Shadow Frost (Shadow Frost Trilogy Book 1)

by Coco Ma

  The memories fast-forwarded as if disturbed by a great gust of wind, and everything went dark. The next thing she saw was Asterin’s face, smiling and young.

  “Mother said that you’re to be my lady-in-waiting, but I think we should be friends first,” said the young princess.

  Luna remembered nodding shyly, nervous because she had never had a friend before. Or at least, that was what she had believed at the time …

  “Luna!”

  Luna’s eyes flew open at the shout, her chest heaving. She found herself on her knees on the path, the edges of the stones digging through her riding breeches. Asterin’s hands clamped Luna’s shoulders. The others crowded around them with mirrored expressions of worry.

  “I—I saw my childhood,” Luna gasped. “But I can’t remember how I ended up at the palace. I forgot everything.” She stared at her hands. “I forgot about my magic.”

  “What do you mean?” Asterin asked, helping her onto her feet.

  “My magic,” Luna repeated. Her appearance, her powers. “Priscilla … she isn’t your mother, Asterin, she’s mine. And since I’m her daughter, I must have inherited her illusion affinity, even though it was suppressed along with my memories.”

  “Wait,” Rose said, and bent down. She picked up a smooth pebble from the ground, muttering beneath her breath. Slowly, affinity stone in hand, she carved a crude sigil into its surface and held it out. Luna recognized the sigil as Lord Pavon’s—God of Illusion. “This won’t work as well as a proper affinity stone, but …”

  Luna rolled the pebble between her fingers, recalling the hours she had spent in the wildflower meadow with Clara and Nathan. A luminescent drop of light slid from her fingertip like morning dew at her command, filling her with a euphoric feeling she hadn’t experienced for many cold, dark years. The drop transformed as Luna spread her fingers, winding outward in gossamer threads. As her friends looked on, just as Clara and Nathan once had, she wove a brilliant, gleaming illusion in the air. A peacock, its tail feathers shining brighter than a thousand dazzling jewels. It moved and bent at her will, bearing down upon them with its hooked beak before soaring upward, feathers fanning out, the fading daylight casting a ripple of iridescence over them. With her cheeks flushed with heat, Luna watched, transfixed, as the peacock stretched its magnificent neck and let out a terrific screech, so real that her friends gasped aloud.

  She—she had created this thing of beauty. This gift, this power—it was hers.

  Tears pricked her eyes, threatening to spill over. This is what she had missed, all these years. Her magic, her memories. Robbed.

  The illusion dissolved as her fingers curled around the rock. When she opened her fist, only sand remained, the rock crumbling down to nothing. Her magic had overwhelmed its capacities.

  “Did you say that you needed disguises?” Luna asked quietly, looking up at her friends, shocked into speechlessness. Only Harry didn’t seem surprised, just impressed.

  “Yes,” Quinlan said, eyes still wide. “That would be very helpful.”

  “If I may,” interjected Harry. “I could use your help too, Luna. But it will be dangerous.”

  Luna’s stomach twisted nervously. No, she thought to herself. You can do this. She had done too much sitting around, too much waiting.

  And she decided that she was done waiting.

  So she smiled and asked, “What do you need me to do?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  “Aletter for you, Your Royal Majesty,” a servant squeaked, bowing down to the crimson carpet before Queen Priscilla’s throne. The pudgy boy carefully offered her the scroll of parchment, his hands quaking.

  Priscilla snapped up the scroll in her fist. “Dismissed.” The boy struggled to his feet, scampering out as fast as his chubby legs would take him. After he disappeared, Priscilla glanced around the room, noting the four guards stationed by the entrance to Throne Hall. “A moment,” she commanded, her voice reverberating up to the cavernous ceiling.

  The guards marched out, but only when the heavy doors swung shut did she finally allow herself to look at the letter.

  The dark purple wax of the King of Ibreseos’s seal melted away at her touch, leaving only the faint indent of the heads of three rearing vipers—for Lady Ilma, Goddess of Air and House of the Viper. Priscilla pulled the scroll open and scanned the harsh, midnight-black strokes of ink, tracing her forefinger along the length of the parchment.

  When she finished reading the letter, her eyes lingered on King Jakob’s signature and the final line at the end of his message. She sighed, pressing the discolored parchment to the hollow of her throat.

  How many years had passed since she had last seen him? Since they had frolicked together in the gardens of the Ibresean stronghold, a duchess and a prince, young and hopeful?

  Fifteen years, of course. Two months. Twenty-one days.

  A knock sounded at the entrance and a moment later, Carlotta Garringsford nudged the doors open. “My queen, the royal florist awaits you.”

  Tucking the letter beneath the collar of her dress, Priscilla pushed herself out of her throne and strode out into the hall, the general escorting her back to her quarters. Servants already flitted about the corridors, perching atop ladders and hanging decorations in preparation for the Fairfest Ball. Of course, Priscilla had begun planning this year’s ball as soon as the last one had ended. Anticipation bubbled away just beneath her skin as she ascended the grand stairway. This year, she was pulling out all the stops. This year would be more spectacular than ever before.

  Because this year, King Jakob had finally accepted her invitation to the ball.

  Two men waited outside the door to her quarters with four of her personal guards when Priscilla arrived at the top floor of the palace. One of the men was as spindly as a flower stem and the other a nervous wreck.

  “Ah, Your Royal Majesty,” the spindly one—the florist—said. Priscilla wondered if a strong enough wind could blow him away. The head gardener stood behind him, sweating and fidgeting. “As always, it is an honor.”

  The guards opened the doors and Priscilla beckoned the pair into the sitting parlor. Garringsford didn’t so much as glance at her for permission before slipping inside as well.

  Priscilla extended a hand as she lowered herself onto the gray velvet settee facing the entrance. “Please, have a seat.”

  The florist and the gardener complied, sitting in stiff-backed chairs opposite the queen. Garringsford took the seat at the other end of the settee.

  “These are the arrangements we previously discussed, Your Majesty.” The florist laid out a half-dozen arrangements on the low table for her inspection. He smiled thinly. “Are they to your liking?” At her nod, he displayed two more bouquets. “Would you prefer silver spring lilies or coral gardenias at your place setting?”

  “The gardenias, thank you.” They would complement the lavender lisianthuses decking the ivory columns in the ballroom. Priscilla paused, struck by a sudden idea. “I want flowers hanging from the ceilings in glass baubles. Like little moons.”

  The gardener made a noise. “H-how are we to put flowers into blass gaubles? I mean, gas blaubles. I mean—”

  The florist shushed him. He peered at Priscilla from overtop the half-rimmed tortoiseshell spectacles perched upon his hawk-like nose. “About how many baubles is Your Majesty thinking?”

  The gardener’s lips flapped. “Your Majesty, there are only two days left before the ball—”

  Priscilla tapped her fingers on the armrest. Her mouth thinned in a cool smile to match the florist’s. “Thousands,” she decided.

  “Thousands?” the gardener squeaked, eyes as round as gold notes. “B-but, Your Majesty, the cost of such a thing—”

  “I assure you, the Fairfest Ball is more than enough justification for a little added expenditure,” Priscilla cut him off. “Should the head accountant
give you any trouble, you may direct her to me.”

  The gardener shriveled like a dead blossom under her icy stare, squeaking in compliance and bobbing his chin in a terrified nod.

  “After you approved the lavender-lilac color theme a month ago, Your Majesty, the floral arrangements have now been confirmed,” the florist went on, unruffled by Priscilla’s demeanor in the slightest. “In the meantime, have you any other requests?”

  She found his nonchalance amusing. “I don’t believe so.”

  He tipped his chin, and began bundling the flowers away in bolts of silk with careful, nimble fingers. He rose to his feet. “Then that will be all, Your Majesty. Good day.” With an elegant bow and a dainty sniff, he strode away, the gardener scurrying after him, tail between his legs.

  Once the doors shut behind them, Priscilla exhaled through her pursed lips, her thoughts going to the letter pressed against her bosom.

  As if reading her mind, Carlotta asked, “Who was that letter from earlier?”

  Priscilla scowled. “As if you don’t know.”

  The general stretched her arms up to the ceiling, spine popping loudly, and folded them behind her head. “Poor Tristan,” was all she said, with a little smirk.

  Someone rapped on the door. Priscilla swallowed her annoyance. Between preparations for Fairfest and other matters, she had hardly gotten a moment of peace all week.

  “Enter,” she called. A guard peeped in. “State your business.”

  “The first overseas guests have begun to arrive, Your Majesty,” said the guard. “As well, a messenger just delivered the news that His Royal Majesty, King Jakob Lucas Evovich the Third, ruler of Ibreseos—”

  “I know his name, for hell’s sake.” Priscilla’s stomach curdled with dread. Had he changed his mind about attending the ball after all?

  “A-apologies, Your Majesty,” the guard stammered. “King Jakob will be arriving one day early. He hopes that the early intrusion upon Your Majesty’s hospitality will not be a problem.”

  And just like that, her dread vanished. One day early, she thought, heart skipping a beat. He wants to see me as much as I want to see him.

  “Thank you very much for bringing this to my attention, soldier,” Priscilla said, suddenly dizzy with expectation. “Respond that I shall be honored to receive his presence early. Have the servants begin preparations immediately.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Once the guard had departed, Carlotta tutted, her gray eyes sharp. “Oh, my queen.”

  Priscilla resisted the urge to strangle the general. But everything had a price, and Priscilla still needed to pay her dues to this woman. “What?”

  Carlotta’s mouth tilted into a wicked smile. “Nothing. It’s just that if you wish so badly to play in the viper’s pit … you’d best prepare yourself for the fangs.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Luna rubbed her palms on her trousers. She had only managed to slip in a few hours of restless slumber in her room at the Singing Sword, a stately lodge in Axaris’s trade district, before the first rays of morning light had awoken her.

  To say that she was nervous would be a severe understatement. The milky-green jade illusionstone Eadric had bought her was already spotted with her fingerprints, smudged and slippery with sweat no matter how many times she wiped it off.

  Fairfest Eve was tonight.

  When they had arrived in Aldville on their way back to the capital, Eadric had sent a message ahead for the Elites at the palace. Thankfully, no wyverns attacked them this time. Once they reached the outskirts of Axaris, they found a pair of Elites waiting for them—Alicia and Silas. They left their horses—along with their belongings and most of their weapons—in the care of Alicia’s uncle, who owned a small equine veterinary practice nearby. The practice was busy enough that no one would question the sudden appearance of five horses, but small enough that hardly anyone would notice anyway. Afterward, the Elite pair departed with careful instructions from their captain and the promise that the rest of the Elites would be ready at hand in case the plan went awry.

  Asterin had flagged hansom cabs to take the rest of them into the city, but they ended up walking the last few blocks because the trade district streets grew too crowded for the cabs to pass. Jostling through throngs of Fairfest celebrators, they finally made it to the Singing Sword. Since there was no chance that anyone would recognize him, Harry had taken Asterin’s money and paid for a one-night stay. The rest of them kept their hoods up until they made it safely to the Diamond Suite on the top floor, which consisted of a large common room and several bedrooms and bathrooms. Despite the title it boasted, there wasn’t anything particularly luxurious about it, but they at least had the entire floor to themselves.

  They had gone to bed early. Luna wondered if anyone else had slept as poorly as she. By late afternoon, they would leave for the palace. But first, she needed to completely disguise and transform the faces of four of her friends. Although both Asterin and Quinlan wielded a little bit of illusionary magic, being omnifinitied, neither were powerful enough in that affinity for their illusions to hold for longer than a few minutes, so the responsibility weighed solely on Luna’s shoulders.

  Luna had tested her abilities nonstop since they had left the Aswiyre Forest. She’d changed the wallpaper in her room seven times already, and it never faded until she commanded it to.

  Now, her friends crowded around her in the common room, cornflowers blooming across the walls at their backs and melting into robins pecking at berries. Everyone except Eadric, who stood guard by the fire-exit door, had draped themselves over various pieces of mismatched furniture or on the floor, just like they used to back at Harry’s cottage. The only thing missing was the crackle of the hearth.

  “We’re ready when you are,” said Asterin.

  Luna rolled the illusionstone in her fingers, calmed by its smoothness, and gave the princess the firmest nod she could muster. “Who’s first?”

  Quinlan stood. “I’ll go,” he volunteered. “I’m not as recognizable as Asterin or Orion. Experiment, make mistakes.”

  Luna nodded gratefully and beckoned him closer. Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and brought the illusionstone to Quinlan’s face, one hand grasping his jaw, leaning in so close that she could count each of his eyelashes.

  Focus.

  That was what Quinlan always said to Asterin. Not in a thousand years had Luna thought that all those weeks of lurking on the fringes of their training sessions, hanging just out of sight from the garden or by the barn, would ever be of use to her. And even though Luna had believed her magic would always be painfully weak, she had still observed.

  She would be eternally thankful for the knowledge she now possessed.

  Luna drew a drop of magic from the deep gorge that had cracked open inside of her, letting it slowly well out of her fingertips and onto Quinlan’s skin.

  The prince exhaled, breath featherlight on her face. “Keep me pretty,” he joked.

  “No promises,” said Luna, and then began to mold.

  It reminded her of carving a sculpture. Years of working on busts made this almost easy—and she suddenly wondered if her love of sculpting had, in fact, been a manifestation caused by the suppression of her powers.

  First, Luna softened Quinlan’s bone structure—lowering the arch of his brow, weakening his chin and smoothing away the sharpness of his jawline. It was slow work. She proceeded with extreme caution, only daring to let tiny drops of magic leak out at a time. She feared loss of control—she had no idea what might happen.

  His hair came next. She dug her fingers into his scalp. To her alarm, the strands briefly flashed canary yellow, but no one commented or even stirred. They watched intently as each of Quinlan’s locks gradually lightened, dark brown graying to ash. She took a step back and circled him—an artist, inspecting her completed masterpie
ce. Finally, she deemed her work satisfactory and gave him a nod of approval.

  The others stared at Quinlan and Luna clasped her hands behind her back, waiting anxiously for their verdict.

  Quinlan’s eyes still gleamed indigo, and she hadn’t altered his height, but his chest was broader and his shoulders rounder. His face, of course, was unrecognizable.

  Asterin’s lips parted in amazement. “Garringsford has no idea what she’s got coming for her.”

  Luna flushed at the praise, unable to keep the smile off her face as she took in her friends’ expressions of awe. She tossed the illusionstone up and down in her palm casually, her magic bubbling beneath her skin. “So … who’s next?”

  Orion rubbed his palms together. “Me. Could you give me a tattoo? I’ve always wanted one.”

  While she worked on Orion, the others began discussing contingency plans.

  Asterin stood from her seat and began pacing. “After we expose Garringsford in front of the royals—”

  “Hold on,” Orion interrupted, jaw shifting beneath Luna’s fingers. “How are we going to do that, exactly? Why would any of them believe us?”

  “In order to borrow dark magic from King Eoin,” said Harry, “you must pay a price. King Eoin demands two things: one half of your life and whatever you hold dearest. Those who wield dark magic are granted something like temporary immortality. Once that immortality expires, they can continue to pay for dark magic by halving their lives again and again. This creates a sort of inescapable paradox. As the years pass and they absorb more and more shadow magic in place of their dwindling life, their appearance becomes increasingly grotesque and disfigured—more monster than human—but shadow magic can conceal that. So, if we lift the concealment in front of all the guests, there would be no question of her crime. Her fate would be sealed.”