Page 3 of The Frost Queen's Blade

“I love you,” she said, muffled by the embrace, through the tears that streamed down her cheeks. “I love you, I love you.”

“We love you, Elma,” they said, kissing her on the forehead, taking her hands, speaking soft prayers in the pale morning. “We’ll light a candle for you and keep it lit until we know you’re home. Safe.”

Elma climbed into the carriage at last, biting back the wails of sorrow she wanted to unleash.Home. Home was here, in Orchard House. But she was a princess. She was on her way to fulfill her role as the heir of a kingdom. She must compose herself.

Her mothers blew kisses as the carriage rolled away, bumping over uneven cobbles. Elma watched until the threefigures disappeared around a bend in the road, the last she would see of them.

“It won’t be forever, love.”

The memory of Tammire’s words cut her like a dull knife. Because Elma knew, deep down, that they were untrue. She had always known that the moment she left Mekya, she would never return.

Two

PRESENT DAY

Boredom was too kind a word for what Elma felt.Resigned disgustwould be a more accurate descriptor. Only her father’s presence beside her, his large-knuckled hand propped against a vacant face, kept her dutifully seated. Otherwise, she would have excused herself hours ago.

They were in the Frost arena, presiding over the Death Games. It was the king’s privilege, and his daughter’s as well, to watch over whatever revelries occurred from day to day. King Rafe Volta always chose to indulge in the Death Games. It was his particular favorite pastime, the brutal battles that were carried out in dramatic fashion in the snow-swept arena far below.

Elma only ever saw her father truly eager when there was a smell of blood in the air.

Had it not been Elma’s twenty-first birthday party, with nearly all of the Frost court in attendance, she might not have felt so miserable. If this were a typical Death Games, she would have amused herself by wandering into the underbellyof the arena to joke with the arena men, and maybe even catch a glimpse of one of the champions on his way to dismember someone.

But it was her birthday, and abandoning the celebration would be rude.

“No storm today,” her father had said that morning over breakfast, stray beads of hot wine clinging to his graying mustache. “Your twenty-first year will be plentiful and easy.”

“Yes,” Elma had said, her thoughts elsewhere as they always were. And anyway,no stormmeant very little in Rothen. Snow still fell, relentless and white. Though today there were no harsh winds to batter it against the fighters in the arena, or against the Frost Citadel where it perched above the city, a gargoyle of black stone and sharp steeples against a jagged mountain peak — the seat of the King of Rothen.

From her covered seat in the stands, Elma watched as a man eviscerated his opponent, a slop of gore falling out onto the dirty snow below.

Her father slammed his fist on the arm of his chair, leaning forward, teeth bared. He rarely took sides at the Games — he only cared to see brutality. It was the Volta way. The Death Games had never enticed her the way they were supposed to. They were repetitive and dull; the same champions always won in the same brutal ways. Elma leaned back in her chair, trying not to glower.

“Don’t be so grim,” said King Rafe, leaning close so no one but his daughter could hear above the din of the arena crowd, the excessive indulgence here in their sheltered box seats. “They will suspect you don’t like your gifts.”

Elma glanced at the pile of trinkets next to her chair, gold and jewels, gifts of wealth that she didn’t want or need. “I don’t,” she said. Her father was no stranger to Elma’s insouciance, which tended to border on sullenness.

The king’s frown deepened: a warning. But Elma’s verbal punishment was cut short as a well-dressed young man approached their seats. He was smiling far too brightly, an expression that was as obviously forced as his deep bow and stiffly styled hair. Elma recognized him as one of her cousins, a lordling by the name of Jarian, or… Jedner.

“Lord Jarlen,” said the king.

Jarlen,thought Elma.Close.

“Your Majesty,” said Jarlen, straightening from his bow. The grin remained plastered to his white face.

He wasn’t a fighter then, but one of the sheltered noblemen who preferred to stay indoors and attend parties in favor of protecting the realm from whatever horrors came out of the snowstorms. Elma’s uncle had taught her, upon returning to Rothen, how to recognize a warrior. He would be sun-tanned from being outside all day, where the sun reflected a million ways off the snow. And he would hold himself in a way that spoke of ease, comfort, a man whose body and mind worked in concert.

Lord Jarlen’s body could not have been more awkward, as much as he tried to appear relaxed. He swept his fur-lined cape aside in a dramatic gesture and managed to catch it on his sword pommel. Flustered, he fiddled with it for a moment, tassels swaying from his hat.

“What is it you want?” the king asked, his tone unchanging.

Elma glanced at her father. He was not a kind man, but she had become almost fond of him in the past seven years. And she was grateful that he allowed her to sit in silence in these moments, saving her from the pain of interacting with distant third cousins who couldn’t even bow without causing a tangle of themselves.

“I’ve come to wish Her Highness Princess Elma well onthis, her twenty-first birthday.” He swept another bow, this time managing to avoid tangling his cape in his sword.

“She extends her deepest thanks,” said King Rafe.

Normally, courtiers like Jarlen would smile politely, turn, and depart. But Jarlen only stood there, smiling. His gaze found Elma’s, and she had to fight not to wrinkle her nose at him. “Your Highness, I thought…” said Jarlen, his words tumbling over themselves as if he were reciting a rehearsed line, “I thought I might perhaps offer you a gift on this most, ah, auspicious of birthdays.” He lifted one arm and extended it outward and behind him.

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