Eventually, the beast moves off. Ten minutes I wait, breath held, until the burning air clears. Only then do I scramble down the tree.
Steam rises from the elk’s carcass. Half the meat still awaits butchering—two months’ worth of food. As much as it pains me to leave anything behind, I can’t risk finishing the job with the darkwalker so near. One month of food will have to suffice, and if we’re careful, Elora and I can stretch it further. Maybe another half-starved animal will stumble across the remains.
After donning my coat and gloves, I heave the satchel across my back and begin the fifteen-mile return trek to Edgewood, grunting beneath the weight of my cache. By the third mile, my feet, face, and hands have lost sensation. The wind does not relent no matter how many gods I pray to, but they must know of my lost faith.
It takes the day. Evening unfolds and darkens the wood to aviolet-rich tapestry. With less than two miles remaining, I hear it. The low, lamenting peal of a ram’s horn climbs through the valley and kicks my pulse into a perilous sprint. The sky foretold a coming tragedy, and it was right.
The North Wind has come.
2
LONG AGO, THEGRAY WASknown as the Green. Three centuries ago, the land, this earthen ground, was an image of vitality: lush and verdant, with clear water singing over rocks, and herds of elk and deer, and songbirds like the wren for which I was named. Hunger did not exist, for there was no famine. Cities prospered, and that fortune spread to the outlying towns. Even the rivers were plentiful, their currents rushing south to the lowlands, swollen with trout and freshwater clams, which were caught and sold along the banks.
The change did not occur all at once. It cycled like the moon: ripening, waning, dwindling to an extinguished light. Over the years, the summers grew short, and winter stretched and deepened. The sky blackened. The ground froze to stone. The sun slipped behind the horizon and was not seen for months.
Then the Shade appeared, as if erected by phantom hands. No one knew its origin or purpose. The darkwalkers materialized, nightmares made flesh. We drove them off, yet they returned in droves, in amassing shadows. Eventually, winter encased the land, and not even the sun could thaw its icy skin.
Edgewood and the surrounding towns starved, for the crops withered, the rivers iced over, the livestock perished. Rumors came alive in those darkening years. Supposedly, a god lived in the Deadlands beyond the Shade. He calls himself Boreas, the North Wind: he whocalls down the snows, the cold. But to all who live in the Gray, he is known as the Frost King.
I reach Edgewood as twilight slips into true blackness. A low stone wall heaped with salt encloses the humble town of thatched roofs and frozen, mud-packed dwellings. Darkwalkers may roam the forest, but so long as I am inside the protective ring of salt, I am safe.
Nothing stirs inside the barrier. Shutters have been pulled, lamps have been doused. Shadows pour into the cracks of the rutted stone road.
As I pass one of the communal salt buckets hanging from a post, I quickly replenish my supply. Narrow walking trails snake through the snow surrounding the cleared square, the earth gray and wet with frequent tread. The sight of the cypress tree’s round cones propels me across the deserted area. My sister and I don’t have long to prepare.
Our cottage huddles atop a knoll shielded by long-dead trees. I hurry through the entrance, calling out as I kick the door shut behind me. “Elora?”
Heat from the burning hearth thaws the stiffness in my face. The wooden floorboards groan beneath my boots as I deposit my bow and quiver at the door and move through the cramped space. Since the cottage is only three rooms, my search ends in less than ten heartbeats.
The house is empty.
A glassy terror roots my feet to the floor. The Frost King could not have arrived yet. It is too soon.
A horn blares, warning of the king’s crossing into the Gray. The Shade is hours away, even on horseback, and our cottage is farthest from the town entrance, minor and overlooked. Unless I am mistaken? If he took Elora, I am left with nothing.
I shuffle to the kitchen, lean against the rickety, three-legged table for support. My blood-soaked satchel hits the floor with a wet squelch.
If he has chosen Elora as his victim, when did they depart? They would have traveled north. I could still reach them if I run, though there is always Miss Millie’s horse. I have my bow. Five arrows in my quiver.Throat, heart, gut. If I shot them all, would it be enough to kill a god?
The back door opens, and in steps my sister, shaking snow from her woolen hat.
Relief sucks me dry. My knees fold, cracking against the floorboards. “You—” The word deflates. “Don’t do that!”
Elora pauses in the middle of closing out the cold, her sweet round face wrinkling in puzzlement. “Do what?”
“Disappear!”
“Nonsense, Wren.” She sniffs, brushes flakes from her shoulders. A long, messy braid the color of pinecones hangs halfway down her back. “We’re running low on firewood. The axe is still broken, by the way.”
Right. Yet another task on my list. It needs a new handle, but in order to cut the handle, I need a working axe. Elora, of course, would never attempt to repair it herself.
With a heavy exhalation, I drag myself to my feet, glance at the cupboard. At Elora’s look of disapproval, I turn away from the sight, though my throat aches to do so. “Promise me you won’t disappear without telling me.” I begin to pace. It’s something to do, a way to feel in control. “I thought he’d taken you. I was prepared to steal someone’s horse. I was considering the most effective way to kill a man who cannot die.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
As if fearing for my sister is a meaningless thing. “I’m not. I’m…”Lividcomes to mind. According to Ma, I didn’t enter this world quietly. No, the midwife had to yank me bodily from the womb because I fought so hard against it.
“Purposeful,” I finish smoothly, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear.
