[Fairy Queens 00.5] Of Ice and Snow

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  Title Page

  MAP

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  Bonus Content

  About the Author

  Pushing aside the thick brush, Otec eased into the shadows of the ancient forest. Branches scratched at him like a witch’s fingernails. He tried to ignore the itch that always started under his skin when he found himself in a space that was too tight. Soon, midday had darkened to twilight under the impenetrable fortress of leaves.

  “Where’s the lamb, Freckles?” Otec asked his dog. “Go get her, girl.”

  Freckles perked her ears and sniffed the air. They hadn’t gone more than a half dozen steps before she stiffened suddenly and burst forward, right on the heels of a squealing gray rabbit.

  Otec shouted at her, calling her back. But Freckles was already out of sight. Even his own dog wouldn’t listen to him. Grumbling under his breath, Otec continued following the spoor his sheep had left earlier that day.

  Finally, he spotted an out-of-place patch of white under some brush. He knelt down and parted the angry thorns, then took hold of the lamb’s neck with his shepherd’s crook. She bleated pitifully and struggled weakly to get away. Her face felt feverish under Otec’s palm as he held her still. “Easy now, little one.”

  He gently took hold of the animal’s front and back legs and hoisted her over his shoulders, her wool coarse against his always-sunburned neck. And though she wasn’t that heavy, the burden weighed down Otec’s shoulders.

  Heading back the way he’d come, Otec didn’t bother to call for Freckles—she’d get bored or hungry and come along eventually. Just when he could see the way out of the forest, something warm and runny slid down the left side of his chest. He glanced down to see himself covered in sheep diarrhea.

  Otec swore—he was wearing the only shirt he owned, so it wasn’t like he could change. He set the lamb down and jerked his shirt off, careful not to smear any of the excrement on his face. Then he tossed the shirt into a bush. The thing was worn so thin it was nearly useless. Besides, after he spent an entire summer in the mountains, his mother always made him a new shirt.

  The shadowy breeze crawled across his skin. Shivering, he took hold of his shepherd’s crook and was about to pick up the lamb again when something out of place caught his eye—a splash of red in a square of sunlight. It was far enough away he could cover it with an outstretched hand.

  Squinting through the tangled limbs all around him, Otec automatically quieted his steps and moved at an angle toward the strange shape and color, hoping the lamb he had left behind would remain quiet. As he came closer, the color shifted and he could make out a pair of bent legs clad in black trousers with a bright-red tunic. Strange clothing.

  Otec pushed aside some brush and saw a figure bent over something. Even at fifteen strides away, he could see that the face was fine featured with deeply tanned skin, enormous brown eyes, and thick black hair.

  He knew two things at once. First, this wasn’t a man as he’d first suspected—but a woman wearing men’s clothing and sporting hair so short it barely touched her ears. And second, she was a foreigner. What was a foreigner doing on the edge of the Shyle forest?

  She was close to Otec’s own age of twenty, and she was almost pretty, in a boyish sort of way. But what intrigued him most was how engrossed she was in what she was doing, the tip of her pink tongue rubbing against her bottom lip, and her brows furrowed in concentration.

  That concentration stirred something inside him, an uncanny sense of familiarity. Something about the forward bend of her head, the intensity of her gaze, sparked a deep recognition. He shouldn’t be watching her—should be moving the sick lamb to the village, but he couldn’t seem to take his eyes away. Eager to see what she was doing, Otec moved as close as he dared, coming to the edge of the shadows and peering at her from behind a tree.

  A sheet of vellum was tacked to a board on her lap. Her hands were delicate, beautiful even, as her fingers worked a bit of charcoal in what seemed a choreographed variation of long and short strokes. Bit by bit, the drawing began to take shape. It was of Otec’s village, which was spread out below them. Surrounded by the crimson and gold of autumn, Shyleholm was nestled deep in the high mountain valley. This foreign woman had somehow managed to capture the feel of the centuries-old stones, cut from the mountains by glaciers, rounded and polished for decades before they were pulled from the rivers by Otec’s ancestors.

  She had depicted the neat, tidy fields of hay set up against the harsh winters, even managing to give a hint of the surrounding steep mountains and hills. But what she hadn’t captured was the chaos of wagons and tents set up on the far side of the village. They were a little late for the autumn clan feast, but Otec couldn’t imagine any other reason for them to be there.

  After his five months of solitary life in the mountains, the mere thought of the mass of people set Otec’s teeth on edge. Already he could hear the incessant noise of the crowd, feel the eyes of hundreds of other clanmen who, when they found out he was the clan chief’s son, expected him to be the leader his oldest brother was. The warrior his second brother was. Or the trickster who was his third brother.

  They learned soon enough not to expect anything at all. When Otec wasn’t in the mountains, he was carving useless trinkets or playing with the little children who didn’t know he was supposed to be more. To them, he was simply the man who brought them toys and tickled and chased them when no one was looking. And that was enough.

  The woman’s darkened hands paused. She set aside her drawing and twisted the charcoal between her fingers. Wondering why she had stopped, Otec looked past her and saw another foreigner with the same strange clothes and dark features climbing the steep hill toward her.

  Just as the man crossed under a lone tree, an owl stretched out its great white wings. It was easily as long as Otec’s arm. He’d never seen its like before, white with black striations. And stranger still, it seemed to be watching the girl.

  Still in the shadows, the man spoke to the girl drenched in light. “Matka, what are you doing out here?” He had a strong accent, his words flat and blunt instead of the rolling cadence of native Clannish.

  Matka didn’t look up at the man, but Otec noticed her shoulders suddenly go stiff. “I can’t—can’t be around them, Jore.” Her accent was milder.

  Jore rubbed at his beard, which clung to his face like mold to bread. “You have to. For both our sakes.”

  The charcoal shattered under Matka’s grip. She stared at the destruction, surprise plain on her face. “This is wrong, Jore. I can’t be a part of it.”

  “It’s too late, and we both know it.” His voice had hardened—he sounded brittle, as if the merest provocation could break him.

  She tossed the bits of charcoal and rose to her feet, her gaze defiant. “No. I won’t—”

  Jore took a final step from the shadows, his hand flashing out to strike Matka’s cheek so fast Otec almost didn’t believe it had happened. But it had, because she held her hand to her face, glaring
fiercely at Jore.

  She opened her mouth to say something, but Jore took hold of her arm. “I’m your brother—I’m trying to protect you.”

  All at once Otec’s sluggish anger came awake like a bear startled out of a too-long hibernation. He forgot he’d been eavesdropping. Forgot these were foreigners. Forgot everything except that this man had hit her—a woman, his sister.

  Otec burst into the brightness. The man saw him first, his eyes widening. Matka was already turning, her hand going to something at her side.

  A mere three strides away, Otec called, “How dare—” He came up short. Jore had drawn shining twin blades, and the ease with which he held them made it clear he knew how to use them.

  “Who are you, clanman? What business do you have with us?”

  “You hit her!” Otec’s voice rumbled from a primal anger deep inside his chest. His hands ached to strike Jore. Ached to wrestle him to the ground. But Otec held no weapon save a weathered shepherd’s crook—he’d left his bow tied to Thistle’s packsaddles when he’d gone in search of the lamb.

  Jore surveyed Otec, his gaze pausing on his bare chest. Otec had forgotten he’d thrown his shirt away, too. “Who are you? I haven’t seen you before.” Jore said.

  Otec raised himself to his full height, a good head and a half taller than this foreigner. “I am Otec, son of Hargar, clan chief of the Shyle.”

  Jore stepped back into the shadows, his swords lowering to his sides. “You do not know our customs, clanman. I am well within my rights to discipline my younger sister.”

  “It is you who do not know our customs,” Otec said, barely restraining himself from charging again.

  Jore jutted his chin toward Matka. “Come on. You’ve caused enough trouble for one day.”

  For the first time, Otec met her gaze. He saw no fear, only sorrow and pity. He wondered what reason she would have to pity him.

  She turned away and followed after her brother without looking back. Feeling a gaze on him, Otec glanced up to find the strange white owl watching him with eerie yellow eyes. The bird stretched its great white wings and soared off after Matka.

  The strange trio was halfway across the meadow when Freckles came panting up to Otec’s side. She plopped on the cool grass, her tongue hanging out. “Didn’t catch that blasted rabbit, eh?” Otec said to her, anger still burning in the muscles of his arms.

  It was then that he noticed Matka had forgotten her drawing. He picked it up. He’d never seen anything so fine, since clanmen didn’t waste valuable resources on something as extravagant as art.

  Otec traced the lines without actually touching them. With a few strokes of charcoal, Matka had managed to capture his village—to freeze it in time. Simply by looking at her drawing, he felt he knew her. She saw details other people glossed over. She felt emotions deeply. And she saw his village as he saw it.

  Otec remembered the lamb with a start and hurried back to the forest. After settling her back over his shoulders, he called out commands to Freckles, who circled the scattered sheep, gathering them together. Otec fetched his donkey, Thistle, from where he’d tied her to the trunk of a dead tree. He led her toward the paddock to the west of the clan house, where he lived with his parents, his five sisters and eight brothers, and three dozen members of their extended family.

  At the thought of them all crammed into one house for another never-ending winter filled with wrestling and lessons with axes and shields, Otec had a sudden urge to command his dog to drive the sheep back into the wilderness, to live out the winter in his mountain shack or under the starry sky. But of course that was impossible. The hay would already be laid up for the coming winter. And his mother would never allow it, even if he was nearly twenty-one.

  As he unlatched the gate, Otec expected someone from the house to come out and greet him, or at least for his younger cousins and siblings to help bring the sheep in. The boys and girls were always eager for the toys he carved over the summer. But no one came, so he herded the flock into the paddock by himself and tied his donkey in one of the stalls.

  He went to the kitchen door, rested one hand on each side of the frame, and called inside. A thin whimpering answered from upstairs, something not unusual in a house bursting with children. Grumbling, Otec tied up his dog outside the door—dogs were strictly forbidden inside, except for after mealtime when the floor needed to be licked of crumbs and spills.

  Following the sound, Otec walked through the kitchen and the great hall, then climbed the ladder to the upper level. The sound was growing louder—someone crying. He finally pushed the door open to the room his five sisters shared. Sixteen-year-old Holla was huddled on one of the two beds, her wild blond hair a matted mess. She was his favorite, if for no better reason than because she talked so much he never had to. But also because she was the kindest, most gentle person he’d ever met.

  At the sight of Otec, she pushed to her feet and ran to him, then threw herself in his arms. He grunted and stumbled back, for Holla was not a waifish girl. She sobbed into his bare shoulder—luckily the side that hadn’t been covered in diarrhea.

  He rubbed her back. “What is it, little Holla?”

  “I’m not little!” she said indignantly. Some people found her hard to understand, for she often slurred her words. Before he could apologize, she lifted her tear-stained eyes with the turned-up corners and the white stars near her irises. He always thought she had the prettiest eyes. “I can’t tell.”

  Otec guided her onto one of the two beds and held her hand. “Remember what Mama always says—‘Never keep a secret that hurts.’”

  Hiccupping, Holla nodded solemnly. “I can tell you. You never talk to anyone.”

  He winced. Not seeming to notice, she leaned forward to whisper in his ear, “I was waiting for Matka to come back—she always has pretty drawings. But Jore told me to get away.” Tears spilled from Holla’s eyes again. “I froze and he called me an idiot, and . . .” She paused, her sobs coming back. “He pushed me and I fell.”

  The rage roared to life inside Otec. It took everything he had to shove it back into the damp dark where it came from. “Who is he? Where is he?”

  Holla wiped her face. “One of the highmen from Svassheim. They’re camping out on the east side of the village.”

  In his mind’s eye, Otec saw the dozens of tents in that direction, and he realized they were different from the clan’s tents. “All highmen?” he asked. Holla nodded. “So the clan feast?”

  “Cancelled.”

  “What are they doing here?”

  She shrugged. “Hiding from the Raiders.”

  “Raiders! How—” Otec checked himself. Holla wouldn’t know the answers—they would frighten and confuse her too much. And right now, he needed to deal with one problem at a time. “Where is the rest of the family?”

  “The highmen offered to feed the villagers the midday meal to repay our kindness.” Holla’s eyes welled with tears again.

  With a trembling hand, Otec tried to smooth her wild hair. Sweet, perceptive Holla. “I brought you something.”

  She sniffed. “A carving?”

  He suppressed a smile that his attempts to distract her had worked so easily. “It’s not quite finished yet. I want it to be perfect.” She nodded as if that made sense. “If you promise to stay here, Holla, I’ll give you the spiral shell I found on the mountainside.”

  She gave him a watery grin. “All right.”

  “Stay here.” Otec pressed a kiss to her forehead and left the clan house at a trot.

  It was ominous to see the village so empty. There were no women perched in front of a washing tub. No men chopping wood or cutting down hay in the fields behind the houses. No children tormenting whatever or whomever they could get their hands on.

  Otec rounded the Bend house—second largest home after the clan house. Another enormous owl, just like the one from earlier, was perched on the roof. Otec wouldn’t have paid it any mind at all, except he was surprised to see two such birds i
n the same day, and away from the shadows they normally dwelled in. He would have studied the bird a bit longer, but he had more pressing matters to deal with.

  On the other side of the home, a crowd had gathered. Hundreds of mostly clanwomen and children intermixed with hundreds of highmen and an equal number of highwomen—all of them under thirty years old.

  For once, the familiar, sick feeling he had whenever he was confronted with a crowd failed to turn his stomach. Instead, anger simmered just beneath his skin.

  Otec pushed through the crowd, searching the faces for Jore. He was about six people in when he caught sight of Dobber, his left cheek bruised and swollen. Something in Otec tightened. Dobber’s father was a mean drunk, and Otec had hoped the man would be exiled by now.

  Dobber gave him a pained smile. “You’re back.”

  “Have you seen the highman Jore?” Otec said more tersely than he should have. After all, it wasn’t Dobber’s fault his father was still around.

  Dobber’s blond hair was the color that made it look dirty even when it wasn’t. “Who?”

  “He has a sister named Matka.”

  Dobber shrugged his thin shoulders. Gritting his teeth, Otec continued plowing through the crowd. Dobber followed.

  “What’s going on?” Otec asked. “Holla said something about Raiders. And where did all these highmen come from?”

  “There are Raiders off the coast—they haven’t attacked yet, but all the men have gone to defend our lands. As for the highmen, they’ve been spread throughout the clans for months, working on trade agreements. They couldn’t leave by ship with the Raiders out there, so High Chief Burdin sent them here for the time being.”

  “There’s a war brewing, and no one bothered to come get me?” Otec asked through clenched teeth. “And why didn’t you go with them?”

  Halting, Dobber stuffed his hands in the pockets of his trousers, which were even more ratty and threadbare than Otec’s. “I can handle him. My little brothers can’t.”

  Otec had tried to make this right before he’d left five months ago. Clearly he’d failed. And now he’d insulted Dobber, but before he could think of what to say, Otec caught sight of Jore.