Cold Magic (Spiritwalker 1)

“So it does,” she agreed cheerfully. “I myself sewed sachets and bound them with amulets to keep out bedbugs and other such irritations.”

Not all irritations, though.

My husband strode in as though it were his chamber, but pulled up short like a dog yanked back on its leash. The heat from the glowing coals in the braziers was sucked away in a sharp inhalation. He stared at me as though speech had been ripped from his throat.

I grabbed for my sword, lying on the bed, but all I found in my hand was the cane.

He flinched back as from a blow and rapped his own cane on the floor. “Are you not ready?”

The serving girl goggled at him. He wore an exceptionally fine dash jacket that, fitted through the torso, fell from the hips in loose folds to his knees. This one was paneled in a gold fabric set against a green of such elegance that even I took in a startled breath, because the fabric was so impressive, not because the buttery shine of the beaded gold collar caught high up against his neck looked so very well against the rich brown of his complexion.

I drew my cane across my nightdress like a shield. “Are we in a hurry?”

He blinked. “Ah. We are. Yes. Also, there is a chance the prince’s wardens may pursue anyone they believe tied to the incident…. It may not have been so very wise for me to go to the academy to find out what properties of the airship I could best exploit, although I admit I found out exactly what I needed.”

“Wouldn’t a cold mage deflate any balloon sack just by standing alongside it?” I asked, then bit my tongue.

“That’s part of it,” he said enthusiastically, then stopped and glanced at the young woman, who quickly bowed her head. “It’s best to assume we might be followed.”

I remembered the mob, the smoke stinging in my nostrils, the beat of flames against the sky. The howls of anger. Maybe my color changed.

He nodded, as if I had spoken. “Just so. The carriage is waiting.” He went out.

The girl smiled in a sisterly way. “He’s not a kinsman of yours, is he?”

“No! Not at all. Not in a kinsman blood relation kind of way. We met for the first time two days ago.”

She did not take offense at my tone. Evidently, like Bee, she could interpret my mood and draw her own conclusions. “He has beautiful clothes, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“The Houses are rich; everyone knows that.” I had not meant the words to come out with such sarcasm.

She chuckled. “Surely we do know that, who serve them. But forgive me, maestra. He said the carriage is waiting urgent, and I’m blabbering on. What help can I offer? I’ll brush your hair, if you wish.”

a grimace, I padded over to the chair to get the cane. As soon as I grasped the handle, the ghost sword flowered into existence. I almost laughed. Magic hides itself! Cane by day, it became a sword by night, when danger most threatens. I paced out an exercise: draw, return, draw, guard, and then into footwork, although I was careful not to stamp too hard. At the end, panting, I spun and clipped off the wick of one of the candles. The flame snapped out as by magic. This was a blade!

The cheery flame of the other candles caught me as with hope. The braziers breathed warmth. What a pleasant, fire-ridden room! Exactly the place no cold mage would care to enter. I blew out two of the candles and carried the fourth back to the bedside table, tucked myself in, and blew out the last candle. With the sword beside me, I fell asleep.

12

Beneath the comfort of warm covers, one’s drowsy dawn thoughts wandered pleasantly. Our upcoming birthday celebration was sure to be memorable. Because the family could afford only one birthday feast, I had agreed to wait until solstice to share it with Bee. She had asked for and we had been promised an actual balloon ride. Imagine how it would feel to rise above the rough slumber of Adurnam at dawn! We might hope to see the wide marshy flats of the Sieve spreading beyond the city’s skirts, the distant rise of the Downs, and, if we were fortunate, even maybe so far as the mouth of the Rhenus River to the southwest where it spilled into the Bay of Brittany…

“Maestra?”

The truth poured over me like ice water. I sat bolt upright as a girl with tightly curled, short black hair stepped into the room with my clothing draped over an arm.

She startled back. “I’m sorry, maestra. I didn’t realize you were still abed. If I may say so, what lovely hair you have, maestra.”

Her cheerful smile coaxed an answering smile from me as I brushed black strands out of my face. “That is very kind of you,” I said as I climbed out from under the covers. “Is it so very late already? The bed is quite comfortable. It smells of herbs.”

“So it does,” she agreed cheerfully. “I myself sewed sachets and bound them with amulets to keep out bedbugs and other such irritations.”

Not all irritations, though.

My husband strode in as though it were his chamber, but pulled up short like a dog yanked back on its leash. The heat from the glowing coals in the braziers was sucked away in a sharp inhalation. He stared at me as though speech had been ripped from his throat.

I grabbed for my sword, lying on the bed, but all I found in my hand was the cane.

He flinched back as from a blow and rapped his own cane on the floor. “Are you not ready?”