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At nightfall we sail past floating chunks of ice, landing on a windswept beach just short of the Hudson Strait. Oak pulls the sea craft high onto the black rocks. Tiernan secures a rope to keep it there when the tide comes in. They do not ask me to help, and I do not volunteer.

Above us, a waning moon shines down on my homecoming.

I recall the words from the puppet show, when the crow sang for his millstone.Ca-caw, ca-caw. How beautiful a bird am I.

CHAPTER

13

Winds rake over the mountains, sinking into the valley with an eerie whistling sound. The late-afternoon sun shines off Oak’s golden hair, almost as bright as the snow.

Thick cloaks hang heavily over our backs. Titch huddles in the cowl at the prince’s neck, occasionally peering out to scowl at me.

Snow is seldom still. It swirls and blinds. It clings to everything, glimmering and glittering, and when a gust comes, it turns into a white fog.

And it stings. First like needles, then like razors. Tiny particles of ice chafe the cheeks, and even when they settle, they hide pitfalls. I take too heavy a step and plunge down, one of my legs sinking deep and the other thigh bending painfully on the ice shelf.

Oak leans down to give me his hand, then hauls me up. “My lady,” he says, as though handing me into a carriage. I feel the pressure of his fingers through both our gloves.

“I’m fine,” I tell him.

“Of course you are,” he agrees.

I resume walking, ignoring a slight limp.

The Stone Forest looms in front of us, perhaps twenty miles off and stretching far enough in both directions that it is hard to see how we could get around it. Tall pine trees, their bark all of silvery gray. They grow out of the snow-covered plain, rising up like a vast wall.

As we move along, we come to a stake in the ground, on which a troll’s head has been mounted. The wooden shaft lists to one side, as though from the force of the wind, and the entire top is black with dried fluid. The troll’s eyes are open, staring into nothing with cloudy, fogged-over irises. Its lashes are white with frost.

Written on the stake are the words:My blood was spilled for the glory of the Kings of Stone who rule from beneath the world, but my body belongs to the Queen of Snow.

I stare at the head, the rough-cut flesh at the neck and the splinter of bone visible just beneath. Then I look ahead into the snow-covered expanse, dotted with curiously similar shapes. Now that I know they are not fallen branches or slender trees, I see there are a half dozen at least, with a grouping of three in one spot and the others spread out.

As I am wondering what they mean, the thing opens its mouth and speaks.

“In the name of our queen,” it creaks out in a whispery, horrible voice, “welcome.”

I step back in surprise, slip, and land on my ass. As I scramble to get up, Tiernan draws his sword and slices the head in two. Half the skull falls into the snow, scattering frozen clumps of blood large enough to look like rubies.

The thing’s lips still move, though, bidding us welcome again and again.

Oak raises his eyebrows. “I think we ought to assume that our presence is no longer secret.”

Tiernan looks out at the half dozen similar shapes. He nods once, wipes his sword against his pants, and sheathes it again. “It’s not far to the cave. There will be furs waiting for us and wood for a fire. We can plan from there.”

“When did you provision all of that?” I ask.

“When I came here for Hyacinthe,” Tiernan says. “Although we weren’t the first to use it. There were already some old supplies, from the time when the Court of Teeth and Madoc’s falcons made camp nearby.”

As we trudge on, I consider Tiernan’s answer.

I hadn’t really thought about thetimingof Hyacinthe’s abduction before. I’d known that he was in Elfhame for long enough to try to murder Cardan and get put in the bridle. That had to have predated Madoc being kidnapped.

But Hyacinthe being in Elfhame when the general was taken seems odd, coincidental. Had he helped Lady Nore? Had he known it would happen and said nothing? Has Tiernan more reason to feel betrayed than I knew?

The third head we pass is one of the Gentry. His eyes are black drops, his skin bleached by blood loss. The same message about the Kings of Stone that was on the troll’s stake is written on this one.

Oak reaches out to touch the frozen cheek of the faerie. He closes the eyes.