Chapter 2

Wesselton

Though it was summer in Wesselton, the Duke still shivered. Bad memories, it was. Of the cold night where the snows fell a hundred feet deep, of the long walk across the sea of ice, of the things that had followed them out of the ice-cased ruins of Castle Arendelle, of the unnatural sorcery that had started it all. As his carriage rumbled down the cobblestone path, the Duke paused in thought to open a curtain, looking outside to reassure himself that yes, the sun was up and the grass still green, that the winter was now behind him. Yes, here he was safe. Such things would never have happened in Wesselton, for here they were civilized, and the only thing they burned apart from witches were more witches.

"Are you cold, m'lord?"

"Hand me my cloak, Franz," the Duke replied. The bodyguard tensed, then did as told, draping it around the Duke's shoulders. It was not his original job. Rather, it was his brother's former job, before the man had succumbed to the unnatural cold that pursued the few survivors all the way beyond the Frostfang mountains. The Duke felt it, too, but decorum would not permit him to show any emotion. Stiff upper lip, and all that, which had gotten them through the desperate flight from old Arendelle, even when it became difficult to keep calm and carry on during the latter parts of the journey, when the frozen returned. The fire kept them at bay, as the survivors soon learned, and the Duke shivered again as the images returned.

Nothing good ever came of dalliances with sorcery.

Alternate solutions were needed, beyond merely identifying the witch by her appearance - there was nary the slightest mole or pimple on "Queen Elsa," much less full blown warts, and women, self-centered and emotional as they were, could not be trusted to put aside their conceit for a second for the good of the kingdom and just line up in the public square to hop on a scale with a duck on the other end. No, what the world needed was a way to neutralize the witch's powers permanently.

Which was why he was on his way to a particular town he never cared for, an old town, full of tenured bearded men in their ivory towers and idealistic young fools out to change the world. The Duke had always scoffed at this. The world was as it is. There was no use changing it to fit ideals of justice or equality or solidarity. Only in changing it to fit your own needs.

"We have arrived, m'lord."

"Let me down, Franz."

"Lord Duke Wesselton, what a pleasant surprise. The Citadel welcomes you," said the ancient who stood ready to greet him. The Duke was not tall, but this old man almost met him at eye level, hunched over as he was, although it was uncertain whether this was due to the weight of age or the decorated chain links hung around his neck to symbolize his mastery of knowledge. "To what do we owe this pleasure?"

"Suffice to say, archmaester, that in my old age I have found myself pondering the question of my legacy," the Duke replied. "And in my ponderings," he said, suppressing another involuntary shiver, "I have concluded that there can be no greater beneficiary of my wealth than higher education."

"I understand," the archmaester said, smiling. "Come, let us walk. Word can take long to reach us here, but the ravens have been coming from the North."

"Dark wings, dark words," the Duke replied. He could have sworn that one particular link on the archmaester's chains, one that seemed like steel but shone like fire, was glistening in the light. "We lost a lot of good men out there."

"My condolences for your losses," said the archmaester. "Rest assured, my lord. We share a dream, and one day we will see it through."