Cold Magic

With my ghost sword slung tightly over my back, I climbed out and crouched on the wide branch to close the window behind me. Some instinct or training or sound alerted the guards standing out back, and they glanced around and up, but I was part of the tree, nothing more than a skeletal winter branch, a little stouter than most, but nothing to notice. Nothing to see.



Bee and I met in the mews. We avoided the gaslit thoroughfares and made our way through the cold winter night, me at the front with my good eyes and my ghost sword to mark the path, Bee following tightly in my footsteps with an ordinary cane of her own to sweep the street for obstacles. We found our way to the Blessed Tanit’s temple near the academy, whose gates remained unlocked in every season and at all times of the day and night. Three bags, Callie had been instructed to give them. One was full with the last of the grain from our larder, given as an offering for the priests. The other two held my father’s journals and a few other items crammed in with them: four silver candlesticks, four beeswax candles, and some stockings, shifts, and underthings that had been left by Aunt Tilly when the family had fled. What coin we had, we’d sewn into our bodices. The priests slept soundly in their winter cottage; I had no trouble retrieving the two bags, except for their weight.



It was a cursed long and struggling walk hauling them across the dark city. Winter’s cold deadened the night. Fortunately, no festival debris littered the streets to trip us. The balloon rides, the ice fair with its food booths and games, the processions to the temples, the public banquets at which beggars snatched from the filth of the streets would preside over the only good meal they would eat all year, all had been canceled due to the riots. The prince’s curfew kept criminals and rogues at home this night. Militia patrols, however, were out in force. We would hear the clop of hooves and see yellow torchlight gleaming around a corner, giving us time to shrink back into a shadowy alcove or rubbish-strewn alley to hide.



“I feel like someone is following us,” Bee said in a low voice as we crouched on the steps of a locked and barred chandler’s shop, waiting for a clot of six Tarrant soldiers to decide that they did not want to loiter in the intersection ahead. “Do you really know how to get there? We’ve never been to that part of town before. Are you sure they’ll help us?”



A cold wind chased down the street and kissed my nose and lips like a flirt. Or a cold mage. “I’m not sure of anything,” I said, shivering. I was tired and much too chilled, and my arms hurt even though we were swapping off carrying the bags. “But I know the radicals have no love for cold mages or princes. If anyone can help us now, surely it’s lawyers.”



“You set your sights too low,” said a male voice.



We both started up to our feet, and I had my sword unsheathed in an instant. The blade’s faint glow was enough to illuminate a young man leaning insouciantly against the shuttered windows next to us, his shoulders bracing up the wall and his arms crossed over his chest as he watched the mounted patrol down the way confer by the light of their blazing torches.



“Rory!” I said, and although I whispered his name, the swelling in my heart was more like a shout.



“Don’t pet me until you put that thing away,” he said just before I meant to fling myself at him for a celebratory embrace.



“Cat,” murmured Bee, “I thought you were exaggerating about your cane turning into a sword. Also, the blade gleams.”



“It’s cold steel,” I said, sheathing it with the mysterious twist that sheathed the blade as into a sheath that existed only in the spirit world. Then I hugged him. “Oh, Rory, I was afraid I’d lost you. But I didn’t. And you even found clothes!”



“Hush,” said Rory. “They’re still hunting me.”



We waited in silence until the patrol rode on. Then we started to walk, and in truth, I felt much stronger and less cold now that the three of us were reunited.



“How was the pug dog?” asked Bee tartly.



“Too fatty,” he said, “and the peahens had all those feathers. That was nasty. It never bothered me before I wore this skin. By the way, Cousin Beatrice, as I promised, I did no lasting harm to either of the fine lords. Or to any humans, really no more than I had to.” He touched right hand to left shoulder.



“You’re hurt,” said Bee. “You need tending.”



I could not see him grin, but I knew he grinned; the flavor of the air changed. The night felt brighter and the bags less heavy.



“You want to lick the wound?” he asked.



“You’re disgusting!”