile on his face and a plate piled high with gingerbread. "I think about this--you--sometimes, when I'm in the mines," he said.

"Really?" David said quietly. Alec had never mentioned the mines directly before. He'd never said that he thought about him, ever.

Alec nodded. "When they're calling down from the top--"

"Calling?"

"Heigh ho," Alec sang softly. "Means the foreman's coming. And sometimes, when the call comes, for a second I don't think about the rocks or the dark. I think about you and what you're doing and I can see you here, making more gingerbread, and I--I've never had anything--anyone-

-like that. That…that wanted to be here. With me." He cleared his throat, looked down at the bed.

David leaned over and took the plate out of his hands, pushed it toward the end of the bed.

"Heigh ho," he sang softly and Alec looked at him, his eyes huge and shining.

"You've wrecked me," he said, but when David moved closer he didn't move away.

"We could leave," David said as dawn was beginning to break. As soon as he said the words he felt his heart leap. "We should leave. Right now. If we hurry--"

"David," Alec said, but David was already getting out of bed, touching things and looking toward Alec's trunk, planning. Dreaming.

"David," Alec said again and he'd climbed down out of bed too, put a hand on his shoulder. He drew him over to the window.

It was almost as bright as day on the street outside, the lamps burning fierce. "Look," Alec said and David saw three huge men, tall and thick with muscle, standing right outside, right across from the door.

"How far do you think we'd get?" Alec said and his voice was tired, resigned.

"I could--" David said and touched a finger to the window. The glass bloomed frosty under his touch and he could feel that fierce darkness welling inside him. It scared him but for Alec he'd do anything.