“How is this to go?” I ask in what I hope is my sister’s placid tone. “If it’s a sacrifice you want, make it quick. I’d like to think you were a man of mercy.”
“I am no man.” There is a pause. “Sacrifice?”
As if he doesn’t know. “What will it be? Will you shoot me through the eye? Poison?” My voice wavers. Whatever pain I am to suffer through, let it be brief.
I sense the king’s deepening confusion. “Your words are unclear to me.”
Turning in the saddle, I’m given a partial glimpse of the king’s face, shadowed by the cowl of his hood. His beast paws at the snow. “Everyone in the Gray knows you sacrifice our women.”
He regards me coolly. “Do you think I would travel all this way to kill a worthless mortal, whose life will surely end sooner than not?”
My, how the Frost King loves his insults. Unfortunately, I’mimpersonating Elora, who wouldn’t dare punch the king in the mouth. “If I’m not your sacrifice, then why am I here?” Is it possible something worse awaits me in the Deadlands?
“It is your blood I need, not your death. Your oath, not your lies. In one day’s time, we will be wed.”
4
WED?
I’m sure I misheard him.
No, I’m absolutelycertainI misheard him. That is not what the stories claim. The North Wind takes a woman captive across the Shade. He takes her heart, her liver, her bones. He inflicts terrible pain, unspeakable pain, upon his victim. There are no stories about being wed.
Horror twitches through me. “You’re joking.”
He nudges his mount forward. Its breath steams against the chill. “I am not.”
“You’re telling me every woman taken captive was made your wife?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t sacrifice our women?”
“I do not.”
He speaks stiffly, as though it pains him to speak so many words in one breath.
In Edgewood, matrimony bears certain expectations. A woman must, above all else, be obedient. A woman must place her husband’s comfort above her own. A woman must accept any punishment received. If I had a choice between marrying the Frost King and sacrifice… I think I would choose sacrifice.
The charade peels away. “I’m not marrying you.” I’m supposed to be Elora—meek, demure, obedient Elora, but I had accepted death, not a life of imprisonment.
He maneuvers the beast toward a bend in the river. “You don’t have a choice.”
The Shade looms, a stretch of darkness so potent I am convinced it birthed the world. It clots like blood at the edge of my vision, and terror rises, hooking claws into my insides. There is screaming on the wind.
My elbow snaps back into the Frost King’s stomach, a softoofexpelling as my unexpected blow knocks him off balance, allowing me to slide free of the saddle. As soon as my feet hit the frozen ground, I bolt.
This near the Shade, the trees crumple and spiral into grotesque shapes, blackened leaves clinging stubbornly to the boughs. Rot and decay permeate the air, and my gut lurches as I pass what I believe is a pile of bones. My legs strain, my heart careens as my boots strike earth. I will not go quietly. I will not go at all.
A furious roar ruptures the eerie silence of the wood.
Slipping, I skitter down the icy slope, into a valley where boulders have amassed from a recent landslide. My foot catches on a root, and I’m falling, narrowly missing the rush of wind that explodes from his spear. It shatters against a nearby tree. Again, he swings his weapon as I scramble behind a pile of boulders. Stone cracks; ice sprays.
Two, three heartbeats later, I bolt toward the thickest of the trees. The king reappears at my heels, dumping snow yards ahead to slow my progress. The moment his hand begins to close on my hood, I drop and curl into my knees. The tips of his fingers skim the crown of my skull; he is too high in the saddle to reach me. It is the smallest of miracles.
Momentum drives him forward, and I’m up, changing direction as he tries to pivot the darkwalker through the dense brush.
The uneven ground poses a threat to his mount, so I keep to the slopes and crags to maintain a lead, clambering over boulders as often as possible to avoid leaving tracks. Moonlight patches the icy ground.
