Lark soaked in a coastline stretched in wilderness untouched for centuries, a sweep of spruce and fir layered in shadowed emerald. The trees pressed close, a battalion of giants shouldering the wind, their branches knitting a roof that swallowed the sky. It was a land older than memory, breathing secrets with every hush of breeze. Every trunk was a pillar in some forgotten temple, every gust a whisper carrying the weight of old stories. The Frostlands did not welcome; they endured, vast and vigilant.
“Toronto, Ottawa, Montreal, and Quebec City were bombed into oblivion,” Luke noted, “but most of this country remained unbothered. I’d wager the Inuit north of Hudson Bay have carried on as always, barely aware of the apocalypse.”
An air of anticipation spread through the crew as they neared their destination. By day, they watched the water, the shore, swapping jokes and stories. At night, the sea glowed faintly with plankton light,Halcyon’s wake painting a comet-trail through the black water. In their cabin, Azaleen’s nearness kept Lark awake—picking out her breathing from the others, imagining what it would feel like to share her bed instead of Skye’s, wondering if she ever thought the same.
Was it just a by-product of forced proximity? No, this had started weeks ago—actually, months ago. Even when she’d hated the queen, desire had sparked the moment she first saw her. Yet only after she learned the truth about the medicine did Lark entertain friendly thoughts toward Azaleen. And they’d only grown. She admired her, was intrigued by her, and, at times, felt sorry for her. She needed someone in her life to help bear her burdens, someone she could trust, a friend, a partner. As much as Lark hoped it could be her, such an assumption was absurd.
After eleven days on the Stream—marked by fog, the ship-grave silence, and a jellyfish rescue—the fjord walls of Tadoussac finally rose ahead, where the Saguenay spilled into the Seaway. An infectious joy rippled through the crew asthey disembarked, walked, skipped, and jogged up the dock planks into a lively village. Lark made a point of not letting Azaleen out of her sight.
The summer sun slanted through birch and pine, dappling the open clearing where the village market sprawled. Smoke curled from long communal fire pits, the smell of moose stew mingling with fried bannock and sweet maple cakes. Voices rose in Cree, French, and English, punctuated by the rhythmic thrum of a hand drum somewhere among the tents.
A Métis trader unrolled a blanket woven in red and indigo chevrons, its edges beaded with salvaged glass. Beside him, a Cree woman offered smoked whitefish wrapped in birch bark, while her daughter strung beads of carved bone and copper wire into a new wampum belt that shimmered with both memory and machine.
Men and women moved easily in layered hides and wool, sashes of bright arrow-pattern weave binding their waists. Some wore ponchos striped in earth tones, others, cloaks lined with fox or beaver. Children darted between stalls in patched denim trousers, hair braided tight with quills and ribbons salvaged from the old world.
At the edge of the market, an elder sat cross-legged before a circle of listeners, her hair silver and long, draped in a green blanket patterned with pine trees. Her voice rose above the hum: “When the Great Fire split the sky, we remembered the old ways. That is why we stand here still.” The listeners murmured assent, heads nodding, bowls of stew paused in their hands.
A young man bowed a fiddle while another beat time with a drum, and laughter broke out as a dance line formed—boots stamping, moccasins sliding, ceinture fléchée sashes twirling with each step. Through it all, the Frostlands pulsed with abundance—a rare corner of Ashland where survival had ripened into something more enduring: community.
“Welcome. Bienvenue!” A man with short blond hair and a beard greeted them with arms wide. “I’m François Corbier. You must be the party from Verdancia. We were told to expect you.” He performed a deep bow before Azaleen, who couldn’t hide her royal bearing if she’d tried.
“Thank you, Mr. Corbier,” the queen replied. “You have a thriving town here, so many sounds, colors, and delicious smells.”
“You will spend the night as our honored guests, browse the market, taste the cuisine, no?” he invited, then grinned broadly. “Yes.” Shifting to Lark, he hugged her, kissed her cheeks, and proceeded to greet every other member of the party in the same manner.
A shy-looking, shorter woman, her black hair in braids framing tanned cheeks, bowed to Azaleen. “Please excuse my husband if he behaves more familiarly than you are accustomed. He is a free spirit. I’m Dove, and I’ll show you to the inn. Then, please come back and enjoy our hospitality.”
Azaleen took the short woman’s hands and squeezed them, smiling. “Thank you so much, Dove. Hospitality is a core value in our society as well. We humbly thank you for extending yours to us.”
After settling into their rooms and taking overdue showers, Lark ventured out onto the porch of the Lodge Pine Inn and breathed in the aroma of smoked meat and fried bannock. The sun hung lower in the sky, the air fresh and invigorating. She drifted into thought, wondering what tomorrow’s meeting with the high chief would bring. Azaleen’s footsteps had been so soft she hadn’t noticed her approach until she joined her at the split rail.
“Will you accompany me to browse the market?” she asked. “I promised the boys I’d bring them gifts from the Frostlands.”
Warm appreciation flooded Lark’s heart, and she couldn’t stop a smile from spreading across her lips. “I would be honored.” She crooked her arm, expecting Azaleen to laugh. Instead, the queen slipped her hand in, like a lady at a cotillion escorted by her favorite beau.
Chapter thirty-nine
Council of Many Voices
Aurora, the next afternoon
Azaleen sat between Camille and Jonas on a bench halfway up the risers in a longhouse that might have made a Viking king envious. The cedar-scented hall was vast, its walls bright with ethnic art, from Irish knots to Inuit carvings. Colorful banners lined the space—among them the AlgonCree wolf flag in blue and white, and the old red maple leaf from before the War of Ruin, remembered here as “The Time of Smoke.” She glanced left to the row ahead, where Lark squeezed between Skye and Diego, her discontent sprouting like a weed.
Clearly, her expectations had been too optimistic. She had met with High Chief Batise, a grandmotherly woman a little older than Orielle. Gray hair, braided with ribbons and beads, circled her head. Dark, wise eyes that crinkled when she smiled peered from a warm, honey face bearing earned age lines. Her white dress accented in teal flowed with artistry, cinched with a wide, colorful, woven sash. They engaged in a formal greeting, during which Azaleen presented her gifts—including the shawl her mother had crocheted. The chieflistened with interest to the story behind the fabric and accepted it graciously. In return, she gifted Azaleen with a wool blanket in traditional weave, pumpkin and squash hues bright despite being passed down for generations. They had shared tea, after which Batise rose, bowed, and declared it to have been an excellent meeting. Azaleen and her party were invited to enjoy the evening’s entertainment at the Great Gathering.
That was it? A hello and gift exchange? Azaleen and Camille were ready to present their proposal.Patience,she reminded herself. Sabine had warned her that AlgonCree time may not run at the same speed as Verdancian time.
The high chief’s son and steward of prosperity, Steven—a man about her height and only a little older—had made apologies that they arrived too late for the sporting events, but not for the musical performances. “Tomorrow you’ll be present for the great potlatch,” he’d beamed. “All the regional chiefs will be there, and my mother will meet with them to discuss affairs of state. Afterward, we will be happy to spend more time with you and discuss the proposed treaty. In the meantime, make yourselves at home and enjoy everything our city has to offer.”
No progress on the treaty, no sitting with Lark.The thoughts rumbled through her mind as a Scottish pipe band marched into the center of the arena below, dressed in tartan kilts, accompanied by drummers. The lively folk song favorites proved a recipe to improve her mood. Glancing around, Azaleen saw every skin shade, tall and short, portly and thin—a sea of citizens not so different from her own. A kindred spirit to these Frostlanders sprouted within her and, slogging negotiations aside, she decided to allow herself to enjoy the evening.
Next came a Métis troupe. The fiddler, dressed in black pants, a wide-brimmed hat, and a white shirt, struck up a jig, clogging with his boot as he played. He and the dancers wore characteristic Métis sashes woven in bright pigments in traditional patterns.
Camille leaned in and cupped a hand to Azaleen’s ear. “Centuries ago, the Métis band was formed from Scottish, Irish, French, and Indigenous people dedicated to preserving and blending cultures rather than replacing one with theother. They have remained distinct while being absorbed into the AlgonCree mosaic.”
She turned over the phrase—AlgonCree mosaic—and approved of the image it evoked.
The dancers’ movements and clogging combined aspects of Irish, Scottish, and French styles, as did the tone and rhythm of the jigs. Thunderous applause followed them out. A soprano sang a pop ballad; a baritone, backed by accordion, beltedI Am the Very Model of a Modern Major-General; then a quartet struck upBorodin’s Secondon strings.”
