Winterspell (37 page)

Pleasure rushed down her spine, even as she clutched at her stomach, her body aching as if from many blows.

How marvelous to—for once—have someone be afraid of
her
.

C
lara went to bed alone. Through the night she fought unsuccessfully for sleep in the empty bed, and the next morning she woke alone to the rumbling of a tiny earthquake that shook the chandeliers.

She had no idea where Anise had gone, and not knowing made it difficult to remain calm. Her absence seemed unbearably ominous. Their dinner from the previous night had grown somewhat cold and lumpy; Clara nevertheless nibbled at a bit of it to assuage her hunger, but it did nothing to settle her nerves. She began to pace.

Obviously she couldn't just leave; she knew armed guards stood outside the doors. But she could still explore Anise's chambers.

After slipping into one of Anise's warm, fur-lined robes, Clara cautiously inspected the room, dragging her fingers along lamps rimmed with crystal, browsing through Anise's collection of extravagant clothes and cosmetics, always listening for the guards. When some time had passed without any movement from them, Clara took a breath and began testing the room—pressing the edges of Anise's many mirrors for catches that would allow them to swing away and reveal a concealed room or passage, testing the walls for hollow places. Out on the terrace she inspected the surrounding walls for footholds. Perhaps she could climb out—but, no, the walls were treacherously slick and sheer, and she wasn't confident she
could navigate toward the outer wall from here, much less escape through it.

She stood there, leaning against the terrace railing and looking out over the sprawling palace, so large that it could be considered—and, she supposed,
was
—a city in itself. The horizon beyond was troubling. The sky had darkened, more sickly colored than it had yet been, and storms shadowed faraway patches of land with lightning and black rain. It was a wonder that such constant storms had not brought the trains crashing down.

Lunchtime came and went. Clara nibbled idly at a cold glazed cake. She wished, agitated, that she still had her boots. What had become of them?

Perhaps she could try to use her new power to fight her way out, past the guards. So far that power had manifested unpredictably. Summoning it seemed daunting. Even if she did somehow manage to both summon and control it, surely the kambots would raise the alarm. Anise would come running with half her soldiers in tow.

Nevertheless, Clara opened her palm and studied it. The outburst the night before had seemed to be triggered out of deep emotion, but that seemed ineffectual at best. Emotions could be difficult to control, and if she opened herself up to them too deeply, she wasn't sure she could maintain the courage to go on. Fear would paralyze her; anger would make her blind.

Somehow she would have to learn to switch her power on and off, like one of Godfather's clockwork creations.

But how would she ever manage to work out such a thing under constant surveillance? And how could she be sure she wouldn't kill herself in the process? The previous night's pain still lingered in her bones.

That evening Anise finally returned, looking haggard and wild with temper. Without a word she stripped off her clothes from the night before and pulled on a formfitting black suit with a high collar and clusters
of elaborate gold needlework. Over it she fastened an ebony cloak.

“Come,” she said to Clara, not even looking at her. The cloak swirled about her like wings. “They're waiting.”

Clara hurried to follow. “Pardon me, my queen, but who is waiting?”

“Everyone.”

* * *

Anise brought Clara to the great hall on the southern end of the castle. The queen's court was a grand space with vaulted ceilings and flickering blue lamplight, everything carved of obsidian, iron, and glass. A dark throne sat at one end of the room, and high rows of seats lined the eastern and western walls.

The seats, Clara noticed with a thrill of dread upon entering the room, were filled with faeries—faeries in furred cloaks; faery children, prim and haughty; faeries holding up gold-rimmed glasses as though they were sitting down to the opera. Elaborately coiffed, elegantly attired. Watching her. Whispering.

“Stay here,” Anise snapped, and left Clara there in the center of the cold hall with hundreds of eyes upon her. She pulled her robe tight around her body and wished that she'd had the foresight to change into something more substantial.

Upon taking her seat, Anise kept tapping her fingers on the iron arm of her throne, obviously stewing for some inconceivable reason. Beside her Borschalk looked coldly satisfied.

“Clara Stole,” Anise said at last, her voice hard, “last night you severely injured two soldiers in my palace guard. The burns they sustained led to their deaths early this morning.”

Dismay ripped through Clara, making her sway on her feet. After all, they had only been soldiers following orders. She hadn't meant to kill them; she had simply wanted to stop the violence being done to the humans. It was frightening to hear what kind of damage her power had caused, and to wonder how much more it could do.

“What do you have to say about that?”

Clara shook her head. “Only that I did not mean to, my queen.”

Sounds of disbelief from around the room, irritable rustlings. Anise's mouth twisted.

“What did you mean to do, then?”

“I was . . . I wanted to help the humans.”

Anise's eyes were sharp on her face. “The humans were being punished in accordance with royal law. Did you think it your place, as a prisoner, to intervene?”

“Well, I . . .” There was no possible way to answer this, and desperation made her bold. “Forgive me, but I do not feel much like a prisoner.”

Outrage shot through the room. The gathered courtiers rose to their feet. Clara heard them hiss their contempt, heard calls for her immediate execution. Anise descended from her throne and advanced on Clara with the lithe suppleness of a cat on the hunt. Instinct made Clara try to run, but Anise flung out her hand before she could get very far. A coil of iron burst through the tiled floor and wrapped around Clara's leg, jerking her off her feet; she cried out, tried to scramble away, but it pinned her there.

Anise straddled her, grabbing her neck with the strength of a vise. Her face was a mass of frustrated contradictions, and Clara could find no sense in it.

“If you wish to feel more like a prisoner, Clara,” Anise breathed, “I can certainly accommodate you.”

Then, with a flick of her hand, Anise knocked the iron binding loose from Clara's ankle and sent her skidding across the smooth tiled floor.

The faeries around the room hooted, settling back into their seats. A hushed sense of expectation fell over the room, and when Clara struggled to her feet, she felt horribly afraid. Her ankle felt like it might be sprained, and her dressing gown had fallen open. Embarrassed, keenly aware of the faeries' lewd gazes and lewder laughter, she tried to close it and retie the sash, but Anise was on her before she could finish, pinning her to the wall. Above Clara's head, faeries leaned over for a better look.

“You were traveling with the prince.” Anise's hand tightened around Clara's neck. “Tell me, what was his destination?”

It was such an impossible question that for a moment Clara gaped, clawing at Anise's fingers. They burned her skin, impossibly hot. Answering her was out of the question—even though Nicholas had intended to use her from the beginning, even if their friendship, the affection she thought she had read on his face, had been a lie.

Tears came to her eyes, and astonishingly, Anise seemed to waver at the sight. But then the moment was gone, and she threw Clara to the ground.

“Answer me!”

“I don't know, my queen,” Clara panted, and then she heard it—a sickeningly familiar buzzing wave.

Anise stood with her arms outstretched, and at her feet a line of clicking black mechaniks tumbled out from a fresh seam in the floor, as if the floor were made of them and Anise had set them free. Clara realized, horribly, that this was most likely the case—that the floor, and the hall, and the entire palace, was made of these tiny malicious machines, held together by Anise's will.

They surged for her, and she crawled away, her body aching with the effort. They began to nip at her heels, tear at her bare feet, chomp up the sash of her dressing gown. At this last, Clara felt such a stab of terror that she turned and clawed through the air for them, frantic to get them off.

And it happened again, in her moment of panic: a surge outward from her hands, from the air around her. A cold wall of energy, repelling the mechaniks and sending them clattering back onto the floor like so many spilled toys. They spun there, stunned, disoriented, clacking blindly.

Clara huddled on the floor, trembling. She must remember how it had felt, hold on to the sensation and decipher it later. If, that is,
later
ever came.

Anise stood at a distance in the suddenly silent room. Some of the faeries were now looking at Clara in awe, at her arms specifically. She understood, at last, that the faeries needed the mechanized gloves they wore in order to focus their magic into weapons.

But Anise wore nothing of the sort. And neither did Clara.

She shivered at the realization, at the potential of it, and the burden. No wonder Nicholas's refugees had looked at her with such disgust and fear.

“Well,” Anise said at last, “I can see my court will indeed have the show they were promised.”

Before Clara could say anything, protest or plead or prepare herself to fight back, Anise flung herself at Clara, propelled by a scorching wave of power. Heat punched Clara like a fist. She fell, and blackness took her.

C
lara awoke briefly as Borschalk and two other soldiers dragged her downstairs to a lower level of the palace she had not yet seen. They deposited her in an empty black cell, heavy with stink. When it was clear they had gone and were not coming back, Clara tried to stand.

Every movement was agony. Bruises and bloodied cuts dotted her body from Anise's blows and the mechaniks' cunning teeth. They had not devoured her as they had so many others—a testament to the strength of Clara's power, undisciplined though it was—but they had bitten her, ruthlessly. Her insides hurt even worse, as though she had dragged them through brutal exercises with no preparation—and, she supposed, she had. The taste of the power she had unleashed sat sourly on her tongue. The darkness here was complete, and it seemed silly to stay on her feet, for where could she go? So she let herself collapse. From somewhere nearby came raw screams—human, faery, it was impossible to tell. Other prisoners, being tortured?

She
had
thought she would be more comfortable with dungeons and interrogations, hadn't she?

Now the idea almost made her laugh.

* * *

Slow hours of pain passed until Clara awoke to the door clanging open. The kambot watching her from its perch high in the corner squawked
mechanically, twitched, and fell silent, smoking. The sounds disturbed Clara from a dream, one of the strange ones she would have described to Godfather. The details were fuzzy to her now. She only knew, upon waking, a sense of terrible loss, and a dream-scent lingering on her tongue—a scent of spice and oil, of fireplace and home. Not the mansion, no. Godfather's shop, and all its mysterious contents.

How long had it been? Where was Nicholas, and was he alive? Had they buried Godfather upon killing him, or had they simply left him there on the streets of Kafflock to rot with everyone else?

Another prisoner, somewhere, cried out, and Clara let out a shuddering sob.

“Hush,” said a stern voice—Anise, at Clara's door, in a sheer black gown that tied shut with a sash of tiny golden chains. Her hair was loose, falling in white waves. She held a flickering lantern and knelt at Clara's side. The blue light cast an eerie pall on her skin. After she had inspected Clara's face for a long moment, her stony expression softened. She looked away, troubled, and bit her lip. The motion struck Clara as incongruously childlike.

She wanted to hit her, to beg mercy from her, to demand an explanation for her strange moods. But she was too frightened for it, too shattered. And then there was the charred kambot in the corner, certainly ruined.

Curious.

“Stand up,” Anise said, her expression closed. She helped Clara to her feet, and before Clara was able to get her bearings, Anise thrust her palm into the air—just as Borschalk had done that night, dragging her father away—and then drew it back, opening a Door. Its lights wavered gently. Anise stepped through and took Clara with her.

On the other side Anise's chambers awaited, dimly lit. The Door closed behind them in silence, and Clara fell to her knees. Passing through the Door left her feeling disoriented, scraped raw.

Anise rustled overhead, fetching cloths and a bowl. When she sat
beside Clara on the floor and began tenderly cleaning the blood from her face, Clara looked up, startled. Anise did not meet her eyes, concentrating on Clara's cut bottom lip. Clara watched her in silence as the bowl of warm water Anise held turned red and murky, silver glistening on the top like oil. Miraculously it seemed Clara's wounds had already begun to heal somewhat. Her own magic, or Anise's? She found that she was too weary to care at the moment.

“You understand why I had to do it,” Anise said evenly, after a time. “After what happened with those humans, with my soldiers, I had to demonstrate how much stronger than you I am. My court is easily impressed and easily frightened. They already don't like you. Many of them want me to kill you after I've gotten the information I need. I suppose I should.” Her eyes met Clara's at last. “I
should
kill you, but I don't want to. I like hurting people, but I don't like hurting you.”