The wailing man vanishes, leaving the space where he knelt empty. Tension ratchets higher the longer the quiet lasts. In my peripheral vision, I watch Boreas inhale, then slowly exhale. It weighs on him, this responsibility.
“Next in line, please step forward.”
A woman near the front steps aside to reveal a young boy, perhaps eight years of age. With her urging, he shuffles forward and goes to his knees. Poor thing. Dark hair that may have been black in life hangs about his ears, clumped with dirt.
“State your name.”
“Nolan of Ashwing,” he whispers. “My lord.”
The air shimmers as the Frost King delves into the boy’s past. A few heartbeats later, he releases the tether. “Nolan of Ashwing. You are survived by your older sister and your parents. Is this correct?”
A slow, sullen nod. “I got sick, my lord. Mama said I would get better, but she had no coin for medicine.”
Boreas softens in the presence of the child. A glimpse of who he might have been with his son. “I see you pushed your sister last year. She stole your toy?”
“I didn’t mean to hurt her. Mama told me to apologize, and I did.” The boy sniffles, and my heart squeezes. “Are you sending me to the bad place?”
The king sits back in his chair, deep in study. “No, Nolan, I am not sending you to the bad place. I’m sending you to a place with other children where you can play all day. You will always have enough to eat, and you will never get sick. There is a woman there who will take care of you. How does that sound?”
The boy lifts his watery gaze. “Will Mama be there?”
“Not for a long time, unfortunately. But you will have plenty to tell her when she arrives, whenever that may be.”
The boy, reassured that he is not being punished, calms. Radiating from his chubby face is a peace the likes of which I’ve never seen. Complete trust in the North Wind.
Boreas raises a hand. There’s a flash, and then the boy vanishes.
He does not immediately call the next specter forward, as though needing time to settle the complicated emotions flickering in his eyes.
Turning toward him in my chair, I murmur, “It was kind of you to soothe the boy.” When he does not respond, I ask, “What does it feel like to look into someone’s past?”
He stares straight ahead, unblinking. “It feels like a wave crashing over me. I’m accosted by sights and sounds, the culmination of one’s life, and it is my job to separate the threads, to look down the timeline from the beginning and move forward. It is easier with children. Their motives are simple, driven by emotion rather than intellect. I think I have only sent a handful of children to Neumovos, but they were older.”
“What about the Chasm?”
“No child has ever been sent to the Chasm.”
I open my mouth to ask him additional questions when someone knocks on the door.
Boreas goes still, those gloved hands curling atop the arms of his throne. Quiet falls like a death knell.
“Come in,” I call.
The door creaks as it slowly, slowly opens. The specters turn to see who else is foolish enough to interrupt the Frost King’s Judgment.
“Over here, Thyamine.” I wave to the maidservant, whose eyes appear massive behind her glasses. She scurries toward me bearing a small, covered plate. In the corner of my vision, Boreas’ upper lip twitches, his eyebrows snapped so tightly together they appear as one unbroken line. It warrants praise that he does not snarl at her approach.
She curtsies, head bent low. “Lady Wren,” she says, flicking a worried look at the bristling king. After passing over the plate, she scuttles off. Boreas continues to bore a hole in the side of my face with his narrowed stare.
I gesture toward his awaiting subjects. “Please continue.”
“Is this going to be the last interruption, or can I expect another ridiculous display?”
“I guess that depends. What other ridiculous display did you have in mind?”
His face crinkles, but in the end, he deigns to respond with another question of his own. “What did she bring you?”
“Don’t you have a judgment to focus on?”
