She’d become the runt of the Gäric litter after her maimed eldest brother, Helmuth, had been cut out of the line of succession, gone mad, and then vanished from the kingdom leaving only a note promising to return for his vengeance one day.
“Do I have mud on my chin again?” Zelda said gruffly, and Sabria realized she was staring at the princess, lost in her own thoughts.
“Sorry. No. I was just—”
“Surprised they let me out of my cage?” Zelda said. “Trusted me to meet the future queen of the north? Don’t fear, the Ice Lord is watching my every move.”
Sabria shook her head. She wasn’t going to say that. “No. I’m just glad to have someone my age here. And a lady at that.”
Zelda squinted and Sabria was pretty sure her eyes went slightly cross-eyed. “A jester, are you?”
Sabria shook her head, confused. “What?”
“I’m no lady!” Zelda said, roaring with laughter, which drew more looks from the guards. The Ice Lord appeared from the side, his long white hair visible as he strode through the wall of soldiers.
“We are approaching Blackguard,” the Ice Lord said.
“Thank you, Ice Lord,” Zelda said. “In the event we had no eyes, we might’ve missed it.” The Ice Lord narrowed his eyes at the princess, but didn’t respond.
Blackguard, Sabria thought. The royal castle of Blackstone. Sabria turned her gaze forward once more, immediately spotting the black spires shooting toward the sky in the distance. Well before the castle towers, however, was an enormous wall constructed of rectangular stones as black as jet. A heavy iron gate was slowly rising, groaning from the strain on the chains and pulleys.
The image was so surreal it felt like a waking dream.
Suddenly, there was a shout and the clash of steel. Sabria whirled to try to locate the origin of the sound, but it seemed to come from all sides at once. The ring of protection seemed to tighten, the guards pushed back by some unknown force, pressing in on all sides. One of the soldiers fell back, blood gushing from a slashed throat.
A man, his hair wild with brown curls, his face a mask of bristly fur, sprang through the gap and charged Sabria. He led with a sword, catching the light at just the right angle to blind her. I’m going to die, Sabria thought, just before a dark form sprang in front of her with animal-like quickness. The man slashed, but the form ducked, using the attacker’s forward momentum to flip him over.
Sabria blinked rapidly, trying to obliterate the spots dancing across her vision. She saw the man’s sword skitter away from him, and he scrambled after it, extending his arm to grab the weapon. A boot crunched down on his wrist and he screamed as the sound of bones snapping in half reached Sabria’s ears.
Sabria looked to see who had saved her. Princess Zelda wore an expression of amusement. “We got a feisty one,” she said, grinning with maniacal glee. She kicked the man in the ribs and he groaned.
There were a few more shouts and the clanks of sword meeting sword, and then everything went deathly quiet. Several more people, both men and women, were dragged into the inner circle, their hands bound, their teeth clenched together. They glared at Sabria like she was the one who’d attacked them.
The Ice Lord said, “You are found guilty of treason against your future queen. Your sentence is death.” There was no anger in his voice. A simple fact, like he was merely carrying out one of his daily tasks.
The first attacker was hauled forward, a woman with eyes so dark they could’ve been unlit coals. Though her hair was a tangled mess covering half her face, which was smudged with dirt and blood from the tussle, there was a stalwart beauty hidden beneath her angry expression. Sabria wondered who this woman was, why she hated her so much. Was it just because she was from the west? And if so, what kind of world were they living in, where your place of birth dictated who your enemies were?
“It’s her you should be sentencin’ to death,” the woman spat, nodding toward Sabria. Such venom. Such hatred, burning in her eyes. Sabria wanted to look away, but couldn’t bring herself to.
Zelda tried to step toward the woman—she was already bringing her leg up in a kicking motion—but one of the guards grabbed her and held her back. Sabria still couldn’t believe how well the princess had handled herself—how quickly she’d gone from laughing and talking to fighting and violence. Are all women of the north this fierce? she wondered. If so, I will be a sore disappointment to the prince.
The Ice Lord stepped forward, raising a single finger, easing it toward the woman’s face. For the first time, a breath of fear washed over her expression. “No,” she whispered. Then louder: “No! Please!” She fought the hands holding her steady, but they were too strong.
The Ice Lord touched the tip of her nose.
Sabria looked on in horror as the woman’s skin turned blue, the frosty hue spreading across her cheeks, coating her eyes, her head, her neck. Soon she was naught but an ice sculpture, her mouth frozen in a scream.
Sabria looked away, fighting the urge to vomit. One by one, the Ice Lord carried out the executions, leaving the frozen dead as a threat to any other aspiring rebels.
“Are you well, Princess?” Zelda asked, once the deed was complete.
No. Not even close. “I’m fine,” Sabria said.
They would only be staying in Blackguard for a single night, for which Sabria was grateful. The famed castle was a dark, cold place, with age-dulled suits of armor decorating its halls, along with sculptures depicting the true violence of war. In one massive sculpture there was a giant beast, a mamoothen, its tusks red with blood as it rampaged across a field of western soldiers bearing the rearing-horse sigil of Sabria’s home country.
Zelda noticed her staring in disgust at the sculpture, and said only, “Frozen hell of a way to go.”
“Why would your brother want to marry me if the north hates my people?” Sabria asked.
Zelda chuckled. “Few northern women are as fair as you.” The statement made Sabria’s cheeks grow warm, which only made Zelda laugh harder. “But that wasn’t why. The king, my father, forced him into it. Long has my father desired peace with the west to ensure the Crimean trade route is secure.”
Sabria stopped short. Once again, she was chastened by her own selfishness. Not once had she considered that Prince Wolfric was as much a slave to this marriage alliance as she. He had no choice in the matter either, the pact secured between kings, not their children. Perhaps the common situation would bond them together. Perhaps this could work.
And at least it wasn’t Helmuth the Maimed she would be forced to marry. Things could be worse.
“Thank you for what you did earlier,” Sabria said, remembering that, as shaken up as she was from the attack, she had not shown the barest sliver of gratitude to the princess for saving her life.
Zelda raised an eyebrow. “Would you not save me if you had the chance?”
Before Sabria could answer, Zelda strode off, leading the way further into the castle, leaving her to ponder the question.
The clothes Sabria had been given were in the northern style—thick, layered, and covering every inch of skin. Even her face was masked by a woolen scarf, leaving only her eyes peeking out, the frigid air stinging them.
The snow was falling in sheets, blowing almost sideways in the gale that had swarmed over them the moment they’d left the protection of Blackguard. Though this was the north Sabria had expected, nothing could have prepared her for the severe weather.
They rode in the shadow of the snowcapped Mournful Mountains, which rose on the right-hand side like the muscular arm of a god. Wrath’s Arm, Sabria thought, hugging herself against the cold.
Her steed was a white mare, graceful and lithe, like her, a detail she couldn’t help but appreciate. She wondered whether it was Prince Wolfric’s idea, or someone else’s. The trod of the larger, black horses ridden by the soldiers ahead of her packed down the snow so that her horse could prance lightly, its head bucking up and down.
Zelda rode besi
de her on a squat pony with a frizzy mane that covered its eyes. “Zulu” she called the beast.
“Tell me about your brother,” Sabria said to Zelda as they rode, her voice muffled by the thick scarves covering her mouth.
Zelda’s face was uncovered, her cheeks pink around the edges and brightening to scarlet in the centers. “I’m guessing you don’t mean Grizzy,” she said, smirking.
Sabria shook her head. According to her tutor, Lord Griswold Gäric was three years younger than his brother, and seven years older than Zelda. He was next in line for the throne, if some tragedy befell Prince Wolfric. “No, I mean Wolfy,” Sabria said, shortening her husband-to-be’s name in a similar manner. She assumed that was just something they did in the north.
“Who’s Wolfy?” Zelda said.
“Your brother. Wolfric. The prince.”
“Oh, him,” Zelda said. Sabria couldn’t tell whether she was being made fun of. “He’s a real icy one.”
Sabria frowned. “Meaning?”
“Meaning he’s got a nasty temper. When he’s kind, he’s as caring as they come, but cross him and…”
“And what?”
“Just watch your step,” Zelda said.
A sliver of fear lanced down Sabria’s spine. “Why are you telling me this?” Surely her brother wouldn’t want her to be so…honest.
Zelda said, “Because you deserve to have your eyes wide open when you arrive. And because I despise my brothers. Both of them.”
Despite the cold and the dark, bleak clouds gathering overhead, Sabria had to admit there was something beautiful about the north.
As much as she tried to appreciate it, however, she couldn’t get Zelda’s warning out of her mind. Was Wolfric really as bad as his sister made him out to be? At least she said he could be kind and caring sometimes, she thought. Plus, should she really believe Zelda, a girl with a reputation for being a strange recluse?
Yes, a voice inside her said. Something about Zelda made her feel safe, like she had a friend, and not just because the princess had saved her life at Blackstone.
They journeyed for several days, camping at night, the tents shuddering overhead as the wind buffeted their sides. Sabria was given twice as many blankets as anyone else, and yet still she was cold. She wondered whether she would ever be warm again, whether she would ever feel the heat of the sun on her skin, see the ocean sparkle in the early morning light.
She wondered whether she would ever see her family again.
Every day, she would talk to Princess Zelda, who, in her own nakedly honest manner, would tell her everything she needed to know about the northern stronghold, Castle Hill, and its occupants.
“Lady Marion is hardly a lady at all,” Zelda was saying now. Sabria clung to her reigns with frozen-icicle fingers. “She’s rolled in the hay with at least a dozen of the lords—and those are only the ones we know about.” She winked at Sabria, which only made her blush deeper. Thankfully, her face was covered by her scarves. She wasn’t used to such brazen talk of…hay-rolling. A woman such as Lady Marion would be called a whore in the west, and subject to a severe punishment carried out by the holy warriors, the furia, who would carve a W on her face, leaving a permanent scar and marking her as a sinner.
“Doesn’t anyone care?” Sabria asked, trying to understand the way the north worked.
Zelda laughed, a throaty sound Sabria was beginning to not only grow accustomed to, but almost enjoy. “Her husband, for one,” Zelda said. “Though I suppose he comforts himself in the arms of his own mistresses.”
Wrath, where have you sent me? Sabria wondered yet again.
Zelda continued. “Personally, I don’t understand why a woman would want more than one fella. They’re a lot of work if you ask me!”
Sabria was beginning to feel bolder, so she asked, “Do you have your eye on anyone?”
Zelda shot her a wicked grin, her eyes gleaming. “I might. Technically, he’s a knight, though he gained the title by accident. Some would call him…roly-poly…and I’m being kind using that description, but there’s something about him that makes my heart tick a little faster.”
For some reason, Sabria felt slightly warmer hearing Zelda talk of her paramour. “You’ll have to introduce me to him. What’s his name?”
“Craig. Sir Craig.”
“How did he gain his knighthood?”
“Like I said, ’twas an accident. He got in the way of a stampeding mamoothen and saved the life of another knight. Almost got trampled himself in the process, but escaped with naught but a broken leg and an auspicious title.”
Sabria laughed, and the sound of her own mirth shocked her slightly. When she first embarked on this journey, she never expected to be happy. But right now, in this moment with Princess Zelda, she was.
Unfortunately, it was not meant to last.
Castle Hill was a far more beautiful fortress than Blackguard. The walls and ramparts were constructed of large white stones polished to a shine, almost sparkling, despite the lack of direct sunlight. Even through the unrelenting snowfall, Sabria could appreciate the way the gates opened smoothly, with no creak or groan. Maybe this isn’t such a bad place after all, she thought. At least she had Zelda—who was grinning like a banshee beside her—as a companion.
Her breath caught as the gate finished opening and a figure stepped forward to meet their riding party. He wore a broad smile, his long dark hair perfectly framing a strong jaw, a dimpled chin, and a pair of twinkling brown eyes. Sabria immediately recognized the resemblance to Zelda, but the typical Gäric features were far more attractive on the prince.
…he’s got a nasty temper…watch your step…
Sabria blinked away the warning. Perhaps she could tame him, bring out the good in Wolfric. Though her nerves were firing, she managed to plaster on an elegant smile and slide from her horse, accepting his assistance by gripping his hand. He bent down and kissed the back of her palm gently before rising to his full height. She had to look up to meet his eyes, which were tethered to hers.
“My betrothed,” Wolfric said. “You are even more beautiful than the stories.”
Sabria blushed. She opened her mouth, trying to arrive at the correct response, but Zelda shoved between them. “Stick your tongue back in your mouth, brother,” she said. “You’re drooling all over the princess’s boots.”
Past Zelda’s stocky frame, Sabria saw something flash in Wolfric’s eyes, a blaze of heat, followed by the stiffening of his jaw. She could see his pulse pounding in a large vein protruding from his temple.
And then his smile was back, the anger gone.
See? she thought. I am already having a positive effect on his temper.
“Why, kind sister, I didn’t notice you, have you shrunk? I have missed you dearly at court. Your smile. Your japes. We have barely survived the days since you left.”
“Well I haven’t missed you one whip,” Zelda said, grabbing Sabria’s arm and pulling her toward the castle entrance.
Sabria looked back to find Wolfric watching them go. She mouthed Sorry and he nodded. “I will see you tonight at dinner, my lady,” he said.
“Not if I have anything to do with it,” Zelda muttered.
“He was trying to be nice,” Sabria said, scanning the walls as they passed. Large tapestries hung on either side, depicting battles, each more violent than the one before. She wrinkled her nose.
Zelda stopped and grabbed her chin, steering her gaze to meet her own. “Wolfric trying to be nice is like a snake inviting a mouse to dinner.”
Sabria knew Zelda was trying to help but… “You can’t protect me,” she said. “Your brother is going to be my husband. We might as well get used to it now.” She couldn’t believe she was the one to be saying this, but it was true. Any chance of avoiding the marriage alliance was lost the moment she stepped foot in the north. And anyway, like her parents had reminded her, this was her duty to the west. To her people.
“C’mon,” Zelda said, pulling her forward on
ce more. Sabria’s arm was starting to hurt from being yanked about by the strong northern princess.
“Where are we going?”
“To see the king, of course. At this particular moment, my father is the only one that matters.”
Sabria frowned. Something wasn’t making sense. “Why?”
“Because he’s dying, of course.”
The bedroom was cloaked in thick shadows, the windows obscured by black drapes pulled tightly to each side.
The nursemaid whispered as they entered. “He’s having one of his good days. Be thankful for that.”
Sabria could hear two sounds: the beating of her own heart in her chest; and the hiss of deep, restful exhalations from somewhere within the room. She squinted, trying to force her eyes to adjust to the murk.
“Father?” Zelda said. “It’s me.”
“Mmm?” A murmur from the far side of the room.
“I’ve brought you a visitor.”
“Mmhm?”
“Princess Sabria Loren. Just as you instructed. Her passage was safe. There was a minor incident in Blackstone, but I took care of it.”
“Thank you.” His voice was sandstone rubbed against gravel. “Let me see her.”
Sabria could barely make out a flash of white skin as Zelda gestured her forward. She peered in front of her, following the foot of the bed to a thick blanket, a bump forming partway along, and then a face.
Oh, Wrath.
King Wilhelm Gäric was shriveled away to nothing, like an apple core left out in the sun for too long. His cheeks were gaunt and pale, his eyes plagued with milky cataracts, his gray hair wispy and thin.
The Undefeated King looked the opposite of all the stories Sabria had heard. According to the legends, he was a warrior on the battlefield, willing to lead his men into impossible situations only to emerge victorious every time. She cocked her head to the side, thinking. In fact, it was just last week that she’d heard of a victory he’d secured against the easterners at the Razor. But in his current condition, there was no way he could walk, much less fight…