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L amplight filtered through Gytha’s closed eyelids and woke her slowly. The lamps were all bright, and her nighttime visitor was gone. The fire was built up, and Magni stood by the door.

“Hello,” she said. She slid from the covers and put her slippers on. Her chemise, overdress, and silk night trousers were as modest as any outerwear, and the room was plenty warm, so she did not bother to even pull on a robe.

His strange gray eyes flicked over her face, bright and curious, but he merely bowed his head in acknowledgment.

Her breakfast sat on the table near the fire.

“Where is the bear?” she asked.

A flicker of some unpleasant emotion flickered over his face, and he shook his head.

“Is he all right?” Gytha felt a sudden rush of worry.

Magni shrugged one shoulder. He pointed at the table.

The fatigue of travel lingered. Gytha ate slowly, savoring the flavor without thinking much of anything. Her muscles ached, and her mind felt fuzzy and sluggish.

She put her head on the table and drifted into a doze.

Without any warning at all, the queen swept into the room and announced in a ringing voice, “Come, child! I am bored! There will be a banquet tonight!”

Gytha jolted to her feet, startled. “Yes, ma’am.”

The queen looked down her nose at the girl. “You should say, ‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ ignorant girl.” Her voice was icy.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Gytha’s voice shook.

“Come along!” The queen swept out of the room, her cloak swirling in her wake.

Her heart thudding, Gytha hurried after her, and Magni followed. The bear joined them a few moments later, padding silently along behind them in the shadowy corridor.

The banquet hall was transformed; rows of tables filled the center of the room while a longer table stood on a low dais at one end of the room.

Several dozen servants stood against the walls while other figures found their seats.

It was strange to see so many of the ice goblins; for months, Gytha had only seen Magni and the one female servant who prepared her food.

Gytha hesitated at the doorway, and the queen caught her by one wrist and pulled her toward the dais with an iron grip. The girl felt like a leaf on a fast-flowing stream, moving along without any say in where she went, and likely with an unpleasant, tumultuous drop soon.

So many figures moving in utter silence felt like a strange, unpleasant magic, and Gytha’s stomach churned with nerves. The whole room was full of cold, crackling energy, like the feeling of standing on ice that was too thin .

One might plunge into lethal waters with no warning.

The queen nearly threw Gytha into a seat at the table, not the seat of honor but the one next to it.

Gytha was still in her nightdress, and this belated realization only made her more uneasy.

The dress was warm and modest enough, but surely it was not appropriate for whatever the queen planned.

Still, Gytha did not dare mention it, nor voice any other protest.

“Sit.” The queen’s voice rang out like a crack of lightning, and the milling figures all sat hurriedly.

Gytha’s eyes widened as she got a better look at them. All the upturned faces were pale gray or the palest ice blue, with sharp features and clear gray-blue eyes. Their hair was anything from iron gray to white, and some of them had things coming from their heads.

Antlers? Some were so small they looked like the nubs young deer and elk sported in the spring. But others…one near the front of the room had a rack as wide and tall as his arms spread wide, and each point was as sharp as an awl.

Their eyes all fixed on Gytha with sudden interest.

The queen said, “Eat and be filled!” Then she said other things, and Gytha looked up at her in sudden confusion. She felt she ought to understand, but the words were a jumble of sharp sounds that would not resolve into meaning, like bits of broken glass scattered upon snow.

With a clap of her hands, the queen ended her soliloquy, and the feast began. Servants brought course after course of food, and Gytha was served at the queen’s table, as if she were a guest of honor.

The bear stood in one corner, silent and motionless, as if he hoped to become invisible by his stillness. Magni stood not far away.

Gytha felt terribly alone on the dais beside the queen, with her cold eyes and her broken-glass voice. She smiled tentatively at Magni.

His eyes flicked away, and he did not smile back.

The queen followed her gaze.

“Why do you smile at a servant?” The queen’s voice was honey sweet, but so cold that Gytha trembled in sudden fear.

“I…I just wanted to be nice,” she stammered.

“To a servant?” Queen Javethai laughed incredulously, the sound bouncing off the walls.

“He is nothing! You will be a princess!” She tapped Gytha under the chin with one cold finger and smiled down at her.

Her eyes glittered with anger. “You are a princess,” she repeated, “and should pay no attention to a servant.”

“I’m sorry,” Gytha murmured.

But she wasn’t sorry. Shouldn’t one be kind, regardless of one’s station?

Hildr Hilmarsson had given her mending and embroidery to do, when she could easily have done it herself.

She knew how desperately Gytha’s family had needed what food she could spare, and she knew they would prefer to earn it rather than accept charity.

She had paid generously for the work, too, more generously than was reasonable.

There was kindness in that, and it was nothing to despise or regret.

Alexander had been kind, too, especially if he really was a prince.

Suddenly the queen’s voice rang out, as harsh and sharp and clear as crystal in the cold air. “Beat him. Now.” She turned on Gytha, her voice filled with unveiled hostility. “Let him and the others learn from this, and let you take this as a lesson in comportment, child.”

Four of the other servants took Magni by the arms. He cried out, his voice rough, and the queen roared, “SILENCE!”

And there was silence, except for the sound of Magni’s uneven breathing.

The other servants forced him to kneel facing the queen with his face pressed to the floor. Another servant, larger than the others, stepped forward from the far wall. He carried a thick staff.

Gytha’s mouth hung open, and her breath came short with terror.

The servant stood behind Magni.

The first blow fell upon his back with a sickening crack.

Magni let out a harsh, guttural breath but said nothing.

The second blow was as brutal as the first. Again the staff fell, and Magni made no sound.

Another blow, and another, and another, and Gytha was weeping.

The tears streamed down her face, and the blows continued.

Magni slumped forward, and the servant did not stop.

Gytha sobbed and caught at the queen’s sleeve, but the queen shook her off, barely even noticing her distress.

Queen Javethai stood, apparently to gain a better vantage point to enjoy the display. Her chin rose in pride, and her lips curled up with cruel amusement.

There was no blood, but the sound of each blow, sharp and echoing, was horrifying.

Magni lay without any sign of life.

Finally the big servant stopped and looked up at the queen. She stepped down from the dais and strode toward Magni, her cloak swirling behind her.

Magni did not move.

Queen Javethai kicked him in the face with one foot and his head snapped sideways, limp. She smiled. “It is enough.” She turned back to the dais and strode up the stairs again, saying carelessly over her shoulder, “Take him away.”

Gytha was trembling, tears sticky on her face. Was Magni dead? Was it her fault?

The queen spoke lightly of many things, but Gytha could not pay attention. There was to be another banquet soon. Did she enjoy her painting? Did she want anything? A loom had been made and would be in the room where she painted, along with many exquisite colors of wool for her to enjoy.

How could the queen talk of trivialities now? Gytha was numb as her mind replayed the scene over and over. Had she caused it? What had she done wrong? Was it because she had smiled? She felt sick with guilt.

Alexander still stood silently in one corner. When the queen took her last bite, she called him to dance. He shuffled to the center of the room and stood where Magni had been beaten.

“Dance!” Queen Javethai cried.

The bear’s head drooped.

“Dance, bear.” The queen’s voice was as sharp and hard as a knife blade.

The bear shuffled from side to side without a sound.

Tears sprang to Gytha’s eyes again. “Please stop,” she whispered.

The queen glanced down at her and sneered. “Foolish child.” She waved an imperious hand, and the bear continued to dance.

Over three hundred flowers adorned Gytha’s cloth. It had been almost a year. Soon something would happen. Something would change.

She did not see Magni for many days. No one guarded her now. The cook sometimes peeked in the room, but there was no real need to guard her. She could no longer find the corridor that led to the surface.

Gytha felt so alone. The bear joined her sometimes as she embroidered and painted, but she was afraid to speak to him now. She did not want to see him beaten, too. Only when she was sure they were alone did she try to speak, and then only very softly.

She never heard him speak. She had not expected him to speak. She had known he would not. Still, she felt his silence keenly, and she clung to the memory of his voice when the loneliness tormented her most acutely.

Sometimes he felt more distant, sometimes irritable or even hostile, and once he growled suddenly at her, his eyes gleaming with feral hunger, before he shook himself and rushed from the room.

Once, when she was growing tired of reading by the fire, she asked him, “Was it my fault?”

He looked up at her, his eyes wide and blank.

“The servant. Was it my fault he was beaten?” Her voice trembled, and she watched his face.