Winter Witch (12 page)

Rescuing Silvana was the reason he had left home and embarked upon this journey. He felt like a traitor to realize she had entirely escaped his mind. And Majeed Nores still needed ransoming. Yet here was Declan, lying on a bed of soft grass with no greater care than that the Varisians with whom he traveled had finally given him an evening’s rest from drawing sketches.

Some hero he had turned out to be.

It should have been Silvana’s image he drew night after night. He had not even replaced the one he had given her back at Majeed’s home, and she was the woman he—what? The woman he loved? Now that it had been so long since he had last seen her, the word seemed intimidating, too big to express his actual feelings. He liked her, fancied her obviously. He wanted her to fancy him. Was that enough to send him halfway across the world to save her from where he guessed she had been taken? Frustrated by such absurd doubts, he cursed aloud.

“Sorry,” said Ellasif from behind him. “If you want to be alone—”

“No, no,” said Declan, spinning around to sit facing her. “I was just thinking ...well, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Ellasif considered that and sat down. “Perhaps you need a distraction from all that thinking. That is, if you have any pages left after drawing the entire company and all their dead relatives.”

“You want me to draw your portrait,” he said with a nod. She had just been waiting her turn.

“No,” said Ellasif. “Not mine. My sister’s.”

“Ah,” said Declan. He hoped it was a noncommittal sound, but the truth was he had been wondering when the shield maiden would tell him something more about her past. He had to admit that he had been avoiding her as much for shame that he had told her too much about his own as to escape daily sword practice.

He went to his saddlebag to fetch paper and charcoal. As he removed them, the book of animated caricatures he’d retrieved from Basha dropped to the ground. It opened as it fell. He picked it up and glanced at it before he tucked it away.

His gaze flew back to the page, and his brow furrowed in puzzlement. This was not the volume he’d received from Basha. This was the third book, which he had not seen since his university days.

Before his death, Jamang had implied that he had all three of the books. One had been left with Declan at the astronomer’s manor. The second had ended up in Basha’s shop, and Declan had claimed it along with a job offer for which he was not qualified—one that coincidentally led him in exactly the direction he wanted to go. Declan recalled how nervous Basha had been, particularly how his hand went to his throat when they discussed the merchant caravan.

Ellasif seemed the type to do most of her negotiating at sword point. Who else could have placed the book in his pack, and why would she have made such a clumsy exchange? Was there a reason other than jealousy that made Skywing shun her?

Declan looked to make sure he remained in sight of the Varisians. He wanted answers, and if Ellasif didn’t feel like giving them, he didn’t know how she would respond. For the first time in what seemed like ages, he wished he had prepared a potent spell to defend himself should she attack him. He returned to her and showed her the book from his pack.

“There are three books like this one,” he said. “But this one is not the one I left in my pack.”

He watched for a reaction, but her face betrayed no sign of guilt.

“Until now,” he continued, “the third had not been accounted for. Did you kill Jamang Kira?”

“Could be,” said Ellasif.

“What?” said Declan. “Don’t you record your kills?”

He was half-joking, but she shrugged again.

“My foes don’t always introduce themselves.”

“Short fellow, skinny, likes to wear a red cape,” said Declan. “Wanted to kill me. Conjured that imp.”

“Very well,” said Ellasif. “Yes.”

“Yes, you killed him?” Declan asked. “Why?”

“You said it yourself. He wanted to kill you.”

“But you didn’t even know me—” He remembered what Skywing had told him before they left Korvosa and stopped short. “You’re Skywing’s bad person.”

It took Ellasif a moment to realize the drake had identified her as the necromancer’s killer. “That’s one way of looking at it,” she said. “Surely the man I killed found me bad. But from his intended victim, I would have expected something more like gratitude.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I didn’t want to frighten you off of your quest,” she said. “You still want to rescue your fair maiden, don’t you?”

“Of course I— How did you— That’s beside the point! You put Basha up to sending me to Irrisen, didn’t you? You’ve been spying on me and manipulating me this whole time. I want to know why.”

“I haven’t made you do anything you didn’t already want to do,” said Ellasif. “I only made it possible.”

“I still want to know why.”

“It’s ...” Ellasif trailed off. She glanced toward the setting sun, now only a sliver of molten gold above the dark blue line of the western horizon. Skywing shot past them both, wheeling once around the Varisian camp before fluttering down onto the perch he’d claimed atop a wagon. “It’s complicated.”

Something about that phrase rang a bell, but Declan couldn’t remember why. He was too angry and confused.

“I don’t like it,” he said. “Who are you to decide what I do?”

“I didn’t decide,” she said. “I simply helped.”

“I didn’t ask for your help!”

“You certainly needed it,” she said.

“I know nothing about you,” he said. “You seem to know everything about me, but I don’t know why you’re doing this or even whether I can trust you.”

“That is wise,” she said. “Sometimes you find that even people you have known all your life cannot be trusted.”

Something about her tone diverted Declan’s anger toward curiosity, and he remembered why
it’s complicated
sounded so familiar.

“Tell me something,” he said. “Something about your life. Anything.”

For the first time that day, Ellasif’s expression lost its granite composure. A flicker of emotion crossed her face and then vanished with the last of the day’s light. “Let us return to the camp,” she suggested. “I will tell you about my sister.”

An hour later their bellies were full of roast rabbit and buttered turnips, as well as the herbed Varisian bread served at every meal. Declan wondered how he would ever be content with the white loaves of over-milled grain he had once enjoyed in Korvosa. These Varisians found a way to enliven every aspect of their lives, particularly their food.

Ellasif examined the portrait of her sister for what must have been the seventh or eight time. She shook her head in astonishment. “It’s her,” she muttered. “It’s Liv.”

The shield maiden had told him only that her sister looked much like her, but ten years younger and with lighter hair, straight and soft as the fuzz on a fawn. She mentioned the color of her eyes, the absence of the freckles that dotted Ellasif’s face, but little else. Instead she told Declan how she felt when she first held her baby sister, the fear that she had come on an ill-omened night, and the misery that her parents had not lived to see the child grow so much as an hour older. She told of how Liv had never truly fit into the community at White Rook, demonstrating no talent as a warrior and little interest in the games the other young girls played. And then, shortly after Liv reached puberty, she—

Ellasif would say no more, but she marveled over the likeness.

“How can you know her face so well?” she asked Declan.

He shrugged. “I have a knack,” he said. “And you describe her very well.”

Ellasif thought on that for a moment, and then the corner of her mouth curled in mischief. “Did someone describe the woman in your little book for you?”

Declan colored. He had hoped but not really expected that Ellasif had not peeked inside his lascivious illustration. She had explained the mix-up without identifying the thief she had found rifling his pack. Normally he would have found that a good reason to distrust her story, but for some reason he believed her anyway. That she had decided to protect the would-be thief from Balev’s discipline gave him hope that she was more of a hero than a schemer, no matter how much she had deceived him so far. Perhaps she really did have his best interests in mind.

He cleared his throat in hopes that she would take the hint and drop the line of inquiry.

“Or did you draw her from life?” she persisted.

“I just made it up,” he said. “A little joke to amuse my friends.”

“Is that so?” she asked. “Or do the men of Korvosa require instruction in the activities you illustrated?”

“No,” he said, a little more indignantly than he had intended. “I do not, anyway.”

Ellasif laughed. “I am glad to hear it,” she said. “Although I suspect there are a few young women among the caravan who could be persuaded to offer you some of that ...instruction.”

Declan scoffed. “No,” he said. “They’re not my type.”

“No,” agreed Ellasif. “Your type is kitchen maids, I think. What is her name?”

“Silvana,” he said. Saying it aloud to another woman, even a tough little shield maiden, took some of the magic out of it. Now that he thought of it, he was sure he did not consider Ellasif beautiful. Not exactly, anyway. A better word was pretty. Ellasif’s small, heart-shaped face, pointed little chin, and nose that turned up a little at the tip brought to mind an oversized pixie. She wasn’t graceful in the feminine sense, but she displayed the purposeful economy of motion that he associated with trained fighters.

“I should like to see how you draw her face,” said Ellasif.

Declan hesitated, then shrugged and picked up his charcoal. He had meant to replace the portrait he had given her with one for himself. Just as he had drawn the first one from memory, he sketched out the borders of Silvana’s face. There were her delicate cheekbones, there her elegant chin. Two curves for the cascade of her silken hair, and then a pair of faint ovals where her eyes should be.

That wasn’t right, he thought. He studied the lines and realized they did nothing to evoke Silvana’s face. He smeared them away with the heel of his hand and began again, but his second attempt was worse than the first. He had not experienced such difficulty recalling a face since he was still a child drawing on the backs of his father’s old ledger.

He frowned and scribbled over the failed effort. He turned to a blank page, but Ellasif lay a hand upon his arm to stay him.

“You are tired,” she said. “Best to get some sleep and begin again tomorrow.”

Declan had to agree. More than anything else, he wanted a fresh start in the morning.

Chapter Nine

The Nolanders

Ellasif released a breath she did not realize she had been holding when Balev ordered the caravan to skirt the dense thickets of the Churlwood.

On her journey to Korvosa, Ellasif had avoided the dark woods on the advice of a peddler, who warned her of both bandits and unnaturally large vermin who preyed on lone travelers. Despite the strength of numbers in the Varisian caravan, Ellasif kept her bow strung until they approached Roderic’s Cove, where the caravan captain ordered the company toward a barge dock east of the town. There Balev bartered with a bargeman to carry the wagons across the Chavali River without entering the town itself. Ellasif overheard Avari inquire as to the reason they did not visit, and Balev made the sign of the evil eye toward Roderic’s Cove and muttered, “Haunted.”

Ellasif felt a smile blossom on her lips, but it died after an instant. She had appreciated the Varisian’s superstitious caution when it coincided with her own aversions. She would trust that Balev knew far more than she about the land she had crossed only once before.

The captain was less shy of the larger harbor of Riddleport, a notorious haven for pirates. Still, the caravan did not enter the city but set camp outside, where they were met by merchants eager to trade for goods from Korvosa and the communities they had passed along the way.

As men and women from the city arrived, the entire company came alive. While merchants bartered with Balev, the caravan’s young women danced for coins tossed by eager young men, and the older women—who painted their faces to appear older still—sold ointments and herbal remedies, or else told fortunes for a handful of silver. As for the Varisian men, those who did not encourage the visitors to drink a little too much wine and ale prowled the edges of the campfire, and more than a few of the city men returned without their purses that evening.

Even Avari allowed the festive mood to suffuse his heart, spending the last hours of daylight sketching the Cyphergate, a magnificent stone arch that spanned the city’s harbor, and later annoying the city men with questions about the monument. His enthusiasm was a welcome change from his recent mood.

The wizard—or mapmaker, as he pretended to be—had been unusually quiet for the past few days. Ellasif had initially thought that the revelation of her manipulating Avari had passed as well as could be expected, especially after their campfire talk on the night he drew her sister’s portrait. But after the next morning, when they passed a strange ancient stone decorated in Shoanti fetishes, Avari had become withdrawn, and she feared she had lost what little trust she had won from him. The drake that had followed from Korvosa had even lit upon Avari’s shoulder, and by the way they exchanged frequent glances, Ellasif was certain they were communicating silently. Their expressions suggested some sort of debate, and Avari’s reactions were often so comical that Ellasif felt assured he had learned nothing that would jeopardize her plans. He was surprisingly gullible for a wizard, and he underestimated the intelligence of those around him.

For instance, how ridiculous it was to pretend he was not a wizard when everyone could see his familiar!

Ellasif knew that wizards, witches, and others who dealt in arcane matters could communicate with fiends and beasts. Such tales were common enough from the elders back in White Rook on cold winter nights. And to their minds, there was only one way to deal with a witch—as Ellasif had learned to her everlasting grief when they dragged Liv to the river and cast her into the icy water.

Ellasif wished she could do the same to all of them, especially her former friends. Her betrayers.

Such thoughts made Ellasif even more sullen and introspective than Avari had been. For days she did not even bother to drag him off of his blanket for sword practice, and he said nothing to her until the caravan was halfway through the Velashu Uplands. By then the caravan guards were too busy keeping watch for the territorial horse lords who claimed dominion over all the wild horses for which the region was famous.

Upon her first passage through the region, Ellasif had encountered three poachers hanging from a barren tree, the pronouncement of their guilt marked by an old horseshoe tacked to each man’s chest. She would never forget the drone of the plague flies that formed a black halo around their corpses. That night she had walked three hours after sunset to put distance between her and the gruesome site before she lay down to sleep with no supper.

This time, Ellasif spied no such warnings, but she could tell that the Varisians needed none. The cheerful banter so common during the past weeks of their journey had vanished, replaced by solemn conversations among the guards, who rode closer to the wagons. Even the scouts remained in sight at all times, and Balev assigned that duty to his senior men, including Gisanto. Ellasif could not help but feel slighted that he had not chosen her, but it was better for her that she remain free to keep Avari in sight.

The caravan traveled north to the foot of the Red Mountains, where they made camp. The peaks formed a range that seemed low compared to the soaring peaks of Varisia’s interior, but still they made a grand spectacle with the Velashu River coursing down their rocky valleys and into the plains below. A wide pass marked the end of the Uplands and opened up to a rugged expanse whose reputation Ellasif had known since she was a child.

For untold generations, it was to this shunned territory that her people banished cowards and traitors, rapists, murderers, and other useless men. When the Shoanti whose tribes roamed the lands south of the mountains learned of the northerners’ practice, they adopted it as well, sending their most reprehensible criminals north to mingle with the dregs of the Ulfen. There the unwanted men soon fell prey to their predecessors or else demonstrated enough strength and guile to join one of the dozen or so bands of raiders who preyed on travelers and each other. Cast out of civilized tribes, these men were called the Nolanders, and their foremost reputation was for cannibalism.

It was to pass through the Nolands more than any other reason that northbound Varisian caravans hired armed guards, and it was here that Ellasif expected to earn her pay. Yet she did not feel fearful as much as she felt alert. She had, after all, passed through this same territory just over a year earlier without spying another living person. The chances of encountering a band large enough to overcome an armed caravan had to be small, and yet Ellasif understood the economy of banditry. The provisions from traders like Balev’s company could sustain a group of twenty men for months. Here, food and clothing were worth more than gold.

Balev addressed the guards on the night before they entered the Nolands. They would steer clear of Brinewall, as Ellasif expected. She had seen the place only from a comfortable distance because she had heard its legend, and having heard it, begrudged Balev none of his superstitious caution.

Over twenty years ago, a Chelish emissary had arrived to find Brinewall—both the village and the fortress for which it was named—completely abandoned. Initially the empire blamed Ulfen raiders or a coordinated attack from several bands of Nolanders, but there were no bodies to be found, and not the slightest evidence of violence or looting. Even the ships remained at moor in the harbor, the emissary’s men said, untouched by weapon or flame. Speculation turned toward supernatural causes, and soon everyone from Ulfen raiders to Shoanti shamans shunned the place.

To respect the taboo and minimize the time spent in the Nolands, Balev chose a course that led them northeast, toward a point where they could ford the Steam River out of sight of the accursed castle. He wanted to be on the other side before dark, and that meant hard driving without rest. Everyone would take a turn at watch tonight, giving each guard as long a sleep as possible. Balev wanted everyone strong and sharp-eyed on the morrow.

Before turning in, Ellasif caught Avari sketching a map by the light of a single candle he had affixed to a stone that formed a makeshift desk. She recognized the general outline of the Nolands region, and the silhouette of a lonely fort that could only be forsaken Brinewall. Avari glanced up as she approached. He offered a distracted grunt in greeting before adding an arching bridge over the Steam just east of the forbidden site.

“There is no such bridge,” said Ellasif.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

She nodded. “I saw it from a distance, but I am certain.”

“That’s too bad,” said Avari. He lifted a thumb to rub away the bridge, but then he shrugged, rolled up the map, and stuffed it into his pack. “You’d think a town of that size would have a bridge. And it would have been convenient, if Balev weren’t so frightened of the place.”

“It would be more convenient for all of us if you were to use the remaining candlelight to prepare your spells,” she suggested. “There are shamans and witches among the Nolanders. It would be good to have a wizard among us if they—”

“I’ve told you I’m no longer a wizard,” snapped Avari. He sounded as testy as an old man.

“Then why do you carry that little book of spells?”

Avari set his jaw, but he swallowed whatever retort he had been about to unleash on her. Ellasif knew he was still angry that she had opened his pack, even if he believed it had been only to return the book that Vira had stolen.

“You plan to use magic to rescue your lady,” said Ellasif. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

Avari did not speak for a moment, but then he nodded curtly. “If it is necessary, then yes, I will use spells,” he said. “But magic is a dangerous thing.”

“Like a sword,” said Ellasif.

“No,” said Avari. “A sword is good or bad depending on who holds it, and in that way it is the same. But a sword does not corrupt its wielder.”

“No?” said Ellasif. She could not have poured more condescension into the word with a bucket.

Avari frowned at her.

“That was a bad analogy,” he said.

“No,” said Ellasif. “It was good. I just hope that you will decide that the people of this caravan are as valuable as your fair maiden. What is her name again?”

“Silvana,” he said.

“Well, then Desna send you sweet dreams of this Silvana, Declan Avari,” she said. “Now I go to sleep so that tomorrow I can protect you from the savage Nolanders.” She turned to walk away.

“Ellasif.”

She paused just at the edge of the candle light.

He hesitated as if reconsidering what he had been about to say, then said simply, “Good night.”

The next morning they broke their fast on last night’s cold loaves while breaking camp in the dark. Even Avari was up before anyone needed to slap his feet, his yawning dragon stretching his wings nearby.

They put a mile behind them before dawn gilded the western peaks and began to spill into the valley. The sunlight raced down the western slopes to escape a coal-black storm front encroaching from the northwest. Tangles of weeds and patches of scrub grass no bigger than the foundation of a barn colored the land here and there, and a few stands of malnourished trees clung to the rocky soil, but otherwise this section of the Nolands was an expanse of red clay. The summer heat had baked spiderweb cracks into the earth, but it would take only one good shower to turn it all into an impassable mud field.

Ellasif saw Balev eyeing the approaching storm. If Desna should smile upon them that day, the storm would blow north across the Steam River. The Varisians drew the wings of the goddess over their breasts and kissed their fingers, but they also slapped the reins and threatened their donkeys with dire punishment should they tarry. The goats bleated protests as they followed the merciless tug of their leads.

At noon, Balev called a halt to water the animals. Ellasif scanned all directions for any sign of Nolander raiding bands. Unbidden, Avari had joined the ring of guards, and Skywing flew a spiral high above them. Apart from a few distant eagles scanning the ground for prey, the dragon was the monarch of the sky, swooping down now and then as if launching his own attack on the caravan. Avari looked up and nodded at the tiny drake as if receiving a silent report. Ellasif caught his eye, and Avari nodded confidently—all clear. The moment the water pails reached the last of the donkeys, Balev shouted a command, and they resumed their journey.

An hour later, Avari turned his horse and galloped toward Balev. Ellasif followed, arriving just in time to hear the caravan captain ask, “Are you certain?”

Avari thought about it for a moment. “No,” he said. “But I think it’s strange.”

Balev lifted his mustache with a heavy sigh, a sight that might have appeared amusing under other circumstances. “Thank you,” he said. “Please, keep him watching.”

Avari nodded, but Balev had already kicked his horse’s flanks and rushed along the caravan, urging everyone to pick up speed.

Ellasif made her inquiry with a raised eyebrow.

“One of the eagles flew away,” Avari said. “Straight away, to the east. Skywing thinks it might be a spy for a Nolander band.”

“Skywing thinks this?”

“He’s smarter than he looks.” Avari gave her that casual smile she’d seen him throwing at the Varisian girls when he arrived. Even if it were an appropriate time for such foolishness, his charms would not work on her.

Ellasif left him to return to her place. Soon she tasted the storm on the wind. The gusts snapped open the painted canvas walls of the wagon carrying, among other supplies, the chickens. Handfuls of feathers blew out with a clamor of clucks, and twin ten-year-old boys emerged to secure the canvas with the agility of veteran sailors.

Two hours later, Skywing descended from the heights, driven down to the caravan by increasingly powerful gusts. He perched on the horn of Avari’s saddle, and together they rode toward Balev. This time Ellasif joined them just as the Korvosan relayed Skywing’s report.

“Riders from the east,” he said. “Forty-two of them.”

Balev glowered at Avari as though blaming him for the news.

“Skywing counted twenty-seven with bows, and all of them carry other weapons. Two are Shoanti with tattoos on their faces.”