Cold Magic

My husband said, quite clearly, in his precise, cultured voice, “A pox upon that cursed wraith!”



We rolled on. The blue sizzle popped and vanished.



“You are uninjured?” he asked stiffly. A spark pricked the darkness and expanded into a wan cold light by which he examined me with a frown.



I was shaking, and my shoulder ached, and I clung to the seat strap, wanting Bee beside me to face him down and wishing Aunt was there to smooth my hair and offer me a cup of hot chocolate, but…



But.



But.



But the truth was that I was trembling too hard to get anything out of my mouth.



I heard a chant rise in our wake like a nest of hornets maddened by smoke:



“Better to perish by the sword than by hunger!”



“Let princes and lords rot in their high castles with none to serve them!”



“Into the mire with them magisters and their foul cold magic!”



“I trust you are not too rattled,” he said in a clipped voice. “Once we are out of the city, it’s unlikely we will have to endure any more such unfortunate disturbances.”



I thought of a hundred terribly clever and scathing rejoinders I might make to a man who could sit there thinking of nothing but his own comfort. Instead I kept my expression as detached as that of an actress returning flowers sent her by an unsuitable beau.



“Yes,” I said, managing an airy tone of unconcern. I could speak as pedantically as he did! “Some say the trolls have contaminated the restless city laborers with their peculiar ideas. I suppose that out among the bucolic fields and villages ruled by the Houses, we need fear no unpleasantness.”



“Is that what you think?”



Since it was not, I said nothing; I had already said too much.



“I’ve never met a troll,” he remarked, “nor even seen one close up.” He looked thoughtful, and as his face relaxed, it was as if I glimpsed a different man. Then he realized I was staring at him, and his expression closed and the light snapped out.



“Was there something else you wanted to say?” he asked behind the veil of darkness.



“No.”



We clattered on, swung hard around a corner, and rolled through a quiet neighborhood where I heard the splash of water tossed onto stone, a kitchen maid emptying the wash water, perhaps. We rocked to a halt amid the balm of calm voices. His door was opened from outside and he disembarked. Shaking and aching, I emerged blinking into the pleasant courtyard of a compound lit not by gaslight but by the unmistakable hard white glow of cold fire oozing from ceramic bowls hanging from brackets set under the eaves and from pairs of elaborate stone cressets mounted on stands beside the doors and gates.



A pair of men armed with crossbows and swords shut the gates behind us. Two exceedingly well-dressed and proud-seeming personages—one male and one female—met us with cups of water, which we drank, then handed empty to waiting servants.



“We expected you before this, Magister,” said the man without preamble, in the manner of an equal.



My husband looked taken aback by the baldness of this greeting. “I was delayed.”



“We were told to expect the mansa’s sister’s son,” said the woman, looking him rudely up and down, “but you do not resemble him whatsoever, so I suppose you must be that other one we’ve heard spoken of.”



“I must be,” he said icily.



I shivered, as if it had actually gotten colder, and maybe it had.



“I suppose that explains the delay,” she added. “Have you ever traveled to a city before? It must seem very strange to one such as you.”



“I trust the inconvenience has not disturbed the smooth running of this establishment.” His always-arrogant expression shaded toward anger.



“Of course not!” she retorted with the indignation common to the proud. “We know our duty and will discharge it and maintain the highest degree of quality appropriate to Four Moons House, as is expected of and understood by those who grew up within the family.”



These deadly currents I could not navigate or even comprehend, so I was grateful when the male attendant indicated a waiting ancilla, who led us down a corridor and past a flight of stairs. I was ushered into a parlor that overlooked a garden through expensive paned windows and was shown to a well-made chair placed next to a side table polished to a fearful gleam. The woman followed, bringing warmed water in a basin and a warmed cloth so I could wash my face and hands. An open door on the far side of the room revealed a sleeping chamber beyond, fitted with a capacious bed draped with hangings.



I knew what marriage entailed, but at that moment, with the cloth squeezed so tight in my hands that drops of water stained my dress, I comprehended that, in fact, I knew nothing that mattered.