Winter Witch (3 page)

“It’s over,” said Jadrek. His voice was mingled relief and regret.

Ellasif wasn’t so sure it was over. The night was filled with the muted groans of the dying, the rattle of hail against the roof thatching, the indignant demands of a toddler who could not understand why his mother would not rise to hold him. Beneath it all lay a silent, trembling energy that Ellasif could not name.

A deep thump resounded through the forest, then another. By the time Ellasif could identify the sound as footsteps, they had accelerated into a charge. She looked up at a shadow upon the snowy trees and saw a thatched hovel flying incongruously above the ground.

No, she realized. It was not flying. Rather, the hut was perched upon two enormous scaled legs. Ellasif’s first impression was that they were the limbs of some emaciated golden dragon, but then she recognized the avian angle of the joints and the black talons of a chicken. This was no mere monster.

The walking hut stepped over a fallen birch and strutted into the village. No one uttered a command. No one raised a weapon. None dared defy Baba Yaga, the mother of the Irrisen queens, or whatever dread emissary the great witch had commanded to direct her dancing hut.

At the southern edge of the village, a baby wailed. The hut whirled toward the sound. Its sudden movement broke the spell. Warriors forgot their injuries and rushed to attack.

Fire arrows streaked toward the hut and bounced away without touching the shingled walls. A white-braided old warrior charged with battleaxe raised high. One enormous talon flicked him away with no more effort than Ellasif might expend on a gnat. The hut crushed two spear warriors underfoot as it stalked toward the house containing the child whose cries had alerted it.

The infant was quiet now, no doubt hushed by its siblings. The hut stopped beside the house and tilted to one side like a bird listening for worms. Faster than thought, it lifted one clawed foot and tore away half the roof.

More axe-wielding warriors closed in. A lump rose in Ellasif’s throat as she recognized her father’s weapon in another man’s hands. The hut trampled the men into bloody ruins with its scythe-like talons as it strode to the next cottage.

A dark square on the ground caught Ellasif’s eye. She stooped to pick up a wooden shingle, larger than those on the village homes. She sniffed it. It smelled of cooking smoke and herbs, old blood and the skin of reptiles. It smelled exactly how Ellasif imagined a witch’s hut to smell.

She broke it in two and tossed one half onto a smoldering wolf carcass. The shingle flared into light, just as any ordinary bit of dry kindling might do.

Ellasif ran to Jadrek, who was stitching a deep gash across the face of Ivanick, his father. Waving the shingle as she ran, she shouted, “It’s wood! Baba Yaga’s hut is wood!”

The boy scowled and reached for a flask of vjarik. He poured some onto a rag to clean the wound.

“It’s wood,” Ellasif repeated. She threw the shingle at Jadrek.

He batted it away. “So? What else would it be?”

“Woods burns,” she persisted. “The fire arrows can’t get past Baba Yaga’s magic. None of our attacks can get past. But if we send fire into the hut in a different way, we might surprise it.”

Ivanick considered her for a moment, his blue eyes peering out from a mask of blood and matted pale hair. Then he took the flask from his son and removed the cork with his teeth. “I will try.”

The warrior snatched a torch from a nearby stand and strode toward the walking hut. Before he could get close enough to throw the torch, the hut snatched him up in one mighty talon and flung him atop the nearest cottage. The hut tilted precipitously at the motion, and through the flapping shutters of a window, Ellasif glimpsed a strange sight. In the center of the hut, bound to a plain wooden chair, sat a tiny white-haired doll. Silver-blue eyes and a porcelain face were all the detail Ellasif saw before the hut righted itself, scratching up deep furrows in the frozen ground with its gargantuan chicken talons.

Dry thatch exposed by the hut’s explorations caught fire. Ivanick staggered to his feet, limned with blue vjarik flame. He ran along the wooden roof ridge, flaming brighter with each step, and hurled himself at the hut.

He caught the edge of a shuttered window, lost his grip, and slid down the shingled wall. Somehow he found a handhold, and then another. How, Ellasif could not say. The fire surrounding him blazed furiously, its greedy flames devouring his clothes and gnawing at the flesh beneath.

The hut whirled and spun, trying to throw the man off, but Ivanick clung like a burr despite the flames surrounding him. The wood beneath his burning body blackened in the shape of his shadow.

Ellasif reached for Jadrek’s hand and gripped it hard. “He’ll fall,” she cried, half hoping that he would.

The burning man pulled a dagger from his belt and drove it through the sleeve of his other arm, pinning himself through flesh and bone to the smoldering wall. Almost immediately he slumped, overcome by flame and smoke.

Still the hut did not burn.

Ellasif ran to Red Ochme and seized her arm. “Lamp oil!”

Understanding widened the old warrior’s eyes. She shouted the order. Several women came running with vessels and hurled them at the hut. The pottery shattered against the hut’s magical shields, but some of the oil splashed through. Flames licked at the hut’s shingles and sped upward toward the thatch. The hut twisted away and ran, flaming, toward the river. It plunged over the steep bank and disappeared with a great splash, then bobbed to the surface, a halo of flame around the crest of its roof.

It disappeared again. A flicker of orange light touched the surface a moment later and then vanished. The villagers watched for another emergence.

It felt to Ellasif that the entire world held its breath.

Vapor burst from the gulley in a hut-shaped cloud and soared off toward the east. The storm clouds fell in b
e
hind it like obedient hounds following their master home. Hail and darkness surrendered to a silver sky crowned with a wisp of rosy sunrise.

In the silence that followed, villagers stood blinking, unable able to comprehend that the terrible night was finally over, that they had survived.

Ellasif ran to the armory, her throat tight with dread. The baby’s cries brought a smile of relief to her face. She unlatched the door and swept up the red-faced infant.

“I’ll milk the white nanny as soon as I can catch her,” she promised the babe. “You can drink as much as you like.”

She kept crooning to the baby as she joined the knot of children gathered near the fire pit. The sight of her sister—her ward now, her child—soothed some of the anguish of the loss of her parents. Some of the other children were already being led away to new homes by villagers all too accustomed to the orphaning of their neighbors’ children, but there were more orphans than families to take them. To Ellasif’s surprise, Red Ochme walked along the line of children, inspecting them as a war leader might eye recruits. She paused before Olenka, tall and flame-haired like her warrior mother.

Of course, Ellasif thought. Olenka is the very image of a shield maiden, everything I am not.

But Red Ochme moved on. She strode directly to Ellasif and looked her up and down. Ellasif’s face flushed. She was afraid she had shamed herself before the village’s greatest hero when she mutilated the corpse of the defeated winter wolf commander. Still, Ochme’s gaze lingered on Ellasif’s dry eyes and bloody hands, which clutched her swaddled sister.

“If you work hard, I will take you into my home. I will train you. You will become strong.”

Ellasif could only stare. The dream taking shape before her was too large for any words she knew. Red Ochme saw the answer in Ellasif’s eyes and sealed the deal with a curt nod. Then she added, “First you must find a home for that child.”

“No.” The word burst from Ellasif’s throat unbidden. “You must take both of us, Liv and me together.”

And just like that, her sister had a name.

The warrior frowned and shook her head. “Anngard has a babe at breast. She can feed another.”

“Liv drinks goat’s milk,” Ellsaif said firmly. “She will not be the first warrior of White Rook to be raised on it.”

“And who will tend those goats and raise this baby?” Ochme demanded. “A warrior’s training is nothing easy, and you will have many chores.”

Ellasif lifted her chin stubbornly. “I will do it all.”

A long moment of silence passed as the two warriors, the old and the young, took each other’s measure. Red Ochme shrugged. “We’ll see.”

Emotions too powerful to name tore at Ellasif’s heart as she followed Red Ochme to the cottage they would share. She would become a warrior, trained by the village war leader. She would claim her mother’s maidensword, and someday she would temper a sword of her own in the blood of her enemies. As a sword maiden of the Lands of the Linnorm Kings, she would be respected and feared. She could claim the place that was written in her nature, as much a part of her as a nestling bird’s yearning for the sky. But how could she be glad of this—of anything—when her parents lay dead in the ruin of their home?

And what of the uncanny storm and the attack that followed? All the stories Ellasif had heard about Baba Yaga’s hut suggested that its purposes might be unknowable, but not capricious. It had come to White Rook for a reason. It seemed to be looking for a baby.

She knew then with certainty that it had been looking for Liv, now her daughter as much as her sister. Liv, the child who’d laughed to welcome the tiren’kii.

Try as she might, Ellasif could find no other explanation. The tiren’kii had drawn the winterfolk’s attention. They would come again, for everyone knew that once a tiren’kii possessed a child it did not leave as long as the child lived. For the safety of everyone in White Rook, Ellasif should tell the village elders what she had seen and heard at Liv’s birth.

Even as the thought formed, Ellasif’s arms tightened around her tiny sister. She’d sworn an oath. Her duty to Liv came before anything else, anyone else, even her own ambition.

Silence, Ellasif decided as she padded along behind the old warrior. Silence would protect her sister today.

Fifteen Years Later
...

Chapter One

The Ice Sculptures

Declan Avari squinted into the oversized spyglass mounted on the north edge of the rooftop observatory, rolling one dial after another to adjust the focus. One final tweak, and the black turrets of Castle Korvosa came sharply into view.

It was an imposing sight. Torchlight gleamed against black marble, casting long shadows down the ancient pyramid upon which the castle stood. From this distance the imps that wheeled around the towers resembled a swarm of gnats, black specks silhouetted against the rising moon.

The soft thump of wings drew Declan’s attention to the grape-covered pergola on the southern end of the roof. A pale blue house drake, a recent addition to the clutch that inhabited the turret of the Frisky Unicorn, his family’s inn, often followed him to the observatory. The little creature settled down amid the grapevines, folded his wings, and turned tiny golden eyes toward the castle.

My cousins are in spring flight.

This thought projected directly into Declan’s mind, along with an image of small flocks of migrating dragons.

“Ah.” He nodded. A flock of randy drakes near the imp nests would mean only one thing. “So the skies of Korvosa will be one big tavern brawl tonight?”

Yes.
The telepathic voice sounded wistful to Declan’s mind. Enmity between the imps and the tiny dragons ran hot and deep. With the possible exception of a plump mouse or a dollop of fresh butter, there was nothing a house drake enjoyed more than smiting imp-shaped evil.

“Plan on joining the fun?”

Maybe later.

The drake burrowed into the vines. Leaves rustled, and a tiny squeak, abruptly ended, announced a successful hunt. Since the little dragon would be happily occupied with his meal, Declan turned his attention back to the castle.

Now that he thought about it, he noted more activity in the night sky than usual. Imps and dragons in battle was a sight so familiar it seldom drew a second glance in Korvosa. Declan was not entirely certain what this said about the city.

He went to the astrolabe, a flat metal disk covered with intricate markings and mounted on an iron plinth. A series of dials and levers allowed Declan to set its measure upon the Grand Mastaba. The sandstone pyramid provided a foundation for Castle Korvosa and, more importantly for Declan’s purposes, a known measure against which to test his skills.

After several moments of fiddling with the dials, he jotted down his figures and frowned at the result. His calculation of the Grand Mastaba’s height was off by more than ten yards. If he were ever going to become a credible mapmaker, he’d need to do better.

With a sigh, Declan turned to the shallow basin of water that dominated the roof, a round reflecting pool in which tiny star-shadows glimmered. The markings along the edges of the pool, similar to those on the astrolabe, provided a second, simpler means of calculating angle and distance.

A thick book lay open on a pedestal nearby, revealing figures arranged in three columns. Declan’s apprenticeship to the famed astronomer Majeed Nores had been devoted primarily to taking measurements of the stars, repeating each computation with the reflecting pool, and comparing the difference. Majeed expected him to fill the book before the next new moon.

“The nights aren’t long enough for all this work,” he muttered. “And I suspect there aren’t enough stars in the sky to fill a book that size.”

“Hello, the roof!”

Declan turned toward the stairs, glad of the interruption. His smile dimmed when he recognized Jamang Kira, a childhood nemesis he’d not seen in years.

While Declan was no more than average height and build, he stood nearly a head taller than his visitor and probably outweighed him by half. Jamang had always been small and scrawny, with a disposition that reminded Declan of the overbred lapdogs favored by the matrons of Korvosa. Some men might have rued such a small stature, but not Jamang. Declan knew that, from boyhood, Jamang had learned that when someone was busy guarding his ankles against a nip, it was easier to slip a knife between his ribs.

Jamang strutted toward Declan like a bantam cock, and his confident smile proclaimed he was sure of his welcome, not just here but anywhere in Korvosa. Jamang wore the city’s colors from the red velvet slouch hat perched on his raven-black hair to his fine crimson jacket to the gleaming ebony of his boots. Riding proudly on his chest was a silver amulet proclaiming his graduation from the Acadamae, Korvosa’s most famous school of magic.

They exchanged one of the back-thumping embraces common to young men and quickly drew apart. After a moment’s study, Jamang offered, “You’re looking well.”

Declan did not miss the faint note of surprise in Jamang’s voice. He nodded toward Jamang’s new Acadamae amulet. “It would appear that congratulations are due.”

“For many reasons,” Jamang said smugly. “I have recently acquired a position with Somar Nevinoff. I trust you know the name?”

A reply was neither necessary nor expected. Everyone in Korvosa who had a passing interest in magic—and that included nearly everyone in Korvosa—knew the name Somar Nevinoff. The man was a powerful necromancer with more imagination than scruples.

“I can think of few situations better suited to developing your ...natural inclinations,” Declan said. He barely concealed a smirk.

Jamang’s face brightened, and he made a little bow. “How gracious of you to say so.”

Declan inclined his head politely to cover his wasted mockery. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

The young necromancer’s countenance settled into more serious lines, an effort at gravitas so studious that Declan suspected Jamang had practiced it before a mirror.

“Concern,” Jamang said. “I’m deeply concerned about you, Avari. As one of your oldest friends, I felt a duty to speak out.”

Declan gritted his teeth. Jamang’s pompous intonations foreshadowed a conversation Declan did not wish to have. Still, there was courtesy to be observed.

“Speak out about what?”

Jamang swept one hand in an arc that took in Declan, the rooftop observatory, and the not-quite-fashionable Cliffside neighborhood Majeed Nores’s manor occupied. He sniffed. “This is no place for a wizard of your talents.”

Alarms chimed in Declan’s brain. Flattery had never been among the weapons in Jamang’s arsenal, and Declan doubted it was a skill he had learned at the Acadamae. Whatever had brought Jamang here was something he wanted badly enough to overcome his scorn for the innkeeper’s son.

“I’m afraid my master shares your opinion of my ability,” Declan said, deliberately misunderstanding the compliment, “but since my apprentice fee is paid in full and he is not inclined to return it, he bears with me.”

“My point precisely,” Jamang said. He stabbed a finger in Declan’s direction for emphasis. “You are still an apprentice, and to an astronomer.”

“It’s an interesting study,” said Declan.

The necromancer shook his head sadly. “Such a waste! You, who set out on a wizard’s path—although why you chose to study magic at the Theumanexus confounds me, considering that the Acadamae holds thrice the prestige and many times the opportunities ...” He frowned, seeming to have lost his train of thought.

“I’m not interested in fame and fortune,” suggested Declan.

Jamang’s laugh was as sharp as a dog’s yap. He shook his head as if he’d just heard the most ridiculous joke. Of course, Declan thought. In Korvosa, avowing one’s disinclination toward fame, wealth, or power would almost certainly be perceived as a deliberate absurdity.

“You could almost persuade me of that,” Jamang said. “The Theumanexus was bad enough, but why you would leave it in favor of the university is beyond my comprehension.”

“The University of Korvosa has a fine art school.”

The necromancer pursed his lips. “I suppose I can see your attraction to art, all things considered, but why astronomy?”

“Why do you care?” Declan said.

“Perhaps I presume upon our friendship,” said Jamang. “That alone would not excuse my curiosity, but something your brother said preys upon my mind.”

“What about my brother?” growled Declan.

Jamang was oblivious to Declan’s mood, or pretended so. “Asmonde took the study of magic seriously. He once told me that you both swore to pursue the art—swore at your mother’s deathbed, no less.”

Declan clamped his mouth shut. That was not a subject he wished to discuss with anyone, least of all Jamang.

Undeterred, Jamang pressed on. “You are not the sort to abandon an oath, I think. Where have you been studying, and with whom?”

Declan folded his arms. “My situation is exactly as it appears. I’m learning the entirely unmagical art of reading the night skies.”

“But why? Art? Astronomy? What on earth do they have in common?”

“Maps,” Declan said.

Jamang frowned in puzzlement.

“Korvosans are known across Avistan as an adventurous breed. Adventurers require maps, and I intend to provide them. Knowledge of the stars is a necessary part of my training in cartography.”

“Cartography!” said Jamang. “You’re learning a
trade
?” He blanched at the last word, as if he had bitten into an apple and found half of a wriggling grub.

Declan shrugged.

He watched in silence as Jamang’s face contorted in a struggle between disbelief and distaste. Declan noted the soft rustle of vines and glanced toward the pergola. The house drake perched on the edge of the lattice roof, his eyes bright with avarice as he studied the newcomer.

Declan knew what the little creature wanted. Dairy farmers had cats, and Korvosan innkeepers had house drakes. His family ran the Frisky Unicorn, a small inn famous for its tall, slim turret and the drakes that nested there. More curious than cats and more acquisitive than ravens, the tiny dragons gathered in places frequented by strangers, where jewels were worn and coins exchanged. For the most part, the Unicorn’s winged residents left the guests in peace, but some of the creatures were accomplished thieves. This little blue dragon, a relative newcomer, could make the slickest pickpockets weep with envy.

Declan brought to mind an image of Jamang’s silver amulet and gave the little drake a subtle shake of his head.

The drake’s whimper of disappointment echoed through Declan’s thoughts.

Want
, he said emphatically.

Can’t have
, Declan sent back.
It is unwise to steal from a necromancer.

Nasty necromancers.

Declan could not dispute the assessment.

“It’s about your brother’s death, isn’t it?” said Jamang at last. Before Declan could answer, Jamang placed a ring-laden hand on his shoulder. “There’s no stigma attached to you, if that’s what concerns you. Many of the students who begin at the Acadamae don’t survive to graduation. This is not only inevitable but necessary.”

Declan stepped back. “I certainly hope you don’t intend to assure me that Asmonde’s body was put to use in the necromantic laboratories.”

The necromancer raised both hands in a placating gesture. “You know how things are done.”

“I don’t want any part of ‘how things are done’ like that.”

“Instead you want to draw maps?” Jamang sneered. “Perhaps you fancy yourself a Jeggare?”

The name was one of Varisia’s oldest and most famous families, but in this context Declan understood it to mean an adventurer in the style of Montlarion Jeggare, someone who left the civilized world behind to stamp his name on wild and unclaimed lands.

“My aspirations aren’t so grand,” Declan said, “but thanks for the compliment.”

“It wasn’t intended as a compliment,” said Jamang. “Old Montlarion died a pauper.”

The sound of light footsteps interrupted their argument and drew their eyes toward the stairwell. A young woman stepped onto the roof, a tall but delicate blonde clad in a green kirtle worn over a chemise of unbleached linen. Her gaze fell upon Declan’s visitor and she paused. For a moment she stood poised between speech and flight, like a forest nymph startled to have walked into a hunter’s camp.

The sight of Silvana lifted Declan’s spirits and clenched at his heart with an intensity that would be painful were it not so poignant. She was the most recent and by far the prettiest of Majeed’s constantly changing staff of servants, and she provided the only bright spot in Declan’s apprenticeship. He’d hoped she would come to the roof tonight. She often slipped upstairs to indulge in her private vice, a fragrant little pipe delicately carved from some sort of ivory.

Declan beckoned her over. “Silvana, may I present to you Jamang Kira, an old ...” he balked at
friend
and settled on “...acquaintance.”

The necromancer’s eyes lit up. He took Silvana’s hand and raised it to his lips. “I begin to understand Declan’s sudden enthusiasm for astronomy,” he oozed. “Had I known Majeed Nores possessed so lovely a daughter, I might have taken up stargazing myself.”

Silvana cast an uncertain glance at Declan. She said, “I work in Master Majeed’s kitchen.”

Jamang froze. “Oh,” he said flatly. He dropped her hand and turned back to Declan.

“As I was saying,” he continued, “you yourself had nothing to fear from the trials at the Acadamae. You are far more talented than your brother.”

“And far less tolerant of bad manners,” Declan snarled. “If you wish to remain, you will treat Silvana with courtesy.”

The wizard looked puzzled. “What?”

Behind Jamang’s back, Silvana shook her head and flicked one hand as if brushing away a small insect. She lifted her little pipe and tipped her head toward the far side of the roof, where she retreated.

Declan turned a cool stare to his visitor. “What do you really want, Jamang?”

The necromancer reached into a satchel hidden beneath his crimson cloak and produced a slim book bound in blue leather.

Heat flooded Declan’s face as he recognized the volume as one of the bawdy trifles he had created in his Theumanexus days. He barely refrained from snatching it out of Jamang’s clutches.

“Where did you get that?”

Jamang ignored the question and opened the book to reveal an ink drawing of a voluptuous courtesan on the sole page of the book. “I must say, it’s marvelous work.”