crackdown in the city by Falk’s forces.
Despite her being carried, her stockinged feet were almost numb by the time they reached their destination, an ordinary doorway in an ordinary alley like a dozen others they had traversed. Karl let her slide to the ground, and she winced as her feet landed in snow. Not completely numb yet, then, she thought.
Karl knocked, a complicated pattern. Nothing happened. He knocked again, varying the pattern. Still no response. Finally he put his mouth close to a closed eye-slot and said, so loudly her heart leaped in terror for fear someone would overhear, “Open, whoever is in there,” he said. “It’s Prince Karl. I seek the protection of the Common Cause.”
The door opened so abruptly Karl almost stumbled through it-and almost onto the sword point that, catching the light from outside, seemed to hover in the darkness. “Get in,” snarled a voice from the darkness.
Karl grabbed Brenna’s hand and pulled her through the door. It slammed shut behind them and she heard the bolt shoot into place. In absolute-though blessedly warm-darkness, they crept forward. A second door suddenly opened, revealing a firelit room with a table and chairs. Beyond it Brenna glimpsed another room with beds and blankets, and beyond that, a kitchen.
The man who had admitted them waited until they were both inside, then came in behind them. The door clicked shut, and Brenna turned to see a man about Karl’s height, bright blue eyes blazing above a barely-healed wound that had laid his cheekbone open, bared blade glinting red in the firelight. “Tell me why I shouldn’t run you through here and now and save myself a hell of a lot of trouble,” he growled.
“Vinthor?” Karl said. “I thought you were dead!”
“More than one secret way out of that farmhouse. I killed two guards in the kitchen, then got out while the getting was good. But I was the only one. Denson, Goodwife Beth-”
“Beth survived,” Karl said. “She’s in the Palace.”
Vinthor’s face paled, putting the cheek wound into stark relief. “Beth’s alive? I thought…” He stiffened, face flushing again. “If that’s a lie-”
“No lie,” Karl said. “Vinthor, Brenna needs to sit down and warm herself. It’s not as cold as the night you brought me here barefoot, but it’s cold enough. Her feet…”
Vinthor hesitated, then sheathed his sword. “All right,” he said gruffly. “I’ll hear you out. Brenna, is it? Sit down and let me take a look.”
Brenna sat gratefully by the fire. Her feet were beginning to burn and itch with returning circulation. She felt embarrassed and self-conscious, having this strange man pull off her stockings and hold her naked feet in his callused hands, but his touch was gentle, and when he straightened, he said, “No frostbite. Not like yours.”
“For which you called a Healer, who saved them,” Karl said. “You didn’t have to take that risk. I thank you for it.”
“The Patron would not have thanked me if I hadn’t.” Vinthor gestured to the other chair at the table, and Karl took it. Vinthor remained standing.
“It is because of the Patron that I am here,” Karl said. “And the Patron’s grand plan.”
Vinthor’s eyes narrowed. “And what plan would that be? The Common Cause wants to shake off the yolk of the MageLords and let Commoners govern themselves. You are both Mageborn. Hell, you’re the Heir, and will someday be the King. We tried to kill you.”
“And, when I found my own way out through the Barrier… as I have again tonight… you were told to keep me alive,” Karl said. “I didn’t know why then. But I know now.” He paused. “You call me Mageborn. I am not. I am a Commoner.”
Vinthor snorted. “The Heir is a Commoner? Not bloody likely.”
Karl nodded at Brenna. Guess I’ve already decided to trust him, she thought. She took a deep breath, then met Vinthor’s gaze. “He’s not the Heir,” she said. “I am.”
Vinthor’s eyebrows shot up. He gave her a long, hard look, then said slowly, “And supposing I believe that, what does that make him?” He jerked a thumb at Karl.
“I’m the Magebane,” Karl said.
Vinthor blinked, then barked a laugh. “The Magebane is a myth.”
“Is it?” Karl said. “The Kingdom is real enough. The Great Barrier is there for a reason, too. Legend tells us the Commoners rose up against the MageLords in the Old Kingdom and drove them here. And legend also claims they only succeeded because of the Magebane.” Karl spread his hands. “You’ve seen how unsuccessful your own attempts to fight the MageLords have been. Perhaps you need a Magebane, too.”
“You?” Vinthor said.
“I walked through the Lesser Barrier,” Karl said quietly. “Twice. And this time I brought Brenna with me.”
Vinthor shot a look at Brenna. “Is that true?”
“It is,” she said.
Vinthor studied her. “You say you’re the Heir. But that must be something you’ve just learned. What were you before?”
“Lord Falk’s ward,” she said bitterly.
Vinthor’s eyes widened. He glanced from her to Karl and back again. And then he sighed, pulled out a chair, and sat down with them at the table. “All right,” he said. “Tell me.”
When Falk jumped down from the magecarriage, stamped up the stairs of the Palace’ and strode through the corridors toward Mother Northwind’s quarters, he did not have immediate murder on his mind.. . but you would have been hard put to prove it from the reaction of the servants and Mageborn he passed, who took one look at him as he stalked through the hallways, pulling off his heavy outdoor coat, hat, and gloves as he walked, and scurried away like mice faced with an oncoming cat.
Falk was not yet fully prepared to accept Brenna’s claim that Mother Northwind was working against him. The Healer had brought Brenna to him, installed Karl as the Prince, interrogated and influenced others for him for years. It seemed inconceivable that she had done so much to help him and then, at the very end of their long game, chose to sabotage his Plan instead.
And yet…
The boy in the King’s bed had been on the verge of slaying the King, on the verge of at last releasing the Keys to Falk, when he had suddenly killed himself. No sane person, in full control of his own faculties, would have done such a thing…
… unless his mind had been twisted.
And Mother Northwind, though she might not have been the only soft mage in the Kingdom capable of such an act, was certainly the one who was most capable of it.
Mother Northwind had “examined” the assassin ahead of the act, giving her the opportunity to alter his mind as she saw fit. Throw in Brenna’s claim that the dogsledders had been taking her and Anton to Mother Northwind, and he certainly had grounds for suspicion.
He wasn’t convinced. Not yet.
But he was suspicious enough, and angry enough, after the failure of his Plan at the very moment of success, that he could be convinced
… very easily.
He reached Mother Northwind’s quarters, paused just long enough to toss his winter clothes on a chair outside, then pounded on the door twice with his gloved fist before seizing the doorknob and swinging the door inward.
Mother Northwind sat by the fire, knitting, for all the world as if she had never left her cottage. “Lord Falk,” she said. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“Is it?” Falk growled. He closed the door behind him, and took a look around. A maid, sweeping in the corner, froze like a startled rabbit as his gaze swung over to her. “Out,” he said.
The girl looked at Mother Northwind. “Put your broom by the fire, Pilea,” she said, and as the girl came over, Mother Northwind took her hand and gave it a pat. “It’s all right,” she said. “Go and fix some tea for us, and I’ll ring when we want it.”
Pilea glanced from her to Falk, gave a quick curtsy, then fled.
Falk glared at Mother Northwind. “The Plan failed,” he said. “The boy killed himself, not the King.”
Mother Northwind kept knitting. “I know,” she said. “A terrible shame. Still, you have the Heir. You’ll try
