“It’s not dinner.” He clears his throat, continues to look elsewhere. “And you do not have a choice.”
“I’m aware of what the wordrequiredmeans. But I’ll say it again: I’ll pass.” Once I slip on my clean clothes, I dump my soiled garments into the basket that Orla collects every evening.
Now that I’m dressed, I’ve destroyed the only shield preventing the Frost King’s approach. He strides to my side and takes my arm. “There is a reason I take a mortal woman as my bride every few decades,” he says, those icy blue eyes resting on me. “Today, we pay a visit to the Shade.”
8
WE SHARE A MOUNT. THEFrost King sits with his arms curved around me, lightly gripping the reins of his equine-shaped darkwalker as the beast’s agonizing plod rocks us from side to side. He doesn’t trust me with my own mount. Perhaps he is smarter than I gave him credit for.
Our destination lies a full day’s ride westward, across broken terrain and plunging valleys, the spread of the Deadlands void of any and all life. Every so often, I glimpse the bend of the glinting river. Mnemenos, I assume, one of six rivers within the realm. My hands tremble, so I tighten them around the saddle pommel. The Shade, that ravenous veil, awaits this journey’s end. How much of my blood will be spilled?
It is midafternoon before my body’s natural urges make themselves known. “I have to piss.”
I’m growing familiar with his silences. There is hisyou’re insufferablesilence. Different from hisI am king and you must obeysilence. I’m stumped by this silence. Hismy wife is only a step above an animalsilence, perhaps. “You did so hours ago.”
My fingers comb through his mount’s mane. It feels a bit like fog—weight without substance. Surprisingly, the beast doesn’t seem to mind. Phaethon, he called it. “And now I have to go again.”
From the way his chest slowly swells against my back, I sense his mounting irritation. He tugs the beast to a halt. “Make it quick.”
After I complete my business behind a tree, he helps me back into the saddle. The remainder of the day passes uneventfully. Clouds gather overhead, a heavy, slate gray. They carry the sweet musk of an approaching storm.
“You know,” I say, “this journey would pass a lot quicker if you attempted to make conversation.”
“That is assuming there is something to discuss.” Unruffled, composed. At this point, I would take his ire, however intense. Proof that he has the capacity to feel.
“You know what your problem is?”
“Hush.”
“You think you can treat people—”
“Stop talking,” he hisses, jerking his mount to a halt.
I’m suddenly aware of how rigidly the Frost King sits at my back. My skin tingles with new awareness. Not a breeze stirs the leafless branches, and that concerns me, for rarely is there a lack of wind in the king’s presence.
As I scan our surroundings, I reach for the bow hanging across my back, but it’s not there. Zephyrus’ gift hangs in my bedroom. Useless.
“Why does the forest dislike your presence?” Something is out there. Darkwalkers? I don’t smell smoke, but then again, there is no wind to carry it.
“Is it not obvious?” His spear materializes, and he angles it forward. “My power has killed the forest. This area in particular once belonged to the Gray. Many souls had homes here, family that was wiped out. Those that remember do not appreciate it.”
One tense breath rolls into the next. My only weapon is a blade in my boot, but it will pass right through the spirits’ amorphous forms. Without my satchel of salt, I’m defenseless. “Could you stop them?”
“Perhaps.”
A twig snaps. My eyes cut in the direction of the sound.
He says lowly, “At times, I am able to exert control over the darkwalkers, but their will has grown stronger of late.”
The thought is utterly terrifying. Darkwalkers are highly intelligent, and their numbers seem to increase year after year. “How do you stop them?”
“You can’t.”
I scan our surroundings again. The forest is soundless, empty.
Eventually, the Frost King lowers his weapon. “They track us, but they won’t attack in daylight. Sunlight weakens them.” With a gentle nudge, he pushes our mount into a smooth trot. “We must hurry.”
By the time the sun begins to set, my backside aches and my thighs twinge from the arduous trek. We reach the base of a mountain and begin to climb. What trees remain fall away. Wind screams atop the bluff, hissing as it tangles ice-bitten fingers in my hair.
