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Orielle woke entwined with Grim. His breath tickled her neck; his body was a furnace keeping her warm. They’d neglected the bed curtains. The uncovered parts of her—toes, shins, an arm, her nose—were icy.
That was one thing Lord Skull’s palace did not have: warmth in these bedrooms. The cold air frosted her breath.
She felt alert, awake, and that relief hadn’t come from assuaging the need that had gradually deepened with every hour she knew Grim.
Two nights ago she had battled wraiths. Last night she fought a sorceress and her troop of wyre and mundane swordsmen. The next morning they had fought with Fortis. How long had they slept? The weariness of those two missed night’s sleep no longer dogged her.
She wiggled a little, trying to get her toes to a warm spot. Nothing warmed the room. Had it been this cold when they’d entered? She’d only noticed the barest furniture. The bed dominated everything.
Grim grunted. He burrowed closer, and she threaded her fingers through his hair.
“You’re awake,” he complained.
“Reality intrudes.”
He lifted his head, and cold air rushed to chill her neck. “What hour is it?”
“There speaks a man who’s stood watches.”
He levered up more and looked around. She shivered at the intruding air. “No windows. No fireplace.” He touched her cheek. “How do you feel?”
“Awake. Energized.”
He grinned, as if she complimented him. Then he rolled out of the bed. She tugged the coverlet from beneath her and covered up. At least their bodies had warmed the bedding.
Fastening his breeches, he opened the hall door and looked out. He shut it rapidly.
Orielle sat up. “What is it?”
“Frost.”
“What?”
“Frost in the corridor.” He searched for his second boot.
“That’s not natural.”
He stomped into his boots. He tossed her the white bodice he’d nearly torn. His brown shirt was beneath it. She slid out of bed and searched for her skirts.
The air seemed to freeze even more as they finished dressing The hair on her nape prickled with warning. When Grim opened the door again, he held a hand to hold her back. He looked both ways then stepped out, motioning her to follow.
Their breaths fogged in the frigid air. Looking like enlarged snowflakes, frost speckled the planking. The door knobs were rimed with frost. The frozen animals on the walls seemed to watch their progress.
At the vigilant stag, Grim swept aside the tapestry to the little corridor into which Sangrior had gone. The narrow space seemed warmer, but the hallway it opened upon was chilly. Doors only opened on the opposite side of the hall while cleverly painted water poured along the feet of quaking aspens on the walls.
He opened the door across from the little corridor. They saw armor on the floor and a curtained bed. The room was as chilled as theirs.
Grim threw back a bed curtain. Sangrior lay there, stilly marble, covered to his chin. He breathed, slow and deep.
Orielle stopped Grim from shaking the knight. An abrupt awakening could be dangerous. She squeezed Sangrior’s shoulder then again and again until his eyes opened.
For the briefest second they were a blue as clear as the sky, then deep black flooded in, filling the sclera. He stayed marble-still, but his eyes cast over to see Grim. Then he sat up, entirely clothed beneath the bed coverings. “What is wrong?”
“The air—it’s too cold.”
“Frost in the hall,” Grim added. “Is that usual?”
For answer, Sangrior slid off the bed and searched for his spurred boots. “How long?”
“We don’t know. We just woke.”
He buckled on his breastplate then reached for his swordbelt. He checked that the ice-blue sword slid easily in the scabbard, then strode to the door, impatient with the tapestry. When he saw the frost ruining the flooring, he grunted. “Have you seen anyone? Heard anything? No? Then be alert.”
Sangrior led them to the stairway and down. He went slowly, carefully, for the steps were more iced than the hallway.
Ice covered the mirrors along the entrance hallway. Their breaths frosted, hanging heavy in the cold, cold air.
Sangrior turned to the dining room rather than the front door. He opened a glazed door. His sharp inhalation alerted them. Power tracked to Orielle’s fingers, ready, warming.
The two Fae women stood on either side of the glazed doors. Their faces had turned as white as Sangrior’s, the burnished glint of gold vanished from their skin. Their eyes were shut, their lips bluish. Their eyelashes looked rimed, reminding Orielle of the icy tear dripping from Zairantze’s lashes. Yet they breathed, the faintest exhalation of frosty vapor. A pulse beat in one woman’s temple.
Beyond the wall of windows, the colorful trees outside were prematurely ice-covered. Snow smothered the ground, limned the edges of the autumn leaves, created a tracery that patterned the bark on the tree limbs. The snow lay inches thick, a frozen wonderland.
And dangerous, for Sangrior swore and looked like he wanted to attack it.
“Not natural?” Grim asked.
“No. Not now, not so quickly.”
“Frost Clime.”
He growled. “The sorceress must be powerful.”
“Or her spell unexpected,” Orielle pointed out. Not powerful. Please, not powerful. “Should we wake them?”
“Can you?”
She took the hand of the nearest. It seemed lifeless—yet she sensed a throbbing life essence. She clasped one hand over it, the other cupping it. She did not know any strong healing spells, just the basic healing spells that every wizard knew. She flooded a warming spell in with a simple awakening spell and prayed that was enough.
It was. The blue left the woman’s lips. Her skin warmed. Then her eyes flashed open, moss-green in her still pale face.
“What—?”
“The sorceress. Ice.” She reached for the other Fae.
The snowy forest seemed to capture the woman’s attention. When her companion woke, the scene also snared her.
“Where is the Lord and the Lady?”
They jerked at that question. Fae did not dramatize any emotion, yet they seemed guilty. “Come.” They led the way into the hall.
“Is everyone frozen asleep?”
“You are the first we found,” Sangrior assured them.
The green-eyed one turned to Orielle. “What spell did you work?”
“Awakening and warming.”
“Simple spells. This ice seems a great magic.”
At their looks of wonder, Orielle cringed. She had started with simple spells, not expecting them to work. But why wouldn’t simple spells work? I’ve faced the sorceress in battle. If she could have destroyed me, she would have. She did not. Did their powers match? To ice over the whole palace would require a well-prepared spell, not great power. And it depended on the Kyrgy being caught unawares. The sorceress must have depended on catching the palace’s inhabitants unprepared for defense.
Another ambush.
Grim held back a tapestry for her to follow the Fae women into a corridor similar to the stag and wolves above. These walls were painted with great trunks of oaks and a leafy green canopy that stretched across the ceiling.
“Another trick,” she whispered to Grim, “one that depended on lowering our guard.”
Sangrior had heard her. “The sentries—.” Then he shook his head. “The power would have crept over them, wouldn’t it?”
“Frost Clime will be coming. They expect us to be caught in sleep and ice.”
“Easy prey,” Grim growled.
They passed into another corridor, narrow this time and not as long. The walls were covered with mirrors in gilt frames and heavily worked tapestries. The arras depicted riders on a Hunt through a stylized forest.
The woman swept back a tapestry of three knights on black horses. Behind it was a carved door, a stag wreathed by evergreens decorated with nuts and berries on the central panel. Wide-eyed, she looked from Orielle to Sangrior and to Grim. “My lord Vrigsmal is here. He asked not to be disturbed.”
Grim reached past her and turned the icy knob. He pushed the door open and revealed a huge bedchamber, thrice the size of their own, filled with silver-painted furniture. This room was not as cold as the others. Storm-purple curtains surrounded the bed. Grim tossed those back as well.
Lord Skull lay entwined with a Fae woman, her golden hair spilling across his marble-white skin. His eyes flashed open. “What do you here?”
Sangrior bent to one knee. “Lord Skull, the sorceress and her wyre will soon attack.”
The Kyrgy sat up, dislodging the woman. Shifted to the mattress, she slept on, undisturbed. He stared at her, then his nostrils flared. “Sorcery.” He sprang from the bed. “Who is affected?”
“It crept over the court. The Aiwaz Solsken awakened me before the spell killed me.” Sangrior indicated the women. “These Fae were caught in it, though. The Solsken awakened them.”
Uncaring of his nudity, Vrigsmal turned to Orielle. “You masquerade as a Not-Wizard?”
“Two simple spells dispersed the sorcery, my lord. Anyone who can work a light spell can disrupt it.”
“Even so?” His head tilted. Then he reached for his leather breeches. “Simple spells that invade my palace? Ice sleep dissipated by my Solsken? Wake Ysafrona,” he ordered a Fae woman who hastened to obey. “Wake the sentries,” he ordered the other, and she hurried from the room. “Have you warned my sister?”
“Lady Skuld is here?”
“With her consort knight, aye. Show him,” he tossed to the first Fae woman, for the one he had bedded was awake, blinking and stretching, not yet alert. “We shall see if this sorceress dares to attack.”
Sangrior followed the Fae from the room. Vrigsmal buckled on his breastplate, and Grim moved to serve like a squire.
“How did you escape the spell, Solsken?”
“I do not know. I woke chilled. The room was not iced, not like the hallways and Sangrior’s chamber, but it was becoming so.”
“The spell invaded the passages first?” he mused. “That sounds logical.” He grinned then, revealing his sharpened teeth, a predator’s relish of the Hunt for his prey. “She does not understand my palace.”
Does anyone? Orielle wondered, for Grim claimed it was illusion. Yet how did illusion have three stories and a spire as well as a lower level for the servants who kept the palace functioning with meals and practicalities? Or perhaps the Fae, whether Lucent or Kyrgy, are beyond such mundanities?
“Ysafrona, see my other servants are awake. Have them prepare a quick meal. Wine, bread, meat. We may not have time to dine before the sorceress and her wyre attack.” He turned back to Orielle. “The spell came in, through the passages and thence to the chambers, climbing up, because she expected us to rest after our Hunt.”
“As we did.”
“Ah, but you were awake and dressed before the spell would have taken you. I would study this more.”
One of the Fae women hurried in. Her Fae reserve had broken into horror. “My Lord. Oh, my Lord!” She dropped to her knees and bent forward, her brow touching the floor at his feet. “The sentries, my Lord. Those who were without—they are dead! Frozen!”
The skin around his full-black eyes tightened. “Frozen how?”
“They stand in their place, but frost covers them and their skin is blue with cold. They are like ice statues. Even their halberds are frozen. When I touched one, his hand broke and fell to the ground! Four sentries, my Lord.”
“Wake the others. Wake my riders.”
“My Lord.” She scrambled up and rushed out.
“We may have lost others. My sword,” the Kyrgy ordered. Grim hoisted the ornate sword sheathed in an embroidered scabbard, silver thread scrolled into Fae words. When Vrigsmal fastened the swordbelt around him, the sword hung nearly to the floor.
Sangrior waited in the corridor. He looked statue-still except for his eyes, flickering from tapestry to tapestry.
“My sister?”
“Awake and donning armor, my lord. Volk is with her. Her last rider bunks with your own.” As he spoke, the tapestry behind him was swept aside. Volk emerged, and he held the heavy arras for the Lady to come through.
“Brother.”
“Sister. Did the spell snare you?”
“Nay, I was untouched. I woke when Sangrior entered. Beside me, though, Volk was taken without my knowledge, yet he woke easily.”
“So it has been. Riders and sentries and companions snared, we in a natural sleep.”
“I sense no sorcery.”
“Would we? The sorceress has used simple spells to slip inside our wards.”
“How did you learn of it?”
“We are indebted to the Solsken,” and he bowed to Orielle.
Expressionless, Lady Bone surveyed Orielle. “You surprise me yet again, Not-Wizard. I acknowledge the debt and release you from the vow.”
Orielle curtsied. “My Lady, we have common cause against the sorceress and her followers. I do not seek to escape my vow. I would serve until we defeat her.”
“An honorable wizard,” Vrigsmal murmured while Skuld’s brow contracted, a minute sign of displeasure.
Indebted to the Solsken. Vrigsmal claimed the debt, for himself and his sister. A Kyrgy in debt to a wizard. Accustomed to absolute command, the Lady would not relish that debt.
“Come.” The Lord strode to the short passage and into the longer corridor.
A few riders had reached the longer corridor. Although armed, they did not seem alert or ready for battle. One bowed. “My Lord. We cannot wake three of our number. They are like ice.”
Vrigsmal bowed his head. “I will mourn them later. After we have dealt with this foul sorceress of Frost Clime.”
The three Fae companions waited before a tall mirror, their backs reflected. They sank into deep curtsies as Vrigsmal approached . He gently cupped the face of Ysafrona then briefly touched the cascading gilt hair of the other two. “You will return to Faeron.”
“My Lord, no!”
“You will not be protected here, Ysafrona. Take the others with you and return to the Third Sister’s court at Eiron. Give my thanks to her.”
Vrigsmal’s brief order scattered the bits of knowledge that she’d learned about the Fae, as if those few facts dropped into a deep chasm. What did I never know?
Orielle knew of the Third Sister. When the Enclave renewed its alliance with Faeron, her tutors had drilled all the wizardry students over the Fae septs. The Maorketh queen had three sisters and three brothers, each with a clan or sept. Were the Kyrgy part of a clan, an unknown part? The Third Sister was Veirnt Skuld.
Two Fae comeis, swordshields sent by the Veirnt Skuld, were bound to Pater d’Aulnois and Mater Rochein. Pater Galfrons, her clan, was protected by the comeis Dagorr Sigir of the First Sister’s sept. Every wizard clan leader had a bound comeis from a sept. The ArchClan under protest had accepted a comeis. Fae warriors, immediate protection if Frost Clime attacked the Enclave—as they had two days before Orielle began her mission to Iscleft Haven. A handful of comeis and wizards and the ArchClan’s magister Raigeis, her cousin, had died in the fight against two sorcerers and their bound wyre. What did I never understand?
Ysafrona had knelt. She looked up at Vrigsmal, her face a shining oval, gilded as the Kyrgy was marble-white. “My Lord, should we tell the Veirnt Skuld of the sorceress and the wyre?”
“I do not call upon her for aid. You may explain, you may not request, even without words. I ask only that she welcome you to her court.”
Ysafrona reached for his hand, but she did not touch. “My Lord, I would not leave you.”
“The wards will be dropped. The illusion will be shattered.” At those stony sentences, the women cried in dismay. “Go,” he ordered. “Return to Eiron.”
The mirror rippled like water. When it cleared, the reflection was of a room filled with silver-gilt furniture and blue upholstery, a floor with white marble veined with grey, and a tapestry of a unicorn beside a blue-stone fountain. No one was in the room. The three Fae stepped through the mirror. As they turned to look back at Vrigsmal, the mirror rippled then it once more reflected the hall.
“Sentimental,” Lady Bone judged. “They must learn to control that.”
Her brother ignored her. He turned to his riders and sentries, whose ranks had filled as he dealt with the Lucent Fae. “We have an enemy who dares invade my court with her spells. She will not live to the dawn. Fill your bellies with food now. Fill them with blood on the Hunt.”
The riders’ shouts rang in the corridor.
