Chapter Twenty-Five #2
She looked human. More alive than she had since he’d first handed her that damned pendant.
It was life that throbbed beneath his palm, life that faded beneath the roar of the waters.
The realisation was fleeting, but it stopped Kai’s heart.
And that was enough. The moment his grip faltered, the ground beneath them gave way, a sheet of ice sweeping his feet out from under him so his own weight broke his grasp on Avette’s neck and the pendant both.
His veins immediately turned brittle as bone, and Avette’s scream drowned out the Mother’s call in an instant.
“GARD!”
The door burst open, and a burly mass of steel barrelled for him before he’d even managed to roll to his front.
Kai was dragged upright and shoved back with such force he could hear the groan of his own vertebrae in his ears as he fell to the bed and was yanked up once more by the scruff of his shirt, a snarling face above him and a cocked back arm—
“No,” Avette said coldly, her voice thin and raw. “We have an address tomorrow.”
The snarling face drew back slightly—just enough for recognition to sweep in. The face of a particularly brutal gard Kai knew well enough; one of the first to welcome him to the Silver Palace when he had first escaped the Laune, though the welcome had been far from warm.
“So long as you are quite careful to avoid his face,” said Avette, every word a strained whisper, “you may deliver His Majesty one warning blow.”
Kai had not a moment to process the words before an almighty weight sank into his stomach and knocked the breath from him so completely that his whole body shrank around the empty space.
His organs had bowed and parted within him, agony combusting outward like an exploding sun.
His mind scrambled at the pain of that metal-clad fist, waiting for it to pass, waiting for his breath to return, waiting, waiting.
“Very well, Sir …?”
“Benan,” his attacker huffed.
The bed shifted as the gard stood to scrape a bow with a clink of armour. Kai rolled onto his stomach, gasping through a second bloom of breathless pain.
“Sir Benan. Thank you, you may step outside.”
The gard seemed to hesitate, and Avette’s voice went soft and sombre, the edge of each word teetering on the brink of tears. Kai couldn’t say if it was an act, not for certain. She’d had that look on her face, after all … she had been scared.
“I will be but a moment, brave Gard. Have another watch the King’s chambers tonight, and you may escort me to my rooms. I daresay I should feel much safer knowing you are there.”
That, apparently, did the trick. The gard lumbered off eagerly, and at the click of the door, Avette revolved on the spot in that same eerie, gliding movement, a wind-up doll in a music box.
Kai didn’t bother to sit up. His breath still wheezed through him, a chorus to the thin rake of Avette’s own breath as she dropped to the bedside and gently cupped his face.
Her eyes were a violent promise, the chill of her fingertips a threat; but she merely stroked his cheek, head tilted so he could see the blossoming redness that marred the marble column of her throat.
“This is not the behaviour of a man who wishes to keep his loved ones safe,” she said softly. “I trust you will do better tomorrow, my heart.”
And with that, she rose elegantly and glided from the room, leaving nothing in her wake but the weight of that threat and a shimmering path of frost.
???
There was no second throne in the reception hall; after all, Selma Beira had never ruled alongside a King. Instead, Kai was seated in a heavy wooden chair that palace staff had been forced to drag down from the council room, placed beside Avette’s polished silver affair.
It looked ridiculous.
She looked ridiculous. He had been seated here under guard for over an hour while she readied herself, and the throngs of half-frozen people crowded the palace walls, awaiting their audience.
She finally emerged with silver tears painted on her face, her hair clinging wetly to her head and shoulders beneath a crown of glittering spires.
The skirts of her white dress overlapped like an overturned rose, so voluminous that they swallowed all but the armrests of her seat and left her floating on a perfect white cloud above the dais.
Meanwhile, her subjects came to her swaddled in every blanket and cloak they owned, wraiths with gaunt faces and chattering teeth.
Between them, at the foot of the dais, stood a wall of shining silver armour.
Doran stood tall in the centre, surrounded on each side by two Queen’s Gards, each with their swords drawn and pressed into the icy ground.
All but one of them at least; Gerard’s blade was sheathed, his hand hovering intermittently over his hilt, flexing slightly whenever a new face approached the dais and sank into a bow.
Your Majesty, pleaded those desperate faces. Sorceress. Saviour.
And through it all, Avette sat primly on her throne and smiled.
She saw merchants who spoke of the bitter, untenable conditions around the market that had been their livelihood.
Boarherds with hardy stock bred for the Eisalaan climate; they told her how the beasts were dropping dead in their pens, the surviving boar left with little to eat but the starved corpses of their fellows.
The pregnant wife of a workman who had never returned from the Machull Mountains, now left to raise a child on her own with no income to feed them both.
Each and every Eisalaan citizen who approached had a story of struggle and a hollow, desperate look in their eyes.
And Avette gave them each the same response; pale hands pressed to her heart in despair, and her brows tilting together above a dead, black gaze.
I see your struggle, she told them, but I have heard your prayers for so many years. Prayers for a longer, colder winter.
As though this was what any of them had prayed for. As though they hadn’t been asking for more of the same prosperity they’d found in the Frost. And if any of them dared to contradict her interpretation of those prayers, Avette was steadfast.
This winter is a gift in a world that covets our magic, she told them. This is Aera’s shield; we must only learn to wield it, just as Eisalaan learned to thrive through the Frost.
Whether meek or worn out, the first few citizens allowed themselves to be led away with nothing to show for their audience but a handful of empty words.
The endless charade marched on, citizen after citizen brought forth and led away until finally a scuffle near the front of the crowd drew Avette’s eye.
“Gard,” she called sharply—then softened her voice and posture, remembering herself. “Bring her forward; all are welcome here.”
Benan turned to face the queen; behind him stood a woman with crossed arms and a cross face.
It took Kai a moment to recognise her as the head of the palace kitchens; Marie, he thought, though they’d met only once, and she was significantly sunnier on that occasion.
Today, her face was thunderous, and Benan fought to tame a mirror expression as he bowed his head to Avette and stepped aside.
The cook bustled forward, arms remaining stubbornly crossed until she reached the foot of the dais and dropped into a curtsey.
“Marie Brown, Your Majesty,” she said as she rose. “I run your kitchens.”
“Of course,” Avette said blandly; she hadn’t a clue who stood before her. Kai wondered if it was as obvious to everyone else as it was to him. “Speak your concerns, dear Marie, and I shall hear them.”
“I am concerned that food is growing scarce, Your Majesty. We haven’t had the means to stock our kitchens in weeks, and our stores are dwindling.”
Avette nodded, but Marie didn’t go on. Silence whistled on the air for a moment; two. Avette’s eyes narrowed, the briefest twitch. She couldn’t outright say it, but Kai could almost hear the response on the tip of her tongue.
And?
Instead, she tapped a long finger thoughtfully against the carved edge of her armrest, the dull clink of sharp nails against polished silver setting Kai’s teeth on edge.
“And where do your supplies come from, Marie Brown?”
As though they were a frivolity. As though they weren’t the very same supplies that fed Avette and her entire damned palace. But Marie didn’t so much as blink at the dry tone.
“Caldbon, mostly. By way of the Laune Market.”
“Well,” Avette breathed, with a haughty tilt of her chin. “I am afraid we will no longer trade with Caldbon; we must stand up to those who would oppress us.”
“Must we,” said Kai beneath his breath.
Though Avette did not look around, her pendant flickered in the same moment that a burst of searing pain flooded Kai’s jaw, ice filling his mouth. His teeth screamed, and disbelief rebounded off the insides of his aching skull; she had fused his jaw shut.
If Marie noticed the brief and painful exchange, the determined set of her face did not falter.
“So there are new trade deals, then?” she asked, so quickly the question must have been practised. An item crossed off a list she had made, mental or otherwise. “Where will the flour come from now? The corn and potatoes?”
“That is yet to be decided,” Avette gritted out.
“Well, how would they get in anyway?” came a voice from the awaiting crowd. “I’ve a brother out east, says the ports are frozen solid.”
A murmur of agreement rose through the hall. Benan gave a blind shove at the front ranks of the audience, and someone yelped angrily.
“Enough,” Avette hissed, pendant flashing. Silence fell, and for a moment, her dark eyes widened with mild alarm. Then the light drew in, and her mask settled once more. “My dear subjects, I shall hear from you when your time comes. Please do afford Marie her moment in my audience.”