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The wind was silent for some time, though it swirled softly about their shoulders, tugging on Gytha’s hood occasionally. Finally it murmured, “What of the goblin kingdom? What sort of king will you be, small prince?”

Eshkeshken said, “I have no quarrel with the human kingdoms. I will pursue no war that is not forced upon me.”

The wind whispered, “The injustice of Queen Javethai has been an offense to me for long years. I will support your claim, Prince Eshkeshken. Hold still, and I will give you something that may be of use in your revolt.”

The ice goblin prince stood even straighter, his spare frame erect and proud as his clothes whipped in the wind. Then he gasped and clutched at his chest with one hand. He hunched a little, his features contorted in pain. Then he straightened again, his face a ghastly shade of gray.

“Thank you, East Wind,” he said hoarsely.

Then they were caught up in a whirlwind and the world spiraled into madness.

Snow and stars spun, and the wind whipped and pirouetted around them until Gytha had no sense of direction at all. In fact, very little sense of self remained.

When the wind finally dropped her on a snowy hillside, she lay face down in the frigid fluff, unable to even think of rising.Snow stuck to her eyelashes, froze upon her cheeks, and filled her nostrils.

Strong hands turned her over, and she stared dizzily up at the star-strewn sky, dark and infinite. Dakjudr’s face hovered over her. “Gytha, human child, do not die now. Your bear prince needs you.”

She blinked snow from her vision and tried to think. “Yes. Yes, of course.” She struggled to sit up, and Dakjudr’s arm around her shoulder steadied her until she could sit on her own.

Gytha looked around.

Eshkeshken stood some distance away doubled over with his hands on his knees. He retched and coughed, then pressed one hand to his chest as he groaned.

“Your Highness,” Dakjudr called. “The human child is awake.”

The ice goblin prince coughed again, his thin shoulders hunched for a moment, before he straightened. He strode over to Gytha and offered her a hand.

She accepted his hand, feeling guilty for it but having the distinct feeling that he would have been deeply offended if she had refused his help.

“Are you all right?” she asked cautiously.

His striking gray eyes flashed. “I am angry, and I am strong. Do not worry about me, Gytha. Are you well enough to continue?”

She swallowed her fear and pretended it did not matter. “Yes.”

“Then follow.” He caught Dakjudr’s eye and nodded, as if they understood each other, and then he led them upwards.

The mountain climbed toward the sky above, steep rock faces jumbled together with snow drifts and ice-crusted crevasses like cracks in the earth itself. Eshkeshken offered her his hand atthe most challenging parts of the climb, and she felt, if not exactly safe, at least a little protected.

As they scrambled higher, Gytha’s heartbeat thudded in her ears, and her breath came hard. The icy air stung her lungs painfully, and the wind whipping past felt like ice shards against her skin.

Her foot slipped, and Eshkeshken caught her arm and hauled her up the last few feet.

“Thank you,” she gasped.

He extended his hand next to Dakjudr, who climbed behind Gytha.

All three stood atop a high, rocky promontory. The wind howled over the shoulder of the mountain some distance above, but where they stood, it was only a frigid caress.

Eshkeshken pressed a hand to his chest and grimaced.

The sky above was a blanket of stars, and above them in a great, sweeping curve, the air shone in a rippling ribbon of pink, green, purple, and blue. Gytha gazed up in wonder; she had seen the colors before, but never with such clarity or brilliance. The beauty felt like a gift and a reassurance that even if all their efforts fell to ruin, beauty was not entirely overcome.

The wind curled around Gytha’s hood and murmured, “I have not seen a human in these lands for many long years. Where do you come from, child?”

Gytha glanced at the Eshkeshken, who nodded that she should reply. Her voice sounded thin in the immensity of the cold night. “My village is called Aoalvik, but it’s so tiny no one knows it except for we who live there. Langaholt is not too far away; more people live there. Aoalvik and Langholt are far south of here.”

A soft tickle wove between her hood and her hair, a cold whisper around the back of her neck beneath the layers of cloth and fur. Gytha shivered, and there was a soft answering shiver that felt like amusement.