Cold Magic (Spiritwalker 1)

“Yet you might more easily negotiate in good faith. Whyever would you not, when that avenue is open to you? Put me in a cage, Mansa, or sit me across a table. I think you can imagine in which chamber I will prove more cooperative. I can go on a hunger strike just as the poets do. As the Northgate Poet has, in the council square, to force the Prince of Tarrant to listen to his words and to listen to the grievances of the populace. What makes you think I’m not courageous enough to do the same thing?”

Our audience of laborers raised their heads at these words. The soldiers shifted restlessly, for the threat of a public hunger strike was enough to make any powerful lord anxious. Outside, the rumble of the crowd grew more ominous, a few voices crying out, “Burn them!”

The mansa’s cold fire burned more brightly, as if fueled by his anger. But his voice remained soft. “What makes you think the Prince of Tarrant and I cannot simply sweep you up and haul you away? That we will not, for the good of all people?”

“You hear the crowd gathering outside. Do you think they will let me be taken prisoner so easily? The people in that crowd will favor my cause over yours. Do you doubt it?”

“The mob will trample you an hour after they raise you up. If they raise you up and do not simply swallow you whole.”

She raised her chin. “And how, Mansa, is that different from how you and your allies intend to treat me?” Turning, she gestured imperiously to me. “Catherine, come. We are going now.”

I glanced toward Andevai, who looked up to meet my gaze. Something in his look made my heart race, or perhaps it was only the realization that Bee truly meant to defy the mansa, to dare him to stop her in front of witnesses he could easily have killed afterward. No one need ever know what transpired here except his own loyal followers. And Andevai.

She turned her back on him and marched, head high, to the far door in the shadows. Andevai nodded at me, as if to say he would protect our backs. My heart was thudding, like repeated hammer blows; I was almost dizzy with them, with him. I was unsteady, but I gripped the hilt of my sword. And I followed Bee. The soldiers stepped back from the door as if she had commanded them to open a path for her. The mansa said nothing.

Not until we reached and shoved open the heavy door.

“Very well, maestressa.” He did not raise his voice. He had so much power that he need never shout. “My soldiers will escort you to your family’s house, where your father bides. They and the prince’s militia will guard the house so none disturb you. This night and tomorrow are festival days, not an auspicious time to engage in negotiations. On the day after solstice, the Prince of Tarrant and I will call to begin discussions. Do you think that a reasonable compromise? Ah. Listen!”

The thunder of horses’ hooves and the hallooing of cavalry guardsmen announced the arrival of more soldiers. The growling voice of the crowd began to shatter into a hundred voices as their resolve crumbled and people began to scatter.

The mansa’s smile mocked Bee’s brief triumph. “As I expected, the prince’s militia has arrived to disperse the crowd.”

I covered my face with a hand, bracing for the sound of terrible mayhem, but instead the rush of shod feet sprayed in every direction as people fled into the drowning night. The militia rode up and took places surrounding the mill. I uncovered my face. Flakes of snow drifted down through broken windows overhead like the last drowsy remains of lint.

“Reflect on this, stubborn girl,” the mansa said. “I am a reasonable man. You, and this girl you call cousin, and even this rebellious young mage I have harbored, have convinced me that perhaps it is time to consider a different sort of arrangement. Yet I must always do whatever is necessary to safeguard my kin and my House. As for you, Maestressa Hassi Barahal, you are in more danger than you comprehend. I can protect you. You will not get a better offer than mine.”

Bee’s brow creased as she stared at the mansa. “What does it mean to walk the dreams of dragons?”

With the cold fire illuminating his face, it was possible to see his slight smile, like a man contemplating a sweet, much anticipated and soon to be consumed. “That’s something we will have to discuss privately, you and I.” Then he looked at Andevai, and his lips curved into a frown. “Andevai, you will see they are delivered safely to the house and a guard set under the supervision of Donal.” He indicated the older magister. “After which you will return immediately to me.”

Andevai paused—quite deliberately, I am sure—before he answered. “Yes, Mansa.”

Light sparked, then swelled smoothly from a pinprick into a disembodied, floating lantern as Andevai walked down the hall and, bathed in its light, halted before us. It was an impressive and even flamboyant display of magic, however trivial it might seem to him.

“So, Catherine, I am commanded to escort you and Beatrice home.”

Her home, but no longer mine. Yet I could not say that to Bee. Not now. Not yet.

In fact, I could say nothing at all. Standing so close to him, I was struck dumb.

Fortunately, Bee was not. “Our thanks,” she said grandly.

She walked out of the weaving shed. Outside, she scanned the torchlit ranks of militiamen as if hoping, or fearing, to see Amadou Barry among them. If he was, we did not see him. “How are we to get there, Magister? I cannot ride in these clothes.”

Andevai was a magister of exceptional power, able to call cold fire, weave illusions, raise storms, and wield cold air like a hammer. But he was also a country boy born and bred, and he had not the least idea of how to go about finding a hackney cab in the city on Solstice Night under a curfew. We did, however, and we found a lachrymose fellow with horse and cab lurking by Eastfair Market who took one look at the soldiers and the gold coin offered him and agreed to convey us.

We kept the shutters open as we went. Andevai rode up by the driver. The mage House soldiers surrounded us, with the other magister riding at the rear as if to protect us from attack from behind. The city did not slumber so much as it waited with held breath for the ravening beast to pass. The prince’s troops were out in force everywhere, patrolling the street on horseback and on foot; because of this, no roaming packs of young men sang and clapped songs or importuned harried householders for a swallow of mead. This year, the solstice festival, also known as the Feast of the Unconquered Sun, would pass without merrymaking.

Even with curfew’s heavy hand emptying the streets, fires had been lit in pots and braziers on every corner. In the squares, bonfires blazed with a few huddled attendants keeping watch. The solstice fires had to burn to hold off the long night, to give strength to the beleaguered sun so it could follow these lamps and rise again in the morning. As tiny as candle flames, beacon fires shone at the crests of distant hills; closer to us, fires withered and almost died before flaring up after we passed.

Bee said in a low voice, “There must be something else we can do, Cat.”

“It was a magnanimous offer. It astonished me.”

“It was a condescending offer. Not much different than Legate Amadou Barry’s. The mansa has dropped his net on us already.”

“Maybe,” I said. And then, hearing the soldiers outside speaking of cats, I whispered, “Hush.”