Winter Witch (5 page)

Something odd caught Declan’s eye. He skidded to a stop and frowned at the arched, many-paned window overlooking Majeed’s garden. It was the same window he’d painted in the miniature of Silvana, but he had never been conscious of its inspiration for his painting. Stranger still, he’d never noticed such a window in Majeed’s manor, nor had he viewed the quince tree that appeared in the miniature painting from any window at all.

Declan shrugged and continued toward his room. He had never paid particular attention to the corridor. He didn’t remember seeing the window, but not noticing something was not the same as not seeing it. Some memories lingered in the mind like piles of drawings locked in old chests, out of sight but not entirely forgotten.

He hurried to the small bedchamber Majeed had assigned him and collected a simple muslin tunic and trousers, both in the warm brown hues he favored. After a moment’s consideration, he tossed aside the tunic and rummaged in his trunk for his best shirt, a white one with a bit of blue at the cuffs and collar. Perhaps he would invite Silvana to a late performance of
The Scarlet Raven
at the amphitheater. Silvana deserved better treatment than she received in Majeed’s household, and far better than she’d suffered from that insufferable ass, Jamang.

It occurred to Declan that Silvana deserved better than he could offer, as well. An occasional flirtation, a miniature portrait, an evening’s entertainment in nowhere near the best seats Kendall Amphitheater had to offer—this was the best he could provide. Perhaps there was something to what Jamang said, despite his ulterior motives and despicable behavior. Perhaps it was time Declan strove to rise in the world.

Declan shook off that chain of thought. Odd, how the contemplation of a pretty woman could disrupt his thinking. The pursuit of wealth and fame and power didn’t interest him in any other circumstances. He didn’t believe they were necessary to happiness. In fact, he’d seen enough in his twenty-four years to believe they took a man down the opposite path. He was enchanted by Silvana, and she seemed to enjoy his company. In his saner moments, he would consider that enough to build upon.

Deep in thought, he buried the moving-picture book deep beneath his other clothes, then straightened and strode into the bathhouse. A startled oath brought him abruptly down from the clouds.

Majeed Nores, one of the most renowned astronomers in Korvosa, glared at him from his seat at the far bench. The astronomer was naked to a degree that few men could duplicate.

Declan had noted Majeed’s bald head and his curious lack of eyebrows, but he’d never followed their clues to their logical conclusion. Apparently some quirk of nature, or perhaps a spell gone awry, had left Majeed as hairless as a fish. With his egg-shaped belly and short, fleshy limbs, his pale skin flushed pink from the steam, the famed astronomer resembled an enormous, angry baby. The sight was a startling change from the images of Silvana that Declan had enjoyed on his walk to the bath.

Few men could appear intimidating under such embarrassing circumstances, but Majeed managed through sheer ill temper.

“So, you’ve discovered a new comet,” he said, in a voice so acidic it could melt plate armor. “Congratulations.”

“Actually—”

Majeed cut him off. “A new comet,” he repeated. “I know this because only a fool would burst in here like a fox with its tail afire on a matter of lesser import. The only greater folly would be assuming I might wish to hear about such an unimportant matter.”

Declan mumbled an apology and ducked out. He retraced his steps to his room and changed into dry clothes. When he tied his coin bag to his belt, it felt a little lighter than he had hoped. He’d need to do another job for Basha soon or, better yet, persuade the map merchant to pay him for the last few jobs.

He climbed the stairs to the roof two at a time and paused a moment just before reaching the top to catch his breath. He did not wish to appear overeager, although to be honest with himself he had to admit he’d probably crossed that line earlier. A faint herbal scent perfumed the air, courtesy of Silvana’s ivory pipe. The woman herself was not within sight, but the dim light of the rising moon gleamed on the drake’s iridescent scales. The creature sat on the pedestal that held Declan’s logbook, his tiny shoulders hunched.

Declan approached the dragon. “Skywing, eh?” Declan had to admit he was a little jealous that the little drake had shared its name with Silvana before him.

Skywing lifted his tiny head.
Silvana went away
.

Declan stopped cold. He’d assumed that she waited for him under the pergola. “She left?”

She went away.

Something about the drake’s telepathic voice sounded wrong to Declan. There was a sense of sorrow. “Skywing, where did Silvana go?”

Fetch a light. Go to the vine cave.

He took the torch from one of the stands ringing the roof and absentmindedly muttered a cantrip that would set it aflame as he carried it into the shadows under the pergola. Skywing fluttered in behind him and perched on the bench. Firelight glimmered on the glass statue of a tall, slender woman that resembled Silvana.

Declan moved in for a closer look. Yes, the statue was definitely modeled on Silvana. In fact, the likeness was remarkable, right down to the kirtle she’d been wearing and the little strand of hair over her left ear that always seemed to work its way free of her braid.

He reached toward that errant lock. To his horror, the instant his finger touched the sculpture, the entire structure shattered onto the roof.

Declan stooped to pick up a shard. It was cold and so thin that it melted on his fingertips.

“This is ice,” he marveled. “Skywing, what happened?”

Skywing arched his wings, a gesture that seemed to Declan much like a human shrug. He leaped from the bench and winged off into the night.

Declan sat back on his heels to consider the possibilities. A hollow ice sculpture of such complexity was obviously the work of magic, but who had cast this spell? Declan thought instantly of Jamang, but despite the necromancer’s promise of revenge, he did not seem the likely culprit. He was a necromancer, not an ice mage, and he had always been one to nurture a grudge for days or weeks before retaliating. No, it had to be someone else.

The more important question was whether Silvana had been harmed, or worse. No, thought Declan. It was pointless to imagine the worst without further clues. Silvana was not, could not be, dead.

This mystery might not equal the discovery of a new comet, but in Declan’s opinion it warranted a second trip to the bathhouse. Majeed was not a wizard, and it was unlikely that he could shed much light on this matter, but any prudent man would surely wish to know when strange magic manifested in his own home.

As he started to rise, Declan noticed that Silvana had left her little white pipe on the bench, as well as a bag half full of herbs. He tucked both objects into his coin bag and ran for the stairs.

He hurried back down to the bathhouse and knocked on the door, grimacing as he steeled himself for Majeed’s abuse. A faint grunt was the only response.

Worried, Declan swung open the door. Majeed hadn’t moved from the bench. His wrathful expression was reassuringly familiar, but something in his rigid position seemed wrong.

“Master Majeed?”

The astronomer made a sound like that of a gagged man trying to scream. The sound was muted behind his immobile lips.

Declan crossed the bathhouse and tapped the astronomer’s plump pink shoulder. His fingertips clicked against a hard, cold surface.

Majeed was encased in ice.

Dread pooled in the pit of Declan’s stomach. He tapped again, harder this time, and again harder still. Unlike the frozen replica of Silvana, the ice surrounding the astronomer proved unbreakable.

He considered dragging Majeed closer to the fire pit but discarded the idea. The steam in the bathhouse had dwindled to a few stray wisps, but the rocks on the grate over the fire still glowed red. The air in the bathhouse was hotter than midsummer.

“Why aren’t you melting?” he wondered aloud.

As soon as the words escaped his mouth, he realized Majeed was doing exactly that. Within the cage of ice, the entrapped astronomer was slowly fading away.

Declan slammed his fist into the ice again and again, afraid his master was dying. Yet it did not look as though Majeed were in pain. Instead, Declan had the distinct impression that Majeed was falling away or actually traveling, perhaps through magically twisted space. His only thought was that if he could break the shell, perhaps he could drag Majeed back from wherever he was being taken—which had to be the same place Silvana had gone.

Majeed continued to fade like a painting carried away through the mist. One moment the astronomer’s form was there, the next, Declan’s fist met empty air. The icy construct had simply vanished, leaving a large, spreading puddle on the bathhouse floor.

Declan stepped back, running one shaking hand over his head as he tried to make sense of what he had seen. Majeed Nores was well known and, although not fabulously wealthy, certainly not without means. He was parsimonious when it came to sharing his expertise, but kidnapping seemed an extreme road to take in the pursuit of knowledge. It was more likely that someone had taken him for ransom.

“Or possibly revenge,” Declan murmured. “He certainly is a bit of a bastard.”

Regardless of which scenario held true, there was reason to be concerned about Majeed, but Declan felt far more worried for Silvana. A famous astronomer had an obvious value; a servant caught up by mistake did not. If the unknown kidnappers were willing to cast the strange teleportation spell until it found its intended target, they were unlikely to show much regard for any other fish the magical net might catch. He had to find Silvana, and fast.

Declan spun and ran for the stables. Majeed’s hostler was as ill-tempered as his master, but Declan planned to offer the man a choice: nod and smile while Declan took the fastest horse the astronomer owned, or be cut up into small pieces and fed to the barn cats.

Dim lantern light glowed above the half-door of the stable. Good. The hostler was not yet abed. Declan shouted his name, but the man did not appear.

Just as well, thought Declan. He took tack down from the wall and saddled Majeed’s gray stallion. The horse accepted bit and bridle without protest, perhaps sensing the urgency Declan felt. Without another thought, Declan vaulted into the saddle, slapped his heels against the horse’s side, and galloped off into the night.

Chapter Two

The Necromancer’s Familiar

A night’s lodging in the narrow boarding house near Korvosa’s Acadamae cost more money than Ellasif had seen in her first twenty-five years of life. But the last year had brought many changes, including a fat purse. She’d been renting the attic room for several nights now, and her new coin bag was still nearly full.

The boarding house occupied a side street where a few old homes stood besieged by the small shops and taverns that had sprung up like mushrooms around the famous school of magic. The house had never been grand by the standards of Korvosa, and over the years it had earned its share of drafts and creaks. Ellasif had reason to be grateful for both. The night wind made the heat of this southern city a little more bearable, and the creaking of the third stair from the top announced that someone was approaching her attic bedchamber.

“Someone big is coming,” she called out in her native Skald. She rose, fully dressed, from the narrow bed. “Someone big and clumsy.” She heard another step and sniffed loudly. “Smells like someone treacherous. Who could that be?”

She reached for her sword and crossed the small chamber in two strides. After sliding back the bolt, she stepped back and rested the sword casually on one shoulder. “Come in, Olenka.”

The door swung open, and a tall woman ducked her way through the low doorway, an Ulfen warrior with flame-colored braids and full lips pressed together in a grim line.

They stood regarding each other for a long moment. “Next time,” Ellasif advised, “try bracing your hands on either side of the stairwell as you climb. And wash yourself, woman. I can still smell the winter’s bear fat on you, which means a southerner can smell you a day before you arrive.”

“I was not concerned with stealth,” said Olenka. Ellasif had every reason not to be glad of the sight of her former friend, but still it was good to hear someone else speak her native tongue in this foreign land.

“You’ve come a long way if you’re looking for a fight,” said Ellasif. “And you arrive at a most inconsiderate hour.”

Olenka sighed through clenched teeth. “You know why I’ve come.”

“Is White Rook so secure, and are the raiders of Irrisen grown so tame, that the elders send you hundreds of miles to meddle with matters that no longer concern them?”

“If you cared about the village, you would come back with me and answer for what you’ve done.”

“What I’ve done?” Ellasif repeated incredulously. “You betrayed my sister, and in doing so you betrayed me, your oldest friend!”

Faint color suffused the woman’s face. “It was a needed thing. The elders decided. I simply did my duty. Whatever you might think of me, I came here out of friendship.”

“A few years ago, I might have believed that.”

Ellasif took a step closer. Olenka’s hand flashed to the hilt of her knife. The reaction drew a grim nod from the smaller woman.

“We know each other better now, do we not?” Once Olenka had been her dearest friend. It was to Olenka that Ellasif had confided her deepest secret when she could no longer carry it alone. For years she believed it would do no harm, but eventually the weight of the secret was too great, and the elders learned the truth. Olenka needed no reminder of the cost of her betrayal, but Ellasif gave her one anyway. “I trusted you, and so did Liv.”

“She heard things before they were said, saw things before they happened.”

“You should have seen that for the gift it was!”

“Some did. The raiders from Irrisen have besieged the village for years. When Liv departed White Rook, they left us in peace.” Olenka’s face softened. “Come back, Ellasif. Now that the witch is no longer—”

Ellasif’s fist slammed into Olenka’s jaw. The taller woman rocked back a step and spat bloody foam and a broken tooth into her palm. Her muscular body tensed and then relaxed.

“I deserved that,” she said. “My words were poorly chosen. But look beyond our quarrel, Ellasif. Now that...things are back to normal, the council of elders wants you back.”

“What possible reason could they have to summon the witch’s sister?”

“Red Ochme is dead.”

Silence fell like a funeral shroud over both women. Ellasif saw her own grief reflected on Olenka’s freckled face, and they mourned together in silence. There was no denying that Red Ochme was an old woman, well past the age any warrior expected to live. The news shouldn’t have come as such a surprise, but somehow it still stabbed a cold knife into Ellasif’s heart.
“How?” she asked.

“A wasting sickness. In just one winter she faded away to rag and bone. When her time neared, she rode to the sea and hired on with a captain she knew from years ago. They went raiding. Later, the captain sent word back to the village. Red Ochme wanted it known that she’d died with her feet on a ship’s deck and a sword in her hand.”

Ellasif pushed thoughts of her own loss aside to accept the end her foster mother had chosen. “A good death.”

Olenka nodded.

“So now the council of elders needs a new battle leader.”

“They want you.”

Ellasif tapped at her chin with one finger and pretended to think it over. There had been a time when her most selfish desire was to lead the village defenders as Red Ochme had done. Her dream had always been to emulate the woman she had admired above all other heroes of White Rook, a village whose warriors’ names were sung all across the Lands of the Linnorm Kings. And yet they were the same villagers who had reviled her sister, Liv, whom Ellasif had practically raised as a daughter. What they had done to her, Ellasif could never forgive.

“Tell me, Olenka,” she said. “Does my black billy goat Satyr yet live? The one who tried to cover everything from a sled dog to a she-bear?”

Olenka frowned. “I believe so.”

Ellasif smiled a knife. “Then tell the elders I’ll come back to White Rook after they line up inside Satyr’s pen, drop their pants, and grip the fence.”

“Ellasif!” Olenka never blanched at crude insults, but it was heresy to apply them to the village elders. “There’s no time for foolishness. My orders are to return with you and serve under your leadership, or else to claim that honor by bringing home your body.”

“I must inconvenience you,” said Ellasif. “I am still using it.”

“I don’t want to kill you,” Olenka whispered. “To be honest, I don’t think I could.”

“Now that,” the smaller woman said approvingly, “is the first sensible thing you’ve said tonight.”

“So you’ll come with me? You’ll come home?”

The pleading note in Olenka’s voice touched a place in Ellasif’s heart that she’d thought long frozen over.

“I will think about your offer,” she said. “How long can you wait?”

Relief washed over Olenka’s face. “I am expected back by the next new moon. If we leave tomorrow and ride hard, we should be able to make it.”

“You’ll have my answer tomorrow at dawn. If I decide that you will not be traveling alone, I’ll arrange passage for two on a northbound ship.”

Olenka offered her hand. They clasped each other’s wrists to seal the agreement. The big woman started to say something more but then shook her head and left the cramped room.

Ellasif listened as her visitor descended the stairs. When she judged that Olenka was well away, she opened the latch on the bedchamber window and slipped out into the night.

After the first day spent stalking her quarry through Korvosa, Ellasif had learned that the quickest way across the city could be found on its rooftops. More than a series of paths over connected buildings, the Shingles were a district unto themselves. Many Korvosans, not just the indigents who slept in ever-moving shantytowns, took to the rooftops. Business of all sorts could be conducted there, high above the patrolled streets. It was not the safest path through the city, but Ellasif had earned a certain reputation in her short stay, and no one bothered her as she headed back toward the Heights of Korvosa.

She had to act quickly. A wizard was what she needed, and she had a good idea where to find one that might suit her purpose.

The moon rode high in the sky by the time Ellasif stood in the street behind the astronomer’s manor. She hugged the garden wall, watching from the shadows as a dark-haired young man not much taller than she busied himself with chalk and candles and small fetish objects that appeared to have been harvested from a butcher’s garbage bin. He started to walk around the circle he’d drawn on the ground, chanting sharp-edged words with each step. When the chalk markings took on a faint red glow, he backed away and began a second, softer chant.

Rats came to the wizard’s call, slinking out of the shadows by the score. He snatched up four of them by their tails, two in each hand, and threw them into the glowing circle.

Something flashed, something without sound or color or even light. Until this moment, Ellasif would never have imagined that fire could be so dark, but “black fire” was the best phrase she could conjure to describe the ethereal tongues that consumed the rats.

The fire disappeared as suddenly as it had flared. In its place stood a single monstrous rat, the size of the four rats the wizard had sacrificed combined. Its eyes were unnaturally large and bulbous, and they glowed with evil red cunning.

“Declan Avari,” the wizard said. “Remember that, Vexer, for it is the name of your quarry. Take his soul if you can get it. Eat his liver if you can’t.”

The rat-thing smiled.

A shudder rippled down Ellasif’s spine. There was no mistaking the nature and origin of the spirit housed in the enormous vermin. Everything she’d seen since arriving in Korvosa deepened her opinion that this city stood on the gateway to Hell. The fey-haunted forests of her homeland had not prepared her for a place where swarms of imps were as common as ravens, and where anyone who hoped to become a wizard must learn to summon devils.

In such a city, it seemed certain that everyone who could afford a bit of magic would ward their houses against infernal creatures. And that, Ellasif decided, explained why the necromancer had clothed his evil servant in the flesh of the most mundane of creatures. As a rat, perhaps the little devil could slip past the manor’s magical defenses and do as the wizard bade.

Ellasif reached for the special weapon hidden in a small pouch Liv had sewn into the hem of her tunic. She watched as the wizard toed a gap in the chalk circle. The fiend slipped through the opening. This seemed to break the wizard’s second spell, as well, for the swarm of rats scattered and slunk off into the night.

As soon as the wizard turned away, Ellasif climbed the wall that separated the back street from the astronomer’s garden.

The giant rat was quicker. It scrambled up one side and down the other and sped toward the manor, silent as shadows.

Ellasif raised the tiny silver whistle to her lips and blew.

No sound emerged that her ears could hear, but the rat-fiend convulsed and came to a sudden, twitching stop.

Ellasif leaped to the ground and continued blowing the whistle, reaching over her shoulder for her sword as she ran.

As long as she blew, the giant rodent writhed in pain, but the moment she stopped to draw breath, the creature whirled toward her and reared up on its hind legs. Malevolent red witch light gathered between its paws, which looked more like clawed human hands.

Ellasif’s sword slashed down and lopped them off.

The rat-fiend dropped to the ground and attempted a hobbling escape. Ichor flowed from the severed limbs and left a steaming trail on the mossy path. Ellasif followed, raising her sword high. She overtook the creature in a few quick strides and chopped down hard. The heavy blade split the abomination’s black hide and bit deeply into meat and bone.

Black fire flared from the carcass. Ellasif reeled back, one hand clapped to her nose to ward off the searing stench of sulfur.

The black flames took the shape of a tiny devil with bat wings and a hideous face crowned by long, curling horns. The imp circled Ellasif as if trying to decide which part of her might be the tastiest.

Something fast and pale swooped from the sky like a diving hawk. Ellasif spun away, sword sweeping up in a protective arc.

But the attacker—a pale blue dragon about the size of a young rabbit—did not concern itself with her. It slammed into the imp, sending the devil spinning through the air to crash face-first into a garden statue.

The imp slid down the sculpture and tumbled onto the gravel path. It came up in a crouch and hissed like a deranged cat before leaping into flight.

Imp and dragon met in midair, jaws snapping as they scrabbled at each other with their sharp talons. Their barbed tails lashed and stabbed, dueling like a pair of limber swords in a contest seemingly independent of the battle of tooth and claw. The creatures broke apart, dropped to the ground, and rose again to fight on the wing like territorial birds.

Another time, Ellasif might have been charmed by the tiny, sky-blue dragon, and certainly she would have been fascinated by the living poetry of morning and midnight battling for possession of the sky, but she was in a hurry. Again she blew the whistle.

Imp and dragon jolted away as if equally pained by the sound that Ellasif could not hear. They hovered for a moment, wings beating as they glared down at her.

A sizzling sound drew Ellasif’s attention to the rosebush beneath the imp, which wilted and drooped from the ichor dripping from the creature’s wounds. The dragon, on the other hand, appeared unscathed.

She was not surprised when the imp gave up the battle and darted off into the night sky. The little dragon followed in close pursuit.

Ellasif nodded, satisfied that she’d found the right wizard for her purposes.

Tracking him was not difficult. Remnants of the chalk from the summoning circle lingered on the sole of his boot long enough for him to reach a nearby tavern. Ellasif followed him into the smoky room and sat down uninvited at his table.

The wizard’s gaze swept over her, taking crass and obvious inventory. “Are you for hire?”

“Are you?”

Surprise reddened his face, but it was swiftly replaced by amusement. “No one has ever asked me that question before. It’s quite an interesting notion,” he said with a leer.