But it does offer me a greater advantage. Seven fighters total, armed, hungry for vengeance. They know the land. They’re well acquainted withthe enemy. I will need every weapon at my disposal, blades whetted and agleam.
“The West Wind has taken Boreas,” I state, looking each soldier in the eye. “I’m going after him, but I can’t do it alone.”
“My lady.” Pallas smiles, and it bears an edge. “We aim to serve.”
The men build a fire. I, along with Pallas and his comrades, congregate around the licking red flames to discuss our strategy. Time is not our ally. I may be an excellent shot, but I know little of warfare. The guards’ extensive knowledge on the subject has been invaluable. Tonight, I am their most eager pupil.
“History shows us the darkwalkers congregate in small bands,” says the mustachioed soldier as he tosses more sticks into the flames. “Five, six, at times ten to a group. Any more than that and there is infighting.”
“So wherever Boreas is,” I say, connecting the dots, “we can expect a group of darkwalkers.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Needless to say, this does not bode well.
According to the guards, there are a few places Zephyrus could have hidden Boreas. Caves to the east; a canyon in the southwest; then the deepest recesses of the forest, which lie a day’s ride north. They sent two scouts hours ago, one to the caves, one to the canyon. If they return empty-handed, we’ll travel north.
One of the younger soldiers, a squat man with a square face, asks, “How long do you think Zephyrus can maintain control of the darkwalkers?” He peeks sidelong at me, then drops his eyes. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but if my lord is in their grasp, who is to say they will be able to fight their instincts until we’re able to rescue him?”
My stomach twists. A darkwalker’s instinct is to drink living souls. Specters may whet their appetite, but the North Wind is a full-blooded immortal, powerful beyond measure.
“He’s not dead,” Pallas states, picking at a stray thread on his breeches. He speaks with conviction, which eases the knots snarling within me. I’m inclined to agree. Zephyrus may have a misdirected sense of justice, but he wouldn’t harm his brother. At least, not yet. As long as Boreas is alive, Zephyrus has leverage to use against me.
The West Wind requires his brother’s spear to put an end to this cold, though I wonder if he notes the warming atmosphere. Regardless, Boreas will never relinquish his weapon. Which of the Anemoi possesses the stronger will? What will reign, in the end? Love, or vengeance? Winter, or spring?
The moon sinks as the night deepens, and my panic coalesces in nightmarish scenarios of how, exactly, Zephyrus will punish his brother. Approximately three hours have passed since I fled the citadel, and I fear it is three hours too late.
I should have killed Zephyrus when I had the chance.
“How should we approach this?” I ask the captain.
“Difficult to say without knowing what we’re up against.” He pokes the fire. “I’ve dealt with Zephyrus before. He’s tricky. And with all those darkwalkers on his side…” He shakes his head. “We are only eight. We cannot fight the horde. The darkwalkers look to Zephyrus for guidance, however he has managed to assert his control over them. If we can remove Zephyrus from the situation, we can cut the snake off at its head.”
Something he said snags my attention. “What do you mean you’ve dealt with Zephyrus before?”
The light in his eyes flickers, then is extinguished. “I accompanied my lord to the mountains when his wife and son were abducted.”
One of the men chimes in, “Once Zephyrus is dead, what will happen to the darkwalkers? Will they return to how they were before, corrupt but lacking intelligence? And what of the Shade?”
The question gives me pause. The men aren’t aware that Boreas is a darkwalker. They know that both the Shade and his power have weakened, but they do not know why.
The captain’s noncommittal grunt gives the impression he hasn’t a clue. No one does.
But I remember something I read in a book once. A flower, unable to flourish, often withers. Has the Frost King’s stagnation in his grief caused his own demise? I think of the torn Shade, the multitude of corrupted souls. Perhaps love, trust, belonging have warmed the earth, acting as a salve to restore balance, and heal Boreas’ wounds.
The sound of approaching footsteps calls everyone to attention.
A scout breaks from the shadows and steps into the ring of light. Muddy snow sops his breeches below the knee.
“I’ve found him,” he pants. “I’ve found the king.”
42
WE CROUCH IN THE DEEPESTshadows at the clearing’s edge—the men and I. We left the horses tied a mile west and traversed the remaining distance on foot. Before us lies the cave, cut from a sloped, snowy hill. Darkwalkers prowl the entrance, at least twenty of them. Who knows how many linger inside.
“My lady.” One of the guards kneels beside me, having returned from surveying the area. “There is another entrance at the rear of the cave. It’s small, but you should be able to squeeze through it.”
I meet Pallas’ gaze. He nods. While his men engage the darkwalkers, I’ll enter the cave alone. “Noted.”
