Across the Frostlands (Deadly Endings #3)

Prologue

Neve

Long live the Queen.

After my coronation, when the halls of the palace are silent once again, I find a moment to myself for the first time all day.

My parents spent the morning hounding me to act just right, to please the people, and not to make a fool of them in front of their friends.

I tried all day to go over the many names and commit them to memory.

I might be the new queen, but I’m little more than a puppet for my parents.

King Oberson and his son Prince Gordias attended from Tressa, the peasant town in the south. King Jasper, better known as the King of Diamonds, and Lady Hartsell, the noble woman he’s courting. Gods willing I’ll remember the rest.

It was a jumble of people who didn’t care about me and whom I feigned caring about. Less than two months ago my parents held an audience with the peasants in our kingdom, the people surviving on scraps, claiming we would do better to care for our citizens in the Frostlands.

Instead, the money went toward my lavish coronation to strengthen bonds with our allies in lands afar like Ander Son’s Way and Neverland.

Father even extended an invitation to the people of Meria beneath the Endless Sea.

It’s a show of respect and nothing more, since the Frostlands are too harsh for the merfolk to swim beneath, the waters in the sea being mostly frozen over.

With a sigh, I fiddle with my fingers again, the weight of the crown causing a lingering headache. It’s late, and I should have left the crown in my room before slipping past my guards, but I’ve barely had it for a day. The weight is a reminder of the burden I now bear.

As queen, I’m supposed to have royal guards accompany me everywhere I go throughout the day. It’s suffocating beneath the weight of all this attention.

After all, my parents hoped one guest in particular would attend, and it seems his absence didn’t go unnoticed.

“Did you see the man of ice?” Mother hissed, speaking beneath her breath. No one, myself included, should be listening, but it’s my parents’ own fault for trying to share secrets close enough that I can hear.

“He didn’t show,” my father whispered in return, his voice quieter and less sharp than Mother’s. “Have faith, Sned. We are the only people who might be able to answer his burning questions. The boy will come.”

They never spoke a word of it to me, but I’ve heard the rumors floating through the lands. Soon a young man with too many names surfaced in a snowstorm one night with shaggy, stark white hair, carrying a branch from a Purple Heart tree. In his hands, he can create snow and ice both.

My mother is snow and I am ice. My father is basically a spectator to the fantastical with a very meager supply of winter magic himself.

He has the knowledge and power behind the crown but limited magic to play with.

Mother has never understood my ability to use ice with ease, and draw the lighter snow on occasion.

Father can make little more than an icicle or a small shower of ice.

As the Snow Queen Dowager, now the mother of the Queen, my mother can only use her magic for snow and wind; the ice magic now eludes her.

And then this man of too many names appeared as if from the frosty mountains themselves, wielding such power without control. Only royalty is supposed to be able to harness magic.

I’m moving through the halls mindlessly, glaring down at guards who try and fail to tell me what to do.

If my personal guards aren’t following me through the halls, no one else will be, either.

My parents might be assisting, but after Mother’s condition worsened, it was decided I was best to rule the Frostlands. With or without a king.

At this hour, everyone should be asleep, including me. Only the night guards should be wandering the palace halls, but I only see a few tonight, which seems strange after an event as important as a coronation.

I almost miss it. The Frostlands Royal Palace is a place of stillness.

Arguing, yelling, bantering, it upsets the careful balance of tranquil peace the palace pretends to have.

Outside these icy walls, the rich live in comfortable abodes and the poor die from frost and famine.

The palace’s typical silence is upheld by the frozen dungeons below, a place that I rarely ever go to.

I should return to my rooms to rest and be ready to take up my queenly duties.

After the weight of today, Father promised to speak with me about the affairs of the kingdom tomorrow and impart some wisdom he claims only the Royal Family is privy to.

I have no idea what he’s hinting at, but all day, I’ve seen his gaze cast toward the mountain where, legend has it, the Icebound linger still, waiting to collect the souls of the dead.

Clearing my head with a walk isn’t working, and suddenly, a sound stops me in my tracks. The noise comes from the dungeons, the usually locked door propped open just enough that in the quiet of the palace the voices from below are audible.

I look toward the door in wonder. I’ve wandered through the dungeons before without purpose, just curiously and boredom driving me.

The head of the Royal Guard deals with messy business, like interrogations and prisoners, and my parents never dirty themselves with affairs like that.

I’ve only seen my father, King Andor, deal with a handful of matters in my entire life and none of them involved torture.

After swallowing my nerves, I approach the door and wrench it open. The heavy door is cool to touch, but if anyone other than me felt it, it would be frozen. Luckily, with my ice magic, the cold has never been much of a problem for me.

I pull the door shut just to be safe, my security as queen waning as I consider the possibilities ahead.

It’s well past the midnight hour, and if there is a matter of such importance to deal with right now, shouldn’t I be privy?

Anything that goes on in the Frostlands is now my burden to bear.

I start down the passage, deciding that there’s no higher authority than the queen.

“I don't know how!” a pitiful voice screams, the tormented cry propelling me forward. I don’t like violence, and if this person is deserving of such agony, I want to know why. I don’t wish to start my rule as a tyrant.

Curiosity keeps my mind focused, and as I pass empty cells and follow the icy floor, I try to think of a reason to be tormenting anyone.

There’s no war, no crimes of great importance I can think of.

I’ve already spoken to my father at length prior to my ascension that I want to do away with public hangings for petty crimes.

Only the worst of crimes deserves such punishment, and perhaps if we give the people grace they will return the favor.

Quickening my pace at the sound of another anguished moan, I let my steps press silently against the soft powder spread over the icy floor to give guards a bit of grip down here. I hesitate at the corner where the man's screams are loudest, and take a controlled breath.

Right now, there are no guards here. I’m on my own if the person doing the torturing doesn’t agree with my place as queen.

For a moment, the desire to flee to the mountains and put this off until the morning threatens to overwhelm me.

As Princess, I knew certain things in the palace were bad, but I’ve never been part of punishment or interrogation or made someone bleed.

Shaking my head, I force the thoughts away. This is exactly why my parents believe I need a guiding hand to rule.

A sob breaks through the quiet. I try not to let my gentle heart hurt for the soul being tortured here, forcing my attention to the matter at hand. Surely, whatever this man did to land himself in the dungeon, it is deserved. It must be to earn such punishment.

As I peer around the corner, surprise hits me.

The man is bound between two thick chains, arms spread wide, and his clothing is mostly gone.

For most people, that would be a death sentence in and of itself with how cold it gets down here, and throughout the Frostlands, but he doesn't seem to care about that.

His teeth don't chatter, and he doesn't shiver from the cold.

There are marks across his skin, red slashes that register as abuse a moment later. His hair is shaggy and white, his eyes a piercing blue. They are more oceanic than mine, which are frost blue like the icy cold of this land.

In front of the prisoner, instead of the Head of the Royal Guard, stands the King.

Father. I suppose if I want to get technical, he’s the former king or King Emeritus. I’m still grasping at the specifics when I’m supposed to be ruler of the land, and until tonight, I had no idea the King got his hands dirty.

He's grasping a long iron poker, the end tinged red. His opposite hand holds a sharp icicle, also painted in crimson, and his usually pristine white and blue clothes are speckled with burgundy.

He's the one torturing this man, Mother standing to the side, indifferent. Her frozen posture makes her almost look like an ice sculpture, her eyes taking far too long to blink. Even if she wanted to, she wouldn’t be able to contribute to what’s happening here unless she plans to kill us all.

Her powers are out of control, but her focus is laser sharp on the bleeding man in front of Father.

“How did you gain the gift of the moon?” Father spits, his usually emotionless voice filled with rage. “What specialty does a peasant boy offer to the spirits?”

The man coughs, spitting red blood out onto the floor. I think he should be in a great amount of pain, but even when he speaks now, there’s no tremble in his voice. “I’ve told you, I have no idea why I was gifted. I woke up this way.”

Oh, he even has a nice voice. Silky and laced with sarcasm. He’s not cowering and whimpering like most men laid bare at Father’s feet, and his piercing blue eyes are fierce as he stares at the King Emeritus.