Cold Magic (Spiritwalker #1)

The thunder of horses’ hooves and the hallooing of cavalry guardsmen announced the arrival of more soldiers. The growling voice of the crowd began to shatter into a hundred voices as their resolve crumbled and people began to scatter.

The mansa’s smile mocked Bee’s brief triumph. “As I expected, the prince’s militia has arrived to disperse the crowd.”

I covered my face with a hand, bracing for the sound of terrible mayhem, but instead the rush of shod feet sprayed in every direction as people fled into the drowning night. The militia rode up and took places surrounding the mill. I uncovered my face. Flakes of snow drifted down through broken windows overhead like the last drowsy remains of lint.

“Reflect on this, stubborn girl,” the mansa said. “I am a reasonable man. You, and this girl you call cousin, and even this rebellious young mage I have harbored, have convinced me that perhaps it is time to consider a different sort of arrangement. Yet I must always do whatever is necessary to safeguard my kin and my House. As for you, Maestressa Hassi Barahal, you are in more danger than you comprehend. I can protect you. You will not get a better offer than mine.”

Bee’s brow creased as she stared at the mansa. “What does it mean to walk the dreams of dragons?”

With the cold fire illuminating his face, it was possible to see his slight smile, like a man contemplating a sweet, much anticipated and soon to be consumed. “That’s something we will have to discuss privately, you and I.” Then he looked at Andevai, and his lips curved into a frown. “Andevai, you will see they are delivered safely to the house and a guard set under the supervision of Donal.” He indicated the older magister. “After which you will return immediately to me.”

Andevai paused—quite deliberately, I am sure—before he answered. “Yes, Mansa.”

Light sparked, then swelled smoothly from a pinprick into a disembodied, floating lantern as Andevai walked down the hall and, bathed in its light, halted before us. It was an impressive and even flamboyant display of magic, however trivial it might seem to him.

“So, Catherine, I am commanded to escort you and Beatrice home.”

Her home, but no longer mine. Yet I could not say that to Bee. Not now. Not yet.

In fact, I could say nothing at all. Standing so close to him, I was struck dumb.

Fortunately, Bee was not. “Our thanks,” she said grandly.

She walked out of the weaving shed. Outside, she scanned the torchlit ranks of militiamen as if hoping, or fearing, to see Amadou Barry among them. If he was, we did not see him. “How are we to get there, Magister? I cannot ride in these clothes.”

Andevai was a magister of exceptional power, able to call cold fire, weave illusions, raise storms, and wield cold air like a hammer. But he was also a country boy born and bred, and he had not the least idea of how to go about finding a hackney cab in the city on Solstice Night under a curfew. We did, however, and we found a lachrymose fellow with horse and cab lurking by Eastfair Market who took one look at the soldiers and the gold coin offered him and agreed to convey us.

We kept the shutters open as we went. Andevai rode up by the driver. The mage House soldiers surrounded us, with the other magister riding at the rear as if to protect us from attack from behind. The city did not slumber so much as it waited with held breath for the ravening beast to pass. The prince’s troops were out in force everywhere, patrolling the street on horseback and on foot; because of this, no roaming packs of young men sang and clapped songs or importuned harried householders for a swallow of mead. This year, the solstice festival, also known as the Feast of the Unconquered Sun, would pass without merrymaking.

Even with curfew’s heavy hand emptying the streets, fires had been lit in pots and braziers on every corner. In the squares, bonfires blazed with a few huddled attendants keeping watch. The solstice fires had to burn to hold off the long night, to give strength to the beleaguered sun so it could follow these lamps and rise again in the morning. As tiny as candle flames, beacon fires shone at the crests of distant hills; closer to us, fires withered and almost died before flaring up after we passed.

Bee said in a low voice, “There must be something else we can do, Cat.”

“It was a magnanimous offer. It astonished me.”

“It was a condescending offer. Not much different than Legate Amadou Barry’s. The mansa has dropped his net on us already.”

“Maybe,” I said. And then, hearing the soldiers outside speaking of cats, I whispered, “Hush.”

“Nay,” one was saying to his companion in country accents, “they surely said it were a saber-toothed cat. Full grown, it were, that’s what I heard. Black as night, and as fierce as a summer storm.” He laughed. “It got into the prince’s menagerie, ate a peahen and the lady’s prize pug dog before it got out again, and no one to stop it.”