He spears another carrot in answer. It was a rhetorical question. I doubt he knows how to laugh. What resides in those dead eyes but the promise of an early demise?
The basket of bread sits at my elbow. I’m hungry enough to inhale an entire loaf—indeed, I’ve eaten half already—but I grab two more pieces and ask with impressive courtesy, “Can you pass the butter?”
“You’ve already eaten two plates’ worth of food,” he points out.
“And now I’m having a third.” When you have starved your entire life, you will never be satiated. “Is that a problem?”
The Frost King hands me the plate with stilted movements. He’s so awkward it’s painful to watch.
I slap a hunk of butter onto the bread before shoving it in my mouth. It is by far the best bread I’ve ever tasted, soft inside with a crusty shell. “So, tell me about yourself. How do you spend your time?”
He examines me with what I believe is apprehension. Suspicious of some joke he believes is at play.
But it is no joke. The more I know of the enemy, the greater likelihood I will unearth a weakness of his. “Look, if I’m going to be stuck here until I die, don’t you think it’s best we learn about one another?”
“Why do you care to know me,” he says, “when you’ve already passed judgment on my character?”
Absolutely, I have judged him. But he’s judged me as well. Poor, wretched village scum. Weak, ugly mortal.
“I don’t know. Maybe you’ll surprise me.” With the first slice of bread consumed, I move on to the second, sopping up the gravy pooling on my plate. The Frost King’s lip curls as he watches me gorge myself. I smack my lips loudly, enjoying the shudder that moves through him.
He grinds out, “The Deadlands, as you know, are where the souls of those who have passed arrive to await Judgment. I am responsible for serving their Judgment.”
I know very little of the Deadlands, but I do know that much. “How does that work?”
“Twice a month, on the full and new moons, I open my citadel to the souls awaiting the Judgment. They are judged based on the deeds of their past lives. It is my duty to fairly assess their life choices.”
Interesting. I’ve not witnessed this, but then again I’ve yet to properly explore the citadel. I’d be interested to see how, exactly, the Frost King doles out punishment—or reward.
“And those souls that are doomed to live an eternity in punishment? Do you enjoy serving it to them?”
As soon as he polishes off his glass of water, a servant appears to refill it. “I’m not as horrible as you make me out to be,” he says stiffly.
“Oh? You’re saying you didn’t steal me away from my home, lock me in a dungeon, threaten to chain me outside, force me to spill my blood for the Shade, all to strengthen your power?” Elbows perched on the table, I lean forward, peering beneath my eyelashes. “Please, tell me more.”
He glowers down his flawlessly proportioned nose at me. “You chose to take your sister’s place.”
I wave his comment away.
“I do not lie.”
“Then prove it. Name one thing you have done that serves someone other than yourself.”
“There is little point. You would not believe me.”
He does not offer me the chance.
I swipe one of the quail legs and tear into the flesh, well aware I’m doing a poor job of coaxing him to lower his guard. His walls rise high. The stone is unbreakable.
“It’s not just me, you know. You’ve wronged others as well. Forcing the staff into your service? Don’t you see how wrong that is?”
“Is that what Orla told you? That I forced her, and all the staff, into service without reason?” He lifts his chin. “Perhaps you should have another conversation about the circumstances that led to her employment. And this time, demand the truth.”
Straightening in my chair, I consider this new piece of information. I trust Orla, but the Frost King seems genuinely irked at this. Could there be truth to his words? If that is so, why would Orla lie?
One of the servants emerges through the door and sets a magnificent dessert onto the table with a small bow. “My lady.”
The Frost King stares at the display. “What is this?”
