The Snow Queen's Shadow (4 page)

“Thank you, Princess.” There was genuine pain in his wife’s voice as she said, “I was sorry to hear of the queen’s passing. I remember when she and King Theodore were married, though I was only a child.”

Everyone had recited some variation of those words, but Heather was one of the few who truly appeared to mean them. Others were more interested in taking Danielle’s measure as the future queen, or figuring out how Beatrice’s death would affect their own fortunes in Lorindar.

“It’s good to see you both again,” said Danielle. Looking at the two of them momentarily eased her grief. John and Heather stood so close that no light passed between them, holding hands like newlyweds.

“Princess Whiteshore?” A girl in the green cap of a page bowed to Danielle and the Jeraldsens both. “Please forgive the intrusion, but Lord Montgomery wishes to meet with you and the prince tonight to discuss an extension of tax relief for the coastal towns.”

“Tonight?” Danielle shook her head in disbelief. “Elaine, do I look like the Royal Treasurer?”

Elaine flushed. “No, Your Highness.”

Danielle yanked off the crown and rubbed her forehead. “I’m sorry. Please go on.”

“Lord Montgomery said, since the tax exemption was given to help the towns recover from the merfolk’s attack, and since you knew the situation better than most . . .” Elaine took a step back, like a rabbit preparing to bolt.

“Please tell Montgomery that he can take his petition and—” No. A funeral should be an opportunity for friends and family to comfort one another and remember the one they had lost. Not a time for political squabbling.

Heather cleared her throat. “Your Highness, it occurs to me that most of Lord Montgomery’s fortunes come through trade and fishing.”

“That’s true,” said John. “I wonder what would happen if someone were to warn the fish to avoid his waters.”

Heather tilted her head. “Or simply send rats to warm his bed?”

Danielle fought a smile. “I can see why you married her,” she said to John. “How long did you search to find a woman as evil-minded as yourself?”

“Forty years,” said John. “And it was worth every one.”

To Elaine, she said, “Please tell Lord Montgomery I would be happy to consider his request. Please also inform him that we will need to conduct an audit of his finances to determine his needs. A
thorough
audit, including all shipping logs and cargo manifests.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” Elaine bowed again and disappeared.

“You suspect him of padding his treasury?” John’s words were playful, but there was a glint in his eye that gave Danielle pause. No matter how friendly John and Heather might be, they were also nobles of Lorindar, with their own agendas.

“No,” Danielle said. “Lord Montgomery can be . . . difficult, but he’s never struck me as dishonest. His men, on the other hand?” She shrugged. “Who can say? If I’m fortunate, this will keep him busy reviewing his own affairs to make certain there’s nothing for us to find. And John?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I know you. If you sneak alum into Montgomery’s food like you did with Bette Garnier that time—”

“You have my word,” John said. “Though Montgomery
would
be hard-pressed to voice his complaint with his mouth pickled shut.”

“What about a nice senna seed tea instead?” offered Heather. “He’ll have to bring a chamber pot to any meetings.”

“Leave the man in peace. That’s an order from your princess.”

John was the only person she knew who could convey laughter with a simple bow. As the two of them left, Danielle heard Heather saying, “
We
have to leave him alone, but what if a third party were to sneak in and coat his codpiece with lard?”

Danielle met with three other noble families before finally escaping at midday. She grabbed a quick meal from the kitchen and made her way to the chapel, where Beatrice’s body had been laid out in preparation for the funeral.

Honor guards stood to either side of the entrance. Danielle greeted them in passing and ducked inside. Sunlight shone through the stained glass windows at the tops of the walls. The air smelled of incense, a mixture of lavender and cypress, which rose from silver thuribles, incense burners suspended from the ceiling behind the altar.

At the front of the church, Queen Beatrice’s body rested upon a waist-high platform to the right of the altar. Her hair had been left loose, framing her face in gray. She wore a formal blue gown, and her gold crown rested upon her chest.

Danielle wiped her face. Beatrice never wore her crown when she could avoid it. She had always been happier in a sailor’s jacket, her hair catching the ocean winds. It was as though an imposter lay in Beatrice’s place, as if this were all some cruel jest.

Armand and Jakob stood beside the body, talking to Father Isaac. Jakob looked like a miniature version of his father. Both wore tailored black jackets, dark trousers, and polished boots. But where Jakob was sniffling and wiping his nose on his sleeve, Armand’s face was stone.

“She looks so fragile.” Danielle scooped Jakob into her arms. Loose threads hung like the legs of an insect where he had managed to lose the top button of his jacket. His small fingers gripped Danielle’s cloak.

“Why won’t Gramma wake up?”

Danielle kissed him, unable to answer.

“Because your grandmother is dead,” Armand said.

“Why?” Jakob burrowed his head into Danielle’s shoulder. “Why is she dead?”

“Your grandmother was sick for a very long time,” Danielle said. “She was hurting, and she was very tired. She’s not hurting anymore. She’s at peace.”

Jakob turned his head, peeking at Beatrice from the corner of his eye. “Will you die?”

“Yes,” said Armand. “Everyone dies.”

“But not for a long time,” Danielle said sharply. “Armand, what’s wrong?”

“You’d prefer I lie to my son?”

“I’d prefer you remember he’s not yet three years old. He doesn’t understand—”

“What is there to understand?” Armand stepped away, turning his back on the queen’s body. “These empty rituals we perform to comfort ourselves? We will spend these days paying our respects to a broken husk. We will share pleasant memories, ignoring her flaws and making her out to be a saint called back to Heaven. We will cry false tears, though all knew she was dying. We will ‘celebrate her life’ and pretend death doesn’t wait to take us all at any moment.”

There was no compassion in his voice. He spoke as though to a stranger. Momentarily speechless, Danielle turned to Father Isaac. Isaac had known Armand for years, long before Danielle came to the palace

“Your Highness, your son looks to you for strength,” said Isaac, his words ever so slightly chastising.

“He looks for lies.” Armand barely even glanced at Jakob. “We dress death in its finest garb, arrange it to appear restful and calm. Let him see the world as it truly is.”

“As it truly is?” Isaac’s bushy brows lowered slightly.

Danielle reached toward Armand’s shoulder. “Armand, that’s enough. What’s the matter?”

Armand pulled away. “My mother is dead. I’ll thank you not to harangue me with foolish questions.” With that, he walked out of the chapel, leaving Danielle to stare in silence.

“What’s wrong with Papa?” Jakob asked.

“He’s upset.” Danielle squeezed him tight, planting another kiss on his sweaty brow. Had Armand been anyone else, she might have suspected him of drinking, but Armand rarely indulged these days. “Sometimes it’s easier to be angry than sad.”

Isaac placed a hand on Jakob’s back. “Your father loves you. His anger is not toward you.”

“Mad at Gramma?” Jakob asked.

“He’s not mad at anyone,” Danielle said. “He’s just mad.”

“I don’t like this papa.”

“Your father loves you, Jakob.” Danielle hugged him. “And he didn’t mean to upset you.”

Isaac stepped away, twirling his crucifix between stiff fingers as he looked up at the stained glass windows.

“What’s wrong?” Danielle asked, watching him closely.

“I’m not sure. For a moment, when Armand left . . . the windows have whispered to me today, but their warnings are too faint.” Father Isaac’s magic might not be as powerful as Snow’s, but he had spent years working spells of peace and protection into those windows.

“You think something could be wrong with Armand?” Danielle kept her voice steady so as not to upset Jakob. “Something magical?”

Isaac shook his head. “It may be I’m simply on edge myself. Or perhaps it’s an effect of Snow’s broken mirror. That much power released in the palace . . . How is she?”

“I’ve barely seen her today,” Danielle admitted. Snow certainly hadn’t acted hurt as she flitted through the palace, retrieving the rest of her broken mirrors. Tymalous had clearly taken good care of her.

“I never saw Snow’s mirror, though she told me of it once,” Isaac said. “Given its power, I’m surprised its destruction didn’t have more of an impact on my own magic. She did well to contain the damage.” He turned away from the windows and tucked his hands into his sleeves. “She’s not been by today. We each grieve in our own way, but I know she and Beatrice were close. She should take the chance to say farewell in private, before the funeral. As should you.”

Danielle nodded and set Jakob down. Keeping his hand in hers, she stepped toward the queen’s body. As she knelt, she glanced at Father Isaac, who had gone back to studying the stained glass windows. Worry furrowed his brow.

Danielle bowed her head and prayed.

CHAPTER 3

T
ALIA STOOD IN THE SHADOWS BEHIND Danielle, letting the low murmur of dinner conversation wash past her. Danielle was stiffer than usual. She had spoken only a handful of times since arriving from the chapel, and hadn’t yet told Talia what was bothering her.

Armand appeared equally lost in his meal. Occasionally one of the nobles from Eastpointe, Dragon Lake, or Norlin would try to engage him in conversation. His responses were short and abrupt, and they soon gave up their efforts.

Talia’s gaze kept returning to the empty chair at the king’s left. For years she had waited on the queen, acting as both servant and bodyguard. Earlier tonight when she first entered the hall, she had moved without thinking to her usual position, as though Beatrice would at any moment come hurrying through the doors to join them.

She shifted her weight, trying to ease the stiffness in her legs. Strange to think that only yesterday she had been chasing witchhunters through the icy streets. Only yesterday Beatrice had still been alive.

Talia wrenched her attention upward to the ancient wooden beams that supported the arched ceiling. Oil lamps burned brightly on the walls between tall, arched windows. She searched the shadows for any shapes that didn’t belong. This many strangers meant many more opportunities for “accidents.”

The responsibility gave Talia something to focus on. Few nobles would risk acting directly, but each had brought his or her own retinue. If something did happen, it would likely be someone in his or her staff who did it. Someone most people would overlook, who could be disavowed if caught.

Lord Oren of Dragon Lake was a possible candidate. The man was paranoid enough to bring his own personal food taster, despite the implied insult to King Theodore’s hospitality. Oren and his wife ate with their own utensils of pearl-handled silver. Such fears revealed much about the mind that harbored them.

Another man to watch was Anton of Eastpointe. Anton was an older man, one who gave every impression of contentment with his lot. But his son was known to harbor a grudge against Jessica of Emrildale, who had spurned a marriage proposal. When the delegation from Emrildale arrived, Talia would have to watch them all.

Then there was the pixie Febblekeck, recently-appointed ambassador from Fairytown. Febblekeck was a pretentious rag doll with wings who shed glittering orange dust everywhere he went. He sat cross-legged on the table, sipping a noxious drink of salted honey water from a thimble-sized cup as he leered up at Oren’s wife Yvette.

Febblekeck was unlikely to be involved in any assassination attempt, at least directly. The treaty between Lorindar and Fairytown prevented Febblekeck from harming humans. But Talia had watched too many fairies snake their way around the stipulations of that treaty. Though Yvette appeared ready to stab him with her fork, which would take care of any fairy threat for the moment.

“Humans have a peculiar attraction to all things fairy,” Febblekeck was saying. “To this day, there are those who smuggle pixie dust out of Fairytown, to be used as a drug. I’m told the effects on a human are quite . . . potent.”

Yvette wrinkled her nose. “I can’t imagine inhaling that filthy stuff.”

Febblekeck’s smile grew. “Inhaling. Yes, let’s say that’s what they do.”

If Snow were here, she would be whispering crude comments to Talia regarding the mechanics of pixie/human relations, trying to crack Talia’s composure and make her laugh. But Snow had been spending all her time cleaning the debris from her broken mirrors and repairing the damage to her library. Given Snow’s vanity, Talia suspected she would try to keep to herself until her wounds healed.

Talia stared at one of the windows, trying to push the image of Snow’s bloody face from her mind. Had the glass cut any deeper, or if one of the shards had struck her throat.... Snow could have bled to death, and it would have been hours before anyone found her.

“What did you say to my wife?” Lord Oren struck the table hard enough to rattle his plate, jolting Talia’s attention back to the conversation. The room fell silent.

Febblekeck’s wings blurred, raising him to eye level with Oren and showering the table in glowing pixie dander. “I merely asked if she might join me for breakfast tomorrow. I’ve a bottle of syrup from Fairytown that’s far too much for one pixie.” Glittering eyebrows wagged. “Tapped from the maple of a dryad, with all of the associated . . .
benefits
that come from a nymph’s magic.”

“You miserable little insect!” Oren kicked back his chair and stood. Talia was already circling the table.

“Lord Oren, stop.” Danielle’s tone was the one she used when Jakob refused to listen, and it cut through Oren’s bellowing as easily as a sword. “Would you play into the pixie’s hands?”

“If he’d keep those hands where they belong—”

“He’s not touched your wife,” Danielle said. “He’s committed no crime.” She glanced at Febblekeck. “There’s no law against behaving like an ass. However, if you were to attack him—an ambassador from Fairytown—”

“What kind of ambassador dishonors the very people he’s supposed to work with?” Oren demanded. By now, Talia was in position behind them both, ready to seize human or pixie should the need arise.

Danielle gave Talia a slight nod of appreciation before turning her glare on Febblekeck. “The kind who’s more interested in leverage than peace. The kind who views politics as a game, seeking to score points for himself and his masters.”

Febblekeck flashed a disarming smile. “I humbly beg your forgiveness, Princess. And yours, Lord Oren. I was overcome by your wife’s attractiveness, and forgot myself. It’s a flaw of the fairy race. We’re far too susceptible to beauty.”

Prince Armand snorted. Without looking up from his meal, he said, “Pixies have an unfortunate sense of beauty.”

Talia froze. Even Febblekeck appeared taken aback.

“Excuse me, Your Highness?” Lord Oren appeared torn between anger and uncertainty. “I . . . believe I misheard you.”

Armand took a drink, then returned his cup to the table. “Lady Yvette has the complexion of a plucked boar, and her voice grates the very soul. Febblekeck might as well seduce one of the hunting dogs from the kennel.”

Oren’s cheeks went blood red. His hands balled into fists. Talia swore softly and moved to the left, to better intercept him if he forgot himself and lunged for the prince.

“Forgive my son,” said King Theodore, speaking for the first time since dinner began. He stared at Armand as though seeing a stranger. “Beatrice’s death has been a strain upon us all, but grief is no excuse for such behavior. My apologies, Lord Oren.”

Armand stood. “Do we now beg forgiveness for speaking the truth?”

“Armand, sit down.” Danielle grabbed his hand, but he pulled away.

“I take no orders from commoners.”

Danielle jerked back as though struck. Lady Jeraldsen started to speak, trying to intervene, but Armand ignored her.

“You’ve nothing to fear,” he went on. “Oren is a fat old coward, no threat to anyone.”

Oren snarled and started toward the prince, one arm pulled back to strike.

Talia hooked her arm through Oren’s and yanked him off-balance. A kick to the back of his leg spilled him to the floor. “Would you assault the Prince of Lorindar in his own hall?” Talia whispered.

Oren shoved her away and pushed himself upright. His hands were shaking and his face was red, but he made no further move toward the prince. Armand stood with arms folded, an expression of boredom on his face.

Talia glanced around the table, making sure nobody tried to take advantage of the chaos. Most of the assembled nobles had risen and backed away, distancing themselves from the fight. Danielle was talking to the king. Febblekeck had flown up to the rafters.

“Have you suffered humiliation enough?” Armand asked. “If being knocked down by a servant doesn’t satisfy your need to look the fool, perhaps I could summon a young child to trounce you next.”

Oren moved before Talia could stop him. She couldn’t tell which of the two men struck first as they crashed together. Oren punched the prince in the jaw, even as Armand buried his fist in Oren’s stomach. Talia jumped onto the table, dancing between plates and platters as she grabbed a silver pitcher of wine and emptied the contents over both men.

Oren sputtered and reached for Talia. She swung the pitcher, which rang like a gong against his knuckles. He howled and spun away.

“Enough!” King Theodore’s voice thundered through the hall. “If either of you so much as sneer at the other, I will have you
both
locked away. Is that clear?”

Armand gave his father an exaggerated bow. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Majesty.” Without another word, he spun and left the hall.

Oren was clutching his fist. The knuckles had already begun to swell. “My deepest sympathies on the death of your wife, King Theodore.” He stared after Armand. “I hope you’ll forgive me if my family chooses not to attend the funeral. We will be departing tonight.”

Talia returned to Danielle’s side. “What just happened?”

“That was not the man I married.” Danielle shook her head. “I’ve seen him angry, but never cruel.”

Oren and Yvette were already leaving—through a different doorway than the one Armand had used, thankfully. The rest of the people slowly settled back into their seats, all save Febblekeck. The pixie remained overhead, giggling to himself as he sipped his drink.

“Armand has insulted you like that once before,” Talia said. “When he was under your stepsisters’ spell.”

“Get Snow.” Danielle left to follow her husband.

Talia palmed a roll from the table as she slipped away. She glanced back to make sure Febblekeck’s attention was elsewhere. There was one last thing she needed to attend to.

Febblekeck squawked as the roll struck his head. He fell in a cloud of glowing dust, nearly striking the table before he recovered enough to take flight. He whirled, glaring from one human to the next. Talia smiled and pulled the door shut behind her.

Snow walked slowly along the northern edge of the courtyard. The roof extended overhead, sheltering her path. Icicles as thick as her arm hung from the copper gutters. The evening air was chillier than usual, and the sun had dipped low enough that the castle wall blocked its light.

At the woodpile, she dropped to one knee to retrieve the broken fragments of another mirror. She tossed the pieces into the sack she had carried since yesterday. The leather was thick enough to keep the sharp corners from jabbing her, though she could see a small hole near the bottom where the glass had cut the seam.

She sat beside the pile, leaning against one of the iron rods that held the logs in place. Old spiderwebs stretched from the bottom logs to the base of the wall, though the weavers of those webs were nowhere to be seen. Deep within the woodpile, she could sense the warmth from a family of mice.

With a touch of her mind, she summoned one of the mice to her hand. The magic flowed so easily, with no pain at all. The mouse shivered in her palm, a filthy, fat rodent with bulging black eyes and yellow teeth. She could crush it in her fingers, and it would neither fight nor flee, bound by her spell.

Were humans so different from animals? Fighting for food and a safe place to sleep, doing their best to avoid the dogs and the owls. The Whiteshore family talked of peace while hiding behind walls of stone and magic.

There was one difference. Snow raised the mouse higher. “Animals never lie, do you?”

Danielle had deceived everyone, disguising herself in order to enter the ball and win Prince Armand. Talia lived every day pretending to be a mere servant instead of the rightful ruler of Arathea. Even Beatrice had lied, secretly sending Snow and Talia out on one mission after another to manipulate her kingdom. King Theodore lived in blissful ignorance, never knowing the plans his wife concocted from the darkness beneath the palace.

Beatrice’s lies had killed her. Her secret meddling in the politics of the merfolk. And what was politics but the art of smiling through deception? What was civilization but a mutually agreed-upon facade, ever on the verge of cracking and exposing the ugliness beneath?

Kingdoms and treaties, palaces and boundaries, all lies. Talia’s family once ruled all of Arathea until a fairy curse destroyed them. King Theodore believed himself the ruler of Lorindar, but how many years remained until death robbed him of his crown? There was no kingdom here, only an old man struggling to hold on to his power, to delay the inevitable.

Her own exile from Allesandria, another lie. Queen Curtana had ordered a hunter to cut out the heart of her own daughter, yet when Snow killed her mother to defend herself, it was Snow who was condemned for murder. Snow who was banished from her home, clearing the path for others to seize power.

For half her life, Snow had pretended it didn’t matter. Just as she had pretended not to care that day when she was arrested for murdering her mother. Battered and exhausted, she hadn’t fought the Stormcrows, the magical guard of Allesandria. They had locked her in chains and dragged her to the city to face trial. She remembered standing before the Nobles’ Circle as they debated when and how she should be executed.