When we reach my quarters, I stride ahead with a muttered, “Thank you.”
“Wife.”
I grind my teeth, but spare him a glance over my shoulder. “What?”
His blue eyes flicker with an emotion beyond my comprehension. “Make sure to lock your door.”
14
THAT NIGHT, IDO ASthe Frost King ordered: I lock my door. And I lock it the next night. And the next.
Days pass, yet I do not encounter the darkwalker again. The guards remain on high alert, by order of the king. When I question the Frost King over dinner, he states that the investigation will remain ongoing, and nothing more. It’s just as well. I did not wish to converse with him anyway.
Late one morning as I’m sitting at my window, stitching up a hole in my tunic, I spot movement below.
A dark figure stumbles from the line of trees surrounding the fortress. My spine snaps straight, but—no. It’s not a darkwalker. The figure walks upright on two legs. A man, I believe.
He makes slow progress, trudging through deep, new-fallen snow. He falls, and lies there long enough for alarm to strike me, yet somehow manages to push to his feet. Once he reaches the gates, he stops, swaying. His coat—if the tattered fabric hanging off his shoulders can be called that—flaps at his back. One of his arms hangs limp.
The sewing lies forgotten in my lap. The man is wounded, clearly. Where did he come from? How far did he travel in order to reach the citadel?
The man lifts his arm in a pleading gesture. I expect the guards to open the gates. Instead, there’s a shout, and I gasp as the man jerks, collapsing face-first in the snow.
Leaning forward, I press my nose against the icy glass for a closer look. An arrow sprouts from his shoulder.
They shot him.
A chilling calm blankets me as I set aside my sewing. So this is how the king answers a cry for help?
Snatching up my bow and quiver, I hurry downstairs, fling open one of the doors, and cross the courtyard in swift strides.
“Open the gates!” I scream.
One of the guards on the wall calls, “We are forbidden to open the gates, my lady. Those are the lord’s orders.”
My arrow is nocked, the string fully drawn before he finishes his sentence. Had I less restraint, it would already be buried in his eye.
“As your queen,” I say, voice ringing with disdain, “I gave you an order. Youwillopen the gates, men, or the king will hear of your disobedience.” There is a pause. “Now!”
The gate rumbles, its hinges shrieking as it slowly opens.
The man lies nestled in the snow. I rush to his side, then tense. He’s not a specter. There is no transparency to his skin, no blurriness to his edges. The man is human, flesh and blood.
Impossible.
Blood darkens his coat. His chest rises and falls in shallow spurts. Blackened skin patches large areas of his unprotected hands and face. I’m no stranger to frostbite. I nearly lost two of my fingers during a particularly icy hunt years ago.
Calmly, I push to my feet. “You three.” I point to a group of guards who have come to investigate. “Carry this man to the infirmary, and make haste.”
Despite their bewilderment, they scramble to obey, hauling him up the stairs and down the hall to the eastern wing. The infirmary consists of five cots, a table cluttered with jars of salves and herbs, and a hearth fire. I have vague recollections of this place from those early days following my attack.
Alba and her two apprentices gasp upon catching sight of the man. “Set him on the bed,” she barks, rounding her work table. The specterwoman is healthily plump, with kind eyes that have hardened in the wake of injury.
“How can I help?” I ask. The man’s pallor resembles that of a corpse.
Alba passes me a knife. “Strip him of his clothes and cover him in blankets. We’ll need to warm his body, but slowly, otherwise his heart might stop. I’ll heat some water.” She stares down at him in puzzlement. “He’s alive. Really alive. Like…” Her gaze drifts to mine before she snaps into action.
With detached, utilitarian movements, I peel the man’s clothes off down to his skin. The sight is ghastly: deep abdominal wounds, scored thighs seeping blood that stains the white sheets.
