by K. Webster
Cold Queen
Copyright © 2019 K Webster
Cover Design: Black Widow Designs
Editor: Emily A. Lawrence Editing
Formatting: Champagne Book Design
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Title Page
Copyright
Synopsis
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
The Sinister Fairy Tales Collection
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Books by K Webster
In a cold, empty castle, a young queen is dying.
Weak. Fragile. Disgraced.
But Queen Whitestone is not alone in her final days.
She has her beloved sister.
Until a wicked king rides onto her land.
Arrogant. Insufferable. Demanding.
King Bloodsun has come with an offer…peace in trade for a bride.
He wants the princess.
The fiery king won’t take no for an answer.
He vows to keep the cold queen captive until she gives in to his demands.
A queen bows for no one, though.
Not even when she’s frail and fading away.
She’ll tap into her strength, protecting the only family she has left.
The king is about to learn why they call her the cruel one…
To my husband—you’re the fire to my ice.
Elzira
Fifteen Years Old…
Snow falls silently, chilling my face, as Yanna and I wait for Father to kiss us farewell. Yanna fidgets, always eager to get into mischief, but I keep her still beside me with my hand clutching her shoulder. Father quietly instructs the Eyes of the White. His powerful voice drifts my way and I catch pieces of his commands.
Keep them safe at all costs.
Protect the Norta Icelands from those of the Souta, the Easta, and the Westa.
Those who fail will pay with their lives.
Finally, Father finishes and turns to regard us. He is tall, with the palest hair and skin. His eyes resemble the blue stones his wife, and Yanna’s mother, Plyrienne, wears around her throat. Plyrienne already kissed her daughter and forced a smile at me. I know Father loves Plyrienne, but she doesn’t love me. I gave up hoping for motherly affection from her years ago. Yanna, however, owns my heart. She may be my half-sister, but she is my everything.
“Yanna,” Father starts, opening his arms to her.
At only eight years of age, she barely comes to the middle of his chest. He easily picks her up, hugging her to him. An ache forms in my chest. I miss the days when Father would pluck me up and carry me around the palace grounds. But I’m no longer a child. I have crossed into womanhood, just recently taken the journey via The Bloods. Now, every thirty days, I’m reminded I am a woman. Often, painfully so.
Father murmurs things to Yanna that have her giggling. Eventually, she wiggles out of his arms and takes off running back into the castle, her long dark-brown braid bouncing. When she’s indoors, Father frowns at me.
I lift my chin in the regal way Plyrienne does since I know he always smiles when she does it. Father does not smile at me, though. His brows deepen as he lifts a hand to cup my cheek.
“Loveliest Elzira,” he says softly. “You look just as your mother did the day I met her.”
Loss claws at my heart. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss my mother. She caught an illness that weakened her. We watched her die before our very eyes. Slowly as the disease took her.
“Thank you, Father.”
He purses his lips together. “If I do not return—”
“Father!” I cry out.
His hand cuts through the air, silencing me. “Enough, my heart. There are words that must be spoken. Words you must hear.”
I fight tears that threaten to spill over my cheeks. Father would see that as weakness, so I quickly blink them away. “Go on.”
“If we do not return, this kingdom will be yours. Your sister will become your duty. The people of Norta Icelands will call you their queen. The Eyes of the White will be your army to command. You will become The Punisher of The Damned.”
I shudder thinking of The Damned. Their crazed screams and snapping teeth find their way into my slumber, stealing my safety even in sleep. The Damned are those who are driven from their kingdoms and are forced to starve. They are banished to Equatoria—barren wastelands separating the four strongest kingdoms. When The Damned have completely lost their minds to madness, Volcs—from the Souta Volcanoes—drive them into our land in hopes to exterminate them. But The Damned seem unfeeling of the cold. Their toes and fingers and ears fall off, but they keep coming. They storm into our land only to be slaughtered by the Eyes of the White. I have seen them with my own eyes. Seen the Eyes of the White paint the snow red as they cut through each and every one of them with their diamondblades.
Father thrives on being The Punisher of The Damned. I’ve seen the glee glimmering in his eyes after a hunt. I’m terrified of them. The thought of running through the snowdrifts after them makes me shudder.
Father, sensing my feelings, scowls at me. “You cannot be weak, my heart. This is our legacy. I count on you in my absence. And if my absence is permanent, your sister will count on you too. Vow to me you will rule this land with a diamond fist.”
A tear leaks out, freezing on my cheek. “I promise, Father.”
He brushes away the frozen tear and smiles. “Trust your instinct. Trust only yourself. Trust in the cold.”
His breath blows out hot air in front of him, but then with a flourish of his hand, he freezes his breath. The gift my father proudly displays isn’t one he passed down to either daughter. For as long as I can remember, I’ve attempted his tricks of the hand to no avail. He offers me the frozen cloud of air. It glistens in the muted daylight. Beautiful to look at. I take it in my gloved palms and admire the tiny white lines decorating the opaque ice.
“Trust in your gift. Deep inside, it lives. One day, you will find it and you will use it. Never be afraid to use it.”
He kisses the top of my head and turns on his heel without another word. I watch tearfully as he climbs into the carriage where my stepmother awaits. Within a week’s time, they’ll be on the coast and sailing to the Easta Waterways—Plyrienne’s homeland—for a visit to her father.
A white blur captures my attention. The Eyes of the White are everywhere. Turning away from the man hidden in white clothing, I watch as my father disappears.
“We shall keep you safe,” a familiar voice says, bright green eyes intently burning into me. I recognize this particul
ar man of Father’s army. Cavon. He is the son of one of my father’s best men, Torridy.
“Many thanks, Cavon,” I tell him smoothly, desperately hoping to keep the sadness from my voice.
A scream of one of The Damned echoes from the distance, making me jolt in terror.
Father’s art slips from my grip and shatters at my feet.
My heart shatters too, because I get the sinking feeling my father isn’t coming back.
Elzira
Ten years later…
I should go to greet them.
Or send Cavon and the Eyes of the White to cut off all their heads.
Unfortunately, I do neither.
Let them come.
Let him come.
When Father and Plyrienne were killed on their travels by nomads, our kingdom was an immediate target. The moment word arrived of their deaths, I was crowned quickly and quietly. Overnight I went from frightened girl to ruling queen. I was no longer a sister to little Yanna, but instead, I became a mother. And just like the white Norta bears, I became fiercely protective over my sister. Claws I didn’t know existed grew and I used them. At fifteen, I sent our army after those nomads to kill them. I had my historians map out their lineage and had each family member of those nomads slaughtered. Generations and generations were wiped out in a matter of days.
When I killed those who harmed my family, I killed the girl inside me. There was no room for her and a queen.
I sit at the window, high in my tower, and watch the Volcs as they march effortlessly through the snow. Black lines cutting through white plains. It pleases my eyes. The longer I remain in this cold castle, the more I crave for visual delights. I’m worried I’m losing my mind to the madness like that of The Damned, because my heart thumps harder and faster in my chest knowing they’re coming. They’ve marched past my army and haven’t shed blood, which means they’re coming to speak to me, not start a war.
Tapping my fingers on the stone ledge, I revel in the sound.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. And tap.
My constant tapping keeps the blood flowing to my fingers. So often they’re numb and an awful blue in color. I crave to wear my gloves, but Yanna says it’ll only worsen my condition. If I don’t let my fingers move, they’ll freeze and fall off.
Will I become one of them?
No.
I am The Punisher of The Damned.
I am not one of them.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. And tap.
Focusing on the perfect V cutting through the snow, I wonder what it is King Bloodsun is coming to speak about. His kingdom, the Souta Volcanoes, is warm and vast. The power of the Souta matches only that of my own kingdom.
Why are you here, King Bloodsun?
His eight black steeds pull his chariot that flames with torches effortlessly through the snow. As he grows nearer, I catch a glimpse of the man himself. The king. He wears a black cape that flaps in the wind behind him and he cracks a whip, keeping his steed charging along at a breakneck speed.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. And tap.
Warmth chases the constant chill away as Yanna stands behind me. Her fingers run through my hair in an affectionate way as she peers out the window.
“King Bloodsun,” she says breathlessly. “Is he coming to harm us?”
I turn, taking her warm hand into my cold ones, and give her a reassuring squeeze. “You know I will never let anyone hurt you, sweet sister.”
She kisses my cheek before pulling away. “Have you eaten anything today?”
Returning to my position, I continue tapping away.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. And tap.
“Your non-answer tells me the answer is no. Why must you starve yourself?” she admonishes. “I swear, if it weren’t for me, you’d wither away and die.”
Guilt swells up inside me. “I lost track of time.” I’ve been watching for hours as the Volcs came into view as far as my eye could see. I have watched their every move toward us.
Yanna leaves the room and returns with a tray filled with treats and tea. The steam coming from the white teacup draws my attention and keeps it. Despite the Volcs marching furiously toward us, the farsop tea calls to me. Bitter but hot. Yanna sweetens it for me, though. She always sees to it that I take care of myself. I’m too much like my father. Obsessed on the demise of those who intend on hurting us. To the point it consumes my every thought.
My sister arranges the items on the tray in a way that pleases me. I have particular obsessions. One being that I like items placed a certain way. I like order and routine and neatness. She aligns the four pastries in a single row beside the farsop tea. A sprig of jazzyroot sits beside the teacup. Also straight.
“You need something in your stomach before you meet with this wretched man,” she complains as she sits the tray on the ledge in front of me.
“How do you know he’s wretched?” I ask with a lifted brow.
She pulls a silly face at me, making me smile. Her lips are full and red to my pale blue ones. Somehow her coloring remains a soft brown despite never seeing the sun. Mine is as white as the snow and tinged in blue. And her hair is dark, silky, and vibrant. My tresses are silvery white with streaks of blue that I often try to hide by rubbing gray ash along the streaks.
We are two opposites.
I am cold and she is warmth.
But we are sisters. Bound by blood and love and friendship.
“I assume he’s wretched because everyone besides us is.” She smiles at me. “I dare you to argue.”
A small laugh escapes me as I take the hot tea into my hands. It makes my fingertips sting as they begin to thaw. “I suppose you’re right. They’re all wretched. However, we’ll still entertain the king. See what it is he comes all this way for.”
Her nose scrunches in a cute way that reminds me of when she was just eight. Now, she’s eighteen and all grown up. “I am worried,” Yanna says, frowning. “We were doing fine without him showing up. What could he possibly want?”
“My head,” I tease.
Her mouth pops open in horror and I feel chastised. “Elzira!”
“I do not know what he wants,” I admit. “But no sense in fretting over it.” I sip my tea and wince. Always so bitter.
She smiles at me as she picks up the jazzyroot sprig. Gently, she stirs the tea, darkening it with the sprig. When I bring it to my lips, it tastes sweet. It goes down the hatch much easier this time.
A rap on the door has me straightening my spine and setting down my teacup. I rise on shaky legs, searching for my crown. Dizziness swarms around me, blackness eating at my vision, but I blink it away. Yanna worries when I show signs of worsening. I refuse to worry her when we have the King of the Souta Volcanoes charging to our doorstep.
One of my many crowns sits near the hearth of my fireplace. It’s long since been devoid of fire. Inside, no matter how many times I have someone from my staff crawl up the chimney to clean it out, sichee spores continue to grow. The spores, when touched by fire, hatch eggs and produce sichee crawlers. My sister is deathly allergic to the sichee crawlers. Fire is forbidden in the castle for this reason. Those who prepare the meals cook deep below the castle so my sister doesn’t come in contact with the sichee crawlers.
I pick up my crown and wonder if it’s severe looking enough. It is tall and sharp. I wish I could make it more impressive. To add more pieces. Before my illness started draining the life from me, I discovered my gift. Father was right. I had to trust in it. Sadly, it was gone as quickly as it had arrived.
Another urgent rap on the door has me frowning. I am not to be bothered. Everyone knows this. I place the crown on my head and make sure it’s seated nicely before calling out.
“Enter,” I order.
The door opens and a white-clothed figure walks in. His diamondblade glints dangerously in his hand. This man looks like every other soldier of the Eyes of the White. It’s his eyes behind his mask that give him away, though.
Bright green.
Cavon.
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“My queen,” he rumbles in greeting. “Princess.” He nods at us both respectively.
“What is it?” I demand.
“The Volcs are upon us. Give us the word and we will slay them, your highness.”
Narrowing my eyes at him, I shake my head. “If King Bloodsun wished harm, there would be blood on our land. He comes in peace. I will speak to him.”
Cavon’s eyes narrow behind his white mask. “Of course, my queen.”
Yanna rushes over to him and grips his arm. “How much longer?”
The fear in her voice nearly has me giving the order to slaughter them all. Barely, I refrain.
“Minutes now, Princess,” Cavon says, his voice gruff.
I give him a dismissive nod. “Prepare the dining room. Come get me when they are settled.”
Cavon remains for a long second before giving me a clipped nod and rushing from the room. Yanna frowns at me.
“I don’t like this,” she hisses. “Inviting them into our home.”
“Noted, sister. Now help me dress so I may greet the king properly.”
Ryke
I hate the cold.
I hate the Norta Icelands.
I hate the fact I’ve marched days and days to meet with Queen Whitestone.
And I really hate what I’m going to have to do.
But there is no other way. They are the most powerful kingdom besides my own due to their ruthless queen. With a pact in place, we could remove King Parsoni from the Easta Waterways and King Tai from the Westa Sandlands. Neither is strong enough to stand against both the King of the Souta Volcanoes or the Queen of the Norta Icelands.
Convincing the cold queen will be a challenge, though.
I’ve heard enough stories about her father and then later her. Cruel. Hateful. Murderous. Mad. My advisor, Danser Mahl, originally suggested I wed the frozen-hearted queen. Over my dead body. The queen would cut my throat in my sleep. I didn’t come this far to be dethroned and beheaded by a white-haired weather maker. I’ve spent decades honing my own power and her insufferable cold is no match against the fire I can create with a simple wiggle of my fingertips. Alas, I am not here to burn the queen to the ground. I am here to offer her a step up in power. Our kingdoms, together, could rule over the rest for eons to come.
