by Elly Blake
Doreena laughed in her quiet way. “Such sarcasm. Have you been taking lessons from Lady Marella?”
“You know that’s the one thing she doesn’t need to teach me.”
She continued to smile. “Well, you are neither a horse nor its…” She cleared her throat to avoid the rest, which just showed that Doreena was more refined than I’d ever be. “And you are quite endearing, my lady. Before you protest, you are a lady, because the king says you are. You wear fine dresses and have a beautiful room. Accept your place, else the court will never accept you.”
As if it were that easy. However, she had a point about the room. Red brocade curtains fell in thick folds, creating a snug cocoon around the four-poster bed. An arched mullioned window, complete with a window seat, faced a garden bursting with flowers and topiaries. An overstuffed wingback chair nestled between a fireplace and a mahogany bookshelf crammed with books. Arcus had chosen the room, placing me in the wing used by the royal family. I sensed he was trying his best to make me as comfortable as possible in a place he knew felt very far from home.
Wherever “home” was. Even if people had returned to my village now that the raids against Firebloods had ended, it wouldn’t be the same without Mother there.
Grief stabbed me, a twisting knife in the dead center of my chest. Mother had died trying to protect me from the Frost King’s soldiers, from the captain who’d blithely killed her and burned our village. If she were here, no doubt she’d tell me to try to fit in, to make allowances for people’s prejudices, to hide the heat that makes them all so uncomfortable. But that’s exactly what I’d been trying to do for weeks.
I tugged at the frothy lace that dripped at my wrists, hiding my pain with petty complaints. “Could you please tell the seamstress I don’t need so much lace at my collar and cuffs? Marella’s gowns are always sleekly tailored, but this woman seems determined to make me look barely old enough to cut my own meat.”
Doreena’s gaze swept over the dress. “You look very pretty, my lady. Perhaps you’re nervous.”
I stifled the urge to argue. Now that she was my lady’s maid, I was glad Doreena felt freer to tell me what she thought. And she was right. I was nervous.
“I hate facing all those snobby nobles. They stare at me like I’m about to burst into flames at any second. Last night Lady Blanding looked me in the eye as she spilled wine on my dress! I could have happily set her hair on fire.”
Doreena came to stand in front of me, regarding me seriously with her owlish brown eyes. She still had the look of a woodland creature, ready to startle and bolt at any sudden movement. However, she’d been the first person to show me kindness here, and considering Rasmus had been king at the time, that had taken courage.
“You must not lose your temper,” she advised, not for the first time. “That’s when you fail to control your gift. And that’s exactly what they want—to prove that Firebloods are dangerous and that you’re unsuitable for court. They want the king to see you as they do: a threat.”
To some degree, I understood their hostility. After centuries of wars, broken treaties, and retaliation, Frostbloods and Firebloods had learned to regard each other with bone-deep distrust. I looked at my hands, small and sun-browned and innocuous-looking, but with the ability to wipe out a battalion of soldiers if I wanted. No wonder the court feared me. Sometimes I feared myself.
I met Doreena’s pleading gaze. “It’s hard to grin and pretend I don’t notice their insults.”
“You don’t have to grin. Just don’t light them on fire.”
I grunted noncommittally. “I make no promises.”
On the way to the dining hall, a draft from the open door of the former throne room chilled my arms into gooseflesh. I’d avoided this room in the weeks since I’d melted the throne, but tonight I was drawn to the stark emptiness, the eerie peacefulness of dust motes tracing lazy curlicues in the twilight. At sunrise, the mosaic floor tiles would flash with vivid color, but now it all looked washed in gray. Stale and abandoned.
Arcus no longer used this as the throne room—it held the echo of too many horrible memories. Instead, he’d placed a simple ice throne, square cut and modest, in a receiving room on the ground floor.
My soft-soled slippers made no sound as I approached the spot where the massive frost throne had sat for centuries.
According to myth—or history, if you believed the stories were true—the ice throne had been the handiwork of Fors, the god of the north wind. Not satisfied with merely creating Frostbloods, he’d also given them an enormous throne of ice to strengthen the powers of their monarchs. A particularly useful gift considering the regularity of the wars against Firebloods.
Not to be outdone by Fors, his twin sister, Sud, goddess of the south wind, had created a throne of lava to enhance the powers of her precious Fireblood rulers.
When their brother Eurus, god of the east wind, had tried and failed to create his own race of people, he’d ended up instead with voracious shadow creatures that killed Frostbloods and Firebloods indiscriminately. So the wise and peace-loving Cirrus, goddess of the west wind, had finally plunged into the fray, sweeping the thousands of shadowy Minax underground to a place called the Obscurum, sealing it behind a Gate of Light that no mortal could breach. Then the siblings’ mother, Neb, had decreed that none of her children could interfere in the mortal world any longer, which meant the Gate should stay closed forever.
Eurus was tricky, though. He’d saved two of his favorite Minax from exile, hiding one in the Frostblood throne and the other in the Fireblood throne. The Minax, with their ability to possess people, provoked the kings and queens into increased enmity and hatred, causing war and mayhem and the deaths of many more Firebloods and Frostbloods.
After centuries of bolstering Frostblood rule, the throne of Fors was gone. All that was left from where it had once sat was a discolored area of tile, round and shiny black, a stain that could never be scrubbed away. Much like the scar near my left ear, which the Minax had given me in this very room after it escaped from the melted throne.
My fingers moved to stroke the heart-shaped mark.
As soon as I touched it, I was plunged into another vision, dark and deep.
I stand in a cavernous room with black stone pillars straining up into looming darkness. I move over the floor, not walking but gliding like a ragged exhalation, as if I’m made of air. By tiny degrees, the outline of a heavy black shape sharpens into an unkempt, asymmetrical rectangle chiseled out of night.
It’s a throne—wide enough to fit ten men, yet only one small figure sits on it, feet dangling high above the floor. Greenish light reflects off the figure’s onyx crown, which is gnarled and pointed, like twisted antlers interlocking and curving up almost a foot in height. The figure’s head is bent a little, as if the crown is too heavy for the delicate stem of its neck. Closed lids open to reveal yellow eyes pinning me where I hover several feet away. I sweep downward in a misty approximation of a bow, then straighten.
“Come closer,” the figure says, the voice soft and female.
I long to obey, to slide underneath her skin to feel her power.
“You have the stone?” she asks.
I hand it to her. As she takes the stone, fire glows around it, lighting the room. A triumphant smile breaks over her face, and the sight spills something like happiness into my soul.
“You’ve done well,” she says. “You will be rewarded.”
She beckons. Joy lights my mind.
As I seep into her fingers, I gaze at her face, where strands of inky hair cling to her cheeks and chin.
Suddenly, I was back in the throne room, struggling to draw my next breath. Pain bit into my palms. I opened my fists. My fingernails had scored angry red crescents into my skin.
I scrubbed my hands against my face, trying to rub away the horror of recognition.
When I’d moved toward the queen with the twisted black crown, the face she’d worn was my own.
TWO
I LONGE
D TO RUN FROM THE THRONE room, to get as far away as fast as I could, but I was conscious of the guards in the hallway. Instead, I pinched my earlobe and gave myself a stern lecture. Get ahold of yourself, Ruby. You can’t go tearing around the castle like a wild boar.
I needed Brother Thistle. With his knowledge of history and myth, he might have some theory of the vision’s meaning. As Arcus’s closest confidant ever since their time together at Forwind Abbey, he often dined with the king and court. I straightened my spine and made my way to the dining hall on unsteady legs, taking a moment to smooth my features into a placid mask before entering.
A carnival of torches glowed from black metal sheaths, tilting away from the ice-covered walls. Candles winked like lightning bugs atop icicles that dripped from a massive chandelier. The scent of roasted meat clashed with the ladies’ flowery perfumes.
Arcus sat at the head of the table, at ease in a midnight-blue doublet, his mahogany hair adorned with the plain silver band that he wore as a crown during formal occasions. I scanned the table for Brother Thistle and felt a swoop of disappointment when I realized he wasn’t among tonight’s guests. No doubt he’d found some excuse to remain perched over books in the castle library like a broody hen roosting among her eggs. I half turned to the door, but Arcus noticed me and stood.
I was trapped. I couldn’t leave now without appearing rude.
The rest of the men stood as well, some of them readily, like Lord Manus and Lord Pell, new additions to court. However, they didn’t hold the lands and resources that others did, like Lord Blanding and Lord Regier, bastions of King Rasmus’s old guard. Arcus needed them on his side to maintain the kingdom’s strength and unity.
These older noblemen rose more slowly and reluctantly at my arrival.
Arcus motioned to a chair of carved ice covered in a white fox pelt at his right. A chill slid up my back as I moved forward and sat in the familiar chair. The seat at the king’s right was a place of honor, but it was also where King Rasmus had forced me to dine with him—a tradition for champions who had won in his arena. I’d had the dubious honor of being the first Fireblood to win against his Frostblood champions, something that had drawn his attention in ways I’d rather forget. The memory of the former king hung in the air like smoke in a windowless room.
The noblemen rustled back into their seats, the rotund Lord Blanding with a satisfied groan. Lady Blanding patted her elaborately piled gray hair and sniffed loudly before turning to Lady Regier. “I always fancy I smell singed meat when the Fireblood girl is near,” she said in a booming whisper.
The lovely Marella, who sat on the other side of the table, caught my eye and tilted her head to indicate Lady Blanding. “I always fancy I smell mothballs when the old crow dines with us.”
Lord Manus snorted, then covered the sound with a cough.
“Marella,” I whispered, sending her a stern look. The last thing I wanted was for her to draw attention to me.
The aquamarine feather on her headband curved delicately over her braided wheat-gold hair as she leaned toward me. “Don’t worry. She can’t hear a thing unless you’re shouting in her ear. I could tell her to jump off the eastern cliffs and she’d just compliment my gown.”
Her less-than-innocent grin drew an answering smile from Lady Blanding, who said, “You look absolutely divine tonight, Lady Marella. Your seamstress has outdone herself. And how jaunty that feather is.”
“Thank you, Lady Blanding,” said Marella with a dip of her chin. “Your hair looks like a wasp’s nest.”
I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Lady Blanding smiled warmly and sipped her wine.
Lord Ustathius, who sat at the king’s left hand, glared at his daughter. “You insult one of the king’s court, and by association, the king himself.”
“She can’t hear me,” Marella replied calmly, nodding as a footman piled her plate with slices of thinly shaved roast beef.
“The rest of us can,” he replied. “You owe the king an apology.”
She arched a brow at Arcus. “Shall I grovel on my knees, Your Majesty, or would hand-wringing suffice?”
Arcus’s lips were slightly compressed, as if he held in a smile. “To be honest, I see no reason for you to apologize, as you were defending one guest from another. But if you’re desperate to atone…”
“I am. Aren’t I, Father?”
Lord Ustathius’s brow lowered ominously.
“Then you must grant me a favor,” Arcus continued. “I’ve invited several ambassadors and heads of state to a ball to help seal our tentative peace accords. I would like your help planning the details of the affair.”
I tried to stifle the feeling of envy at Arcus turning to Marella for help and not me. It wasn’t Marella’s fault that she was raised to be the perfect lady. It was logical for Arcus to ask her. But it was one more reason that Lord Ustathius was right—his daughter was far more suited to stand at Arcus’s side than I was.
“Tentative peace accords, indeed,” said Lord Regier, the proud angle of his chin providing an unwelcome view up his generous nostrils. “We have received only the vaguest of agreements from the kingdom of Safra, despite the fact that we know they can’t hold out much longer. Rumor has it that eastern commerce suffers greatly from lack of trade with us. And our southern provinces, which should be offering allegiance to the new king, are still insisting that they reject Frostblood rule! Never mind that the traitors live on Tempesian land that we generously allow them to cultivate. And to add to their insults, they have offered rewards to anyone who produces the king’s head on a pike!”
“They have every reason for defiance,” said Lord Pell, conviction in his blue-gray eyes. “The southern provinces have always welcomed immigration from Sudesia. As a result, most of the Firebloods—and the raids against them—were concentrated in the south. You can’t blame the provinces for hating King Rasmus. But their dignitary will certainly feel differently about the new king.”
“There’s nothing certain about it,” Lord Regier replied. “I might remind you that they harbored the very Fireblood rebels responsible for the death of His Majesty’s own mother and for the horrendous attack that resulted in our king’s scars.”
Silence fell.
Even if he wasn’t bothered by the insensitive remark about his scars, I ached for what Arcus must be feeling, having his mother’s death brought up so casually, and by such a buffoon. His mother had been killed by Fireblood rebels during the time when Arcus’s father, King Akur, had taken land away from the southern provinces. The southerners had naturally rebelled, including a significant number of Firebloods. Not only was his mother killed by these southern rebels, an assassination attempt had also been made on Arcus.
“That’s all in the distant past,” said Arcus tightly. “It’s time to establish a dialogue with the provinces. We’ve sent a messenger to invite their dignitary to the ball.”
Lady Regier chuckled. “You’d have some illiterate farmer dusting up the great hall?” She shuddered theatrically.
Arcus stared at her until her smile faded. “I will welcome an important leader whom I hope will become a valued ally.” He paused before adding, “I’ve also sent an invitation to the queen of Sudesia.”
My breath caught as gasps reverberated around the table. The Fireblood queen.
“You’ve invited our greatest enemy to our capital?” Lord Blanding stood, dropping his napkin onto the table. Though his words were directed at Arcus, he glared at me. “Have you forgotten that Sudesia supported the southern rebellion?”
“We don’t know that for certain,” Lady Manus interjected, regarding him steadily with her cobalt eyes. “And it wasn’t much of a rebellion, was it? King Rasmus made sure of that by killing half the population of the Aris Plains.”
“A gross exaggeration.” Lord Blanding gave her a disgusted look before turning back to Arcus. “You go too far, Your Majesty. I cannot help but conclude that such a rash decision was brought about by your a
ffection for this… this girl.” His small mouth pursed in outrage, the tension in his jaw making his jowls shake. I stared back until his eyes slid away.
“Sit down, Blanding,” said Lord Manus coolly. “Do you really think the queen will agree to come? His Majesty sent the invitation as a sop to mollify the southern provinces.” He turned to Arcus. “At least, I’m assuming that was the strategy? Show good faith to the Fireblood queen in the hopes that the provinces will come to the table to talk?”
“I invited the queen of Sudesia because I hope she’ll attend.” Arcus’s eyes returned to me. “Your attendance at the ball would also be welcome, Lady Ruby. It would be good for the ambassadors to see how Frostbloods and Firebloods are mending ties.”
I didn’t relish the further attention a ball would bring, but I was willing to do what I could, even as a sort of informal ambassador. I was elated that he actually wanted to mend ties with Sudesia, the Fireblood homeland, a place I had wondered about for as long as I could remember. He gave my hand a squeeze and let go before we made the table truly uncomfortable. I dropped it in my lap, smiling my approval. Something like hope fluttered in my chest.
Lord Pell began to laugh. “I always said you were a raging optimist, Arcus. If the Fire Queen attends your ball, I’ll wear my smallclothes on my head.”
“Well!” Lady Blanding nearly howled. “What a revolting image!”
Arcus stifled a smile and turned back to Marella. “Are you up to the task of throwing a ball, my lady?”
My chest tightened again, but I forced a small smile when Arcus glanced at me. I would not allow myself to be petty. Marella was the best person for the task.
“I’d be delighted,” said Marella. “It’s been ages since we had a proper ball here. I look forward to experimenting with Cook on new dishes. And my dancing skills have been growing quite rusty. I’m sure to break toes.”
“Well, you’ll have time to practice beforehand. I’ve set the date for the autumnal equinox.”
“How festive! Isn’t that when the peasants dance around the fire to thank the gods for the harvest?” She looked at me expectantly, presumably because I was the only person of low birth at the table.
