Chapter 31
THERYNNE
TWO DAYS AGO
Bertha was… odd.
I had first seen her in Emberfall, months ago, when Elara still wore Aeliana’s face like armor and everyone around her pretended the seams didn’t exist. Bertha moved through court like a battering ram wrapped in an apron, snapping orders at servants twice her rank, correcting etiquette mid-sentence, and calling the king’s silk banners “overpriced dust rags” when she thought no one important could hear.
People gave her a wide berth.
Not out of respect.
Out of self-preservation.
At the time, I had assumed she was simply assigned.
That she was part of the princess package, like gowns and guards and ceremonial knives.
I was wrong.
Bertha had attached herself to Elara the way a storm attached itself to the sea.
Because she’d seen something no one else wanted to admit was there.
A girl starving inside a crown.
A girl trying not to break loudly enough to be punished for it.
And Bertha, apparently, had an allergy to helplessness.
I learned this the night Bertha found me.
Not in a library.
Not in some scholarly corridor where I belonged.
She found me in the service tunnels beneath the embassy wing, where the stone sweated cold and the air tasted like iron.
There was a small storage room and I was leaning against the door, running calculations in my head that refused to settle.
Patterns. Causes. Outcomes. The rate of boundary reinforcement.
The probability of Elara surviving the trial if it happened early.
The probability of her surviving if it didn’t.
My fingers were tapping against my thigh so fast my bones hurt.
Then a voice cut through the darkness behind me.
“Ye’re the book wife.”
Bertha had approached with a hood over her gray hair and a sack slung over one shoulder like she was headed to market instead of treason. Her face was lined, her stance solid, and her eyes were sharp enough to slice thread.
“I’m… what?” I said.
“The rambling one,” she clarified, as if I were slow. “The scholar.”
She entered the storage room with a sigh, and I followed. Her little hollow in the stone was quaint, with a blanket folded too neatly, a kettle blackened at the bottom, and a stack of dried herbs hanging from a nail like she’d been planning to outlive a siege.
“You live down here?” I asked.
“Aye,” she snapped.
She glared at me like I’d tracked snow into her bed.
“Yer husband dragged me back to this frozen hell for questionin’.
Treated me like I’d betrayed the whole bloody kingdom.
Asked his questions. Watched me like I might sprout fangs.
” Bertha’s mouth tightened. “Luckily, men like him don’t remember folk like me.
Not unless we scare ’em. I kept my head down, played dull, answered just enough. ”
She shoved a bundle deeper into the shadows, voice dropping.
“And the second he got bored, I slipped away. Been hidin’ here the last week.”
I followed her into the supply closet, my eyes flicking over shelves stacked with neat little rows of necessities.
Salt blocks. Waxed cloth. Oil lanterns.
And then I saw it.
My gaze locked on a bundle of pale gray powder tied in linen, stamped with Icespire’s crest.
I stopped short.
“Oh,” I said quietly.
Bertha glanced back. “Oh what?”
“That,” I said, already moving toward it. “They keep it here?”
Bertha sighed like she’d just stepped on a rake. “You’re starin’ at flour, girl.”
“It’s not flour,” I said, lifting the bundle and turning it in my hands. “It’s crushed frostroot.”
Bertha blinked. “It’s crushed what?”
“Frostroot,” I repeated, because apparently I had to carry every conversation on my back.
“It’s a stabilizer. It binds to cold magic and dulls the burn-out symptoms after prolonged cryomancy use.
Icespire grinds it into powder because it absorbs moisture and preserves other supplies, but the real reason they hoard it is because it’s medicinal and strategic. ”
Bertha stared at me, unblinking.
I kept going anyway.
“If you combine it with boiled saltwater and ash, it becomes a poultice that prevents tissue damage from frostbite,” I said.
“If you mix it with animal fat, it can be used to preserve meat for weeks. And if you steep it wrong, it becomes mildly poisonous and causes numbness in the tongue and extremities, which is why it was outlawed in Emberfall for a time because?—”
“Alright,” Bertha cut in, grabbing it out of my hands and stuffing it into the pack. “You’re a weird one.”
I blinked. “I’m informed.”
“Aye,” she said. “That too.”
I inhaled slowly and forced myself to focus. Not on her. Not on the discomfort of human interaction. Not on the fact that she was loud and warm and alive, and I was still trying to understand how I’d made it out of my quarters without being caught immediately.
I needed to get to the boundary.
I needed to leave Icespire.
And I needed to do it fast.
Bertha stuffed the last of her supplies into the sack and gave me a look that made my ribs tighten. Bertha shoved the bundle deeper into the pack like she didn’t trust me not to start reciting the entire history of frostroot cultivation.
“Well,” she said, glaring at the closet like it had personally betrayed her, “guess I’ve got to move again.”
I blinked. “Move?”
“Aye. Move,” she snapped, already reaching for the lantern oil. “This was a good spot. Warm. Quiet. Nobody bothers ye in a castle if ye look like ye belong and keep yer mouth shut.” Her eyes flicked to me pointedly. “Not a talent you’ve mastered,” she added.
“I didn’t come here to ruin your life,” I said flatly.
Bertha huffed. “No, ye came here to ruin yer own. Different problem.”
She shoved cloth and salt into the pack with quick, efficient hands, muttering under her breath the whole time.
“I liked the warmth,” she grumbled. “Castle’s got its comforts. Fires that don’t spit at you. Floors that don’t bite yer feet. Even the air feels less like it’s tryin’ to kill you.”
She paused, then looked at me like I’d personally offended her lungs.
“But now?” she said. “Now you’ve gone and found me.”
I swallowed. “I won’t tell anyone.”
Bertha snorted. “Of course ye won’t. You’re not stupid. But ye can’t be too careful these days.”
She slammed the pack shut. “Still. They’ll come sniffin’. Guards love sniffin’ when there’s trouble. And you”—she jabbed a finger toward my chest—“are trouble with a pulse.”
I didn’t argue, because she wasn’t wrong.
Bertha swung the pack over her shoulder with a grunt. “So the stables it is. Cold as a witch’s heart, but at least it’s honest.”
“The stables?” I repeated.
“Aye,” she said. “Nice straw. Horses for company. And the stable hands don’t ask questions unless they want somethin’.”
Her mouth twitched like she had more to say, but she held it back. Barely.
Then she sighed again. “There’s one boy in there who’s sweet as sugar and twice as stupid. Been lookin’ at a girl like she hung the stars. Nearly walked into a feed trough yesterday.”
I stared. “Bertha.”
“What?” she demanded.
“I don’t care about your stable boy gossip.”
Bertha gasped like I’d stabbed her. “You don’t care about gossip?” She shook her head slowly. “Ancestors help ye, girl. Gossip keeps us from going mad. Other people’s problems remind ye that ye don’t have it so bad.”
Despite myself, my mouth twitched.
Bertha adjusted the strap on her shoulder, then looked me over again.
“I didn’t come here to get you caught,” I said.
Bertha scoffed. “And I didn’t wake up this mornin’ wantin’ to hide in a hole like a rat. But life’s full of disappointments, isn’t it?”
I exhaled hard through my nose. I was trying not to pace. Pacing would make her look at me again. Looking at me would become questions. Questions would become delays.
I was calculating distance, routes, patrol rotations, available exits, likely response time once they realized I was gone. I was doing it rapidly because panic was a stimulant, and my brain responded to stimulants by becoming very good at math.
Bertha’s gaze dropped to my hands.
My fingers were tapping against my thigh again. I stopped them. Late.
She pointed at me like she’d caught me stealing.
“You’re tryin’ to escape,” she said.
I didn’t deny it.
Bertha’s eyes narrowed further. “You won’t get far.”
“I will,” I said.
“You won’t.”
“I will.”
Bertha made a sound of disgust. “Yer cloak isn’t thick enough.”
I looked down at it like it had personally betrayed me. The wool was dark, heavy, lined in fur at the collar. It had been selected with intent. With research.
“It is,” I said, crisp. Certain. “It’s emberwool. Double-spun. This is the cloak type used in northern travel routes because it traps heat without restricting movement. I specifically chose it for the?—”
“Aye,” Bertha cut in. “And it’ll be real lovely for about six hours.”
I blinked. “Six hours?”
“Six,” she repeated, like I was hard of hearing. “Till snow soaks in. Till your shoulders are damp. Till the wind gets underneath it and starts gnawin’ at your spine like a hungry dog.”
I lifted my chin. “My studies disagree.”
Bertha’s brows shot up. “Your studies?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ve read travel records. Northern expedition logs. Material charts. There are entire chapters on insulation efficiency by weave density and weight distribution. This cloak is thick enough.”
Bertha stared at me for a beat, then exhaled like she was fighting the urge to scream.
“Right,” she said. “And do your charts say what happens when it gets wet?”
I hesitated.
Snow wasn’t water. Not exactly. But it melted. It soaked. It… clung.
“I’m aware of moisture absorption,” I said carefully.
Bertha scoffed. “No. You’re aware of the word. That’s not the same as knowin’ what it feels like when wet wool starts rubbin’ your skin raw and you’ve still got days to go.”
I opened my mouth, then shut it again.