Winter's Storm, Starlight's Shadow

She could have at least dressed up, Winter thought, eyeing the plain black trousers and embroidered corset the necromancer wore. The dark clothes made her look pale; vulnerable in a place where vulnerability meant being eaten alive.

Her own dress was made of layers of silk, delicately painted to resemble the petals of a rose. To match her thorns, someone whispered snidely when she entered the ballroom. Winter couldn’t argue.

“The first of Dagda’s descendants to enter this court in over five hundred years,” Soren said, looking every bit the royal prince, as he presented the necromancer to the high court, even though the king hadn’t confirmed the line of descent before he died.

Winter scanned the room, wondering where Mordred was hiding.

She sneered, spying him leaning against a column beside the door. How he imagined his bid for the throne would be successful was beyond her. She turned back to the necromancer.

“Are you sure she’s a descendant of Dagda?” Winter asked, raising an eyebrow as she examined the young woman. “I thought they were all tall, thin, and creepy-looking.”

The woman blushed, and Winter smiled sweetly, knowing she’d hit her mark.

“Perhaps she could give us a demonstration,” Ainsley suggested.

On the dais, the necromancer’s face paled.

“I can’t see her,” someone called from the back of the room.

Soren gestured to someone, and a chair was passed onto the stage.

Winter covered her mouth, stifling a laugh as Soren dragged the poor girl onto a chair so that those in the back of the room could see her. Her laughter died as the woman’s face drained of color, and she fell, Soren catching her in his arms.

* * *.

“What do you think?” Ainsley asked after Soren carried the necromancer to another room to regain consciousness in peace, Mordred trailing behind them like a sad shadow.

Winter rolled her eyes. “Of our fainting violet? She should choose where to wilt more carefully.”

Ainsley laughed, leaning on Winter like a fainting heroine on stage. “I wouldn’t mind making a fool of myself if Soren caught me.”

You make a fool of yourself enough as it is, Winter thought, biting her tongue. Ainsley didn’t deserve her ire.

“Soren would destroy you,” Greer said, appearing behind them.

“Did you see something?” Ainsley asked eagerly.

“He wouldn’t waste a vision on something so obvious,” Winter said.

Greer shrugged, neither confirming nor denying his use of powers where the other girl was concerned.

A guard appeared at Greer’s side, leather straps crossing her chest, iron pistols at her side. An air user, Winter thought, recognizing the pneumatic weapons. She touched Greer lightly on the shoulder and delivered her message in a low voice.

“I’ve been summoned,” Greer said, bowing to them.

Winter waved him away. He followed the soldier through the ballroom in the same direction as Soren and Mordred. Winter watched him go, feeling uneasy.

“We should circulate,” Winter said, dismissing Ainsley.

She meandered through the room, slipping into a shadow behind a column. She pressed her thumb against her ring finger, where a small recessed blade hid in the back of her ring. A drop of blood fell, the offering to the goddess serving as payment for her abilities, and she sank deeper into the shadows, merging with them as her body became intangible. She fell from one shadow to the next, slipping into the hall where Mordred and Soren were arguing, voices low.

“You’re the one who insisted on bringing her here,” Soren was saying. “If she doesn’t prove her abilities before she meets the king, you’ll lose all credibility.”

“Since when have you cared about my credibility?” Mordred snapped.

Soren shrugged.

Mordred opened his mouth to argue, then closed it quickly when the soldier delivered Greer to them. The soldier saluted, one fist pressed to her chest, bowed, then retreated.

“You brought your pet scry?” Mordred asked. “Isn’t that cheating?”

“You’re welcome to stay and hear what he says.” Soren turned to Greer. “She needs to be tested. Needs to show the court that her abilities are as true as her ignorance.”

Mordred frowned.

It was true, Winter thought, even though the girl looked pathetic. If there was even the slightest chance that she would bring the old ways back…. She shuddered. Her history lessons at the academy had left her with nightmares for a month. They would not fight another undead war.

“You know she is ignorant,” Greer said.

“See? There’s no harm in having her raise someone.”

Mordred’s mouth twisted in disgust. “Do your parlor trick.”

Greer smiled, green eyes dancing with amusement. “Since you asked so nicely.”

He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a thin knife. He pressed the tip of the blade to a fingertip, a single drop of blood rolling down the blade of the knife. His eyes glazed over, staring through the shadows where Winter stood, into a distance that didn’t exist. After a moment, his gaze sharpened, and Winter drew back, feeling his gaze on hers.

“It isn’t polite to eavesdrop,” he said, and she fled, falling back through the darkness until she stood, pressed against the column in the ballroom, heartbeat stuttering.

It was the first time Greer had ever betrayed her to someone, the first time he’d even hinted that he’d been able to see her in the shadows.

She closed her eyes, leaning back against the pole. Something had been off about the situation. She replayed the scene in her mind, slowly, searching for what it was.

Neither Mordred nor Soren had been looking in her direction. They’d both been staring at Greer, unblinking. Soren had one fist closed, thumb folded across his palm so that it pressed against his ring finger. The same way she held her hand when she used her powers. Winter frowned. What was Soren doing?

* * *

“Did you hear who was chosen?” Ainsley whispered to her as they trekked out to the cemetery. The orbs of light that had been conjured to guide them dripped starlight along the path, illuminating the colorful procession of courtiers.

“I’m sure Greer knows,” Winter said, linking her arm through his.

She squeezed his arm, silently letting him know that he was forgiven for scaring her away. He hadn’t told them who was listening; she was certain of that. Neither of the princes even glanced at her as they announced the plan.

“I like to think I know everything,” Greer smirked.

Winter hit him playfully. Ainsley rolled her eyes. Greer’s smile broadened, but a tightness around his eyes belied the smug posturing. He’d seen something, in his vision, something that worried him; she was sure of it.

“Seriously, who?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise,” Greer peeled her arm off his and let her go as they came to the bottom of a hill.

The courtiers formed a rough circle around the bottom of the hill. A single gravestone stood at the top of the hill, with no statue or flowers. Someone separated from the other members of the court then, but not beloved, Winter thought.

The girl in black pushed her way through the crowd, a knife in one hand and a jar of salt in the other. A cold breeze rifled through the cemetery, and Winter shifted closer to Greer. His eyes followed the girl’s movements with a hunger she hadn’t seen in his expression before. Winter’s eyes narrowed.

She glanced back at Soren, taking a step forward to block Greer from his view. But Soren wasn’t watching Greer. He stared at the girl with the same intensity, but there was something eager in his stare, something cruel behind the desire in his eyes. She was glad he’d never looked at her like that.

“Wait,” someone called from the back of the crowd. Winter turned. Mordred was trying to push his way through. The courtiers refused to make way for him, either because they knew he was trying to stop the performance or because they didn’t respect him enough to move; she wasn’t sure.

She turned back to watch the girl. Soren whispered something in her ear, and she nodded, steeling her shoulders before marching to the top of the hill. At least she had some spine, Winter thought with grudging respect, agreeing to do this after she’d fainted in front of everyone.

The girl cut her hand, dripping blood into the salt before throwing her arms out to the side and spinning in a circle. A thin film of magic appeared in front of Winter, and she took a step back, the amber and gold wall pushing against her.

Mordred finally made it through the crowd, just in time to smash up against the edge of her circle. He raised a hand and beat against the wall of magic separating him from the girl, and the amber-colored bubble shuddered beneath the blow.

The girl winced.

“What are you doing?” she snapped, her voice stronger and more commanding than Winter expected from someone so short.

“Don’t do it, Meredythe,” Mordred said. His face was pale, eyes wide in panic.

Winter glanced at Greer. It couldn’t be… Soren wouldn’t go that far, would he? Greer continued to stare at the girl, unblinking.

The girl, Meredythe, squinted at the tombstone and read the name, “Elzbieta.”

Someone in the crowd stifled a laugh. Winter glanced back at Mordred, feeling suddenly sorry for the prince least likely to be king. Everyone knew that Elzbieta had been executed for treason; they didn’t need the reminder. Soren smiled from his side of the circle, eyes fixed on Mordred as the girl called his mother from the grave.

Winter shook her head.

There was no way in hell that girl was walking out of this circle alive. And the fact that Soren was willing to watch her die to mess with Mordred was more disturbing than Winter cared to admit. She pinned a smile to her face, just in case someone was watching, and pretended to enjoy the show as a skeletal hand rose from the earth.

The girl leaned down, grasped the hand, and pulled, helping the skeletal figure climb from the earth. Winter blinked, hardly believing her eyes as flesh filled in. Even from this distance, she could see the color fill Elżbieta’s cheeks and life return to her eyes. She glanced back at the necromancer. What a waste of power.

Elzbieta shrugged away from the necromancer and stalked to the edge of the circle. Layers of silk draped across her legs as she moved, and the bones of her corset poked through where the fabric had rotted away. A dark half-cape hung from her shoulders, but she flung it back on one side, refusing to cover herself. Winter stood straighter. Even in death, Elzbieta had the bearing of a queen. Little Meredythe didn’t stand a chance.

Elzbieta stalked down the hill, her dark hair shining in the scattered light from the orbs. She stopped at the edge of the circle and raised a hand, just short of touching it. The courtiers nearest her stepped back, shifting uneasily as they eyed the girl’s circle for cracks in the amber. Elzbieta sneered at them.

“Is this yours?” She asked, turning back to the necromancer.

Winter bit her lip. Any second now, she was going to figure it out, and the girl would be done for.

Meredythe nodded.

“It smells…” Elzbieta wrinkled her nose, searching for the right word, “cold… empty?”

She brought her wrist up, as though smelling perfume, her eyes flashing with understanding.

“I smell cold. You’re a descendant of Dagda?”

“I am. Have you met one of my kind before?”

“Just the one,” she said dismissively. She turned, scanning the court outside the circle. Winter shifted closer to Greer.

“Jaxon,” she smiled, white teeth flashing in the glinting light.

“Elżbieta,” Jaxon Reed lowered his head in a half-bow.

“Where is my son?” Elzbieta asked.

His eyes stayed carefully locked on hers. “He’s not here.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Elzbieta said, holding up a hand and turning her head away. She continued to scan the crowd, looking for a child that wasn’t there. Winter glanced at Mordred.

“Why would I lie?” Jaxon asked blandly.

“If the king was desperate enough to see me that he brought one of her kind here, he must have brought my son.”

“The king?” the necromancer frowned.

“The king is dead,” Soren said, his words cutting through the silence. Winter hadn’t known the high court could hold its collective breath. Not even a rustle of fabric broke the silence outside the circle as they watched, listened, and waited.

Elzbieta turned to Soren. She blinked at him slowly, like a cat.

Jack turned, as though released from her gaze, and pushed through the crowd until he stood at Professor Thorne’s side. Winter frowned, wondering what business the king’s assistant had with the weaver from the academy. Shadows enveloped them, cutting them off from view.

“You’ve grown,” Elzbieta said. Her eyes flicked across the crowd, pausing on Mordred before she turned back to Soren, as though comparing them. “How long has it been?”

“Since you died?” Soren asked lightly, as though they were making polite conversation.

She nodded.

“Nine years,” Mordred said, voice barely above a whisper. Winter almost felt sorry for him.

Elzbieta’s eyes narrowed. “And the king?”

“A week,” Soren answered.

She glanced between Soren and Mordred. “Yet no crown.”

“His heir was not confirmed before he died.”

“How interesting,” she murmured.

Her attention shifted back to the necromancer, and she strolled towards her, movements graceful and predatory. Run, Winter thought at the girl, run, you idiot. Did she not know the stories? Did she not know that Elzbieta would try to kill her?

Elzbieta stopped in front of Meredythe. She brought a hand up to stroke the girl’s cheek; the gesture reminded Winter of a cat toying with a mouse.

“Your skin is so smooth. How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“You’re so young, so inexperienced.” She tucked a loose piece of hair behind the girl’s ear. “It wasn’t kind of them to bring you here.”

It was true, Winter thought, but then, she’d never known the high court to be kind. The world didn’t run on kindness; she’d known that since her days at the academy. It ran on strength and cunning, and sometimes on luck. She shifted closer to the thin film of amber that separated her from the girl and Elzbieta. She raised a hand to brush against the edge of the circle. She winced, pulling her hand back; the girl’s power was so cold it burned.

“I’m sorry,” Elzbieta whispered.

“For what?” Meredythe asked, frowning in confusion.

In answer, Elzbieta wrapped her hands around the girl’s throat. The girl clawed at her hands frantically, trying to peel her off, but even from this distance, Winter could tell it was useless. Elzbieta had the frantic strength of a drowning person, clinging to her last chance of life.

Beside her, Greer pressed his hand against the circle. Where Winter had drawn back, he leaned in, eyes fixed steadily on the girl as Elzbieta strangled her. Strange, she’d never known him to be a sadist. Meredythe went down, Elzbieta crashing on top of her, one knee pressing into her sternum.

“Meredythe!” Greer shouted.

Winter looked from Greer to the girl. The expression on his face. The intensity of his stare. She’d never seen him care about something this much before. His ability to see the future usually left him unflappable, even though he wasn’t able to talk about what he saw except in riddles.

Professor Thorne and Jaxon pressed past Winter, kneeling beside her. The professor held a small stone in one hand, the color the same golden amber as the girl’s circle. He cut his hand, an offering to the goddess, and muttered something Winter couldn’t hear over the pounding of her heart. She stepped back. There was nothing she could do for the girl. Nothing except watch as the girl’s life was taken, the amber of her aura disappearing from the world, like a fallen autumn leaf being swept away in a storm.

She blinked, her eyes burning, and turned back to the girl.

Elzbieta collapsed, like a puppet with its strings cut.

Meredythe pushed the body off her and sat up, heaving gasping breaths. Her eyes fixed on Greer’s. He smiled at her, shoulders sagging in relief.

She flipped him off.

Something popped, and the circle vanished.

A guttural cry tore from the girl’s throat as though it were ripped from her body. A cold wave rushed through Winter, tearing at her hair and making her bones ache. Death. Death rushed out into the cemetery. Thorne had broken through her circle, probably in an attempt to save her, unleashing her power into the night. Winter moved closer to Greer, glancing around uneasily as the sound of earth shifting came from all directions.

She looked back at the girl. She stood at the center of the broken circle, dark hair shimmering in the starlight that rained from orbs of light around the cemetery. Her eyes were completely black, glassy with pain, but she stood there, perfectly still, as her powers rushed into the night and called an entire cemetery from their graves. An army of the undead, if she only gave the order.

A shiver ran down Winter’s spine.

She’d been wrong. The girl wasn’t a leaf, to be blown away by the whims of others.

She was the storm.