The Snow Queen's Shadow

Dark clouds blotted the stars overhead, haloing the moon in silver. The same illusion blanketed the furnishings, turning them translucent. The wardrobe, the desk by the far wall, even the bed, where Ollear Curtana was busy with a woman far too young and attractive to be his wife. His scalp and face were clean-shaven, glistening with sweat. Like most nobles, he doubtless shaved each day, burning the hair to prevent it from being used against him by a practitioner of sympathetic magic.
    “Hello, Uncle.”
    Both Ollear and his mistress bolted upright. They each wore a light robe of slavesilk. The thin material was naturally gray, but anyone with a hint of magical talent could change it at will, turning it clear. Snow kept a gown of the stuff for special occasions. The trick was to maintain your concentration as things grew more . . . distracting.
    “Who are you?” Ollear looked past her. Searching for his guards, no doubt. His lips pressed together. “You look familiar.”
    Snow frowned, and both robes turned black. “I was hoping to talk to you about my father.”
    “Your . . .” He paled. “Princess Ermillina?”
    Snow gave a slight bow. “Uncle Ollear. I go by Snow now.” The years had worn away all but the faintest resemblance to the strong, handsome statue who had guarded Ollear’s door. He appeared shrunken, with wattles of skin at his neck. Only his hands were as Snow remembered, thin and permanently stained from his potion work.
    “You’ve aged so much.” Old he might be, but he had never been stupid. “What magics have you been toying with, Princess?”
    “I’ve done what was necessary.” Snow glanced at the young woman beside him. “A student?”
    “A member of my household.”
    A servant, then. Had she been magically skilled, politeness would have required Ollear to introduce her by name.
    With one shaking hand, Ollear took a stiff black wig from the bedside table and positioned it on his head. He had to know he was outmatched. Snow had penetrated his tower and destroyed his guards. “Laurence told us you were dead.”
    “Not King Laurence? Such disrespect for your sovereign, Ollear. Where are your manners?” Snow strode around the room, looking out at the city below. Her feet sank into the white-furred rug. “I remember when my mother elevated you to your chancellorship at the university. Strange . . . to fall from such a position to this small border province.”
    “I serve as the king wishes, Your Highness,” Ollear said carefully.
    “The king is a fool to waste someone of your talents. I remember your visits to the palace. The potions you brewed for my mother.”
    “What do you want?” His gaze was openly calculating now. Snow was alone, but she was the daughter of the most powerful queen Allesandria had known in centuries. His fear was fading, replaced by hunger for the opportunities she might present.
    “You’re not the only one to be wronged by our new king. I mean to see justice done for those crimes.”
    “You do have a legal claim to the throne,” he said cautiously. “Yador is merely a border province, as you said, but I retain my seat in the Nobles’ Circle. I could—”
    “What would you ask from me in return?” Snow interrupted. “What cost to betray your king?”
    “Nothing, Your Highness.” Ollear stood, his hands spread. In other lands, it would be a gesture of peace, but in Allesandria, where every noble learned magic even before they mastered their letters, the lack of a weapon meant nothing. He stopped at a polite distance. “I ask only to help you correct an injustice.”
    And to place Snow in his debt. His lies wormed into her stomach, leaving her nauseated. “Do you remember my father, Ollear?”
    “I do.” The wariness had returned to his voice, though he kept his eyes averted. In Allesandria, to stare too long was to invite a magical confrontation. “He was strong in heart and mind, but his body failed beneath the demands of the throne. Your mother summoned me often to try to ease his pain.”
    “I was so young when he fell ill.” Snow paced the circumference of the room, watching the lamplights below, the mountains in the distance. From this height, she could just make out the guard towers on both sides of the border. “I’ve spent years studying the healing arts, Ollear. I’ve yet to find a single malady that strikes with the same symptoms that took my father. Stealing his voice, withering his body, but also robbing him of his