A hollow at the base of a fallen tree catches my eye. A short crawl on hands and knees, down into the cramped, darkened opening. There, I curl into a ball, and I wait.
Hoofbeats ring atop the frozen earth. The darkwalker stamps the ground, then stops. The king has pulled his mount to a halt.
I cover my mouth to muffle my breathing. My body shakes so hard I’m convinced my bones will rattle apart.
He dismounts. Snow crunches beneath his boots.
My tracks are nonexistent. I made sure of it. I’m not sure how skilled a tracker the king is. Could his powers somehow flush me out of hiding?
The silence stretches on for quite some time before I hear him mount his steed and move off with a muttered, “Damn.”
Once the hoofbeats subside, I slump against the wall at my back, teeth chattering. Instinct demands I run, but I force myself to remain in place until I’m certain he won’t return.
It doesn’t take long for the chill to invade. Admittedly, I didn’t think this through. Edgewood calls to me. Elora calls to me. But I cannot go back. If I flee, the Frost King may return to Edgewood for another woman, in which case he might choose Elora—the real Elora. So where does that leave me?
It’s your blood I need, not your death.
It is the only clue to my future. I will not die on this day. Instead, I am to become the North Wind’s prisoner, bound to the Deadlands until… what? Why does he need my blood?
I suppose it matters not. If this is to be my fate, then so be it. I have time—to plot and to plan. Until then, I need to return to the river.
My stiff muscles throb as I crawl from the burrow and pick my way around the thickest of the snow mounds. Every so often, I stop to listen. No sound but the wind.
Eventually, I spot the darkwalker and its rider through the trees. The king eliminates the distance between us with powerful strides, but I will not run.
I kneel. Bow my head. He pulls his mount to a halt a stone’s throw from me.
“I apologize, my lord. I was frightened. It is a difficult thing, leaving one’s family.” Taking a breath, I lift my gaze. “But I am ready now. I can be brave.”
His narrowed eyes rake my hunched form. I drop my gaze to the ground. It’s what Elora would do. And she would wait, so I wait. I’m surprised when he offers a hand instead of a knife, and helps me into the saddle before wheeling us in the opposite direction. Soon, we break from the forest where the Shade looms.
The Les is poured wide and frozen across the plain before me, with the mountainous earth crowned at its back. When someone dies, their spirit passes through the Shade via the Les to await the Judgment. But I am very much alive. So what does this mean for me?
My stomach twists as he sends his beast to the river’s edge. Ice has crystallized onto the banks, and the water gleams like glass under moonlight. Once he dismounts, he pulls me from the saddle.
“This is the part where you drown me, right?”
He flicks me a wordless glance, as if he can’t bring himself to answer such a ridiculous question.
Bending a knee, he touches the ice with the tips of his fingers, and I marvel as it thaws to liquid, hissing and spitting and bounding downstream.
A small boat emerges from the barrier. I frown as the current carries the bobbing vessel to where we stand. “I thought we were riding your… horse?” If an equine-shaped darkwalker can be considered such a thing.
“Every spirit must enter the Deadlands via the Les. That includes you. Phaethon will pass through without us.”
“But I’m not a spirit.”
“Do you want to be?”
My, my, my. How quickly his patience frays. “Is that a threat?”
He doesn’t respond, which is perfectly fine, as I didn’t expect him to anyway.
Water laps at the wooden hull. It’s barely large enough to fit two people. “I can’t swim.”
“Unless you plan on jumping into the water, you need not worry.”
As a matter of fact, I was considering it. It might be a preferable way to go.
