“People of Neumovos,” he booms. “You have one hour to gather in the village square, or your lives are forfeit to the Chasm.”
Aside from the snowy breeze, nothing stirs. Phaethon, as if sensing its rider’s frustration, prances beneath us.
“People of Neumovos,” he growls. “Answer your king!”
Ice blasts one of the doors to splinters. Screams erupt inside.
I go cold all over. A family of four stumbles out onto the street, huddled in their threadbare coats. Afternoon sunlight streams through their terrified faces.
It turns out an hour is not needed, for the square fills within minutes. The king dismounts, his impressive height dwarfing those who gather. “People of Neumovos,” he calls. “Do you know why I have called you here?”
The crowd shifts like ripples moving through a still pool. No one dares speak.
“You have presumed to mutiny against me,” he says flatly. “You have threatened the peace of the Deadlands, and thus the balance I have worked tirelessly to achieve.”
Each word falls like a sharpened stone, and the townsfolk flinch. My hands tighten around the reins.
“This evening, one of your own attempted to kidnap my wife, who you nearly beat to death only a few weeks ago. Only at her request did I not return and banish you to the pits of the Chasm.” A few gasps ring free amongst the crowd. “But this time, I do not know how far my leniency will extend.”
Again, he mentions this Chasm. I imagine a deep pit in the Deadlands’ center, punishment for the most disreputable offenders. Someone whimpers as he lifts the spear higher. The sight makes me grind my teeth. One corrupted individual does not incriminate an entire town. The Frost King is too strong, too gorged on power.
“It wasn’t us, my lord. We swear it!”
The king sneers. “So you would have me believe.”
“We know of whom you speak,” one man says, pushing forward. “His name was Oliver. Over the last few weeks, he began to… change.” The man lowers his gaze uncomfortably. “We don’t know how or why he changed, my lord. We only know he was not the man he once was.”
“You would have me believe only one of you has betrayed me, that others will not attempt to end my life? To harm my wife? Tell me why I should not turn this town to rubble,” he cries, eyes flooding with a terrifying light. “Tell me why I should not send you to the dark of the Chasm.”
A frozen wind blasts the nearest structure. Screams rise as dust settles over the square. He points the spear at another building down the street, naught but a sagging porch and leaning walls.
“Stop.” I hurry to dismount and grab his arm. “You’ve made your point.”
Slowly, his furious gaze drops to mine. In the back of my mind, a whispered word:peril. Every part of me longs to cower, to make myself small and helpless and unthreatening, but I fight the sensation.
“My point will be made when this town is flattened,” he states, “and those who betrayed me are punished.”
“And then what?” I retort, gesturing to the huddling townsfolk. “Who will protect your precious citadel? Who will cook your meals? Who will dress you, guard your gates, tend to your horses?” His eyes flicker, evidence that he had not considered these points in his moment of rage. “You need these people. You need this town.”
“I need,” he says, “no one.”
He believes he needs no one, but I don’t think that’s actually true. “Do you honestly think this town is colluding with those attacking the Shade? Look around. They have nothing.” For he has already taken anything of value, their autonomy most of all.
“Please, my lord.” A woman with chapped cheeks falls forward, prostrating herself. “We swear we did not break our vow against you. The spirits have been growing hungry of late. Their corruption spreads.”
“I think you know they had no involvement in the attack,” I say, low and even. “I think you’re just looking for someone to blame.”
The Frost King snarls in frustration before an elderly man shuffles forward. His cane trembles in his hand. “My lord, if I may be so bold, we will be celebrating Midwinter Eve at the end of the week. There will be food and music and… and dancing.” His gaze briefly darts to me. “We would be honored to host you and your wife. Let us make amends for the pain we have caused you both. A clean slate, if you will.”
Just as the Frost King opens his mouth, I latch my hand around his arm, stopping him. “We appreciate the gesture,” I say to the man. “And we accept.”
17
“YOU LOOK LOVELY, MY LADY.”
Turning away from the mirror, I offer Orla a tight smile as she nudges shut the door to my chambers and sets a basket of clean clothes at the foot of my bed. “It’s not much.”
“Nonsense.” Gently, she turns me back to the mirror and stands beside me. “It is more than enough.”
