Chapter 10 #2
"There's that fight again." He moved closer, close enough that she could smell winter on his clothes, see the faint burn marks on his wrist where Karse had grabbed him. "The collar will train you out of that eventually. Though I do hope you retain some spirit for when I visit you later."
Her stomach dropped. "When—"
"Oh, I couldn't say. Tonight? Tomorrow? An hour from now?" His remaining eye studied her with satisfaction. "We have unfinished business, you and I. From that night in your Forest Lord's castle. But this time, you'll be so much more... accommodating."
He traced a finger along the collar, making the bells chime softly. "No thorns to save you. No Forest Lord bursting through doorways. Just you and I, and all the time in the world to explore what made him so possessive."
She wanted to pull away, to fight, but even the thought of it made the collar activate, a steady drain that left her trembling.
"Eat," he commanded, moving toward the door. "Keep your strength up. You'll need it."
The lock clicked behind him with finality.
Briar stood frozen for a moment, her mind racing through possibilities that all led nowhere.
The windows were sealed, the door locked, the collar ensuring she couldn't even properly rage against her imprisonment.
She moved toward the fireplace, needing its warmth, when she heard it—the faintest sound, like rain on glass.
She turned toward the wash basin and gasped.
Frederick floated in the water, but barely.
His usually translucent body had gone nearly opaque, a sickly white color that reminded her of frozen milk.
The delicate gill-fronds that normally waved gracefully were stiff, crystallized at the edges.
His tiny form listed to one side, the bubble he usually maintained completely absent.
"Frederick!" She ran to the basin, plunging her hands into water that felt far too cold. His body was like ice against her palms as she scooped him up. "No, no, no—"
She rushed to the fireplace, water dripping through her fingers.
The copper tub was too far, but there—a ceramic bowl on the side table.
She grabbed it, setting it on the hearthstone closest to the flames.
The water from the basin was barely enough to cover him when she poured it in, his tiny form settling at the bottom, unmoving.
"Please," she whispered, adding more water from the pitcher by her bedside.
It wasn't enough—barely two inches, and Frederick lay at the bottom like a piece of clouded glass.
She grabbed the water from the washing pitcher, not caring that it was scented with lavender, and added it until he was properly submerged.
"You followed me all this way. You can't—"
Nothing. No movement, no response. The crystallized edges of his gill-fronds were spreading, the ice claiming more of his translucent body with each second. She could see it happening—watch him dying—and her hands shook as she positioned the bowl on the hearthstone.
Too close to the flame and she'd boil him. Too far and he'd finish freezing. She adjusted it twice, three times, finally settling on a spot where the heat radiated gently.
"Frederick, please." Her voice cracked. She touched the water with one finger, and his body was so cold it hurt. Nothing like the cool silk sensation she knew. This was the cold of death, of things that would never move again.
The opacity wasn't fading. If anything, it seemed to be spreading, his entire form going that horrible milk-white color. She watched, counting heartbeats, counting breaths, waiting for something, anything.
Twenty heartbeats. Fifty. A hundred.
Nothing.
"No." The word came out as a sob. She pressed both hands against the bowl, as if she could will her own warmth into the water. "You're all I have left. You can't leave me here alone. Please, Frederick, please—"
The collar sensed her desperation, her rage at the unfairness of it, and began to drain.
But she didn't care. Let it take everything if Frederick was gone.
This tiny sprite who'd chosen to follow her through horror after horror, who'd attacked Malus to protect her, who'd tried to save her from the harpies despite being so small against their size.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, tears falling into the bowl, rippling the surface. "I'm so sorry I brought you here. You should have stayed in the fountains where it was safe, where it was warm. This is my fault, all of it is my fault—"
Was that movement, or just the water settling?
She leaned closer, barely breathing. There, the tiniest shift in one gill-frond. So small she might have imagined it.
"Frederick?"
Another twitch, barely visible. Then the opacity at the edges began to recede,not quickly, not dramatically, but present. Definite. The ice was releasing him so slowly she had to stare to be certain it was happening at all.
She didn't move, didn't breathe too hard, terrified that any disturbance might stop this fragile revival. The white cloudiness retreated toward his center with agonizing slowness. One gill-frond lifted slightly, fell back. Then another.
It took so long she lost track of time, watching each microscopic improvement.
The water in the bowl warmed degree by degree, and with each increase, a little more of Frederick returned.
The opacity faded from white to gray to merely clouded.
His eye-spots, which had been invisible beneath the frozen surface, began to show through.
When he finally moved, truly moved, not just twitched, rising just slightly from the bottom of the bowl, she let out a sob of relief. Frederick was alive. Barely, weakly, but alive.
A bubble had formed, no bigger than a pearl and trembling with the effort it took to maintain. He rose another inch, those dark eye-spots focusing on her face with what seemed like tremendous effort.
"You ridiculous, loyal thing," she said softly, one finger gently touching the water's surface. "This place is killing you and you still came."
Frederick's response was to strengthen his bubble slightly, though she could see it cost him. He pressed against her finger, the closest thing to comfort he could offer.
Rocking back on her heels, she caught sight of her reflection in the water and frowned.
The collar glittered, the light from the fire playing on its polished surface. Her hands rose to touch it, the metal seamless except for where the latch lay flush against her throat. No keyhole, no obvious mechanism.
"I need to get this off," she said to Frederick, who watched from his bowl with what she imagined was concern.
She tried prying at it with her fingernails but the metal might as well have been part of her skin.
The collar remained perfectly fitted to her throat, the ribbon still threaded through it, bells silent only when she was perfectly still.
When frustration rose, the collar responded immediately, that horrible draining sensation that left her gasping. Even thinking about removing it triggered the response, as if it could sense intent as well as emotion.
"He's going to come back," she whispered, the truth of it settling over her. "Tonight, tomorrow, I don't know when. And this thing will keep me from fighting him."
Frederick created a small spout of water, his version of anger, but even that small display exhausted him. He sank back into the bowl, bubble shrinking.
Briar looked at the trays of food. Her stomach rebelled at the thought, but if she didn't eat, Thaine and Karse would starve. She forced herself to take a piece of bread, though it tasted of nothing and sat heavy in her stomach.
Outside the sealed windows, night had fully fallen. Somewhere below, Karse was freezing in a cell while Thaine tried to keep them both alive. She pulled the bowl with Frederick closer, his small presence the only comfort in the beautiful prison of her room.
Consciousness returned slowly, warmth on one side from dying embers, cold seeping through from everywhere else. Briar's neck ached from sleeping propped against the chair, and her dress was wrinkled beyond repair. Something was wrong—the quality of light, the sense of being observed.
She opened her eyes to find three servants standing near the door, trays balanced in their hands. They'd entered while she slept, silent as shadows. Behind them, Malachar stood in the doorway, today wearing deep burgundy that made his white hair seem to glow.
"Good morning." His tone carried that same false pleasantry. "Though it's nearly noon. You've slept half the day away."
She straightened, wincing at the protest from her stiff muscles. Frederick's bowl was still beside her, and she could see him floating weakly, bubble barely maintained. One of the servants—a young man with bark-textured skin—moved toward it.
"I'll clear this—"
"No." She grabbed the bowl, water sloshing dangerously. Frederick sank to the bottom, trying to hide.
Malachar's interest sharpened immediately. He raised a hand, and the servant stepped back.
"What have we here?" He moved into the room with predatory curiosity. "Something precious, clearly."
She held the bowl against her chest, but he was already close enough to see. His remaining eye studied Frederick with genuine surprise.
"A water sprite. In my domain." He laughed softly. "It must be suffering terribly in this cold. How did it even survive the journey?"
"Leave him alone."
"Him?" His amusement deepened. "You've named it. Of course you have." He gestured to the servants, who began setting out breakfast on the small table. "Bring the bowl. And yourself. You're going to eat."
It wasn't a request. She stood on unsteady legs, Frederick's bowl clutched carefully. Malachar had already seated himself, pouring tea from a silver pot that steamed in the cold air.
"Sit."
She set Frederick's bowl on the table's edge, as far from Malachar as possible, then took the only other chair. The food spread between them looked beautiful—pastries dusted with sugar that sparkled like snow, eggs prepared with herbs she didn't recognize, meat that smelled rich and wrong somehow.
"You didn't eat yesterday. Not properly." He selected a pastry, setting it on the plate in front of her. "That ends now."
"I'm not—"
"Hungry? No, I imagine not. But you'll eat anyway." He leaned back, studying her appearance with critical assessment. "You look terrible. Hair unwashed, dress ruined, sleeping on floors like an animal. Is this how the Forest Court taught you to present yourself?"
Heat crept up her neck, but when anger tried to rise, the collar drained it. She picked up the pastry with trembling fingers.
"Smaller bites," he instructed. "You're not a starving peasant."
The pastry tasted of nothing. She chewed mechanically while he watched, occasionally correcting her posture, the angle of her wrists, the way she held her cup.
Each correction came with subtle threats—mentions of Karse's deteriorating condition, Thaine's frostbite spreading, how much colder the dungeons could become.
"Better." He pushed another plate toward her. "The sprite is watching you."
She glanced at Frederick, who had indeed risen slightly in his bowl, eye-spots focused on her. Worried, even in his weakened state.
"Touching, really. Such loyalty from something so insignificant." Malachar's finger traced the rim of his teacup. "I could freeze that bowl solid in an instant. Would it shatter, do you think? Or simply... stop?"
Her hand stilled on her fork.
"Eat," he commanded softly. "And I'll leave it alone."
She ate. Every bite felt like surrender, but Frederick floated there, vulnerable and trusting, and she couldn't risk him.
Malachar watched her consume everything he selected, occasionally reaching across to adjust her hair, to straighten her collar where the bells had tangled.
Each touch made her skin crawl, made the warmth in her chest contract with revulsion.
"There's going to be a dinner tomorrow night," he said finally, when the plates were empty. "Lord Malus will arrive by evening. You'll sit beside him, of course, as his gift, but I want you presentable."
He gestured to one of the servants, who brought forward a gown draped over her arms. It was exquisite—white as fresh snow with silver embroidery that looked like frost patterns. The neckline was high, with a collar of white fur that would hide both Eliam's marks and the silver collar completely.
"You'll wear this. Your hair will be properly styled.
You'll sit quietly while we discuss the division of the Forest Court.
" He stood, moving around the table to stand behind her chair.
His hands settled on her shoulders, thumbs pressing against the collar.
"And if you behave—truly behave—perhaps I'll allow the sprite to stay in a warmer bowl during dinner. "
The casual cruelty of using Frederick as leverage made her vision blur with frustrated tears. The collar sensed her rage and fed on it, leaving her gasping.
"Oh, and one more thing." His hands slid from her shoulders to her throat, fingers tracing the collar through her hair. "I've cleared my afternoon schedule. I thought we might... continue getting reacquainted. After all, we have so much time to make up for."
The promise in his voice made her stomach turn. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head—possessive, mocking—then straightened.
"Bathe. Fix your hair. Try to look less like something dragged from the dungeons." He moved toward the door, pausing to look back. "I'll return after lunch. Be ready."
The door locked behind him, leaving her shaking at the table. Frederick had pressed himself against the side of the bowl closest to her, offering what comfort he could. She touched the water gently, feeling his cool presence respond.
"I don't know how to stop him," she whispered. "The collar won't let me fight. And if I try, he'll hurt you. Or them."
Frederick's bubble strengthened marginally, a tiny show of defiance that probably cost him greatly. But it was something. Even here, even dying slowly in the cold, he was still fighting in his small way.
She looked at the beautiful dress that would hide all evidence of who she really belonged to, then at the locked door Malachar would return through in just a few hours. The warmth in her chest pulsed weakly, reaching south toward forests and thorns, toward a lord who didn't even know where she was.