“The dead fields,” Luceran says softly. “The failed harvest.”
Frost spreads a little farther along the marble floor, spiderwebbing out from the dais.
“That does not change the terms of your tithe,” he goes on. “You owe crops and coin to your lord.”
“We don’t have it,” I say before I can stop myself.
Father’s fingers clamp around my wrist, a warning squeeze that nearly grinds the bones together. I ignore it.
“The snows came early,” I continue, the words bursting free, steaming in the air between us. “The frost never left. The crops died in the ground. We barely feed ourselves, let alone have anything left for you.”
“Neve,” Father hisses under his breath. “Enough.”
Luceran’s head tilts.
“My tithe,” he says, “is not a topic for debate.”
His voice stays low. Calm. That might be what unnerves me most. I’ve dealt with men who shout, who slam fists on tables, who bluster about what they’ll do. This is not that.
This is a winter that sees no reason to explain itself to the crops it kills.
“And yet,” he continues, “you chose not to come when summoned. You chose to ignore your obligation to House Frostwyn.”
He descends a single step from the throne. The air drops at least ten degrees.
Snowflakes begin to drift lazily from somewhere above. Indoors.
“I had no wish to waste your time, my lord,” Father manages, the words shaking. “Not when I had nothing to bring you except excuses.”
“That, at least, is honest,” Luceran says.
He walks another step down.
“You are three seasons in arrears,” Luceran goes on. “Your debt grows while your land withers. Tell me, Bartal Devlin.” His gaze sharpens. “What exactly did you think would happen?”
Father doesn’t answer.
He can’t.
That’s the problem. He never thinks that far. He hopes. He works until his lungs rattle and his boots split and then hopes some more.
I’ve done the books. I’ve smudged ink over every column, counted and recounted until my eyes blurred. There is only one answer.
We cannot pay.
“Please,” Father rasps. “We just need more time. One more season. If the frost pulls back…”
A crack splinters through the layer of ice on the dais step beneath his boots. Luceran’s mouth twists, humorless.
“The frost,” he says, very softly, “does not ‘pull back.’”
Something flares in his eyes then, a brief, raw flash of grief or rage or both, and I know, with a certainty that sits sick in my gut, that he could crush us like insects if he wished.
“So,” he says. “What am I to do with a human who cannot pay his due, and will not obey my summons?”
The dark-haired rider at the door shifts. “The mines, my lord. Let him pay in labor.”
My heart lurches, and I scowl at the rider. How dare he offer up my father’s life?
