Jim Hines - The Snow Queen's shadow

“You’ll have to confine them.” The warning came from Talia, who was shaking as she pulled herself over the rail to collapse on the deck. Gerta grabbed one of the blankets and wrapped it around her.

Danielle swallowed. “Jakob?”

“I tried.” Talia slammed a fist into the rail, hard enough to crack the wood. “He’s alive and safe for the moment. He was chained below deck. I dealt with the guards, but Snow… she can see through their eyes. She was controlling them, like puppets.”

Danielle sheathed her sword, forcing herself to accept the news. “Are you hurt?”

“Frozen and mad as hell, but nothing worse than some cuts and bruises.”

“Oh, damn.” Hephyra was staring at Stub. The cat favored his front left paw as he crossed the quarterdeck. Each step left a bloody print on the wood. “What will that curse do to him?”

“It depends.” Gerta was sitting cross-legged on the deck, studying the crushed remains of a wasp. “The magic in these creatures is beyond anything I could do. Even beyond what Snow should be able to do.”

“She’s sent her mirrors away before, animating them like insects of glass and wire,” Danielle protested.

“Not like this. Not so many.” Gerta leaned down until her nose nearly touched the deck, and Danielle worried she would cut herself. “I touched the splinter she left in Armand. This latest attack is different.”

Danielle’s stomach knotted. “Different how?”

“She’s getting stronger.”

Three more days at sea brought Snow to the border between Hilad and the nation of Allesandria. From there, it was another half a day’s ride on horseback to reach the city of Melavin, capital of the Allesandrian province of Yador and home of Ollear Curtana, Lord Mage Protector of the city.

One by one, she stripped away the outer protections of the antiquated tower where Ollear made his home. “The man is clever enough,” she said to the white songbird on her shoulder. “But he lacks depth. He layers his magic instead of interweaving the spells to strengthen them.”

The bird gave a frightened chirp, but it was preferable to the whining. She had transformed Prince Jakob before leaving the ship. With his wing feathers trimmed, he had no means to escape. If he did run away, he would be quickly devoured by a wild animal, or simply crushed underfoot.

Snow thought briefly of Talia and Danielle as she climbed the steps, absently sending her wasps ahead to deal with any servants or human guards. She closed her eyes, peering through those men on the Phillipa who had been touched by the demon’s magic. They were confined in darkness, but their presence told Snow the ship was still under sail, far from shore.

So strange to be home once more, to hear the tongues of Allesandria instead of the grating cacophony of sounds that passed for language in Lorindar. Before the mirror’s destruction, Snow never would have dared return. Nor would she have taken Jakob, or attacked Talia and Danielle. She held no illusions about the way the power of the mirror had changed her. There was a presence within her, helping to strip away the lies of the world, as well as the lies she once told herself.

Snow had been selfish, hiding away in Lorindar, squandering her magic on minor errands for the queen. She might as well have donned blinders, hiding from past and future, from those obligations that called to her from Allesandria.

Obligations like Ollear Curtana.

At the top of the stairs stood a construct of red stone, a magical guard carved in the likeness of the Lord Protector. It moved as smoothly as a living creature, drawing a stone sword as it advanced toward Snow.

She smiled. The sliver lodged in her eye had already shown her the key to the statue’s false life. It had been born of mud blended with a rather complex potion, one brewed from the blood of the caster mixed with that of a loyal servant. She wondered idly if the servant had known the potion would require every last drop of his blood.

Snow pulled her own knife. The steel was razor sharp; she barely felt the cut as she slid the edge over her left palm. She clenched her hand in a fist, then flicked the blood at the approaching statue.

Given time, she could have wrested control of the statue, turning it against its creator. But there was too much to do. Instead, she simply willed the statue to return to its component elements.

The statue swung its sword at Snow’s head. Snow raised an arm, and the blade splattered red mud over her arm and jacket. Its face contorted in a melted parody of confusion. Depending on how much of the caster’s own blood flowed through the mud, it should have just enough awareness to realize something was wrong.

Fingers slid free of dripping hands. Snow sheathed her knife and smiled as any last resemblance to Ollear Curtana sloughed away. It gathered itself and lunged in one final attempt to smother her. Jakob squeaked and flapped his wings in alarm as Snow jumped back. The statue fell, splattering itself over the stairs.

Even as she trod through the mud, it clung to her boots. Its loyalty was impressive. Ollear must have improved his formula.

The wooden door atop the stairs was locked, but a quick spell swelled the wood until the planks split and fell away to reveal the grotesquely lavish bedroom of Lord Curtana.

The walls within were enchanted to be clear as glass, giving him a full view of the surrounding land. Dark clouds blotted the stars overhead, haloing the moon in silver. The same illusion blanketed the furnishings, turning them translucent. The wardrobe, the desk by the far wall, even the bed, where Ollear Curtana was busy with a woman far too young and attractive to be his wife. His scalp and face were clean-shaven, glistening with sweat. Like most nobles, he doubtless shaved each day, burning the hair to prevent it from being used against him by a practitioner of sympathetic magic.

“Hello, Uncle.”

Both Ollear and his mistress bolted upright. They each wore a light robe of slavesilk. The thin material was naturally gray, but anyone with a hint of magical talent could change it at will, turning it clear. Snow kept a gown of the stuff for special occasions. The trick was to maintain your concentration as things grew more… distracting.

“Who are you?” Ollear looked past her. Searching for his guards, no doubt. His lips pressed together. “You look familiar.”

Snow frowned, and both robes turned black. “I was hoping to talk to you about my father.”

“Your…” He paled. “Princess Ermillina?”

Snow gave a slight bow. “Uncle Ollear. I go by Snow now.” The years had worn away all but the faintest resemblance to the strong, handsome statue who had guarded Ollear’s door. He appeared shrunken, with wattles of skin at his neck. Only his hands were as Snow remembered, thin and permanently stained from his potion work.

“You’ve aged so much.” Old he might be, but he had never been stupid. “What magics have you been toying with, Princess?”

“I’ve done what was necessary.” Snow glanced at the young woman beside him. “A student?”

“A member of my household.”

A servant, then. Had she been magically skilled, politeness would have required Ollear to introduce her by name.

With one shaking hand, Ollear took a stiff black wig from the bedside table and positioned it on his head. He had to know he was outmatched. Snow had penetrated his tower and destroyed his guards. “Laurence told us you were dead.”

“Not King Laurence? Such disrespect for your sovereign, Ollear. Where are your manners?” Snow strode around the room, looking out at the city below. Her feet sank into the white-furred rug. “I remember when my mother elevated you to your chancellorship at the university. Strange… to fall from such a position to this small border province.”