Cold Magic

His eyes opened. “How can you be sure no one in Four Moons House is of Roman descent? Even the highest patrician’s child and the poorest slave woman’s whelp may come to the attention of the magisters if such a child has been gifted by the gods with a soul touched by cold magic. Also, we can pick and choose when it comes to marriage, as must be obvious to you today. Anyway, why should it be surprising we use the Roman style of naming? Is ‘Catherine’ not a derivation from a Roman form with an ancient Greek origin?”



“Do you mean to insult me?”



“How am I insulting you? You misunderstand me. I am only explaining why it is unexceptional for people not of direct Roman descent to use a common style of naming where once the Romans ruled. Perhaps you Phoenicians have a different view on the subject.”



“Naturally we do, being contrary according to the nature we were born with, which is one of the lies the Romans told. For one thing, we are Kena’ani, not Phoenicians. We can borrow from the Greeks of ancient days as easily as the Romans could, so it’s perfectly normal for children of Kena’ani lineage to take given names derived from the Greeks. We are not restricted to the names of generals and queens from our illustrious history, although people seem to think we ought to be!”



“Are you attempting to convince me otherwise? Anyway, I never heard that ‘people’ thought anything particular of Phoenicians except—” Abruptly his lips closed hard over unspoken words.



“Except what?”



He did not reply.



“I am not afraid to hear whatever you are afraid to say.”



That riled him. “Very well. You must know what people say far better than I do. During the siege of Carthage, the queen of your people sacrificed her own firstborn child and that of every household to the god of the city. Who therefore brought down lightning and storm winds to destroy the besieging Roman army.”



“And thus Rome’s attempt to gain power over the seas was broken by a heartless people who care for nothing except the profits they can make as merchants and who therefore are willing to sacrifice even their own sweet infants to angry Moloch,” I finished in a trembling voice. Keep silence! my aunt had said. But I could not bear to be passively submissive, to bow my head and let people speak such lies. My ancestors had not battled Rome to a standstill two thousand years ago by bowing their heads and baring their throats. “Are you done maligning my people? It is easy to toss comments and descriptions into the air when they do not fall back upon you but rather paint others—others whose clothes you will never have to wear—in an unflattering light so you can feel better about yourself.”



The words were my father’s. I felt their truth resonate like power in the closed space.



Blessed Tanit! What an idiot I was. I braced myself for a furious retort, but he remained silent for so long I began to think he had fallen asleep.



At last he cleared his throat and said in an expressionless voice, “You might consider rebuttoning your jacket, for it looks very slovenly. Was there anything else you felt it necessary to say to me?”



My mouth tasted of ashes, the leavings of this tiny victory. “No,” I said in a small, tight voice, grateful for and even a bit amazed by his restraint. I could not begin to imagine what thoughts were chasing through his mind. He shifted, turned his head, and closed his eyes. He did fall into sleep then, as if exhaustion had swallowed him whole. His head rocked on the upholstered backrest to the rhythm of the coach, his breathing as light and shallow as if he were running in his dreams from gouts of flame and shimmering crossbow bolts.



The hilt of the ghost sword burned cold against my hand. I saw its dual nature while he saw only a fashionable cane. That meant he wasn’t as clever or as powerful as he thought he was, was he? I was still bound, but I was no longer entirely helpless.



And yet, new questions rose like so many spawning fish. Why could I see the threads of magic that knit ghost sword and ebony cane into one object? Why had the eru given it to me?



For as I clutched the hilt, I heard in my memory’s ear the chary whisper of the eru’s voice that had sounded so clearly despite the noise raging around us.



Greetings, Cousin. You may need this.



11



Long into the night we rolled, and at length I dozed. When I woke shivering in morning’s gloomy light, I saw he had opened the shutter on his door. We had left the city behind and rattled through a patchwork of neat townships, gardens, pastures, and farms, all half obscured by a sleeting rain. I wanted a heavy wool shawl or winter coat against the cold but had nothing. I had lost my gloves in that headlong escape, so my aching fingers fumbled as I unbuttoned and evenly rebuttoned my jacket.