Page 88 of Crown Prince's Mate

“Welcome to Frosthold. We bid you food and warmth,” booms out Gunnar, and I see now why he’s always loud in meetings. His voice is molded to be heard over the gales of his home planet.

“Well met, Jarl Gunnar of Frosthold!” Doman yells back in the traditional greeting.

“For those not born on this planet of ice, could we go inside?” asks Liora, her voice so soft I can barely hear it over the gusts.

“Come on in, the fire is warm!” Gunnar yells, turning, and his men follow him to the great hall. The hall is two granite slabs that form a triangle to the sky, snow cascading off the roof and sliding down the sloping sides. Smoke pours out from the zenith, dark gray that mixes with the cloudy darkness, promising warmth. Gunnar throws open the stone doors, which open soundlessly, and the light, warmth and noise spills out. The lively sound of a lute mixes with the raucous celebration, the men and women united, the heat and laughter defiant against the stark conditions.

The Frostholdians trace their lineage to Old Earth, though in the eons that passed they probably retained but a single drop of Viking blood to share between them, yet still they brought the old customs. The planet has changed them, their eyes dilated to pick out hunting targets in the long icy expanse, and they are so pale they are ghostly, the sun weak in the outer reaches.

I eagerly walk into the looming hall with my triad, and we shuffle in as more warriors follow, breaking off into threes and taking seats at the hewn wooden tables that span the length of the hall.

A tall, blonde woman with striking features in a brown dress takes my coat, and as I shrug it off, Gunnar gives me a sour look, his eyes on my uniform. “Well, at least you weren’t late to my planet,” he comments, as a young man helps him out ofhis heavy coat. I may have been a little late for the last holo-vid meeting, thanks to Gallien pouncing on me…

Alright, more than a little late.

Liora gives him an icy glare, elegant in the summery dress she wore under her huge white furs, looking like a flower in a sea of snow. Men and women stop drinking, the lute quieting, and hard, lined faces peer out at us over mugs of mead and beer. Some raises their glasses as they catch sight of me, others nodding in respect. The smell of roasting meat makes my stomach growl.

The appraising eyes of the warriors, the men and women who hunt and pilot the ships which defend our outer ring, focus on the triad of Aurelians. I catch some of the women chuckling to each other, staring at the alien princes with obvious approval. On a planet that respects raw strength and bravery, they are the pinnacle.

“What I wouldn’t give for a suit like that,” says Gunnar, looking enviously at Doman’s Orb-Armor. Gunnar’s clad in a simple black knit sweater that hugs his strong physique, so unlike the gaudy frost-wyrm scaled vest he had on in that meeting that seems like a lifetime ago, before I’d heard the Aurelian proposal and my life would be changed forever.

“This technology is not mine to give. Only those who earn the status of elite gain this armor,” replies Doman.

“A good system you have. Those that prove themselves are the only ones who can vote,” answers Gunnar, nodding in respect. Liora gives him a hard poke, and he clears his throat, looking over at me, the democratically elected Prime Minster of the system he’s just insulted. “You see those Reavers flying above on your way planetside? Not bad, eh? ’Course we didn’t have a hundred years to train on them, but still, good progress. Come on, boys, I’ve got a table for us up near the fire. Liora, do you mind entertaining our Virelian guest?” He turns toher, asking permission, the proud warrior leader of the planet practically giddy at the thought of getting the triad all to himself to pick their brains.

“Go right ahead,” smiles Liora.

Gunnar yells for mead to be brought, and Titus raises his hand. “We already had a drinking contest with an entire troop of rangers on Virelia, I’m taking it easy tonight.”

Gunnar guffaws. “I want to hear all about,” he says, as he leads them deeper into the hall. Gallien casts a glance back to me, evaluating. He doesn’t like me to be out of arm’s reach of him, when we’re surrounded by men and women, but no one has a weapon. I give him a smile and a nod to reassure him that I’m perfectly safe, and he follows deeper into the hall.

Liora leads me to a round wooden table tucked in the corner and sits down. “I must confess, I’ve got a diplomatic mission of my own.”

“Oh?” I sit down across from her.

“Gunnar’s got it in his head you’re going to pit the triad up against a frost-wyrm to win your hand in marriage. It’s mating season, and the bulls are rampaging. After that… spectacle on Magnar, he’s terrified that the princes are going to meet an icy end on his territories.”

I snort. “If I told them to hunt an entire pack of the beasts, they’d come back with their heads. But don’t worry, you can tell him you convinced me to go easy on them.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m supposed to order white wine if I succeeded. Red is if I failed, and I need the cavalry to come over and help me to convince you.”

“The heavy guns, huh,” I say, glancing over at the table where my triad are sitting with their backs to the wall, so they can watch me. Gunnar is glancing over his shoulder, and when he catches me looking over, he turns back to his mead. “Spycraft and hidden signals, from the mastermind himself.”

She smiles. “Oh, but I love him, even when he’s being ridiculous. And I wouldn’t knock his mind. You see how the men are grouped in threes? He’s copying Aurelian society. He found the tallest Frostholdians with any aptitude at flying, and he’s training them to work the Reavers. He doesn’t want to modify a single thing about them, not even the seats. He thinks the brotherhood of a triad is the essential component. He has them sleeping in the same dorms, eating together, training together…”

“How have the Reavers been working?”

“Well. With the Reavers stemming the tide, you wouldn’t even know that the Scorp numbers increase what every day. But they do.” Worry lines appear on her face and she purses her lips. “It’s a bad omen. I’d rather not dwell on it. So, shall I order the white wine? I have Gunnar stock the cellars with Virelian vintages.”

“You want to have a little fun with him?”

Her eyes gleam wickedly. “What are you thinking?”

“Order rosé. Keep him guessing.”

“You’re wicked,” she says, raising her hand. A boy, maybe seventeen, with a shock of golden hair to rival Doman’s, jumps to attention. “Would you bring us a bottle Virelian rosé, please?”

“Right away,” he says, and I watch with amusement as Gunnar tracks the servant’s movements like a hawk, watching him disappear into the kitchens. When he comes back with the bottle, his eyes widen, trying to figure out what it means. Titus is talking, but there’s no chance Gunnar’s hearing a single word.

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