She picked the letter up and opened it, freezing on the first line. Her heart dropping.
Dear Ismena,
Stephan had never called her Ismena. Never. In every letter he had ever addressed to her, he had always called her something else. First he addressed her as, My Queen, then as their letters progressed, he began addressing her in pet names. Lately since their engagement he had taken to calling her Daylight or Summer. But never Ismena.
The paper trembled in her hand. Was anything wrong with him? She quickly read the contents, but what she read caused her heart to turn cold.
I am writing you with a heavy heart. I wish I did not have to inform you of this, but our wedding cannot go on. I have met the true woman who I am meant to marry. Her name is Dahlia, she is an ice nymph. She is the most beautiful being that I have ever beheld. I apologize for any pain I have caused you. Havenkeep will more than willingly cover any expenses that the wedding has already caused.
Dahlia and I shall be married in a week’s time, neither of us want to wait. I understand that is not enough time for you to be able to travel down to Havenkeep, but I wish you could be there because you mean so much to me. Be happy for me, I wish you the best.
Your elated friend,
Stephan, King of Havenkeep
Ismena crumbled the paper between her hands, dropping to her knees as a ragged wail escaped her lips.
“What is it?” Roskva cried in alarm, setting Eirwen down and rushing to her side.
Ismena shook her head, burying her face in her hands, unsure of what to say. What could she say? Obviously the letter was a cruel lie. That was what she told herself even as torturous sobs ripped from her chest.
This was not true. It couldn't be. It had to be a lie, a mistake, or a nightmare. It had to be anything but true because there was no way that it could be. Stephan loved her. He would not just abandon her for someone else. He couldn’t.
He couldn’t…
He loved her…
Each time she repeated this to herself, the less sure she became of its truth.
Chapter
Two
She was unsure if she even still had a heart. Clutching the cavity where it should have been, Ismena grit her teeth. She felt absolutely nothing.
She knew that she should be feeling pain. She had thought that she would feel the pain for the rest of her days. But after that first day, when she felt her heart splinter in her chest, tearing her insides to ribbons, she had felt nothing.
“Mirror… mirror, in my hand,” she whispered, her voice coming out a hollow rasp. She feared the answer, already knew what it would be, as it had been every time she had asked for the past few months since that fateful day when Stephan broke her heart. Broke her. But she had to know anyway. So with a deep breath, she spat out the rest of the question, “Who is the fairest in the land?”
The mirror glowed blue before intoning,
You are fair my queen,
That is true.
But the Queen of Havenkeep
Is a thousand times more fair than you.
Ismena gritted her teeth so hard that she wondered if they would fracture in her skull. So her mirror had spoken, and mirrors did not lie. She wanted to slam it down on her cluttered desk, but she restrained herself and placed it down gently. That mirror was an heirloom, passed down through her family for generations. She had hoped to one day give it to her own children. No, there was no hope about it. Someday she would give it to her own children.
Ismena curled her fingers into a fist as she glanced out the library window to watch the snowflakes flutter past. Winter had always been her least favorite time of the year. It was cold, it was bitter, and it was relentless. It destroyed life. She hated it more than ever now since Stephan’s new queen was an ice nymph.
How could her worldly beauty even hold a candle to the ethereal charms of a nymph? She wondered if Dahlia was cold to the touch, like ice. Obviously Stephan didn’t care.
Her gaze wandered to the stack of papers sitting on the desk to her right. All the letters that Stephan had continued to write to her since the wedding. Ismena had never replied, but that didn’t stop Stephan from sending letters to her. Talking about what great friends they were, and how happy he was. It was like Stephan did not know how to not write letters to her.
She squeezed her eyes shut as she remembered the last letter he had sent.
I have wonderful news for you, my friend. Havenkeep can look forward to the birth of an heir…
Ismena shook her head, trying to knock the memory from her mind. She turned back to the bookshelves and ascended the ladder, scanning the worn covers of books that had all become so familiar to her.
In the months since Stephan’s wedding, she had been working relentlessly to discover some form of potion that could amplify her beauty. She wondered if she had driven herself mad in this endeavor, but she didn’t care.
She would be fairest of them all. She had to be.
Perhaps, when she was finally fairest in the land again, she would finally accept Stephan’s request of visitation to meet his new queen. He would take one look at her and realize the mistake he had made. She would take him back, of course, when he finally came crawling.
How could she not forgive Stephan? No matter how much pain he had caused her, none of that was more painful than the thought of never being with him. He was her daylight, her summer. She would show him the false charms of winter and he would come back to her.
She skimmed her fingers across the spines, before choosing one that she had not read before. Hooking her arm around the ladder, she began reading the text. These books were the potion guides that her ancestors had written of the concoctions they had discovered, from healing potions, to poisons, to liquid fire.
And yet, she had yet to come across any beauty potions. Love potions, yes, but as far as she had found, the only kind of beauty potion was the Snatching Potion. The problem with that potion, however, was that in order to gain beauty, it had to be stolen from someone as well as their very essence of strength and any other qualities that might be deemed desirable, killing the person.
It had once been one of the most common potions made by sorceresses more common than even healing potions and basic poisons. In the first fledgling years of her country, sorceresses had fought many wars amongst themselves, always striving to be the most powerful. Ismena’s family finally won, claiming the crown and putting an end to the brutal practice
She had come across the potion so many times in these books that she was certain she could make it on her own. But of course, it would break her own law to create such a potion. She did not have the heart to restart such an inhumane act that had long ago been made illegal. She was queen, but she was not above her own laws.
Her eyes read through the author’s scrawl. The note that beginning stated that it was written by a Queen Ivy. Obviously one of Ismena’s ancestors, but she had never heard of her.
As she flipped through the pages, she saw nothing having to do with extraordinary beauty. Instead her found small sketches of hideous creatures.
Her eyes lighted on a single word scrawled at the top of the page. Wights.
She should move on, see if Queen Ivy had any other information for her, but something about the gruesome drawings drew her in. She continued reading, trying to learn what these wights were. According to this, these wights were created by having a living person drink the contents of the potion. It would work as a poison, seeping through their systems and freezing their veins until all that was left was a hollow husk of the body. A berserker, fully ready to follow every order of their mistress, and almost impossible to kill.
At the bottom of the page, was a list of ingredients. Ismena suppressed a shudder. Such a potion that would steal men’s freedom and humanity was just as horrible as the Snatching potion.
Suddenly the door to the library opened. Ismena startled and nearly tumbled from the ladder in her haste to slam the book shut. She looked down to see Roskva stri
de in, her hands on her hips.
“Really, Ismena, I have allowed this to go on long enough.”
Ismena tucked the book under her arm as she climbed down the ladder, careful not to allow her feet to become entangled in her skirts. Once she reached the bottom, she placed Queen Ivy’s book on a nearby shelf and turned to Roskva. “Let what go on?”
“This!” Roskva cried. “Moping in this library, barely spending any time with anyone else. I’m sorry, Ismena, but he is married. He chose someone else. It is time that you move on with your life.”
Ismena flinched. What life? She had planned out her whole future with Stephan, and now one without him felt empty and hollow. Just like her heart.
Roskva sighed heavily, her eyes softening. “Come join me and your nieces while we go out to the village. I am going to buy them some dresses. We can get one for you as well.”
Ismena was shaking her head before Roskva had even finished her sentence. “Perhaps later. I’m busy right now.”
Roskva looked like she wanted to say more, but then she closed her mouth. “Very well then. This arrived for you today.” She fished a letter from the pocket of her dress and handed it to Ismena. She wondered why Roskva had her letter instead of the steward, but then she wouldn’t be surprised if Roskva had taken over going through her letters. It would explain why Ismena had not gotten any letters from Stephan since he’d announced that he and Dahlia were having a child. She had simply assumed that he was too busy for her.
Ismena looked down at the letter Roskva held out, surprised. It was a letter from Mooraven. Probably the only reason Roskva was giving it to her was because she hoped that the pressing needs of the world of politics would pull her from her depression and self-exile.
Ismena accepted the letter and Roskva left with one last pleading invitation to join them.
She opened the letter, her eye scanning over the contents of the letter. It was a condolence note written by King Morren himself. He said that he understood her pain over having been abandoned and she supposed that he did.
It had only been a couple of years since his own queen had disappeared, abandoning him and his young son. If anyone understood her pain, it was undoubtedly Morren. She immediately felt a kinship of sorts bond them through the letter, but then the final line caught her eye.
He invited her to come visit him in Mooraven and asked her simply, did she want vengeance?
Ismena’s eyes flicked to the book, sitting on the shelf near her hand, and for the first time since reading Stephan’s letter declaring that he would marry Dahlia, her heart stirred in her chest.
She had lied earlier. She didn’t feel nothing. She felt rage.
Chapter
Three
She still had yet to discover a beauty potion that would help her. She now believed it impossible for her to ever be more beautiful than Dahlia. She was nothing more than a human, how could she even have dreamed of competing with an otherworldly nymph? There was no magic in the world that could help her there. She could make herself the fairest human to have ever breathed and still be nothing but a pale candle to Dahlia’s blazing fire.
If she could not become more beautiful than Dahlia, then she would rid the world of her beauty. The same way a weed strangled a flower.
Ismena pursed her lips as she considered this more carefully. What she was thinking was no small task. She was considering murder. As queen, she had been forced to make many hard choices, including having to order the execution of the rogue dwarfs who had murdered her mother. They had already been criminals, exiled from the Skalvanian mountains, when they attacked the former queen’s coach and slit her throat for the jewels she wore. Therefore, it had fallen on Ismena’s shoulders, not those of their fellow countrymen, to make certain that they paid for their crimes.
This was different than that, though. This was killing someone in cold blood. This was killing Dahlia simply because she could, and she wanted to.
But then, Dahlia wasn’t even human anyway. So what did it matter if she bled? The blood that ran through her veins was borrowed, a poor illusion of the form she had taken to steal Stephan from her.
And Dahlia’s death was Ismena’s only chance at a happy life. It was not a question of whether she should do it- she had no choice! No, it was a question of how.
She had to do it in a way that Stephan would never suspect her. If he knew, he would never forgive her and that was not something she could abide. She did this to be with him and that would all be ruined if all she ended was making him hate her.
She had done some more research into Queen Ivy. Ivy had been a warrior queen who had used her army to conquer the northern part of Havenkeep, which was now the southern border of their fair land. She had eventually been killed in battle against Havenkeep after ruling for fifteen years. Apparently, the wights had died when Queen Ivy did. There were no records of the ice creatures ever returning.
Ismena’s lips curled up. Until now that was. She had already brewed the potion noted in Ivy’s journal.
But she couldn’t just attack Havenkeep and kill their queen. Not if she was to make certain that Stephan did not hate her. No, she needed someone else to do this for her.
Which was why she accepted Morren’s invitation because he was right, she did want vengeance. She now stood at the south end of the island, staring up at the dark impressive fortress that was Morren’s favorite castle. Her entourage of guards shifted nervously beside her, casting her glances out of the corners of their eyes as if trying to figure out if she had lost her mind or not.
It was something that she wondered as well. Except, unlike her guards, she was almost certain that she already knew the answer.
She clutched her mirror in her hand. She already knew from it that Morren would accept her bargain. It would cost her dearly, but he would accept.
She inhaled deeply and stepped forward as the gates swung open. Morren was expecting her.
As she stepped through, a knight wearing the black raven of Mooraven’s crest stepped toward her. He bowed. “The dark king will see you. Come right this way.”
Ismena stepped to follow the guard, but he did not move. His eyes shifted nervously to her guards. “The dark lord requested that you come alone.”
“My Queen-” Havilard, the captain of her guard began, but Ismena waved him off.
“Remain here,” she said dismissively as she picked up her skirts and followed the Mooraven guard up the winding staircase to where Morren was waiting for her. The skirts dragged heavily behind her and her crown weighed down on the top of her head, but that was the price of her beauty. She might not be the fairest. But she was fair enough that a person need only look at her and see her power.
Morren waited for her at the top of the stairs. One side of the wall was made of obsidian marble and pale white columns, the other side was open to the bright blue sky of early spring. Curtains hung from the arches, the only separation from this hall and the elements.
He looked every bit the dark lord he was, with his black hair and equally black eyes. His skin was pale and sallow. He was not a particularly handsome man. Perhaps, he could have been considered such, but in the recent years since the disappearance of the Queen of Mooraven, he had allowed his cruelty to show even more.
She wondered if he would even consider making a bargain with her if his queen were still there. One knew not to make an arrangement with a sorceress. But the queen was not there, and Morren and she understood that pain. Besides, he had made it his solemn oath that he would conquer Illesya, something that Alain could aid him in.
He tipped his head as she approached, kissing the hand that she offered to him. “Ah, Queen Ismena, I am pleased to see that you have finally decided to accept my invitation. You certainly kept me waiting long enough.” Morren smiled a cruel biting smile, reminding Ismena that while he may not be as stable as he once was, he was still just as dangerous.
Perhaps even more so now that he flirted with insanity.
But then so
was she.
She returned his smile. “It was never a question of accepting your invitation, My King. Simply of how.”
He arched his brows, obviously intrigued by what she had to say.
She pressed her lips together realizing that there was still a chance to turn back. To tell Morren that she had changed her mind and leave. It was that chance that frightened her more than anything. Because if she accepted it she would have to give up her vengeance and Stephan both. “I know full well that you wish to conquer Havenkeep,” she said quickly before she could change her mind. “And you know how I crave vengeance. I will not pretend otherwise. But alone, neither the armies of Mooraven or Alain are strong enough to defeat Havenkeep on their own.”
“You underestimate the strength of my armies,” he said with a chuckle. “But an ally would make victory far more decisive and swift.”
Ismena lifted her nose. “True, but as I already stated, the armies of Alain are not strong. You know how stretched thin we are with all our various threats of unicorns and brigands, and our tenuous relationship with the dwarfs. I could not lend you my men in this war.”
If she did, Stephan would know of her treachery.
Morren’s eyes flashed as he stepped past the curtain and onto the balcony underneath the arch. “Then what form of alliance are you suggesting?”
Ismena inhaled a steadying breath as she followed him out onto the balcony. The bright sunlight burned her eyes. This was it. The final crucial piece to her plan. “I have recently come across the recipe for a potion that when a man drinks it, he will become a wight. Invincible, invulnerable, creatures with unquestioning loyalty. Give me your soldiers and I will make them unstoppable.”
Morren glanced at her, his eyes sparking with interest. She had his attention.
She suppressed a smile, to hide how relieved she was. She needed to come into this arrangement as a calm business arrangement. If Morren sense how desperately she needed it to work, he would drive a harder bargain. “I give you this potion and you will be able to conquer Havenkeep without any loss on your side. In return, you shall spare Stephan’s life and allow him to come stay with me in Alain. You shall also give us, upon our wedding, the Summer Palace and the land surrounding it. And you will swear to never attack Alain.”
A Winter Grim and Lonely Page 2
