Places beyond the Gray. “So why were you banished to the Deadlands instead of your brothers? It seems a critical responsibility, to judge the dead.”
For a time, he does not speak. I question whether he will reply at all when he says, “You are correct: judging the dead is a great responsibility, which is why the task fell to me. Zephyrus lacks reliability. Notus is too indecisive. Eurus cares little for order. At the time, the Deadlands was in disarray due to neglectful leadership. The council used my banishment as a catalyst to replace its previous authority.”
Admittedly, I am impressed, though I maintain a neutral expression. “Which brother is the eldest?”
“I am the eldest.” An undercurrent of pride warms his response.
I wipe my mouth with a napkin, then ask, “Just out of curiosity, how old are you?” For he does not look a day over thirty. Not a single gray hair lightens his scalp.
“I do not remember my birth, but I have been alive for many millennia. My mother is the dawn, my father the sky at dusk.”
“Millennia?” I croak. Oh, mercy. My husband is ancient. “And your brothers are of a similar age?”
“Yes.”
Ancient hearts, ancient winds. To him, I am a speck, a passing season. After I die, he will likely forget me. The thought doesn’t sit well. “Have you ever visited them?”
“No,” he growls.
“Why not?” The tales say the Anemoi were banished to the four corners of the world. What terrain have his brothers claimed as their homes? What towns have they ruined in their conquests?
He says, in a colder tone, “Everything I need is right here.” Simple. Yet I wonder, what is here for him? Because all I see is an empty house and a man who stands alone. “Now, if it’s possible for you to stop talking for half a moment, I would ask you a question.”
Borderline insult aside, this is the first time the Frost King has shown an interest in me beyond the blood coursing through my veins. This should be good.
“Why did you not marry?”
I startle so badly my fork rattles the side of the plate. “But, husband,” I reply, “I am married.”
“I mean why were you not married before. You are of marriageable age, are you not?”
“Yes,” I snap. Twenty-three years of age, but I might as well carry the pox for my lack of suitors. The people of Edgewood whispered that I must be barren, or house dark spirits within me. Men do not want a headstrong woman. They want someone soft, someone to coddle. I do not fit into that mold. I never have. And I cannot trust that a man would not try to change me.
It is easier maintaining a physical relationship. The heart is never in danger of breaking.
But I only say, “I suppose I never met anyone I wanted to marry.”
“Not one person?”
My throat dips as I consider what to say and how much. He does not deserve my truths, but I give them to him anyway. “As you may have noticed, I do not make a very good wife. My sister, Elora, is the better choice.”
Arms folded across his chest, he tilts his head, his full attention on me. I’ve engrossed him, at least momentarily. “Elaborate.”
I trace the rim of my wine glass. “Elora is kind and nurturing. I am… not.” Men find me too rough. And there is my scar to consider as well. I touch the edge of the raised skin, and the Frost King tracks my fingers with his eyes. I’ve made peace with it. I am not desirable in the eyes of men. So be it.
I glance at the fire, but eventually my attention returns to the king’s face, with its perfect, aggravating symmetry.
“How did you get your scar?” he asks.
I drop my hand. Normally I would punch anyone who dared to ask such a personal question, but since I already despise the man sitting across from me, I suppose I need not hide. “Darkwalker. One of my first hunting trips. I’m lucky, though. It could have slashed my throat instead.” My lips purse at his continued scrutiny. “It’s rude to stare.”
The Frost King turns away, his expression too complicated to interpret. “Well,” he says after a moment of silence. “At least you’re not boring.”
10
TWO WEEKSIHAVE BEENhere, and I’ve yet to explore the citadel and its vast grounds. Grabbing my bow, quiver, and coat, I wander downstairs in search of a place to train. The fortress is so derelict no one would notice if I were to use an empty room for target practice. Broken cobwebs glow silver in wells of torchlight. The shadows are large as cats, curling up in the corners with their wisped tails.
As I explore one such room, I hear it: the deliberate footsteps of one who follows, who does not wish to be seen.
