Winter's Knife

Roselyn Thwaite entered the queen's chamber. The Three Norns stood in the middle of the long hall, sculpted from granite, their hollow, soulless eyes etched deep into the stone until they were black. A red robed priest stood near the statues, his hood off his bald head, the sunlight streaming through the windows reflecting off the hall's white marble, mighty arched rib vaulting, the five domes overhead. Roselyn felt small and dared not look at the queen. She looked at her own feet instead; took comfort that her sword stayed on her back, and she held together by her armor. Her amour had held her together for so long now. She was the highest ranked in the Queen's Honor Guard, and the only woman, but only the second time she had been called to the queen's chamber, and this the first time she saw the queen.

"Roselyn Thwaite," the queen said.

"Yes."

"Look at me."

"I dare not."
The queen walked quickly across the chamber. Roselyn heard each footfall echo and then stop right before her. She could feel the queen's breath upon her face, she was so near, and the queen placed her hand under Roselyn's chin. Roselyn looked up and saw the queen's face—the most beautiful face she had ever seen—enchanting, smoldering with blond hair that seemed to burn in the sunlight. Roselyn was without words. She herself was mousy-looking, battle-worn, and exhausted. She looked past the queen to the statue of the Three Norns.

"My priest says you are the wrong person for this quest." She waived an idle hand in the air, like she was saying hello to the peasants from her turret. Like she was bored with the whole ordeal. Like she had better things to do. She began to pace in a circle. The priest grunted and shifted his weight to his left foot. Scratched his arm.

"Ma'am, I do not know why I am even here."

"You are my most faithful, my most loyal soldier," said the queen.

Roselyn nodded.

"You have worked your way to a place among the highest order of Honor Guards."

Roselyn nodded.

"And you are a woman."

"Yes," Roselyn said.

"How many of your fellow honor guards are women?"

"I am the only one." Roselyn had been called many names. Eel-skin, dried neat's tongue, a bitch. Told she was unfit for any place other than hell all because one day she picked up a broadsword. Of course, she preferred the knight bastard, a thin tapered blade with a long hand and a half handle. She could be elegant and deadly with one arm, or graceless and deadly with two arms. Whatever was said of her now, was said behind her back.

"And that is more reason for my trust."

"You may trust the entirety of the Honor Guard." She said this, but did not know how much she believed this.

The queen turned. Walked to the priest and the Norns. Still, with her back turned, she said, "Roselyn, do you believe? The Norns. Do you believe they are real?"

"The fates?" Roselyn asked.

"Yes. The fates," said the priest. His voice came through his teeth like an angry snake.

"We make our own destinies," Roselyn said.

"That's why," the priest said. "That's why she is not the one. She is the wrong one."

Roselyn looked to her feet again. How many times had she heard that remark? How many times had she to prove herself in battle? In faith? And always she was promoted. Always she was trusted in the end, so much that she stood before the queen.

"Give her the amulet," the queen told the priest.

"I will not," said the priest.

"My Majesty, my Queen, why am I here? I do not wear runes upon my sleeve. My fidelity is to you. It is your colors I wear on my sleeve. Not the gods."

The queen turned to face Roselyn again. The woman looked old all of a sudden, crows feet at her eyes, gray in her hair, soulless eyes like the Norns themselves. Feeble though she was queen.
"You are young, Roselyn Thwaite. You may not be old enough to remember The Passing."

"I've heard stories."

"Dragons are an abomination," said the priest.

"In the night sky, they come," said the queen. "They scorch the earth with their breath. They eat the ash of what they burn. They are the destroyers. The eaters of the dead. Our castles, our caves, our woods, they cannot save us from destruction. We cannot hide. We cannot escape them, and The Passing is soon upon us"

"To the north, they say the dragons are there," said Roselyn.

"Yes," said the queen. "And my priests have told me of a way to be rid of them forever."

"Magic," said the priest.

"We must get rid of magic," said the queen.

"How?"

"We must kill every wizard, every sorcerer in the land." The queen took the amulet from the priest.

"Take the rune of Algiz." She handed the amulet to Roselyn. "Wear it as my gift. As if it were my colors."

"Algiz will protect you against magic," said the priest.

"Find the wizards. Find the sorcerers. And you must kill them."

"Above all else, it is the black sorcerer you must find. If it is only one magician you kill, it must be the black sorcerer.

"Maelik," Roselyn said.

"Yes," said the queen. "Last heard, he is in the north in the dragonlands. Take Caern with you."
Roselyn genuflected. "I will not fail you my Majesty. I will pursue until your request is done. I will be your darkest hand." Roselyn left the chambers, came to the stone stairs wide enough to allow horses, to allow knights in full battlements to hold their tournaments inside the queen's chambers. The rune of Algiz was cold in her hand, a blue gem in the middle; it seemed to vibrate with her pulse. She placed it around her neck, and tucked the amulet into her doublet. The coldness of the rune turned warm, the stone and gem felt like it had melted into her skin, but she pulled the amulet out easily. She shook her head, and tucked the amulet back into her doublet. No reason for anyone to know, she thought.

Caern lived in a small fishing village two days ride from the capital. Caern was the oldest of the dragon slayers and had paraded hundreds of severed dragon heads into the capital on wagon carts. Roselyn remembered those heads as a child. Some of the teeth were as long as her arms. The eyes as big as her father's hands. The dragons' teeth were pounded into dust, given as elixirs to the weak and old. When Roselyn was a child, Caern told her if a whole dragon tooth was planted in the ground like a seed a warrior-being would grow tree-like and walk off murdering any living being it came across.
Roselyn cried and Caern laughed, and Roselyn did not want to see Caern.

Caern scared her still. He sat outside his thatched roof home. He wasn't doing anything. Just sitting there, watching her come up the path, like he had been sitting there for ages. Half his face scarred by fire. His right eye melted shut. When she was within earshot, he shouted, "Roselyn Thwaite! The mad woman, our queen, has finally sent you."

Roselyn dismounted from her horse and walked closer. When she was face to face with Caern, she said, "Yes. The majesty her queen has sent me. She has discussed with you our task?"

"She's sent messengers, and she sends a girl to do a woman's job, and an old man half blind who would be better replaced by someone stronger. Have you ever killed a dragon?"

"I'm not here to kill a dragon."

"This is what the queen's messengers told me."

"I am here to kill wizards, but one is on my list first. Maelik, the black sorcerer. You," Roselyn said, "are here to protect me from dragons."

"Have you ever killed a wizard?"

"Not yet."

In the morning, they traveled on foot north into the dragonlands and into snow. Roselyn did not speak to Caern. She watched the skies. "If you're looking for dragons," Caern said, "they come at night. No use watching for them in midday." Roselyn said nothing. "Do you know where this black sorcerer is?" Caern asked. Roselyn said nothing, though she said nothing more-so because she did not know. If one was a wizard, a sorcerer, would one not know someone was coming to kill one? Would the wizard, the sorcerer, find the assassin first?

In the evening they bedded under a rock. Caern started a fire, took off his gloves and warmed his hands. In the morning, they walked again. For five days they walked and bedded down, eating jerky and if they were lucky rabbit. On the fifth day, at high noon, the sun bright in the white sky, clouds rolling off the mountain in the distance, the sky darkened. "Get down!" Caern yelled, and pushed Roselyn into a stand of trees. Caern pulled his sword and pointed it at the sky. Roselyn looked up. She saw the dragon; its wings covered the sky; its eyes smoldered. It looked like smoke. "I thought you said they only come at night?" Roselyn said.

"I did," Caern said. "I did."

Roselyn watched the dragon move toward them, beginning its descent, fire dripping from its mouth. Then, from behind, a roar and another dragon snatched Caern into the air. She heard his laughter echo through the valley, the two dragons and Caern leaving her alone. Except, she heard crying hidden in the trees near her. "Hello?" she said. A man and a girl came out from behind a pine. "We heard them from a long ways off," said the man. "And hid." The girl could not have been more than seven.

"What are you doing out here?" Roselyn asked.

"Going home," the man said.

"Where is home?"

"Farther north. My name is Brennan. This is Elayna." He put his hand on the girl's head. "My daughter."

"I am Roselyn Thwaite of the Queen's Honor Guard."

The man nodded.

"She knows the queen," Elayna whispered. "She knows the queen."

"Are you going after them?"

"After who?"

"The dragons. For your friend."

"He was not my friend," said Roselyn.

"The dragons," said Elayna.

"He was supposed to protect me from the dragons, but—"

"He was not a good man," said Elayna.

"How do you know?"

Brennan stared at his daughter for a moment, put his index finger to his lips.

"Sorry, Papa."

Brennan nodded and smiled.

"I'm looking for someone," said Roselyn. "A man by the name of Maelik."

"He is a good man," said Elayna.

"Yes," Brennan said. "He is a good man. Roselyn Thwaite of the Queen's Honor Guard. He comes to visit us tomorrow. Our home is only half a day's walk from here. We can take you. You can eat. Get warm."

Roselyn nodded.

Their home was modest. A one room timber cottage with a hearth in the middle. Brennan lit the hearth, which did not take away all of the chill in the home. The smoke left through a hole in the ceiling. The girl, Elayna, found a cloth doll under a cot. The head was falling off, and she handed the doll to Roselyn. "Can you fix her?" she asked. "My father does not sew well."

"Where's your mother? Can't she do it?"

"I do not have a mother."

Roselyn removed her sword, her coat, her armor. She settled down into a spot on the floor and took the doll. It had been such a long time since she had played with a doll. "Do you have needle and thread?" she asked. Elayna nodded and produced the items. Roselyn went to work, and soon the head was reattached. "Anne Mariabella," said Brennan. "Her mother's namesake."
In the morning, Roselyn dressed. She placed her sword in its sheath on her back and her armor held her together.

"Does your sword have a name?" Elayna asked.

"No."

"Winter's Knife. You should call it Winter's Knife."

"Why?"

"Because you are here in the North."

"Then that is what it will be called," Roselyn said. She watched at the window. She watched for dragons that came during the day and not the night. She watched for things she did not understand. She watched for Maelik, the black sorcerer, and when he approached, she told Brennan and Elayna to stay inside; that she had to speak with Maelik alone. She drew her sword.

"He is a good man," said Brennan. "He often brings us food. Clothing. News."

"A good man?" Roselyn tried not to sound like she was asking a question, and nodded. She went outside into the cold. The sorcerer wore light clothing. His skin was pale and white like the snow. He was bald like the red robed priests of the capital. She lunged at him. He melted into the ground. Winter's Knife caught only air. Roselyn turned and he was behind her. His hands came together at the base of the palms. His fingers were spread and black fire formed and hurtled toward Roselyn. The fire fell over her like rain. It did not burn. It did not sear. The Algiz rune felt hot and cold at the same time, pulsed alongside her heart beat. Roselyn lunged at him again, and again Maelik melted into the ground. Only this time, he reappeared close to he backside, a knife to the throat, a slice and blood, and she was on the ground staring into the sky searching for dragons.

"Maelik! Maelik!" Elayna cried, and she ran out into the cold. Brennan followed.

"She tried to kill me."

"Yes," said Brennan.

She was still alive. Heard everything, but from a faraway place and the voices sounded like what was said behind her back: eel-skin, dried neat's tongue, bitch. Everything was getting smaller. Darker.

"She doesn't understand," said Elayna, and she went to Roselyn.

Brennan tried to stop her. Tried to grab the cuff of her neck, the edge of her coat, but she was too fast and slipped through her father's fingers like a ghost, like Maelik melting into the ground. She placed her hands on the fresh wound. Nothing happened.

"Remove the amulet," said Maelik.

"What amulet?"

"It is there," said Maelik.

Elayna searched Roselyn and found the stone tucked away underneath the doublet covered in blood. She ripped the charm off. She placed her hands back on the wound, and she felt the hot energy building in her chest, moving up to her shoulders, down the length of her arms, into her hands and released inn gold light.

Roselyn sat up. She felt her neck, and where there had been blood, a knife's deep cut into her throat, there was only skin. Roselyn moved to her knees, grabbed a hold of Winter's Knife, held it for balance, closed her eyes, and bowed her head. "Run," she said. "Run very far away from here. Across the ocean, run."