Jim Hines - The Snow Queen's shadow

She backed away long enough to shout for the guards, then waded back in. She saw no sign of Snow or Jakob.

A woman swung an iron pan at Talia’s head. Talia ducked and waited for the next swing. When it came, Talia stepped close, hooked her arm, and flung her out of the way, stripping the pan from her grip in the process. Talia hefted the pan, nodded with satisfaction, and moved toward the next combatant.

By the time the guards arrived, Talia had left five of the staff strewn about the kitchen. All were alive, though they would be in pain for several weeks. She moved back, allowing the guards to separate the rest.

She crouched by the head chef, who was groaning and clutching his head. Talia grabbed his ear and tilted his face toward her. In addition to cuts and bruises from the fighting, bloody speckles covered his face, making him appear diseased. She had noticed similar marks on the others. “What happened?”

“This is my kitchen,” he spat. “ I say when the meat is done. I say how much spice is too much.”

“Too much? Food in this country is tasteless!” She caught herself. “Were Snow and Jakob here?”

“They left.”

“I passed them on the way here,” said one of the guards. Like the others, he was dressed more formally in a bright green tabard over a polished breastplate. They clanked like church bells wherever they walked. “Snow was taking the prince toward the northeast tower.”

Talia pushed back her sleeve before remembering her bracelet was still sitting in her room, along with the broken mirror. She grabbed the guard’s arm. “Find Princess Whiteshore. Tell her to get to the tower.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Probably.” Talia hurried away. First Armand, then Nicolette, now the entire kitchen staff. And Snow had been cut worse than anyone else by her broken mirror.

She checked with a passing laundress to confirm that Snow and Jakob had indeed entered the tower. A single guard stood at the base of the staircase, but Talia was a familiar figure, and he allowed her to pass with nothing more than a nod of greeting. She ducked beneath the brightly dyed green plume that sprouted from his helm. Lorindar’s fashions were strange.

Once on the stairs, she slowed. Her shoes made no sound on the tiled steps. She walked sideways, keeping her back to the inner wall.

She checked each door as she passed: first a darkened storeroom, then the weaving room where two girls worked on a half-finished tapestry stretched across the loom. Talia scowled at the spinning wheel tucked in the corner before quietly pressing the door shut. The next room was the candlemaker’s workshop, and that door refused to budge.

There was no lock on the door. If someone had barred it from within, she should at least be able to rattle it in the frame. She pressed her palm against the edge. The wood was warm to the touch. She could hear Jakob crying on the other side.

If she climbed down the outside of the tower, she could enter through the window. But that would take time, not to mention she’d be scaling the tower in full view of everyone on the walls and in the courtyard.

Forget subtlety. Talia backed away, clenched her jaw, and slammed into the door. It gave ever so slightly. Ignoring the pain in her shoulder, Talia tried again. Each time the door edged inward. It didn’t seem to be blocked. It was more like the wood had swollen into the frame.

On the fourth try, the door swung open and crashed against the wall.

“I wondered how long it would take you to get here,” said Snow. She sat on a wooden bench in front of a small fire pit in the center of the room. A metal grate covered the pit. The air smelled of beeswax and dyes. Dipped candles hung from pegs in the walls and from beams crossing overhead, making the room feel crowded. Thicker rolled candles were stacked on shelves behind Snow.

Frederic, the candlemaker, stood at the window like a statue. Only the shallow rise of his chest and the occasional blink told Talia he was still alive. He had been cut along the side of his neck.

Prince Jakob sat on the floor, his back to a small water barrel, knees clutched to his chest. Blood oozed from a cut on his cheek.

Snow waved a hand. Talia jumped to the side, barely avoiding the door as it slammed shut behind her.

“What did you do to the prince?” Talia asked. The only light came from the moon outside the window, and the coals glowing faintly orange in the fire pit.

“Nothing.” Snow sounded genuinely puzzled. She turned to study Jakob, and her forehead wrinkled. “Nothing at all.”

Talia stepped forward.

“Don’t do that.” Snow lifted a shard of mirrored glass as long as her forearm and pointed it at the prince. Red cloth was wrapped around the base of the glass to form a makeshift hilt.

Talia froze. “Jakob, are you all right?”

Jakob shook his head without looking up. “Aunt Snow hurt me. She hurt Tanslav and Papa.”

“That’s not Snow. When the mirror broke, it did something to her.”

“Oh, Talia.” For an instant, Snow sounded like herself, both amused and exasperated. “My mother created that mirror because she wasn’t strong enough to contain its power herself. I am. I don’t need it anymore. Look at me. For the first time since that mermaid flung me against a wall, I’m casting spells without pain. You should be happy for me.”

“You’re casting them on your friends,” Talia said. “On the people who love you.”

Snow brushed her nails through Jakob’s hair. Jakob tensed, and he held his breath until Snow pulled away. The moment he relaxed, Snow’s hand flicked out, and a second cut appeared on the prince’s cheek.

Talia lunged forward, but Snow placed her blade beneath Jakob’s chin, halting her in midstep. “Such a strange child,” Snow whispered. “Armand was mine with a single cut, yet Jakob sits here untouched by my magic. Don’t you want to know why?”

“Not particularly.” Talia folded her arms, slipping two fingers up her sleeve to reach the flat throwing dagger sheathed on her arm.

“That’s always been your problem. You’ve no curiosity, no sense of wonder.” The hand holding the glass dagger never moved. “He’s not casting any spells, nor is he warded. It’s not human magic, at least none I’ve ever seen. I’d love to cut him open and see how he does it.”

It was Snow’s body. Snow’s voice. Even the lilt in her words was Snow’s, teasing and taunting as she pointed her knife at the prince.

Talia stepped sideways. “What did you do to Armand and the others?”

“I helped them to see.”

“To see what?”

Snow’s smile raised the hair on Talia’s neck. “The world as it truly is.”

“You sound like your mother.”

Snow frowned, her confidence flickering so quickly Talia nearly missed it.

“Is that it?” Talia pressed. “Your mother’s spirit-”

“Is long gone.” Snow flicked her free hand, dismissing the idea. “What will you do now, Talia? If I were anyone else, you’d already have thrown that knife you palmed.”

Talia grimaced and adjusted her grip on her knife.

“Can you do it?” Snow asked. “Can you kill the woman you love?”

Sarcasm dripped from her words, twisting in Talia’s chest. “That woman would never torment a child.”

“If I’m not Snow White, then who am I? A fairy changeling, perhaps? Or a witch wearing your friend’s face?” Snow smiled. “I was the one who helped Queen Bea find you in that nasty cargo ship where you were hiding. I got drunk with you the night you first realized Bea was dying. You sang that ridiculous Arathean song about your old god, the one with the three extra heads.”

Talia took another step, trying to get close enough to interpose herself between Snow and the prince. “Don’t worry, Jakob. You’ll be back with your mother soon.”