Caramyn
The climb up the Spires was a punishment measured in hours.
Caramyn rode a stocky, slate-coated mountain horse bred for the cold—short-legged, wide-chested, and covered in thick, wooly fur, its snorts steamed in violent bursts as it hauled her up switchbacks carved straight into the mountain’s stone. Her new captor led the horse, trudging up the snowy pathways with impressive ease and familiarity. The wind scoured the path, flinging specks of sleet that stung her face and crept through seams of her borrowed furs. When the trail narrowed to a ledge barely wider than a cart, she fixed her eyes on the brutishanimal’s wiry mane and counted breaths, afraid that one slip or misstep would send them both tumbling into the dark waters below.
By the time the ascent ended, her limbs burned and her lips were cracked raw by cold.
Clutching the invisible vial in her palm, Caramyn counted the minutes, keeping track of when it was due to become visible again. She was afraid to relax her hold even just a little bit, for fear that she might lose it, since the faint pressure against her skin was her only reassurance that it was still there.
There were other travelers too, hauling their newly purchased women and goods up the same icy path. Through intent listening, she had learned that the man who’d bought her was called Hrothvor, and bore the title of Frostlord. The language barrier left some things unclear, but the man’s obvious position of rank needed no translation.
Still, she watched everything. Every bootprint stamped into frosty gravel. Every runed post and iron-ringed door of homes carved into the mountain. Every turn of the road as the group led her to a place where they finally found some mark of civilization. She had to know the way back to those ice-claimed docks if she would ever hope to find her way home.
Home.
The word taunted her. Was it the dark, mist-laden Woods at the edge of Evylere that called her home? Or was it the towers of Vaerwynd Castle she found herself aching for?
As she tightened her grip on the vial, she wondered if Asterious had even noticed her absence. Would he remember her? And why should she care if he did or didn’t?
She shook the thoughts away. Whatever haunting imprint the prince had left on her heart could not matter now. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—be her reason for surviving. She had never neededfaith beyond herself, and she refused to let fleeting emotion change that.
Hrothvor’s stronghold rose from the rock like a clenched fist. It was little more than a reinforced lodge set apart from the tents around it. It was a low, broad structure built of stacked stone and timber, with a roof layered with sod and hide to brace against wind and snow. Smoke puffed from a tiny chimney, the scent of pine pitch and burning peat clinging to the air. It wasn’t larger than the others by much, but perhaps housed an extra room or two.
Hrothvor muttered something to another man with him as he dismounted, perhaps a servant of some sort. The man ran to a tent outside and returned with a figure robed in furs, slimmer but nearly the same height. It was a woman, and her piercing ice blue eyes met Caramyn’s as she approached and held out her hand.
“Ragna the Binder.” Hrothvor’s voice ground out. He gestured to Caramyn. “She’ll prepare you. Go with her for now.”
Prepare.
With no other choice, she followed the woman back to a large half-cabin/half-tent, where a fire burned in the center and Caramyn nearly collapsed before it to soak in the warmth.
She glimpsed a small back room, where it appeared other young women waited, some mending wool, some polishing bits of metal, some simply staring into nothing. A few murmured to one another, and others sat apart in corners like abandoned tools, the absence in their eyes unmistakable.
She was shoved forward before she could stare too long. Ragna stood behind her, statue-esque and imposing, she carried herself like a crane. She might have been old enough to be Caramyn’s mother, her features sharpened, not softened, by time. Her long hair, streaked bronze and ash, was braided tightly in a long thick strand down her back. Deep set blue eyes—human blue—pinned Caramyn in place. A heavy fur mantle draped from her shoulders, and steel jewelry gleamed at her throat and throughout her woven braid.
“Not fond of the cold?” She spoke crisply and slowly.
Caramyn stared, unmoving, still caught by the woman’s presence, before finally shaking her head.
“Hrothvor isn’t a patient man.” Her brow arched as though unimpressed, but her words conveyed quite the opposite. “You’ll be the envy of the other maidens with those eyes. You might just become his favorite, if you’re smart. And that could make you more powerful than the rest of us.”
She reached out, and Caramyn jerked her wrist away, frozen restraints biting into her skin.
“I will not live as anyone’s favorite caged bird.”
“Ijia, you will accept it as those before you have. And those after.” The woman’s stark, thin lips curved faintly. “They cry. They bargain. Then one day they understand their purpose. Where else do runaways and refugees end up? Dead, destitute, or unprotected. But to be the maiden of a Frostlord offers…security.”
“So do prisons,” Caramyn snarled.
Ragna turned to the wall, lifting a coiled leather scourge weighted with metal.
“What was that word you called me?” Caramyn asked.
“Ijia. ‘Canary.’ My term of endearment for new maidens.” The way she said it made Caramyn’s skin crawl, but she swallowed down whatever intimidation it made her feel.
“And your word for raven?” Caramyn asked.
“Raven?” Ragna circled her, eyes keen. “Raven isKuhrissi.” With a flick of her arm, the scourge cracked. Fire ripped across Caramyn’s back, stealing her breath. Her legs folded, and she met the cold hard ground like stone.
