I’m surprised enough to answer him. “Is it so much to ask, that you extend a hand to those who cross over? Had the situation been reversed, had you reached the end of your life and known nothing of what lay beyond, wouldn’t you want to be comforted?”
His eyes flash to mine. His gaze is so piercing, so invasive, I feel as though I am but naked skin. These are not the eyes of a man who feels nothing. These are the eyes of a man who has experienced immense pain. Pain, perhaps, that has been repressed, obscured, never shared with another.
My anger banks to a low simmer, for rarely have I witnessed vulnerability in the king. “You have been comforted,” I whisper, “haven’t you?”
He stands so violently the chair tips onto its side. He looks to the door as if he intends to dash from the room, yet his feet remain entrenched in the rug warming the floor. “Tell me what happened at Neumovos.”
Under normal circumstances, I would ignore his demands. But I am tired. I feel as though I have lived lifetimes between the fragile space of dusk and dawn.
So I tell him. Some things, not all. I skip over the apothecary shop as though it never existed. The Frost King probes me for any untruth, but he does not know me, so he does not see how easily I lie.
“This cannot stand,” he says when I fall silent.
Something in his voice causes the hair along my arms to spike. “What will you do?”
“I will repay them the same kindness they showed you, only I will make it so much worse.”
I straighten against the headboard as my stomach drops. He will ensure their suffering is enduring.
“You can’t. It would only give them another reason to hate you, maybe even strike against you.” As if I care about that. If he attacks Neumovos, might he drive away the apothecary shopkeeper? Might she warn Zephyrus to keep his distance, or flee? If that happens, I’ll lose any chance of obtaining the tonic Zephyrus promised me.
“Strike against me?” His mouth curls. “They would do no such thing. I am their king.”
“Loyalty is earned,” I state. “It’s not an obligation.”
“They would have killed you,” he seethes, upper lip peeling back to reveal his straight, white teeth.
“They are afraid. They are suffering.” As much as my body aches, I cannot blame them. We must live, and that means survival in all forms, often ugly ones.
The Frost King takes a step toward the window. “You defend them, yet they would have disposed of you without a second thought.” Each word drips contempt.
There is something here, something I can’t put my finger on. “And this angers you, that they would harm me?”
“To harm you is to undermine my power. That is a slight I cannot ignore.”
Recoiling from the violence lacing his statement, I whisper, in dread and desire both, “What will you do?”
The Frost King’s eyes blaze with the promise of devastation. “I will teach them not to touch what is mine.”
A dark thrill runs through me. Here is the god of darkness and death, the devastating fist of winter. His words snap like bone and ring like metal forged. He has lived millennia while I am but ice beneath a summer sun. To stand in his path is to be cut down.
Mine. That is what he called me. But it hadn’t come from a desire to protect one he cares for. He spoke of me like a possession, like that spear of his, or that damned darkwalker he rides into battle on. I am a person. My own person. I must have hit my head harder than I thought to react in such a way.
“Rest,” he says, turning away. “You need it.”
The Frost King reaches the door as I call, “Wait.”
He stops, fingers resting against the handle.
“Why won’t you look at me?” The scar at the corner of my mouth tugs painfully. I’ve lived with this blemish long enough that it no longer defines me. But sometimes I am weak. Sometimes I am human. “Is it my face? You can’t stand to look at it?”
The Frost King does not turn around as he says lowly, “There are many ugly things in this world, wife. But I do not think you are one of them.”
With those parting words, I’m left to the dark.
13
IT TAKES TIME, BUT EVENTUALLYI recover. Weeks of bedrest, many hours spent reading by the fire. My small sitting room houses a wall of shelves stuffed with books. Never have so many stories been at my disposal. I escape to pirate-infested seas, cities that float on clouds, stately homes whose walls drip ivy. But there is a genre that is sorely lacking.
