Jim Hines - The Snow Queen's shadow

The plan had been so simple. An hour or so before sunrise, Snow White and Talia would sneak into the Sailor’s Bone Inn. Talia would “persuade” the innkeeper to tell them which room held the two fugitive witchhunters who had recently snuck into Lorindar. Snow would cast a spell of sleep upon their quarry, who could then be brought to Whiteshore Palace to face trial.

The universe rarely cooperated with Snow’s plans. She should have been halfway back to the palace by now, not staring down the pointy end of a silver-tipped arrow, wielded by a man known to have murdered at least sixteen witches, while fire spread through the inn’s upper story.

It went without saying that this was entirely Talia’s fault.

Snow’s would-be prisoner went by the name of Hansel. He was middle-aged and built like a bear, with shaggy blond locks that hung just past his shoulders. He wore heavy furs over a thick leather vest, studded in brass. Knotted braids of hair dangled from his belt: trophies of his kills.

Hansel jabbed his longbow at Snow. “Call your witch friend. Tell her to bring my sister back.”

“Talia’s not a witch.” Snow searched the empty tavern for anything she might use as a weapon. The occupants had fled into the cold right around the time Snow sent Hansel tumbling down the stairs. His sister had escaped onto the roof, with Talia close behind. “Besides, she never listens to me. If you’d like to put down that bow, we could head to the palace to wait for them.”

“No, thank you,” he said, his expression half sneer, half smile. “I’ve better things to do than be executed by your witch-loving king and queen.”

He stepped around a broken table, wincing as he put weight on his right leg. Blood darkened the area around the sharpened steel snowflake stuck in his thigh. Hansel had some sort of protection against her spell, but non-magical weapons worked just fine. Had her aim been better, she might have ended things at the top of the staircase. On the other hand, then Talia never would have let her forget how brute force had triumphed where magic failed.

At least if Hansel killed her, she wouldn’t have to worry about Talia’s teasing. Snow knew the only reason he hadn’t fired was because he might need to bargain with Talia to get his sister back, but she had no idea how long he would wait. He didn’t strike her as the patient sort.

“Take off that necklace of yours,” Hansel said. “Slowly.”

Snow touched the back of her choker. Gold wire unraveled, and the choker fell into her hand, its small oval mirrors clinking together. She glanced at the largest, searching for Talia, but it was dark outside, and Talia was moving too quickly to make out any details. Snow concentrated, maintaining the thread between her choker and the mirrored bracelet Talia wore. If nothing else, Talia should hear their conversation and know what had happened.

“Toss it to the floor.”

Snow obeyed, throwing the choker so it landed at his feet. She moved sideways, putting another table between herself and Hansel. He stood so he could see both Snow and the door, and he was rumored to be good enough with that bow to put an arrow through her knee should she try for the stairs.

She heard shouts outside as neighbors worked to organize against the fire and keep it from spreading. The flames had reached the top of the staircase, and smoke darkened the ceiling. “That was an interesting charm you used to protect yourselves from my spell,” she said brightly. “The one that burst into flame when Talia ripped it from your neck? So you kill witches, but you’ll use witchcraft when it suits your purposes?”

He scowled. “You’re Allesandrian, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“So you’re old enough to remember the Purge.”

Snow’s smile vanished.

“I see that you are. You’ve seen the damage such power can do. How many people did Queen Curtana murder?”

“Officially? Forty-seven.” Unofficially, the tally was far higher. Forty-seven men, women, and children were known to have been executed for treason during the weeklong purge, convicted only by the secrets Snow’s mother had plucked from her magic mirror. Snow forced the cheerfulness back into her voice. “Two years ago, a man from southern Lorindar murdered twelve people with an ax. Should we kill all the woodsmen? And what of you? You shoved a witch into an oven when you were younger. Obviously we should hunt down and destroy all bakers!”

As she finished speaking, she waved a hand at her choker. Sunlight flashed from the mirrors. Snow crouched low and upended the table between herself and Hansel. She heard the snap of Hansel’s bow, and an arrow punched through the wood a handspan from her face.

She pulled a long knife from her belt and thumbed a hidden catch on the hilt. A circular plate with an engraved snowflake swiveled open at the center of the crossguard, revealing a small mirror. Through the mirror, she saw Hansel stumbling toward the door, one hand shielding his eyes.

Snow jabbed her knife at the door and spoke a quick spell. The door slammed shut.

Hansel merely lowered his shoulder and smashed his way through. Cold air rushed into the tavern.

Snow swore and hurried to retrieve her choker. Her head throbbed from the magic she had used tonight, an old injury warning of worse to come if she continued to push herself.

She shoved the pain aside as she followed Hansel onto the street. Sixteen witches dead, in Lorindar and elsewhere. Like Snow’s mother, Hansel killed indiscriminately and without remorse.

Snow had been too young to stop the Purge, but she’d be damned before she let Hansel murder another witch.

She squeezed through the gathering crowd, diverting a part of her attention to her choker and her connection to Talia’s mirror. “Where are you?”

“On my way back to the inn.” The choker relayed Talia’s voice as clearly as if they were running side-by-side. Talia didn’t even sound winded. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine!” Her boots splashed through slush and snow as she ran. The sky to the east was just beginning to brighten, but the streets were still dim. Her mirrors enhanced her vision, helping her spy Hansel limping up Mill Street. Snow cut through an alley, hoping to intercept him. The snowdrifts were higher here where the three-story buildings protected the streets from the sun. “He’s making his way toward Holy Crossroads.”

“Probably heading for the gates.”

Snow bit back a yelp as her feet skidded on the cobblestones. A rain barrel had frozen and split, and ice covered much of the alley. She slowed, chafing at the delay, but she would never catch Hansel if she slipped and snapped an ankle.

The crowds had already begun to fill the streets at Holy Crossroads, eager to hear the preachers and their daily performance. The preachers’ garb had grown more flamboyant over the years, as had their rhetoric, as each shouted and condemned his neighbor to eternal damnation.

Even if Snow had been able to spot Hansel, the crowd shielded him from both magical and mundane attacks. She slipped into the crowd, elbowing her way past the gawkers. “Danielle, are you listening to this?”

Princess Danielle had remained behind at White-shore Palace. “I’m here. Did you really set the Sailor’s Bone on fire?”

“That was Talia’s fault! And if they get that bucket line organized, I’m sure they can save part of the building.”

A priest of the Fairy Church stepped into the middle of the street, blocking her way. He raised a hand to her. “No mundane errand is more important than your immortal soul,” he shouted. “Enter the house of the fairy saviors. Confess your sins and receive their blessings!”