Snowstorm King

by H L Macfarlane

  Elina stared at her in disbelief. “How do you know all of this?”

  Scarlett grinned; she tilted her head in Adrian’s direction, who was drinking a tankard of ale he’d brought up from downstairs. “He taught me most everything I know, believe it or not.”

  Considering Elina had heard rumours that Adrian Wolfe was a magician at the town hall meeting, she did not doubt it. He really did look like a magician…whatever that meant. It was probably his eyes, or the white streak in his dark hair.

  He scoffed at Scarlett’s answer. “Believe it or not, indeed. I am very well educated.”

  “No need to show off, Adrian.”

  Elina’s eyes darted between the two of them. “H-how much do I owe you for all of this?” she asked, lifting up her armful of remedies.

  “Oh, just take it for free,” Scarlett said. “Only…promise that you’ll keep us company whilst we’re in Alder. We could do with talking to someone local who’ll be honest with us.”

  “…about what?”

  “That depends,” Adrian said. “How honest will you be?”

  “Certainly more honest than the people downstairs would be.”

  He laughed amiably. “Oh, I like you. So tell me, Miss Brodeur; why can I smell magic upon you?”

  She froze. Magic? On her?

  “Adrian, don’t scare her,” Scarlett chided. She touched Elina’s arm gently. “Pay him no mind. Adrian is a little more…sensitive to some things than most folk are.”

  “Are you here because of magic?” Elina asked.

  “Possibly,” Scarlett replied, her answer decidedly ambiguous. “We don’t know yet. But now we’re stuck here either way. So might you keep us company some nights and help us work out what’s going on?”

  Elina knew she should say no. She had too much going on with her mother’s sickness and her stupid deal with Kilian Hale. But how could she resist the allure of magic? Elina was deathly curious.

  Then she spotted a bag of bath salts inside Scarlett’s trunk. Thinking of Kilian’s bath, and how she never wanted to see him naked again if she could avoid it, she smiled slightly.

  “Give me those bath salts and I’ll gladly help you however I can.”

  Chapter Six

  Kilian

  Elina Brodeur was acting unnecessarily servile. Kilian wanted her to snap and talk back to him, like she had done when she’d first left the castle. But she hadn’t; instead, she demurely obeyed all of Kilian’s orders without so much as a word of complaint. It infuriated him to no end.

  And so Kilian got drunk, as he always did. He got so royally drunk he’d put the local alcoholics of Alder to shame. Not that he could know this for a fact, given he couldn’t leave the castle, but the sentiment was there.

  “Elina, get over here,” he drawled. Kilian was spread lazily over his bed, the sheets crumpled and creased beneath him as he rolled around with a bottle of vodka. He was well and truly wasted; so wasted, in fact, that he wasn’t even aware that it was barely noon.

  “Your Royal Highness, you have guests waiting for you in the throne room!” Elina exclaimed in horror when she dutifully rushed into Kilian’s chambers.

  “I told you not to call me that,” he slurred.

  “And yet I shall, because I have to,” she replied, green eyes set with determination as she watched over the sprawling figure of the man who ruled her country, drunk out of his mind.

  “But I am regent, and I told you not to. Dare you defy me?”

  “Even so…”

  Kilian knew she was being careful, and why; the fate of her entire town rested on her shoulders. He found it highly amusing that, in turn, what happened to Alder rested in his palms and that, if he failed to do anything to help them, it would be Elina who suffered for it. Elina, who hated the town that ignored her. Elina, who was trying to help them anyway.

  He was determined to find out exactly why she was doing this.

  It can’t only be because of her mother, he opined. She said her mother was sick, but so what? People get sick all the time. And it’s not like I didn’t offer to let them both stay in the castle. If her mother’s health was all that mattered then Elina would have taken me up on that.

  “You really have to be in the throne room,” Elina murmured, looking away when Kilian slid his hands beneath the waistband of his leggings to pull out the hem of his shirt. “Your guests have been waiting for a while, and I highly doubt they’ll be as patient as I was when I sought an audience with you.”

  Kilian barked out a laugh. “Probably not. And yet I won’t see them, but I saw you.”

  “Your Royal Highness –”

  “Stop calling me that.”

  “But you are a prince, and regent, whether you want to be or not!”

  Kilian sat up and grabbed Elina’s sleeve, dragging her towards him. “And what would you say if I told you I don’t want to be in this position?” he asked, eyes glittering dangerously. Fear flitted across her face for but half a second as she gulped, and then it was gone.

  “I’d say that you not wanting to be king is hardly a revelation. That much is obvious.”

  “You dare say that to my face but refuse to do away with my title? You make no sense, Elina.”

  She pulled her sleeve out of Kilian’s grasp. “Maybe not, but I do not have to explain myself to you, either way.”

  “Yes you do. I’m your king.”

  “…then act like one.”

  Elina uttered those words so quietly that Kilian, in his drunken haze, barely heard them. For some reason they stung, though he knew they were true. Outside the wind rattled the stone of the castle, threatening to break through the window. He considered for one wild moment to allow the weather to get even worse, simply to strand Elina here, with him.

  Let me watch her worry over her stupid town and her stupid mother who thought herself talented enough to make me clothes, whilst I lie here getting so drunk she does not know what to do with me.

  For of course Kilian knew who Elina’s mother was. Or, at least, he had finally remembered after sobering up the day after they’d made their deal. Though he’d been very young Kilian remembered the encounter acutely. That winter had been bitterly cold, after all; his mother wanted him and his brother Gabriel wrapped in the warmest fabrics. Kilian had not wanted clothes spun by simple-minded commoners, though in truth the clothes were finely made. He’d thrown them in the fire, much to the horror of his parents.

  If he were sober Kilian might have exhibited an ounce of shame remembering such an act. It hadn’t simply been unbecoming of him, even at three – it had been unfair. The clothes had been lovely. Going by Elina’s dresses and cloaks, her mother had only grown more talented in her skill with a needle. Lily Brodeur and her father had merely sought to clothe him in fabrics warm enough to keep out the winter chill, as had Elina when she looked out the right clothes for Kilian to sleep in.

  But even so, Kilian didn’t care. They were only clothes, and the Brodeurs were mere commoners. They could do whatever they wanted – travel wherever they wanted – and yet they clung to the side of the stupid mountainside even as it threatened to kill them. It was beyond stupid.

  And so he ignored Elina’s comment to act more like a king because, at least for him, he had never been given a choice. Kilian had to be king even if he was terrible at it, so terrible he would be. Elina could literally choose to leave at any point.

  But she didn’t.

  “See to my guests for me,” he muttered, pulling a cover over his head as he took a swig from his bottle of vodka like a hungry newborn babe with milk.

  “I cannot do that!” Elina protested. “I will not!”

  “You would disobey a direct order from me?”

  There was a pause. “If this is how you mean to treat me then yes. This was a mistake. You can keep your stupid deal; I won’t be back again.”

  Kilian fell out of bed before he could stop himself.

  “No!” he exclaimed, much louder than he had expected to spea
k. Elina’s face went blank though he could tell she was, in truth, surprised. “No,” Kilian repeated, calmer this time. He sat back down on his bed. “You’re right; how could you possibly know how to deal with foreign diplomats? Go home. But come back tomorrow. I’ll deal with them myself.”

  It was a back-handed apology if it could be called an apology at all. But it seemed to work for Elina, though Kilian doubted the same tactic would have the same effect a second time.

  “Fine,” she said, not looking him in the eye. “I shall take my leave, then.”

  She didn’t say goodbye. She didn’t even look at him. When Elina exited Kilian’s bedroom he was tempted once more to trap her in the castle; to cause the snow to pile up so high and the wind to bite so harshly that she couldn’t possibly take a single foot outside.

  He resisted.

  Instead, Kilian forced himself out of bed and into slightly more regal clothes, smoothed back his hair and left for the throne room.

  I hate diplomats, he thought, sincerely wishing he was back in his room drinking himself unconscious.

  Chapter Seven

  Elina

  Elina hated Kilian’s castle. It was cold and dark and empty and…lonely.

  Very, very lonely.

  She had thought her life in Alder was isolated; it was nothing compared to what the king’s life must be like living in such cavernous halls all alone.

  “He did that to himself,” Elina muttered as she ran Kilian a bath. She’d been working for the man for close to a week now. He was yet to send any supplies or provisions to Alder, so the town was still dutifully ignoring Elina. For all they knew she had completely failed at her task and was simply hiding every day to avoid their scorn and judgement.

  She hated it. Kilian had her work every menial task he could think of – which largely involved making fires, fetching him more alcohol and, on occasion, preparing and bringing him food. Most of the time he simply wanted to keep her near to insult people or complain to her about nothing in particular. Elina largely suspected that all he wanted was to hear the sound of his own voice – that it ultimately didn’t matter who he was speaking to.

  It still shocked her somewhat that Kilian had actually spoken to the diplomats who had sought an audience with him a few days prior. One of the remaining servants had informed Elina of this fact the following day, though what she was supposed to do with this information she had no clue. She knew the diplomats were from the country waging war against them – the people Kilian’s older brother, Gabriel, was fighting.

  What can I do about that? she wondered as she added the final bowl of water to the bath. What did that servant hope to achieve from me knowing that Kilian actually did his job? Were they suggesting that it was now my job to ensure he always did his?

  That was something Elina didn’t want to be in charge of at all, especially considering how much else she was currently responsible for. Still, with the remedies Scarlett and Adrian had given her at least she didn’t have to worry so much about her mother’s health; she finally seemed able to sleep and the feverish chills that had plagued her for weeks had abated. For that Elina was eternally grateful, and was determined to sit down with the mysterious pair to tell them everything they needed to know about Alder and its people.

  You smell of magic.

  Elina couldn’t get Adrian Wolfe’s words out of her head. She was dying to know what they meant – and how Adrian had sensed magic from her in the first place. She could only conclude that he really was a magician. It was exciting, given that Elina had never met a magician before despite her ‘father’ being one.

  But the thought was driven out of her head for her when Kilian entered his chambers, drunk as usual. Elina suppressed a heavy eye roll when the man tumbled onto the bed with an exhausted sigh, as if his day had been long and hard instead of short and full of nothing.

  It was then that Elina remembered the bath salts she had so foolishly asked Scarlett for, so she retrieved them from the bag she’d brought with her and dumped a load of them unceremoniously into the bathtub. They clouded the water immediately, foaming around the edges of the tub whilst emitting a pleasantly foreign, spicy scent; Elina relished the smell as she breathed it in.

  Kilian coughed. “What have you put in my bath, woman?” he demanded as he stumbled over to investigate, eyes bleary, red and slightly unfocused.

  “Bath salts,” she explained. “They’re good for your skin.”

  “They make the water look filthy,” he replied, surveying the steaming bath with distaste.

  “Why would I make my life that much harder by trying to coax you into a dirty bath? I’d only have to run you a new one afterwards if that were the case.”

  Kilian didn’t seem to like Elina’s infallible logic, but his near-constant desire to be warmer than he currently was overrode that dislike. With another grimace at the bath he pulled his shirt up and over his head before removing his boots and leggings, not bothering to turn from Elina as he undressed. She knew he did this because it embarrassed her, which only made her hatred for Kilian grow.

  He did not respect her, not even in her capacity as a servant. She doubted he respected anyone at all.

  But she could do something about Kilian’s nakedness, at least whilst he was in the bath – namely covering him up with cloudy, steaming, exotically spiced water. And he didn’t seem to have worked out her ulterior motives yet, which Elina was relieved about. She was fairly certain that if Kilian were aware of her intentions he would parade about naked in front of her just to make a point, no matter how cold he might be.

  When he slid beneath the murky water’s surface she bit back a noise of relief. It set Elina on edge to have the prince regent of her country stand in front of her in all his naked vulnerability, no matter how useless a ruler he was. She didn’t want the implied responsibility of protecting him, after all. If someone were to come into Kilian’s chambers looking to harm him, would he expect Elina to stand between him and his foe? She hoped not…for she certainly wouldn’t do it.

  “Comb my hair again, Elina,” Kilian sighed, clearly already very content in his bath. So she retrieved his comb and the chair she’d sat on before and moved over to the bath and, without thinking, dunked the man’s head beneath the water. She realised too late that she absolutely shouldn’t have.

  When Kilian broke the water’s surface he was sputtering in indignation. “What on earth was that for?!”

  Elina knew if she showed any weakness then he would take advantage of it. “You need to wash your hair,” she explained simply. “And now it’ll smell nice when it dries.”

  “Who cares if it smells nice?” Kilian muttered, though he settled into the bath once more and arched his neck back for Elina to comb his now soaking hair nonetheless.

  As compensation for dunking his head underwater – which, now that she’d gotten away it, Elina could admit to having enjoyed immensely – she was particularly gentle with combing Kilian’s hair. She worked through it with her fingers as much as the teeth of the ivory comb, rubbing her fingertips against his scalp to ensure no undissolved bath salts remained.

  When Kilian emitted a low groan from the back of his throat, she paused. He flashed her a drunken, warning glare.

  “Don’t stop that,” he ordered. “I like it. Keep going.”

  Elina put down the comb and gingerly placed her fingertips back on Kilian’s scalp. She didn’t want to massage his head. She didn’t want to do anything that would make him happy, even though making him happy would undoubtedly help Alder. But that didn’t stop her hating the man…and she knew she was good at head massages. Her grandmother taught her, whom people used to pay to have massage their heads and shoulders.

  She knew she had to swallow her pride. Being contrary for the sake of it would get her nowhere except out in the cold with no food to survive the winter. So Elina got to work, slowly and softly moving her fingertips in small circles whilst gradually increasing their pressure against Kilian’s scalp. He clo
sed his eyes, leaning his head back just a little more as if urging Elina’s fingers to come closer.

  Outside the window all was still, which unsettled Elina. Not being able to hear the wind rattle the window frame or hailstones pounding the glass made her think that the eye of a storm must surely have hit, and that things were only going to get worse on her miserable walk back home.

  Without thinking her fingers moved to Kilian’s ears, sliding along their edge and down to his earlobes, which she rubbed between her fingertips before moving further down Kilian’s neck and –

  She stopped. Hands frozen in place on either side of Kilian’s head, Elina wondered what had possessed her to travel further along his body than his ears. When Kilian opened his eyes and looked up at her they were hazy – no doubt from the alcohol, but Elina thought it might mean something else.

  “I didn’t tell you to stop, Elina,” he murmured. Elina watched his lips as he spoke, which were wet from the bath. Her face grew red, though the heat from the fire did a good job of explaining that away. “Keep doing whatever you were doing.”

  With a small frown of uncertainty she crept her hands back up his head; Kilian responded by reaching up and covering her hands with his own, much larger ones. He pulled them down to his neck without saying a word.

  Kilian didn’t close his eyes this time. He kept them locked on Elina’s face as she reluctantly worked out an inordinate amount of tension from his neck, moving onto his shoulders when he finally took his hands away from hers. But when she saw where his hands were going, even though the murky water obscured her from actually seeing anything, she recoiled away.

  “I’m not – I’m not touching you for you to – to touch yourself!” she bit out, mortified.

  Kilian’s eyes flashed. “And why not? I’m the king. I can order you to do what I like.”