He surrendered the ghost of a smile. ‘I forgot what an impressive judge of character you are.’
‘Why would anyone want togrowthis stuff, let alone eat it?’
‘You forget my sister’s a sadist, too,’ remarked Alarik,plucking his own lemon from a nearby tree and biting into it. He held Vine’s gaze as he swallowed it down, rind and all.
There was a sharp knock at the door. Alarik whipped his head around expectantly only to find Lief, poking his head inside. He swallowed a groan. ‘Your Majesty, pardon the interruption.’ Lief glanced at Vine nervously, then back at the king, dipping his head in deference. ‘But if you could please follow me, there is something urgent I must discuss with you.’
Alarik lowered his brows. ‘Is it more urgent than war, Lief?’
The steward was unmoved, his face as serious as Alarik had ever seen it. ‘I would wager that it is, Your Majesty.’
Despite his annoyance, Alarik was seized by a rush of worry for his mother. Why else would her steward have come to seek him out, and interrupted a war council, no less? He was on his feet in a heartbeat, at the door in the next.
‘Thenmove,’ he urged the steward, following him out into the hallway.
CHAPTER 6
Greta
When the sled finally came to a stop outside Grinstad Palace, Greta tossed the blanket aside and grabbed her satchel. She hopped out, her boots crunching up the frosted steps to a pair of enormous iron doors. They groaned open and she stepped over the threshold, out of the blistering cold and into the glittering mouth of the palace.
Andoh, what splendour awaited her. The facade might have been terrifying but the inside dripped with warmth and opulence. The vast entryway was floored in exquisite white marble, threaded with veins of sea blue and mountain green, the high ceiling hung with so many crystalline chandeliers that their flickering lights cast rainbows along the pearlescent walls. Across the sprawling entryway, a grand imperial staircase led up to the first floor, before branching off into the east and west wings of the palace. Greta tipped her head back, marvelling at the rippling tapestries on the walls, depicting great battles of old, ancient Gevran kings and queens fighting valiantly alongside their mighty beasts, riding dragons and ice bears into battle.
The atrium was magnificent, the grand majesty dwarfingGreta as she stood in a puddle of morning sunlight, trying to catch her breath. She was vaguely aware of the guards watching her from their stations, the beasts peering out of their alcoves to assess her. Greta assessed the creatures in return, counting four male snow leopards and two female mountain lions, poised but wary.
Impeccably trained, thanks to her brother.
Greta smiled just as a tall, spindly woman in a simple blue dress came sweeping into the atrium. By her wizened face, tight knot of silver hair and formal apron, Greta guessed she was the head servant here. By the way she looked Greta up and down in bold assessment, it was clear she was. ‘So, you are the wrangler?’ she said, thin lips twisting.
Greta nodded. ‘My name is Greta Iversen.’
‘You’re too short,’ she said, in a voice that was neither cruel nor kind. ‘Too pale. Too thin.’ Her gaze lingered on the scars on Greta’s cheek, before sweeping over her snow-dusted cloak. ‘And you’re late.’
Greta rolled her shoulders back, refusing to shrink under her frankness. Growing up with Hela, she was well used to it. ‘I can’t change any of that,’ she said. ‘But I can train your beasts, if you show me where they are.’
The old woman arched a brow, and one corner of her mouth lifted. She turned on her heel, beckoning Greta to follow as she stalked down a long corridor, the determined clack of her footsteps soon swallowed by the plush blue carpet. ‘First, I’ll show you to your room. You can leave your things there. After, you’ll meet the king. Then the beasts.’
Greta’s bedchamber was located in the bowels of the palace, down a spiral stone staircase and halfway along a sconce-lit corridor. According to the head servant, who remembered to introduce herself as Nanna on their way downstairs, the other rooms there belonged to the palace guards. The chamber was a short walk from the main courtyard, and so close to the arena, Greta could hear the beasts growling and snapping at their handlers. Despite the uneasy chorus, the room itself was surprisingly cosy. A single bed adorned with furs occupied one wall, while a narrow wardrobe, a wooden desk and a mirror shared the other. There was a sheepskin rug to offset the dampness, and a small bathing chamber where she could dress and wash each morning. There were no windows, which made Greta’s throat itch, but the room was well lit by two large oil lamps, and she reminded herself she was only a staircase away from fresh air.
Nanna left her to freshen up. She washed quickly, pleased to find jasmine-scented soap and an assortment of creams in her bathing chamber. She brushed out her hair and rebraided it down her back, before applying rose oil to her dry lips and some face cream to soothe the windburn on her cheeks. She changed into a sensible pair of dark grey trousers and her favourite fur-lined navy tunic. She was lacing up her boots when Nanna returned to collect her.
Greta clasped her hands to keep them from twitching as they climbed one set of stairs and then another, the palace sprawling out on either side of her in a maze of meandering halls and winding turrets until, at last, they came to a stop before a large iron door framed by two identical suits of armour. They held real swords, their pommels gleaming so brightly, Greta glimpsed her wide eyes in their reflection.
‘This is the war room,’ said Nanna, in a low voice. ‘The king has convened his war council inside. I am not permitted to enter but he is expecting you.’
Greta blinked. A war council on her first day. Holy snow. She didn’t know the first thing about war. Was the king expecting a soldier like her brother? Had there been a terrible misunderstanding? Her throat tightened, anxiety swirling inside her. She briefly considered turning on her heel and bolting for the atrium, but if she fled now, a guard would surely snatch her up and drag her back here, and besides, the very act of such cowardice would shame her family for all eternity. No, she had to open this door and face the king. She had to face this new life she had chosen for herself.
As Nanna disappeared in a swish of blue skirts, Greta smoothed the stray wisps of copper hair from her temples and raised her chin. And knocked.
No answer.
She knocked again, then said, in little more than a squeak, ‘Hello?’
Nothing.
She frowned, pressing her ear to the metal to find silence on the other side. She tried the handle and it yielded, the iron door creaking open to reveal a large vault that smelled like metal and gunpowder. She stepped inside, letting the door fall shut behind her. There was no one else in here. Unless she counted the horrifying faces on the walls. Oil lamps flickered high and bright, illuminating vast paintings of war ten times more brutal than the tapestries that hung in the grand entryway. These ones didn’t shy away from blood and guts, nor severed heads and prowling beasts with greedy mouths full of limbs.Everywhere Greta looked, wild-eyed Gevran soldiers slashed their enemies in two, climbing hills made from their corpses to hoist the Gevran flag.
War shone out from the four stone walls in all its unapologetic, blood-soaked glory, and she hated every inch of it. She suppressed a shudder, refocusing on the round table in the middle of the room. It was covered in maps of Gevra. There was even a three-dimensional model of the kingdom, complete with tiny soldiers hewn from stone. And there were beasts, too. Greta examined an intricate carving of a tiny ice bear rendered mid-roar, and wished her sisters were here to see it.
