A Heart of Ice Read online

  I had known my brother little before then. For although we trained, we were in different groups, and while I am often in my study, he is frequently nowhere to be found and usually with some—hopefully willing—maid. It wasn’t until we worked hand in hand, him as the heir and I as his strategist, that we really came to understand each other. Unfortunately, understanding him has not helped me to like him any more than I had before. He is rash, irresponsible, and rather unpopular among the people. I have approached my father on the matter, although I have no solution since I have no desire to be king. He has merely waved off my concerns, assuring me that as soon as Mit’an’av is older, he will calm down and become a respectable king, and that he himself had been the same way many, many years ago. I listen to my father, because I have little choice in the matter, but I am wary.

  I convinced Mit’an’av that he needed to go back into the military. Not for serious fighting, of course. But his position among the people is shaky, and it is the duty of the king and the heir to please the people and do his best by them. And the people are not certain about Mit’an’av.

  The pounding on my door should have been warning enough. I should have known something was wrong. But I had not guessed…everything had been so carefully planned.

  And then I hear the scream. It comes from my mother’s solar, just down the hall, and I launch into a run from where I am. I seem to move too slow, far too slow, racing down the halls to my mother’s room. I shove a man out of my way to get into my mother’s solar. It is his own damn fault for standing in the middle of the doorway. My mother is crumpled on the floor, clinging to her eldest daughter, Petara, who is pregnant and clinging to her as fiercely. My mother wails. I have never heard my mother make such sounds, but she sobs against her daughter, scattered on the floor in the most disgraceful display of emotion that I have ever seen from a woman who lives and breathes for appearances as she does.

  I stand, dumbstruck, in the doorway, until, like the man before me, I am knocked nearly to the ground when my father pushes past me and into the room. He does not remark on my mother’s appearance, nor stand gawking like a fool the way I had. “Leave.” His voice booms through the hall and bares no room for argument. I am assuming that he means servants and not family, and even if he had not, I would not have left my mother’s side in any event.

  That is when I realize: “Dena? Where is Dena!”

  “She and Claque are in the gardens. Someone is fetching them now,” Petara says softly, her eyes red and puffy even though no tears have fallen.

  The king gathers my mother, who is no small woman, up into his arms as though she is a child, and she leans against him while he lays her on the chaise. The servants leave and close the door, and I am left standing there in the room, completely at a loss while Petara stands carefully in her swollen form, sucking in a few short, uneasy breaths and choking back a sob. She touches her face, her lips, going and sinking into a stuffed chair. I open my mouth, stepping forward.

  “Mother!” a shrill cry bursts through the door as surely as the little woman following it, nearly knocking me aside. I swing around as Dena bursts into the room, sobbing as noisily as my mother—although for Dena, that is not unusual. Dena crumples on the floor by where my mother is laying, burying her face in mother’s lap and sobbing. Claque, a lithe form smaller than myself but somehow even more terrifying because of it, moves silently into the room and shuts the door casually. He stands silently, his face emotionless and cold, hands clasped behind him, one hand holding the wrist, like a soldier.

  He looks to me from the corner of his eyes and says quietly, “I stopped to have someone fetch Kale.” I nod and look to Petara, who is crying quietly, or at least trembling tearlessly, with her face in her hand.

  I look to my father, and my face must show my confusion. My throat is so small in that moment, hoarse, as if I cannot get air through. I know the answer. The reason. It is right here. But I cannot think. If I could just think, I would know why everyone is crying. I would know what happened. But I cannot think. As if my mind has turned itself off against the horror.

  My father looks back at me, a cold and hard face. But I can see—as I have never seen before—his eyes shimmering. He stands up, leaving his wife on the chaise with her youngest daughter. He moves to the center of the room, not far from me. And for a moment, time just passes between us, and even though I am grown and a father myself, I feel so very small before him, like a child all over again. “Your brother is dead.”

  The words hit me like a wall of solid ice and shatter around me. I do not think I am breathing. I just stare at my father, feeling sick. He moves, putting his hand on the hilt of the sword that never leaves his side. It comes out with a smooth ring of metal, a sword nearly as large as Dena. I do not move, just watching his face and thinking that my body has turned to ice. “Kneel.”

  My body acts when my mind cannot. And I take one lead step forward and sink into a kneel before my father. Dena’s sobs quiet for just a moment before they burst from her again. The door opens quietly behind me, and I know that Kale must have slipped in, for I hear Petara’s soft voice. The flat of the blade touches one of my shoulders, then the other. “Prince Gabriel Roland Jan’tel of Crystalice Cerulean …you are hereby named the heir of your people. Rise and lead them with grace and wisdom and strength.” I do not know how I stood. The blade is removed, but it feels as though the whole of Cerulean has been placed upon me, the weight of the palace, the people, the land, everything…and it has.

  “What will you do, heir?” my father growls, his voice like gravel.

  For a moment, I cannot speak, cannot move. Do? I am working on breathing. With Catherine, I knew how to cry, how to hold her and bury my face in her bosom and weep. But this? I had planned it so carefully…how had it gone wrong?

  Thankfully, Claque saves me and speaks up: “One man was left alive. Heather’s son. He brought back word of a soldier dressed in red leather. Scar.”

  And finally, I feel. I feel fire. It shatters the ice in my veins and surges through my body as painfully and blissfully as if being reborn. My hands close into fists, clenching tightly until I feel blood pooling in the joints. “Mount the horses,” I snarl. “We are going to the Den.”

  Chapter Seven

  Scarlet

  “How do you not notice that you’ve been stabbed?” Blaze has been growling at me since I came home, snapping at me like something feral. First, was that I came back wearing only that black tunic. Second, was that I let a boy go free. Third, was that I hadn’t managed to find all the pieces of the red leather suit and more pieces would need to be made. Now, was that I had been stabbed.

  I am sitting the wrong way in a chair, my legs straddling the back of it and my chin leaning on my hands; I am glaring at the far wall. My shirt is discarded on the table where sits a bowl of water, a few different sizes of needles and thread, and some salve. I’m wearing pants at least, a pair of red silk pants slashed with stripes of yellow. My hair covers one side of my face, pulled off of my back so that he can work.

  “I told you: I hadn’t noticed,” I grumble at him. At least, I hadn’t noticed until I bathed and despite scrubbing the dried blood off of me, fresh blood started flowing again from an untreated wound in my shoulder. Thankfully, Blaze had been in the other room to confirm what I had assumed: somewhere between charging into battle and dragging off Mit’an’av’s mangled body, some sonofabitch had managed to plant a dagger in my shoulder blade. How had I not noticed? Good question. Somewhere between the adrenaline and the sheer agony of switching forms twice in one day and then riding through the sennight it took to get back home on horseback, I suppose it escaped my notice.

  Blaze mutters a few choice words and pokes the skin again. “Ow!” I snap at him, hissing and letting out a low yowl while he pulls the thread through the new hole, stitching the wound together. I can only glimpse his black hair from where I’m sitting, but I am sure that he can feel my displeasure.

  “Don’t complai
n,” he snaps back at me. “You’re the reckless fool who got yourself stabbed. Shove it.”

  I turn my head back and pout, grinding my teeth against the feeling of the needle piercing my skin and pulling it together once more. We fall silent for a while, and I watch the flames just beyond the window, flames that give off no smoke but warp the sky with their heat. The sun is half hidden today by clouds, but it is still bright, and if I did not have plans to collapse into my bed as soon as Blaze is finished with me, I would enjoy a day out in the market…or training—probably training.

  “Blaze…” my voice is a low murmur, and for a moment, I wonder if he hears me.

  After a second and stabbing my skin once more, he grunts to let me know that he has. But before I can speak, he asks, “The nightmares again?” I am ashamed that he knows, and I sink further into my chair, not wishing to speak on it any longer. I wonder if my brother ever had the nightmares I have now. Did he ever see the faces of his enemies, his victims, dying in front of him again? Did he ever, in his nightmares, try to change their fate? Try to bring them back to life, knowing they’re already gone? “I warned you, Scarlet…” he says, soft but still growling, “I warned you what this life would do…you’ll have no peace again. Claque, if you do kill him…will just be another face in your dreams…nothing will change.”

  His words are heavy in my heart, and we fall silent at last, he and I, while I think on them. I suppose it does not matter. I have no other choice. Even if I leave the army…the nightmares would still haunt me. And I have not yet had my revenge. It is not just about me. My blood-debt must be paid.

  I sigh, leaning on my chair while he tugs in a few more stitches, every now and then murmuring a small enchantment to help the wound. For a long while, we do not speak. It is not uncommon. Blaze and I usually do not have much to say to each other outside of the practice field. “Blaze?” I break the silence, not knowing why, only knowing that I can’t stand it.

  “Mm?” he grunts, pulling the thread through, and I hiss. I think of what I wanted to say, wanted to ask him. I can’t remember anymore. “What?” he growls at me, and I hiss in warning. Cats don’t like being rushed.

  “Why did you train me?” I ask, looking ahead at the wall.

  His hands still for a moment, and then he stabs my flesh again, and I yelp, fur rippling over my skin. “Why do you want to know?” he mutters, pulling the thread tight and securing it before cutting the needle loose.

  I start to shrug, then think better of pulling the skin and go still. “I just do. You gave in so easy. Why?”

  He snorts and turns away from me, washing his hands and then getting a rag to clean the blood off my back. “Because,” he says after a moment, “that’s what your father did for me.”

  “Beat the living hell out of you night and day for years?” I ask, and he laughs. It’s a rare sound, dark and gravely, but I smile.

  “More or less,” he says. “My father was killed when I was just a brat. I wasn’t raised in the Den like you, kid. I didn’t have anything. The only thing I wanted was to cut the throat of the bastard who killed my father.”

  “What about your mother?” I ask, surprised at the rare information.

  He shrugs and starts smearing salve on the wound. “Died when I was a kid. Not uncommon in these times.” No…no, it’s not. “Anyways, your father had no reason to take me on. I was just a dirty street urchin. But he did, and he trained me with Sage.” The name hurts, and I clench my eyes. “Guess I owed him. Not that he’d thank me for teaching his little princess how to be a murderer but, eh, it’s all I’m really good for.”

  All at once, there is a great commotion outside. The horns begin screaming from the towers, and Blaze and I both snap upright. There is a crash of sound, of murmurs and seas of different voices. Not screams. So, it is not an attack. But what then? The horns continue, blaring through the whole of the Den.

  “Hold still,” Blaze snaps sharply, pressing me back into the chair. “Almost finished.” I obey, letting him settle me in the chair and finish the wrapping. As soon as he has, I nearly jump up from the chair, pulling on the violet tunic over my pants. I stuff my feet into boots and grab my sword, hurrying out the door just as Blaze grabs his own sword.

  We stand outside his home in the wall of the Den. Our castle and city is surrounded by a great wall made up of the homes of her citizens. There are villages too, outside of the protective mother-walls, but I have always lived within the Den, though not always here. Once, I lived within the castle as my father’s daughter. I lived in my own chambers as Jay’let’s wife and as Sage’s sister. But as my life became less of a life and more of an endless cycle of training and fighting and torment, it just became natural to collapse on Blaze’s floor where he would mend the more serious injuries and then leave me to sleep before dragging me up before the sun had risen to haul me back into the training yard.

  Now, we are weaving our way through the throngs of people who have gathered to witness whatever is bringing up such commotion among our people. My shoulder is aching, but at least now it is stitched. I no longer feel as exhausted as I had moments ago and instead feel very alive and aware and almost excited. Something is happening.

  My feet dig in when I see them. I come to a complete and sudden halt, Blaze slamming into my back. He swears and gives me a shove. “What’s the matter?” he barks at me and then looks past me. There. Amid the seas of fire and various hues of red and gold and orange, are streaks of white and blue. Three white horses stand in formation, two flanking the lead horseman, at the steps of the castle. Behind them is a mage dressed in indigo robes, surrounded by soldiers.

  I begin moving again, weaving my way through the people to reach the streets. A hush has fallen now, little more than a soft murmur. My father and the king are standing on the castle steps. They are speaking with the leader. I cannot see him clearly, not more than to know he has long, white hair. My heart is pounding in my chest, beating my ribs. I push past the last of them and am standing just at the edge of the crowd. There is a thick line of Crystalice soldiers filling the walls of the city, all behind their leader. And then I see it, the yellow flag. Request for peaceful entry?

  I snap my teeth together and glare, looking down the line. But my blood turns cold and my eyes grow wide when I follow the line to the outside of the walls. There, just beyond the city, are thousands of Crystalice soldiers. Swarms of white and blue waiting just beyond our walls. Here, there are not only soldiers. Our people, civilians, are within these walls. I swallow and catch my breath, looking among them all.

  “Daughter!” A voice rings clear through the hushed murmur of the courtyard. My father’s voice is unmistakable. It is loud and deep, and the whole earth trembles with the sound of it. It never took much more than that voice to halt my mischief as a child. And now, it halts my breath and seems to still my very blood with the sound of it.

  I turn to look at him, realizing now that the crowd has quickly drawn away from me and now is watching me intently. My father stands in all of his glory at the top of the stairs. Nearly seven feet tall and several hundred pounds, he is wearing heavy, black armor that makes him look like some god of death instead of the man who raised my brother and I. He holds his helmet in his hand, and his black eyes are watching me from where I am standing—somewhat dumbfounded—on the outskirts of the crowd.

  He moves, lowering his head some and frowns at me. That small, warning motion is enough to get me moving. I clench my teeth together, straighten my back and shoulders, and throw back my hair before marching towards him. My hands are in fists, my chin thrust up in the air. On my right, white and blue clouds my vision and on my left, mounds of red and gold light up my world. I ignore them both for the present, heading straight for my father and the king.

  I reach the steps and drop into a low bow, for the moment ignoring the men on horseback. “War Lord,” I greet my father formally. To the other, “My king.” I rise and look to them both, their faces severe. Unlike my father who has k
nown far too many battles, the king, while much older, is not half so worn. His black hair is thinned and his face a golden, cream color, stuffed with wrinkles but still soft and spotted with black hairs on his jaw. He looks at me with his brown eyes, and I cannot tell what emotion lies there. Fear? Perhaps. But not of me.

  I turn and face our enemy.

  Three men on horseback. None of them are familiar faces, but each of them is looking at me. The man on the left seems more alarmed than anything else. The man on the right is frowning, but I can tell nothing of his expression otherwise. The man riding in lead, however, is horrified and furious. His white-blue eyes watch me with more loathing than I have yet seen in an enemy’s eyes. His white hair is pulled back to the nape of his neck, and he wears a silver armor with the crest of a wolf on the breast.

  “Do you take me for a fool?” the man snarls, and his eyes snap from me to my father with pure hatred. His face flushes pink with rage. “Do you mean to lie to me here, War Lord, and offer up this, this girl in place of Knight Protector Scar!”

  I blink, watching him, and then feel anger tighten in my chest. “Curb your tongue, you arrogant chit,” I snap at him, and his eyes turn back to me with mild astonishment and anger once more. I frown at him, putting my hand on my hip. “What business have you here, ice-heart? I am the one called Scar.”

  He bares his teeth at me. “Lies!” he snarls. “You are not the one who slew my brother!” I raise a brow and look back to my father, but the ring of a sword is a trigger in my mind, and I snap my eyes back to the man, hissing and baring my teeth, the hair on the back of my neck standing upright. My pupils dilate; they are huge, and all that is left of my golden irises is a thin rim around them. “I am the Crown Prince, Gabriel,” says he. “Dare you tell me once more that you are the one who killed Prince Mit’an’av!”