Shadow Frost (Shadow Frost Trilogy Book 1)

by Coco Ma

  ADVANCE PRAISE FOR SHADOW FROST

  “A world of magic and intrigue is cannily laid out by

  a newcomer to the field of high fantasy. As expertly as

  she catapults a piano sonata into flights of tonal glory,

  Coco Ma lures a reader into the kingdom of Axaria.”

  Gregory Maguire,

  New York Times bestselling author of Wicked

  “Shadow Frost is a fresh, confident, and remarkably

  self-assured book…If Ma was this good at fifteen,

  the future of the genre is extremely bright.”

  Tamsyn Muir,

  author of Gideon the Ninth

  “This is eighteen-year-old Ma’s fantasy debut, but it already promises plenty of stunning storytelling

  and amazing adventures.”

  Hypable

  Copyright © 2019 by Coco Ma

  E-book published in 2019 by Blackstone Publishing

  Cover design by Kathryn Galloway English

  Illustrated map by Jimmy Ma

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental

  and not intended by the author.

  Trade e-book ISBN 978-1-9825-2743-3

  Library e-book ISBN 978-1-9825-2742-6

  Young Adult Fiction / Fantasy / General

  CIP data for this book is available

  from the Library of Congress

  Blackstone Publishing

  31 Mistletoe Rd.

  Ashland, OR 97520

  www.BlackstonePublishing.com

  To my favourite pianist and the first fan

  of my book when it was only like, thirty pages long,

  Manny Ax

  PROLOGUE

  Eternity. It was as endless and gray as the bleak sky above, broken only by the craggy teeth of the mountain peaks. Gusts of snow lashed at barren rock, the bitter wind howling with the fury of a thousand souls forever damned.

  An ancient mountain, taller than all the rest, pierced the blanket of ashen clouds in the distance, flurries of white spilling over its rugged crests.

  One side of the rock face was peppered with a handful of tiny hollows. Each hollow led down through layers and layers of rock until they all opened into an immense cavern with an arched ceiling and vast walls, buried deep inside the earth.

  Etched into the ceiling was a carving. A single word of wrath, in a language as ancient as the mountain itself, long ago abandoned and nearly forgotten by mortals. This was a gateway to a realm of merciless darkness, of beautiful horrors and bloodthirsty nightmares.

  Hollenfér.

  Hell’s Way.

  In the center of the cavern stood the Woman, her skin pink from the frigid bite of the cold despite the mask she wore to hide her face. She paid no heed to the iciness in her fingers as she chanted a feverish incantation under her breath. Lines of cobalt light raced from her palms, tearing through the rock floor and sending sprays of debris into the air. Her breaths became gasps as she struggled to maintain her focus, muscles quivering from exertion.

  A deep hum swelled from beneath the ground, rumbling the walls and felling dust from above in a whirlwind of soot-stained snow. The hum grew to a roar as the light surged forth from the ground, twisting and lacing together to create an egg-shaped cluster suspended high above her head. A mighty bellow shook the cavern as the cluster exploded, revealing a black mass writhing through the air in agony, shrieking and howling with rage. The Woman watched in awe, wrists twirling as she shaped its dark flesh, pulling and pushing, melding it as she pleased.

  When at last she finished, the creature’s howls had subsided. Gleaming red eyes drilled into the Woman’s very soul as the creature lumbered onto its feet, its lithe, wiry body hunched before her, packed with muscle and covered in silken fur. It unfurled its wings like a pair of billowing sails, stretching them up toward the cavern arches. Somehow, its body seemed to draw light inward, consuming it.

  Darkness incarnate.

  The Woman took a step back, not out of fear, but in admiration. It was a lethal masterpiece—a weapon to grant her every desire and more.

  “Bow to me,” she commanded, still mesmerized. “I am your master, and you shall do as I say.”

  “I bow to no one,” it rasped, claws clicking against the stone floor as it approached her.

  “You shall do as I say,” she repeated, drawing a small blade from her sleeve.

  The creature hissed, lunging at her with incomprehensible speed. She laughed, clear and sweet, and slashed it across the face. It landed in a heap at her feet, blood dribbling from its muzzle. “I am your master,” she whispered, lips curling in a cruel smile as she bent to stroke its ears. It remained silent as she sliced her forearm open with the same blade, mixing the beast’s blood with her own. “You are bound to me now.”

  “I am bound to the earth,” it growled.

  “I need you to perform a task for me,” she said, ignoring it.

  “A task?” The creature’s eyes glazed over in obedience even as the words left its mouth.

  “A shadow. I need you to be a shadow … a shadow of death.”

  The trek back through the icy wasteland took three days, and the voyage south across the Loric Ocean to the continent of Aspea another week. They set sail in a small vessel, manned by a burly captain and a boorish crew who all seemed unfazed by the creature as the Woman guided it onboard. The temperature warmed as they crossed the great blue expanse, the captain navigating the treacherous waters with an expert hand and pockets weighed down with his reward.

  Leaving the boat and its crew docked at a decaying pier on the westernmost shores of Axaria, they found a carriage awaiting them. The Woman locked the creature in the trunk and off they clattered into the night.

  Under the cover of a moonless sky, the strange pair finally arrived on the outskirts of a small village that lay just on the fringes of a great forest. The Woman released the creature from the trunk and led it through the village. Shuttered windows and a peaceful, slumbering quiet greeted them. The cobbled streets were void of life—save for the Woman and the beast by her side.

  The Woman paused by a brick-laid water well. The creature watched as she lowered the rope and drew up a wooden bucket. She raised the bucket to her lips with both hands and drank deeply. When she finished, the bottom of the pail still sloshed with water, and the creature saw that it had turned blacker than the sky above.

  Unaware or uncaring, the Woman tossed the bucket back into the well, where it rattled off the brick and landed with an echoing sploosh.

  Into the forest they delved, the creature merging with the gloom, invisible amongst the foliage. They forged deeper and deeper into the trees until they reached a branched archway leading to a clearing beyond. Tendrils of fog and mist crept through the stale air.

  “Kill everything in your path,” the Woman crooned as she turned to leave. “Carry out my bidding and satisfy your bloodlust.” She faded into the fog, no more than a phantom wisp of smoke dissipating into the night itself. “Be my shadow.” The creature felt a breeze caress its muzzle. A sudden, searing heat seeped into the flesh she had slashed open, though the wound could not be seen for the blood still encrusting it.

  A reminder—and a warning.

  The Woman vanished completely, her final command ringing through
the clearing, yet no louder than a spine-chilling whisper.

  “Be Death.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Asterin Faelenhart ran a brush through her hair, violently untangling the stubbornest of locks with her fingers. She cast a fierce glower at her reflection in the vanity mirror. Emerald eyes stared back, glimmering with the flames of candlelight. Her scowl deepened as she glimpsed the ugly bruise blossoming across her cheek, stark purple against ivory.

  Sighing in irritation, Asterin pressed two fingers to the blemish and murmured a healing spell. A tingling sensation enveloped the tender spot, the purple leeching away. Halfway through, she hesitated, debating whether her appearance or her pride were of more value.

  Biting her lip, she imagined her mother’s wrath at seeing her daughter as battered as a street brawler for the third day in a row. The bruise disappeared without a trace a moment later.

  After dusting fine powder over her face, she twisted her ebony hair into a tight knot atop her head. She had to rummage through a drawer to find her tiara, its rubies twinkling as boldly as if they had managed to capture the candles’ embers within. She found some pins to fasten the tiara onto her head. The last thing she needed was for it to fall off—again.

  A knock echoed through her empty chambers. She rose from her seat, the fabric of her gown rustling as she left her bedchamber and crossed the antechamber into the sitting parlor, the fine-spun rugs softer than clouds beneath her bare feet.

  When she looked up, the almighty Council of Immortals—the nine gods and goddesses of the Immortal Realm—stared down upon her from their thrones, painted in vivid, lifelike strokes along the parlor ceiling. Vicious Lady Fena with her circlet of fire and her foxes, elusive Lord Pavon half-hidden in hazy smears of gold with a peacock mask dangling from his slender fingers, and of course, the majestic Lord Conrye with his pack of snarling wolves and sword of unbreakable ice.

  The knock came again, insistent. Asterin wrenched the door open and sighed. “What do you want?”

  “Princess Asterin,” said her Royal Guardian. He leaned against the doorframe, ankles crossed, his perfect mouth twisted in a smirk.

  “Dinner isn’t until half past six, Orion,” she snapped. “Go away.”

  His ice-chip blue eyes glinted with mischief. “Such poor manners for a princess. Your mother wouldn’t be pleased.” She snorted at that. When was her mother ever pleased with her? He glanced from her cheek to his knuckles and then back again, all innocence. “Glad to see your bruise healed so quickly. Looked quite nasty.”

  She slammed the door in his stupid face.

  “Oi!”

  Asterin sucked in an exasperated breath. Although she loved Orion dearly, it was more an affection born from spending over a decade side by side. Only separated by six years of age, they squabbled on the daily, just like they had as children. A few members of the court pegged it as some sort of sibling rivalry, but Asterin could never think of Orion as a brother. He was her friend and mentor, but Guardian first and foremost. He put a sword in her hand and told her to try and beat him up, which didn’t strike her as particularly brotherly.

  Now she listened to the unimpressed tap tap tap of his foot outside. Oh, how she wished to bash his pretty nose in with a flick of her wrist or rip all his tailored finery to shreds with a wave of her hand—but she couldn’t. The two of them had exactly one rule and one rule only—that they would never use magic against one another. Because history had proved magic could do terrible things when provoked, even accidentally—and great Immortals above, she was definitely provoked. She took another breath, forcing her pulse to slow and her mind to calm. “Please?”

  The doorknob twisted into her side. She thrust her weight against the door as Orion shoved it open, his gleeful face poking at her from the crack.

  “No can do, Your Highness,” Orion said. “Your mother has requested your presence in her chambers.” He shoved again, and her feet slid backward.

  “I’m a little busy.” She adjusted her stance to add pressure on the door. “Thanks to a certain someone.”

  “When I say requested, I’m being polite. So,” he said, grunting as she gained on him, “I suggest that you go see her immediately.” He suddenly withdrew, throwing her balance off and causing her to crash face-first into the wood with a thunk. She heard him stroll away, his laughter pealing through the corridor like an off-key bell.

  Forehead throbbing and tiara knocked askew, Asterin hiked her silk skirts up to her knees, muttering vehement, very un-princess-like words beneath her breath as she stuffed her feet into some jeweled slippers and stormed out of her chambers.

  Two guards waited outside her door, but she signaled for them to stay and bolted before they could protest. Peaked windows lined the white marble corridor, interrupted only by the occasional archway adorned with enchanted snow-laden ivy. The corridor opened into a large alcove and Asterin swerved right onto the spiraling grand stairway, just barely skirting past a cluster of tittering court ladies. Each glass step shone like ice beneath her slippers.

  The sixth and topmost floor was reserved for the adjoined quarters of the king and queen, as well as their personal guards. Asterin passed the king’s chambers. No one had occupied them for a decade.

  At last, she arrived at her mother’s door. Asterin drew in a deep lungful of air before rapping thrice upon the black obsidian, rubbing away the sting in her knuckles with a slight wince as the door opened. The round face of one of the maids peered out at her. Without a word, the girl curtsied and beckoned Asterin through the sitting parlor and into her mother’s bedchamber.

  Asterin toed off her slippers before entering, her feet sinking into the plush carpet. The teal curtains had been braided back, the last of the waning daylight bathing the walls in an amber glow. An enormous four-poster bed sprawled across the center of the room, a riot of peacock feathers fanning out over the massive headboard.

  A slender woman stood silhouetted by the farthest window. Tendrils of blond hair so light they could have been mistaken for gossamer were piled in an exquisite coil atop her head. Shimmering blue silk—she only ever wore silk—cascaded from her shoulders, rippling on a phantom breeze. From the slant of her spine to the delicate tilt of her chin, her entire being seemed to exude an effortless elegance that Asterin had always struggled—and failed—to replicate.

  And of course, it was impossible to miss the stunning diamond spires encircling her head like spears of ice, crowning her as Queen Priscilla Alessandra Montcroix-Faelenhart, ruler of Axaria.

  Asterin performed her best curtsy, low to the ground, her skirts pooling like syrup around her. “Mother.”

  The queen turned, a single brow arched. Eyes of teal swept over Asterin. “Ah, there you are, Princess. You’ve kept us waiting … as usual.”

  Asterin flushed, averting her eyes. Only then did she spot the shadow in the corner, half-hidden by a candelabra. She plastered what could hopefully pass as a civil smile onto her face. “General Garringsford.”

  The general swept into an austere bow, the lines of her silver uniform sharp enough to cut flesh. “Your Highness.” Her inflection sounded more command than greeting.

  Carlotta Garringsford had first risen to her position as the General of Axaria when Asterin’s father had been just a boy. And though illness had taken King Tristan nearly a decade ago, Garringsford still appeared not a day past forty, a few strands of silver amidst her perfect golden bun and several crinkle lines between her brows the only signs of aging. She trained right alongside the soldiers and personally kicked the recruits into shape without the slightest mercy. Rumor had it that someone once tried to stab her in the heart, but the sword had shattered instead.

  Whereas Asterin had lost her father, Garringsford had once had two sons. They had both been killed while assisting a raid many years ago, not yet full-fledged soldiers—merely trainees that King Tristan had thought might benefit from t
he experience of tagging along with their superior officers to stamp out a very much underestimated threat.

  Asterin swallowed the slightly acrid taste in her mouth and curtsied to her mother again. “What is it you need of me, Your Majesty?”

  A smile, but that teal gaze was indecipherable, as always. “Why, is it such a surprise that I might desire my own daughter’s company?”

  “Of course not. But surely …?”

  Queen Priscilla gave a long-suffering sigh, as if Asterin had already disappointed her. “General Garringsford has brought you a gift.” Her mother gestured, and the general strolled over to Asterin, producing a small chest from behind her back.

  Asterin accepted it warily. A gift? From Garringsford? Now that was a surprise. She placed the chest upon the bed, the silken wood warm and rich beneath her fingertips, yearning for her touch. Even so, she hesitated, tracing the simple but beautiful metal embellishments.

  The general tapped her foot, obviously trying to hide her impatience. “If you would kindly open the chest, Your Highness?” But only when her mother cleared her throat did Asterin finally flick the silver clasp and snap the lid open, ducking her head to hide her scowl.

  Nine iridescent stones, nested upon a bed of viridian velvet, formed the outline of a triangle. They glimmered despite the deepening dusk, flat and round. Their surfaces were polished to a dark, oily sheen so glossy that she could glimpse her reflection, broken only by the different sigils carved into each of their centers.

  Affinity stones.

  The sigils represented the nine affinities—the nine elements, each hailing from a different kingdom and bloodline. The three core affinities making up the fundamental trinity—earth, water, and fire—cornered the triangle, the other six falling in between: ice, wind, sky, air, light, and illusion. Asterin had her own set of stones in her room, fashioned of ruby and silver, but these were unlike any that she’d ever seen. Affinity stones could be made from nearly anything so long as the sigils were carved properly, ranging from actual stones to metals, and even wood, but their effectiveness depended heavily on their quality and durability.