“Well,” Elora says, “heisthe Frost King. Unless he has another name?”
“Boreas.” The sound feels pleasant in my mouth, a sound of rolling curves. It’s strange to think of him as such. A man rather than a myth.
I expect my sister to ask more questions about my life. How I spend my time, if I’ve made any friends. If I’m all right. But Elora returns to her meal, signaling the end of the conversation.
And that’s that.
24
IT IS HOURS PAST MIDNIGHTby the time I return to the frozen Les, the temperature having plummeted since the sun’s disappearance. My coat provides adequate warmth, but I barely notice it, barely notice the seepage of black shadows in my periphery. I pass through the land like smoke, frail and drifting. My thoughts circle without end.
Once I settle into the boat, the ice melts, and the current pulls me back through the Shade, all the way to where Phaethon awaits. He greets me upon my arrival, and I hurriedly climb onto his back, my stiff fingers curling around the reins. He doesn’t fuss. Merely turns to make his way through the Deadlands while I huddle in the saddle, wondering how everything went wrong.
I left Elora with little more than a lukewarm farewell. A wave, a pained smile, and I was gone. It was clear I had overstayed my welcome.
Upon reaching the fortress gates, a guard calls from the gatehouse: “State your name and purpose.”
Keeping one hand on the reins, I lower my hood.
It’s so quiet I catch the sound of the man scrambling upright. “My lady,” he stutters. “My lord said you would not return until tomorrow.”
“Open the gates, please.”
“Yes, my lady. I’ll inform my lord of your return.”
“That won’t be necessary.” It’s been a long, arduous night, and my heart feels as though it is full of stones. My defenses are too weak to survive the king’s presence.
“Yes, my lady.”
The gate opens, and Phaethon plods through, shadowy hooves clopping against the stone. After reaching the stables, I dismount and lead him inside, removing his saddle and bridle in the wavering lamplight. The darkwalker butts his snout against my shoulder in affection. I rub the soft nose, watching in fascination as the shadows lap at my hand like waves. “You are not such a brutish beast,” I whisper to him, those black eyes taking me in with a surprising amount of intelligence.
A bucket of grooming brushes hangs on the stall door. I choose a curry brush and begin moving it in a circular motion across Phaethon’s shadowy hide. I question its usefulness on a creature without hair, but he appears to enjoy the motion, his head lowered in contentment, so I continue, gradually moving toward his flank.
I’m nearly finished when the scent of cedar reaches me. Initially, I do not make my awareness of the Frost King known. I continue brushing Phaethon as if nothing is amiss. Yet moments pass, and still he does not speak.
“Are you going to stand there all night?” I demand.
His bootheels click as he steps closer. I tuck my face near the darkwalker’s cheek and continue to brush.
“How did you know it was me?”
My shoulders slowly relax. Perhaps the Frost King’s presence is not entirely unwelcome after my disastrous visit to Edgewood. At least I know what to expect with him. I am on stable ground, strangely enough. “Your scent.”
“My scent?”
“Has no one ever told you that you smell of winter?”
I can almost feel his mind examining my words, turning them this way and that in a careful study. “What does winter smell like to you?”
It smells of sharp things. Crackling air and a cold so invasive you’re certain it will kill you.
“Cypress,” I tell him. Phaethon snorts against my neck. “There’s a cypress tree in Edgewood that blooms when it’s time for you to take a bride. The trees are said to symbolize resiliency and strength.”
“I have heard that,” he says, rounding to the other side of the stall where light pools.
A cloak hangs open across his chest, revealing loose trousers and a long sleepshirt. All signs of his usual strapped-down attire are absent. “I thought you were staying the night.”
“Change of plans.”
