The Snow Queen's Shadow

lit.
    Black tiles littered the floor before her, each one carved in the shape of a sailing ship. Snow’s magic had bound those tiles to the map of Lorindar on the ceiling, allowing them to track various ships through their waters. Now the lapis lazuli seas were empty.
    Weapons shone on the walls to either side. Talia took a curved Arathean dagger, sliding it through her belt, then turned to light another lamp.
    A set of sharpened steel snowflakes, each one about the size of a playing card, rested on a small shelf in the corner. The original snowflakes had been a gift from Talia, years before. Snow kept losing the things, which meant Talia had to commission a new set at least once a year.
    There was no movement in the library. She retrieved a steel-banded Hiladi war club before stepping through the doorway, just in case. Light glinted from the empty platinum frame of Snow’s mirror, which lay on the floor. Dark smears of dry blood showed where Snow had tried to grip the frame, perhaps to keep it from falling. Talia brought the lamp to the floor, searching for the telltale glitter of broken glass. Nothing. Snow had reclaimed every speck.
    Broken chunks of wax littered the floor. Another candle sat in the middle of the table, melted wax pooled around the base. Drops of blood, now dried to a rusty brown color, were scattered over the table and floor.
    Talia crouched to study the blood. The thickest drops led to a cedar chest in the corner. Snow would have walked there for bandages. Talia was all too familiar with the contents of that particular chest. There had been no blood in the armory, so Snow must have bandaged her wounds before leaving.
    But she hadn’t done so right away. Dark lines and smears of blood covered the table. Talia touched one of the black lines. Ash rubbed away at her touch. The lines were too regular to be random. A spell of some sort, though Talia couldn’t follow the pattern. The ashes were stuck in the surface of the congealed blood, meaning Snow had worked this spell after her mirror broke, but before tending to her own wounds. Charred stems, perhaps from flowers, were sprinkled through the mess. “What were you doing down here?”
    Talia stepped away, searching the room until she spied a dark smudge on the bookshelves. Snow had tried to wipe the leather clean, but faint smears showed where she had grabbed a particular book on dwarven architecture. That book was the trigger mechanism to open the seawall passage down through the cliffs. The seawall passageway was meant to be an escape route of last resort. Why would Snow—or whatever had taken control of her—have bothered opening it if not to flee?
    Talia set her lamp on the table. A quick tug of the book triggered the mechanisms in the wall. Talia crossed the room to grab the far set of shelves, which hid the passageway. Keeping her club ready, she swung them inward.
    Cold, damp air spilled into the room. Little light penetrated the passageway, but it was enough for Talia to make out the woman huddled on the stone steps.
    Talia raised her club. “Snow?”
    The woman was the right size, with the same pale skin. Talia snatched the lamp from the table. The light revealed a woman younger than Snow, with dark red hair and a pale, frightened face. She was naked, shivering violently from the cold. Her lips and ears had a bluish tinge.
    “Is she . . . is she gone?” Her words were slurred.
    Talia tossed the club behind her and reached to take the woman’s hand. Her fingers were cold as ice. “Who are you? How long have you been down there?”
    “Don’t know.” The woman tried to walk, but her legs gave out. “Maybe a day?”
    Talia pulled the woman into the library and kicked the shelves shut. She fetched an old wool cloak from another chest and wrapped it around the woman’s shoulders, but wasn’t sure what other aid to offer. Snow was the healer, not Talia. Growing up in Arathea, Talia had learned the symptoms of sun poisoning by her fifth year, but she knew much less about treating half-frozen women. “What’s your name?”
    “Gerta.” She pulled her body into a ball, squeezing her hands beneath her arms.
    Talia set the lamp on the floor in front of Gerta, who eagerly cupped her hands around it. Gerta wasn’t a name common to Lorindar. It was possible, if unlikely, that Gerta had discovered the concealed opening in the water at the base of the cliffs. Perhaps a runaway, or an escaped prisoner of some sort, someone desperate