<< Previous
Horde Thief
Chapter 54
Dropping Harry at the marina he directs you to is simple. There's no exchange of luck, it doesn't seem necessary, though you wonder why he asked you not to come with him. What about an island would be so dangerous…or secure enough for him to place one of three Holy Swords there for safekeeping? But it isn't the time for those questions, and so once he's on his way, you focus on the ring you'd given Molly and speak a very familiar word to carry you to it. The world twists around you, something fighting against your spell for a moment before your power drives through it. You hadn't been quite sure what to expect on the other end, but you'd anticipated cold. That much proved true, the rest of the scene was a little different.
You appear at the top of a rise covered by heavy snowfall, looking down on a small village nestled in the tentative shelter of the hill you're standing on and the shadow of the mountains beyond. You have no idea where you are, but the place feels old, and looks almost familiar. The designs are different, but the layout reminds you of the northern villages you've seen in Westeros. Children ran through the open space at the centre of the circle of houses, dressed in an odd mix of modern clothing and well-made furs, and you can hear their laughter on the icy wind. A few adults watch them, but far more cluster around the entrance of one of the larger buildings, worry or something very similar making them tense. As you watch, they draw back, and blonde woman dressed in unreasonably light clothing of light blues and greens steps out.
Molly Carpenter looks up at the edge of the village, around where you're standing, and her eyes narrow, searching the ridgeline. You must have triggered a ward of some sort coming here, you realise, and you take a few steps forward down the ridge, letting the veil fade. It wouldn't fool you, but only one of those down the slope have senses as good as yours. Molly's eyes widen as she recognises you, and she speaks quickly to the crowd around her before striding out of the village. They bow respectfully, in a way that tells you a great deal. They do not know her by name, but by title. To them, she is Lady Winter, and the list of reasons why they would know is perilously small.
She crosses the snow as if it isn't there, maybe to her it truly isn't, and you see the Mantle of power around her burn at the ring on her finger, trying to push her to defend what it sees as a possession, not people. That feeling you know well, a lesser part of your draconic nature long since brought to heel.
"Viserys," despite her control Molly's voice is harsh, like the wind around you.
"Lady Carpenter," you give her a small bow, the type you would give to a peer in their domain. Here, she is one. "I apologise for any slight given, but I needed to find you."
"I have responsibilities here which I cannot abandon," something tightens in her expression, not Winter, but the woman. She is not sure if she can win whatever battle she has found herself in. It isn't hard to guess.
"The building you came from," you nod down at the village. "There are children in there, aren't there. Firstborn, and nothing more."
Something cold and hungry lurches against the walls set about Molly's mind, close enough to her own sudden questions that it almost drives her towards you. You see in that flash an echo of the beauty and terror of Winter which you know all too well. "What do you know?" She hisses through clenched teeth, and you realise then that she is trying to stop anything else making it through.
"There is a curse set upon the world, Lady Carpenter," here in a place of Winter's power, beside one of its Queens, you are willing to speak. "It drains the life of every firstborn child below the age of adulthood, and it will kill them all this Friday. Harry called it Passover." You begin to say more, but a hand raised in silent courtesy is enough to stop you. She knows, then. Given the source of the story, and her upbringing, you're not surprised.
Her mind flashes down possibilities, and you give her the time she asks for, here on the edge of the world, in the remnants of a howling blizzard. Her eyes are clear when she looks up, but it is the clear of glacial ice, her Mantle here in full agreement with her own will. "The Knights." She speaks it as a curse. "Those my father opposed."
"Yes," for all you trust in her power, and that of the Crown you bear, there are still some things you do not say. And not just for the sake of security. A small part of you wonders how she will react to him taking the field again, and your place in making it possible. "You are your father's daughter, Lady Carpenter. Will you stand with us?"
She looks back at the village, at the building you know must contain so much of a generation's future, and spits something wordless into the wind, as if there is no curse strong enough. "I am here at the behest of Mab, and she is not one to suffer defiance lightly," you almost speak then, yet something tells you that there is more still to be said.
"But in this, Viserys Targaryen, she will grant me leave to join you," blue eyes flash with ice-tone fire as she meets your gaze. "And if she does not, I will do so anyway, your gift grants me that much freedom to do what is right and proper." There's an edge on the last word, one you don't quite understand, but you suspect Harry would. You lack the proper context. "I will be in Chicago in six hours."
"Of course," you nod, then extend your arm, offering it. She shakes her head, recognising the offer of transport for what it is.
"No," she laughs softly, almost sadly. "I do not think that would be wise where I'm going. The heart of Winter is place for those with such fire in their veins."
"I thought not," you dip in the same small bow. "Good luck." You step back, through the ward and veil which you had disturbed, and a moment later you're gone.
Molly Carpenter stands there for a moment, in the snow and cold, untouched by both. She looks down at her hand and the fire in her eyes flickers for a moment. Then she looks back at the village, at the building, and straightens to a perfect posture as the fire surges up once more. A hand passes through the air, there's a silent step into an even deeper cold, and the ridgeline is empty.
