Page 64 of The Cradle of Ice

Rami backed away, shunning him. “This is a mistake you all will regret.”

Kanthe dropped his hand. He could only watch as Aalia was freed. Even with the gag removed, she remained darkly quiet, glaring at him. Her silence was far worse than any curse or slight. She, along with Rami and Loryn, was led out of the wheelhouse to be confined in one of the private quarters.

Frell sighed and patted Kanthe on the shoulder.

Pratik simply looked grim, as if he agreed with Rami’s earlier assessment.

Frell turned to Llyra, his voice somber and serious as he moved on to a more pressing matter. “What is the word out of Hálendii?”

Llyra gazed across the wheelhouse toward the open sky. “You’re all not as clever as you think,” she said. “Not by half.”

Frell nodded. “King Toranth clearly knows we’re here. And that Kanthe is betrothed to a Klashean princess.”

“He certainly does, but that’s not all he knows.”

“What do you mean?”

She turned back to them. “Word is that a Hálendiian battle group was sent off into the Frozen Wastes two months ago.”

Kanthe winced, understanding what this meant.

Llyra confirmed it. “The king … and worse, that fekking Shrive Wryth … must know Nyx is out in the Wastes somewhere.”

30

STANDING IN A shadowed corner of the tourney yard, Shrive Wryth studied the shining figure of the future king of the Hálendii—and tried to stifle his concerns.

As he pondered his dilemma, he ran a palm over the long silver-white braids tied around his neck like a noose. They marked his status as one of the holy Shriven, as did his gray robe and the tattooed black band over his eyes.

Not that anyone paid him any heed.

Across the yard, a raucous celebration raged.

Ale flowed from a pyramid of tapped barrels. Bards sang of ancient battles and valiant warriors. Minstrels and jesters capered, as drunken as the hundreds of the king’s legionnaires who reveled among the scores of bonfires. All had come out to rejoice in the successful assault on the northern coast of the Klashe.

At the center of it all stood the focus of their adoration, the young man who led that attack, his first foray following his graduation from the Legionary school.

Prince Mikaen still wore his full armor. Its sheen reflected the flames, casting the Hálendiian crest on his breastplate into a fiery blaze. The same Massif family sigil—the sun and crown—was also engraved into the silver mask that covered half his face. He made a striking figure and clearly knew it.

He stood amidst a cadre of Vyrllian Guard. They were the legion’s most elite fighters, battle-hardened with countenances entirely tattooed in crimson, both to mark their blooded status and to strike fear into their enemies. But the nine who kept closest to Mikaen were his personal protectors, the Silvergard. They had altered their appearances, adding black-ink versions of the Massif sigil to their faces, mimicking and honoring the prince.

Chief among the Silvergard was the mountainous Captain Thoryn, who had rescued Mikaen last summer following a savage ax blow to the prince’s face. Despite the best efforts of the kingdom’s healers, Mikaen remained disfigured, a hideous scarring that was hidden behind the shining mask.

Wryth knew it was emblematic of the prince’s spirit. Mikaen celebrated with those around him, showing his half-smile to all, but that merriment never reached the young man’s eyes.

Mikaen remained embittered, which was not unexpected. Yet, that was not all. There remained an ever-growing darkness, a poison that had seemingly seeped into him from that wound and continued to spread. It was a spiteful mix of fury, pride, and ambition. He had no patience for governance or counsel any longer.

Wryth knew Mikaen would never find peace until his twin brother was dead—and maybe not even then.

Still, the prince’s temperament was not what worried Wryth. That slice of an ax had not only scarred the prince, but it had cut the tether that bound the Shrive to the young man. For the entirety of the prince’s life, Wryth had been grooming Mikaen to be a king he could control and wield like a sword. But now Wryth had lost his hold on the prince. Mikaen barely spoke to him, ignoring him even here.

All that effort corrupted by a single blow …

Still, Wryth held out one hope. He watched Mikaen lean toward Thoryn and point toward the gates out of the tourney yard. The prince must have grown tired of feigning jubilance and looked forward to the journey ahead of him. In the morning, he would set off for the rolling plains of the Brauðlands, where his wife’s family—the House of Carcassa—kept a sprawling ranchhold. Lady Myella continued to reside there, kept under guard.

Mikaen was anxious to reach there—not so much to bed his beloved wife, but to visit his twins, a boy and a girl, born three weeks ago. The babes squalled out of their mother’s womb only seven months after the two were married. Few knew of their birth, which was kept secret to disguise the fact that they were conceived before the royal nuptials. No one wanted to risk muddying the bloodline with a rumor of bastards. In another month, the birth of the twins would be announced amidst stories of an early labor.

Still, if Mikaen had his way, he would have already heralded it.