Brushing past him, I climb into the vessel and clutch the raised edges as he follows, the hull dipping sharply to the right. I gasp, grabbing the opposite edge as the boat levels out. Still, my heart pounds. “Isn’t there supposed to be a giant, three-headed dog somewhere?”
He appraises me as though I’ve officially gone mad. Maybe I have.
“You should not believe everything you hear,” says the king, pushing back his hood. “There is no such creature.”
I swallow, glance nervously at the fluttering veil ahead. “Will I change into a spirit once we enter the Deadlands?”
“No. My authority over the Shade allows me to grant individuals immunity from its influence. You will remain mortal.” A pause. “When we pass through the Shade, you’ll likely experience a range of sensations like hunger, fear, grief. Do not believe the things you feel. It is merely the last opportunity for the souls leaving the realm of the living to remember what it felt like to be human.”
Of course I would believe such things. Iamhungry. Iamgrieving. But the Frost King touches the water once more, and the current miraculously changes direction, pulling us upstream. The veil pulses like a heartbeat, hungry and sinister, as we draw nearer to it. I am brave. I ambrave, damn it.
Darkness. A void. An ageless, formless shroud. The Shade is alive, twitching, stinging, burning—
My mouth opens on a scream that never comes.
Agony flares through my arms, the base of my neck, my lower spine. Then it is gone. Emotions barrel through me: anguish, grief, fear, and hunger—mindless hunger. My stomach cramps so fiercely I curl up on the bottom of the boat, waiting for it to end.
Yet there is no reprieve. I am disintegrating. I am crying out in my soul, trying to take a breath. I am heavy. I am aggrieved. Another lash of pain strikes my spine, and I flinch, releasing a cry that never sounds.
The river rocks the small boat. What would happen if this flimsy wood suddenly snapped? The boat shudders, and I reach out my hand, seeking reassurance. My hand fists around fabric stretched over warm skin—an anchor.
“What’s happening to me?” I whisper. My eyes are open, but all I see is black, black, black.
A voice drifts above me, low and flat and distant. “It’s not real.”
What’s not real? The boat? The river?
Beneath me, the water sings.
If I focus on the trilling pitch, the void around me begins to retreat. The Frost King shimmers into existence at my side. I realize I grip a handful of his breeches and promptly let go. Beyond the vessel, the river gleams a stunning turquoise, its current bending far into the distance with strips of darker blue.Come, it whispers.Let me offer you sanctuary from the darkness.
Strong fingers lock around my wrist. “Don’t touch the water!”
I glance at the king over my shoulder. His face drifts in and out of focus, though the brightness of his eyes is strangely grounding. “Why?” I lean over the boat, panting. “You did.”
“The Les would not affect you were you to touch it, but we are now traveling via Mnemenos—the River of Forgetting. If even a drop splashes your skin, you will lose all sense of self.”
It takes a moment for his words to penetrate. My mind feels as though it’s being stretched in five directions at once. “I wouldn’t remember who I was?”
“No.”
My left hand tightens around the edge of the hull. The water glitters, an aqua so brilliant it hurts my eyes. Clear enough for a swim. Clear enough to drink. “Pull me back,” I say as the crooning grows louder. “Hurry!”
A hard tug topples me onto my backside, the Frost King’s unexpected warmth at my spine. I’m shaking so intensely my teeth chatter. To lose all sense of self—nothing could be more absolute.
At last, the Shade lifts, revealing a land carved from rock and ice, puddled in watery moonlight. A single elm tree hangs above the river, concealed by something resembling fog. It is the only living thing. Whatever color once existed here has been leached away. The rest is but gray, starving earth.
The flat land rises in the distance, leading to an enormous citadel chipped from a granite rockface. Turrets and ramparts and stacked halls of black stone pierce the roof of the world, a messy tear in otherwise smooth midnight fabric.
Our journey takes the day. Once we disembark, the river refreezes, and the beast he calls Phaethon reappears. The remainder of the journey is spent in the saddle. By the time we emerge from the surrounding trees, my fingers are practically frozen in my gloves.
I have never felt as small as I do now, swamped in the shadow of this towering stone wall, its mammoth, iron gates barring our entry, the ends like teeth. They open with a harsh shriek, and we trot into a massive courtyard of gray stone. In a fortress of this magnitude I would expect more activity, but there is not a soul in sight.
The king directs the beast up a set of stairs leading to twin doors of oak. Handles of intricate, twisted metal shine dully. He dismounts, as do I.
“Come,” he says, as if I am a dog called to heel. My teeth grind together from the effort of holding myself back from doing something foolish, like stabbing him again. The scarf concealing my face is all that guards my secret.
The handles twist of their own accord. The North Wind’s power, it seems, can shape air at will, and he uses that ability to push open the doors. A darkened mouth, the sprawling interior of the fortress, and then I am inside the beast’s throat, its jaws snapping shut at my back.
