Winterspell (34 page)

Callused fingers picked up Clara's wrist, felt her pulse. A voice brittle with age said, “Can you hear me, child? What is your name?”

“Clara,” she said. “My name is Clara Stole.”

Then she slept.

* * *

The next time Clara awoke, she could feel the difference immediately. Her vision was clearer, her limbs stronger, her stomach more settled.

And she was naked.

She bolted upright, drawing up the sheets to her chin. Silk and tassels, furs and downy coverlets lay about her in opulent heaps.

Something else was different too. Though she was still weak, her pain had diminished. In its place was a silver-corded solidity, like her insides had turned into something vital and deadly.

“Hello?” The word barely made it past her lips. Disbelieving, she took in the luxury surrounding her. She lay in a four-poster bed framed in iron. Gauzy coral-colored fabric hung from the bed, from the windows, in doorways. The room was tiled in white, blue, and dark gold. Blue flame flickered in black candles. A breeze brought light snow flurries in from a grand black terrace.

Across the room, at a great vanity topped with accoutrements beyond counting, sat the queen herself, tying braids into her long white hair.

She turned at the sound of Clara's voice. “Ah. You're awake.”

Clara blushed and averted her eyes. Anise wore a golden dressing gown that trailed the floor and hung carelessly open, revealing her breasts, her belly, her legs. She looked more human than most faeries, except for her ears and the unnaturally sharp set of her bones. She did not, Clara noticed, wear one of the mechanical gloves.

Anise regarded her curiously. “Have I embarrassed you?”

Clara kept her eyes trained on the wall. “What have you done with my clothes?”

“I'm afraid you were tearing them off in a frenzy during the last stages of transformation. We had to restrain you to keep you from hurting yourself.”

When Clara still did not turn to acknowledge her, Anise huffed impatiently and tied her dressing gown shut.

“There, now. Is that better?” Anise rose and stretched, amused. “I'm sure it feels quite extraordinary to have finally come into yourself. To have evolved into what you were always meant to be, after years of suffering an inferior existence.”

Clara had thought that if she ever met Anise, the queen would be malice and tyranny personified, full of taunts about her dead mother and impossible demands. Certainly not so . . . welcoming.

“What are you playing at?”

“Playing?” Anise's smile widened. “Clara, we have not even
begun
to play, I assure you.”

That Anise should feign ignorance, that she should trivialize this moment, shook Clara with a rage that had been building for years. She could see her mother's face; she could feel her mother's touch. She had lost Godfather and she had lost Nicholas, and she might soon lose her father and her sister, and it was all the fault of the woman standing so blithely before her.

Blind with fury, Clara stumbled from the bed, the sheets tangling around her feet. She was dimly aware of her nakedness but found she didn't care. There was a candelabra on a nearby table. She grabbed it and threw it straight at Anise.

The queen ducked, and it went crashing to the floor behind her. Her eyes narrowed. “What do you think you're doing, Clara?”

Clara did not stop. She found a platter of half-eaten food, gilded utensils, a goblet of wine, a heavy book, a tasseled shoe, and threw them at Anise one after another, for they were the only weapons she had. She screamed incoherent curses and accusations, reaching for Anise, ready to squeeze that pretty white throat. But then, blind with tears, she
stumbled into a table and sent it crashing to the ground. The fall jarred her, made her realize what she had done, and she sat there in a mess of ruined food, miserable, shaking, sick with hunger. She would die now; Anise would kill her as punishment, and Clara's father would die too, wherever he was.

In the stillness Clara heard a door open and close, and looked up. Anise was kneeling before her, impassive, unhurt. Behind her, at the door to an antechamber, stood Borschalk in fine military dress—a cloak fastened with shining clasps, a severe coat that fell to his knees. He had never looked mightier. Anise went to him, drew a sinuous line up his arm with one white finger. They shared a heated look, a full, simmering, unmistakably
adult
look. Clara retreated into a knot of naked limbs, feeling small and embarrassed, still thrumming with anger.

“You've made a mess of my chambers.” Anise's voice was light as she turned back to Clara. “Why?”

Clara stared at Borschalk, shivering. He wasn't even looking at her. The line of his mouth was caught somewhere between smugness and disdain.

“Don't mind Borschalk.” Anise laughed, low, turned to smile up at him wickedly. She was miniature beside him, the crown of her head barely meeting his chest. “He has other things on his mind at the moment, I assure you. Answer me.”

“I wanted to kill you.” Was this real? Had Clara truly said those words?

Anise simply laughed over her shoulder, through her fall of white hair. “Many do. None succeed. Why did you want to?”

“Because you killed my mother.”

At that, Borschalk did look at her, and he even—was it possible?—looked afraid. He seemed to shrink, though his body did not move.

The merriment melted from Anise's face. Here at last was the dangerous faery queen Clara had seen on the chromocast, with eyes of blue steel and malice on her tongue.

“Are you saying that Leska is dead? Don't lie to me.”

Bewildered, Clara let out a sob. “Why did you do it? We've done nothing to you. Why didn't you leave us alone?”

Anise stepped away from Borschalk, her body no longer supple but rigid. “How did she die?”

Disbelief—there was genuine
disbelief
on Anise's face. Astonishing. Clara was not sure how to respond. “She . . . There were loks, in the city. They killed her, Godfather said. I—I saw the photographs, from when they found her. She was—they had
torn
her open.” She turned away, her body bowing beneath the weight of this relived horror. “Must I describe it to you? You ordered them to do it. You did this.
You
.”

“Don't!” Anise had whirled, vibrating with fury. Clara looked up to see her pointing at Borschalk, and how remarkable that such a diminutive person could so thoroughly terrify such a large man. The hands of a clock on Anise's vanity were spinning madly, and sudden heat suffused the room. “Don't you even think of slipping out of here.”

“My love—”

“You will address me properly,” Anise spat, “or you will find yourself no longer capable of addressing me at all.”

A flicker of anger on his face, or hurt, or both. “My
queen
, allow me a chance to explain.” Borschalk seemed to shrink as Anise advanced on him. He went down on one knee and lowered his head, though the set of his shoulders held a certain stubbornness. “You charged me with the hunt for the prince, and I accepted it gladly, with honor. For years I searched, coming and going between here and the Beyond with little rest and little company.” He looked up at her. “For
you
, my queen, I did this great thing.”

“Spare me.”

Borschalk looked away, his jaw working. “You ordered me to spare Lady Leska, were I ever to encounter her.”

Shock buffeted through Clara in tiny, tingling waves. Could it be true? She looked to Anise, searching.

“I understood your reasons, of course I did.” He took a breath and looked up, imploring. “But they were poor reasons, my queen. Despite your wisdom in all other matters, you allowed this mage woman, this—
filth
 . . .”

Anise's eyes flashed. “Careful.”

“I will say it, and with pleasure.
Filth.
” He leapt to his feet now, passionate. “She was only a mage, undeserving of mercy—especially from you, my queen. You, who are so powerful. You, who have remade the world for your people.” He paused, put a hand to her face, cradled her head. He could have crushed her skull, but his touch was gentle. “I feared I would never find the prince. His mage guard had put up wards—to protect himself and the boy, to protect
her
—but they were faltering. The work of unraveling your curse was destroying his magic. You are that powerful, my queen. Powerful enough to ruin him, even from afar. And when his wards began to fall, and I saw the Lady, and realized who she was, I knew what had to be done. I had to assert your power, to demonstrate that no one is deserving of your mercy, not even her, especially not
her
.”

He cut a quick, venomous look Clara's way. “I cannot understand it, my queen, this curiosity of yours—”

“You did it to protect me.” Anise cut him off evenly. She kissed his fingers, his palm, her eyes never leaving his. “Didn't you, Borschalk?”

His eyes were hot on her face, relieved. “Yes, my queen. To protect your rule, to frighten the mage, to prove that no one is safe from your wrath, no matter to what world they flee.”

Anise took his finger into her mouth, sucked gently. “You disobeyed an order. Didn't you, Borschalk?”

Such a vile sweetness in her voice, even Clara inched away. Borschalk, whose eyes had been fixed on Anise's nibbling lips, tried to step back.

He failed. Anise bit hard on his finger, drawing blue blood, and shoved him to his knees. The air drew tight around her, bitter with magic.

“She was a
mage
, my queen,” Borschalk protested in horror. “In your
wisdom you killed every mage in Cane. Why then should your wisdom not extend to Beyond?”

“Because it is
my
wisdom—my kingdom.” Anise leaned low and curled her fingers around his brutish neck, her nails sinking into his flesh. “My kingdom and my rules. Not yours, Borschalk. Never yours.”

“But, my love—”

Anise let out a strange cry—there was fury in it, yes, but also something like hurt. She flung him into a nearby pillar—with her arms, and with the magic Clara could feel curling through the room, nipping at her own toes. His head hit the iron with a sickening crack, and he slumped to the floor, moaning. Anise seized him by his collar and dragged him toward the doors, her eyes bright. She said nothing to Clara. She did not even look at her.

In the queen's wake Clara could do nothing but sit in amazement. Then she noticed the two uniformed soldiers at the far antechamber doors, and the powdered, bejeweled attendant at another set of doors that led to an extravagant bathing chamber. All three faeries were trying, and failing, to act like they weren't staring at Clara. It would be futile for Clara to try for escape.

Her legs and arms stinging with tiny cuts from the shattered table, Clara limped to the bed and gathered the sheets about herself. Was Anise truly not to blame for her mother's death? Or was it an elaborate ruse to gain Clara's sympathy? Either way, she felt small and cold, and deeply troubled. When the screams began from a distant room—male screams, almost definitely Borschalk's—Clara tried to find satisfaction in them. Regardless of the truth, someone who had played a part in her mother's death was in pain, and that should have made her feel glad. But when the screams escalated to something utterly alien with agony, Clara felt sick and plugged her ears to block the sounds out.

* * *

It was some time before Anise returned.

Clara sat on the edge of the bed, wrapped tightly in her sheet, a fresh
array of food spread out before her, courtesy of Anise's attendants. She knew she should eat, but it could have been poisoned. Anyway, she had no appetite. The clock on the mantel ticked away, an elaborate iron creation that reminded her of Godfather. With each passing moment her anxiety compounded. She did not know how many days had passed, nor how much time she had spent in delirium. At least Nicholas was far behind her, and if Anise did indeed have her father somewhere, Clara was closer to her goal than ever before. Perhaps she could barter for his release, and in exchange feed Anise information about . . .

She rejected the half-formed thought even as a pang of vindictive satisfaction shot through her heart. Despite Nicholas's betrayal of her, she would not return the favor, not unless she had no other choice.

That, my dear prince,
she thought savagely,
is the difference between you and me.

Dear Nicholas. Dear, once-dear Nicholas. Had there truly never been a moment when he too had felt the heat between them, the deep sense of familiarity, the comfort of being in the company of a lifelong friend? She shut her eyes, curled her fingers into the bedsheet.

The antechamber doors opened, admitting Anise. Clara breathed past her tears, watching the queen's approach with what she hoped was a proper degree of coolness.

Anise dismissed her attendants and then paced before Clara, bright-eyed and high-strung. Clara tried not to look at the delicate sheen of perspiration on Anise's temple, nor the blue dotting her pretty gold dressing gown, or contemplate what that meant for the fate of Borschalk.

“How nice it is,” Anise burst out at last, her voice thick, “when those you love most turn against you.”

Such openness, such raw, impetuous emotion, was unexpected. Clara's coolness wavered, and she heard herself saying, “It's the worst feeling in the world.”

Anise whipped her head around, her expression first startled and then inscrutable. “Ah, yes. You speak of your darling Nicholas, I suppose?”

A stab to her heart.
And Godfather. Even my parents, in their way. Father choosing his grief over his daughters; Mother keeping so many secrets.

She only said, tiredly, “He is one of many, yes.”

Anise's eyes narrowed. Silence stretched between them, weighty with something Clara couldn't name.