Goddess of the Ice Realm (22 page)

There could be no doubt, though. A patch of fresco remained on the inner wall from which rain had flaked most of the plaster. The moon shone on it—fittingly, for it showed the face of the Lady who was the Moon in one of Her guises. In the world Sharina'd just left, the same painted visage smiled from a couch in Her garden of peace and delights.

The passage to the hall was blocked by debris. The other doorway had skewed when the wall shifted but it hadn't fallen in. Sharina could see into what had been her bedroom, where now an open fire burned on the floor. The three creatures squatting around it would've looked like gangling, raw-boned men from a distance, but upright each would stand more than twelve feet high.

The creatures' foreheads sloped; their noses were broad and flat, and coarse reddish hair covered their bodies. They didn't wear clothing, but one had a necklace of some sort. Occasionally they made noises, but Sharina couldn't tell whether they were speaking or simply grunting like dogs rolling on the ground. Meat was cooking on the fire; Sharina smelled pork and heard the regular pop and sizzle of dripping fat.

As her eyes adapted, Sharina realized that the objects around her included loot along with the debris of ruin: the creatures in the next room used this half-fallen alcove as a storehouse for the baubles they'd collected, sorting them by type. Beside Sharina was a jumble of gold and silver plate: platters, goblets, and the gilt frame of a hand mirror set with glass beads.

Piled partly on the floor and partly on fallen roof tiles was a tangle of fabric, chosen for shiny threads rather than art. A border decorated with gold braid had been cut or torn from a woolen tapestry; the corner cartouche of the Three Graces dancing remained. Even by moonlight Sharina thought that Ilna would've been interested in the weaver's skill.

On the slant of rubble blocking the hall doorway were swords and daggers whose hilts were decorated with jewels and gold wire. The blades were masses of rust; many of
them had been broken. A glaive of perforated brass, some usher's symbol, had survived exposure, but it had never been a weapon.

At the bottom of the pile, visible because of its soft gleam in the moonlight, was a narrow-bladed war axe with gold inlays whose complexity and beauty probably meant nothing to the creatures that had collected it. A spike in the shape of a long nose balanced the axe's single bitt. The blade was a work of art in uncorroded steel, the stylized head of a sharp-featured man with an angry expression.

The creatures in the other room began to eat, tearing chunks of flesh from the carcass without removing it from the fire. Sharina watched them for a long moment, then with a grim expression turned her attention to finding a way out before the owners decided to gloat over their hoard after dinner.

The reception room's only surviving doorway was the one between Sharina and the creatures. The maid's alcove was packed with more of the gathered loot: unguent bottles, jewel boxes, and a few larger containers with shiny metal or sparkling inlays—brass, tin, and glass as well as what humans would've called precious. Even if the door beyond weren't blocked, the treasure would clatter down like a deliberate alarm.

The only possibility of escape was the slanted roof. The beams were spaced a foot and a half apart, far enough for Sharina to wriggle between them easily. The lattice of laths laid across them was the problem. She could easily tear her way through the thin wood, but that'd make noise—particularly if she dislodged one of the few remaining tiles.

Sharina slowly rolled over on her back to survey the roof without getting a crick in her neck. The creatures weren't paying any attention to this room as they grunted and slobbered their way through the meal, but there was a risk one of them might catch a flash of her white face moving in the moonlight.

The back wall, which had originally separated the room from the interior hallway, remained upright. It was the fulcrum supporting the roof beams when the outer wall collapsed.
When the tiles slipped downward, they'd pulled the laths some distance with them.

Sharina was sure she could worm through the gap. To reach it, though, she'd have to climb the slope of rubble that had poured through the hall doorway, debris from the other side of the building. That should be possible; and anyway, she didn't have a choice.

She rolled onto her belly again, slowly and carefully, then crawled to the slope on all fours. Tufts of coarse grass grew from the rubble. She could at least hope that their roots had cemented debris into a solid mass that wouldn't slide noisily when she put her weight on it.

She paused, looking at the assortment of weapons in front of her. The only one that remained useful was the axe. It was on the bottom of the pile, and Sharina had no experience with anything bigger than the hatchet by the kitchen door for chopping kindling. Work that required a real axe had been Garric's job from an early age.

The dagger blades were lumps of rust, though, and she was certainly going to need a tool if not a weapon when she got out of this dreadful lair. Reaching carefully into the stack of rusted iron, she worked the axe out—first the head, then the two-foot-long hardwood helve, which ended in an iron knob. The sculptured face glared at her.

Gripping the axe in her right hand, just below the head, Sharina started up the slope. The rubble was as firm as she'd dared pray. The moonlit opening above her was narrower than she liked, but she—

“Masters!” screamed the axe. “Masters, a thief is taking me! Masters, I'm being carried away!”

A triple bellow filled the night. Sharina looked over her shoulder. The creatures had risen from the fire and were picking up clubs the size of her body. One of them still held in his free hand the side of ribs he'd been gnawing with massive yellow teeth. They were from a human being, not a pig.

“Masters!” cried the axe. “Kill the thief and drink her blood!”

“Oh,” said Cashel as they came around the angle of rock. He'd thought the gleam on the peak above was snow or a concentration of quartz. “Oh!”

“Lord Bossian's manor,” said Kotia with a smug smile at having finally managed to impress Cashel. “We've arrived, or very nearly so.”

The manor was huge. Maybe the buildings scattered over the acres of the palace compound in Valles put together would've added up to this, but Cashel doubted it—and anyway,
these
towers and blocks and terraces were all in one place, one structure.

And though of many different colors, the whole thing was made out of crystal. No wonder sunlight glinting from and through its angles shone for miles above the surrounding crags.

The beads of wizardlight guiding them continued up the hillside, but now the route was paved with textured blue-gray glass instead of being a waste of boulders and pebbles. Cashel cleared his throat. “Ah. . . ?” he said. “Will Lord Bossian be glad to see us, mistress? If you're having trouble with your father and all?”

“I'm having trouble with Lord Ansache, whom I thought was my father, you mean,” Kotia said, starting up the pavement with brisk strides. “He and Bossian aren't friends, I assure you. As a matter of fact, Lord Bossian offered to wed me last year, but my—but Ansache refused him.”

Her back was straighter than it'd been for most of the morning's hike. Cashel was barefoot, but his soles were hardened to any kind of use. Kotia's slippers hadn't fallen apart on the journey—whatever they were made of was tougher than the light suede it looked like—but they couldn't have cushioned her steps much either. If there'd been much farther to go, Cashel would've been carrying the girl.

Kotia looked at Cashel with an expression that he still couldn't read, though it was becoming familiar. “I doubt Bossian would've taken me in if Kakoral were still pursuing me,” she said. “Bossian is a great wizard but he couldn't have protected me against the demon, so he wouldn't have tried. But I had nowhere else to go.”

Cashel shrugged. He knew a lot of people felt that way.
For himself, he figured people could generally do a lot more than they thought they could; and if something was bad enough, you did all you could to stop it even if you
did
figure it'd roll right over you.

He glanced sidelong at Kotia. Despite the way she'd made the statement, he got the notion that her opinion of how people ought to behave was pretty close to his own.

Chimes and trilling flutes sounded from the manor. Faces were lining the battlements to watch him and Kotia trudge up the roadway. Goodness, but this was a huge place! Every twist of the path showed Cashel another marvel.

Though all a single structure, the manor was built in at least a double-handful of styles—each in crystal of a different color. The foundations were a drab stone color, yet as clear as seawater on a calm day. The huge block to the east was pink with square towers, arched windows, and tiny round turrets with pointed cupolas on the corners. West of it was a lower, pale yellow, mass of open-topped round towers with colonnaded porticos cantilevered out at several levels.

The central portion was the same blue-gray as the path and had a fusty, antique appearance. The towers flanking the gateway had three sides visible and probably as many behind; tassels and curlicues of contrasting colors draped the walls between circular windows, and the door panels seemed to represent a frozen waterfall.

They opened as Cashel and his companion approached. A middle-aged man stepped out.

The fellow had a short black beard and an air of self-possession; behind him came any number of men and women, servants by the look of them. The leader's clothing was peacock-colored but hemmed with the same rich blue as the sashes cinching the servants' white tunics.

He extended his arm in a sweeping gesture. “Kotia!” he cried. “What an unexpected pleasure! May I hope that your stay will be a long one?”

“As long as you wish, Bossian,” Kotia said. “And as your wife, if you still wish that. You should know that Ansache has driven me out of his manor.”

“I had heard something about your difficulties,” Lord
Bossian said smoothly. He took Kotia by the hand. “I've had my own troubles with Ansache, as you know.”

He looked at Cashel, who'd halted at arm's length behind the girl and stood with his quarterstaff vertical in his right hand. Turning again to Kotia, Bossian continued, “You brought a servant with you, my dear? Or perhaps it's an automaton you created with your art?”

“No,” said Cashel, his voice a growl. He'd met Bossian's type before, the ones who felt little beside him and decided to make themselves bigger by insults. They seemed always to figure that Cashel wouldn't drive them into the ground like so many tent pegs; and they were right, not for as little as a few words. But Cashel wondered if any of them realized how easily he
could
do that, and how quickly he
had
the times somebody went beyond words to a blow or a gobbet of spit. . . .

“I summoned Master Cashel to scotch a demon who was becoming importunate,” Kotia said with the ladylike hauteur that hadn't been in her voice since Kakoral appeared. “He did so in an able fashion.”

She gave Bossian a thin smile. “A remarkably able fashion, milord. I told him that you were skilled in the art yourself, and that you could perhaps send him home now that he's accomplished the purpose for which I brought him here.”

“Ah!” said Bossian, looking at Cashel in a very different fashion from before. “Indeed. Ah.”

Cashel met Bossian's eyes, thinking about what Ilna might have said—or done—to the fellow. Cashel wasn't that way himself—it wouldn't be right for the biggest, strongest man in the borough to act the same as a small woman did—but he wouldn't have minded seeing it happen. Thinking that, he smiled.

Bossian's mouth dropped open and he took a step backward. Kotia must've wondered what was going to happen next also; she touched the back of Cashel's hand on the quarterstaff and said, “Bossian, my friend and I have had a difficult day and night. If you could provide us with refreshment . . . ?”

“Yes, of course!” Bossian said. He clapped the fingers of his right hand against the palm of his left.

“Food and drink in the Summer Plaza!” he cried to the troupe of aides behind him. At once several of them sprinted back into the manor. Shortly after they'd disappeared, bells began to ring in what was either a code or discordant music.

Bossian bowed to Cashel and said, “Sir, I assure you that I'll do everything in my power to speed you to wherever you choose to go. We'll discuss the matter as soon we've eaten. Kotia, my dear?”

He crooked out his elbow.

“May I have the honor of escorting you to dinner?”

Kotia didn't reply, but she took Bossian's arm with practiced courtesy. Together they walked through the fanciful archway; people watching from above began to cheer and wave ribbons.

Cashel followed, feeling a bit funny about the situation. When he thought about the words he'd use to describe what was going on—a pretty young girl thrown out by her father and forced to marry her rich older neighbor—it sounded pretty terrible. The truth, though, to somebody who'd had a day's experience of Kotia, wasn't nearly so one-sided. Or anyway, wasn't one-sided in Bossian's favor.

They walked down a tunnel whose walls were rippling blue; it was like stepping dryshod through the depths of the sea. Kotia and Bossian chatted to one another; Cashel could hear most of the words, but they were discussing things and people that meant nothing to him.

Cashel thought about the world he'd been taken from, feeling sad in a way that didn't often happen to him. Maybe it was the strange fashion light bent in this place. It was
all
strange, and it wasn't where he belonged. He hoped that Tenoctris was all right; and he wished that Sharina was here to explain the parts of this place that she'd understand. It was wonderful the things that Sharina and Garric knew, and they talked to Cashel about them without talking down. . . .