Elden Kipling’s footsteps echoed on the glass floors as he stalked through the halls of the House of Ice. The sack he clenched at his side thumped against his knees as he strode toward the throne room. The few servants who were unfortunate enough to cross his path averted their eyes and scuttled out of the way like frightened rodents. He’d ridden since dawn to get here, and he still hadn’t arrived fast enough. The sooner he got this over with, the better.
Because Elden was Fey, he didn’t have to ask where he could find the king; he could smell the old bastard. Beneath the initial whiff that carried hints of soap, leather, and whatever he’d eaten that day, there was the distinct smell of something rotting. It was no secret that the king had been born mortal, and although he now shared the features and immortality of the Fey, Elden could sometimes tell there was something not quite right with the king. His cheeks were too hollow, the knobs of his spine visible through his clothes, as if something was eating him from the inside out. Whatever magic he’d used to obtain immortality had to wear off eventually.
One could hope, at least.
As he approached the doors of the throne room, the guards posted on either side straightened. They didn’t utter a sound as he shouldered open those doors, and he didn’t deign to look at them.
The velvet curtains lining the walls of the throne room were pulled open, allowing the crystals that were normally hidden behind them to glow various shades of purple. At the other side of the long room, the king sat in his throne of ice, the Dragon and the Wolf of Winter standing before him. Both looked surprised to see the Wraith strolling in, and it wasn’t long before their eyes drifted to the sack thumping against his knees.
The Wraith didn’t give them a chance to speak. As soon as several feet stood between him and the throne, he tossed the bag to the floor at the king’s feet.
It bounced once, but before it could roll back down the steps of the dais, Killian snatched it up. The Dragon’s eyes slid to the Wraith’s before he untied the string and peered into the sack.
“Well?” the king snapped.
The first thing the Dragon pulled out of the sack was a woman’s hand. An iron bracelet gleamed against grayish skin that reeked of death.
The king pinned the Wraith with a contemplative look. “I was beginning to wonder whether you’d follow through.”
“After more than twenty years of loyal service, my king?” the Wraith drawled.
The king tore his eyes away from the Wraith’s searching gaze. He looked at Killian for a fraction of a second. “Let’s see the rest of it.”
Killian pulled a lock of sand-colored hair out of the sack. The Dragon’s nostrils flared delicately, his pupils flashing briefly to slits before he offered it to the king, who pinched it carefully between his thumb and forefinger. He inspected it for a moment before holding it close and breathing in deeply.
“That’s Avalon all right,” he murmured. No hint that he was bothered, no indication that he felt any emotion at all as he held a lock of his dead daughter’s hair before him. “Anything else?”
Next, Killian pulled out a male’s hand; at the wrist was a tattoo etched in blue ink—the royal mark given to all members of the King’s Guard. “The captain,” he declared, his tone void of emotion.
“Well done,” said the king. Those eerie eyes slid over the Wraith, inspecting him from head to toe. The king didn’t need to ask; Elden knew exactly what His Majesty was looking for. Seeing the Wraith’s indifference, and at last recognizing there was no way he had anything hidden in his bodysuit, he gritted out, “And the mask?”
“They didn’t have it, My King,” the Wraith replied.
The king was silent for nearly half a minute. A muscle in his cheek feathered. “They didn’t have it,” he repeated.
In a voice that brooked no contestation, the Wraith said again,“They didn’t have it.”
The king and the Wraith locked gazes for a long minute. The guards lining the curtained walls didn’t dare breathe, and even the northern and southern generals held very still. Kit’s gaze bore into Elden’s, searching for answers.
Finally, after several minutes in which the Wraith refused to break the king’s stare, the king cleared his throat. “Shame,” he grumbled. “If you’d brought the mask with you, I would’ve had your iron bands removed.” He allowed a minute to pass for his unspoken words to set in: that unless the Wraith brought him the mask, the bands would remain in place, not just devouring his magic but his very life. Eventually, the bands would kill him. “Go find it,” the king growled. “Perhaps then we’ll talk about your magic.”
Elden said nothing as he turned on his heel and walked out.
~
As soon as the doors slammed shut behind the Wraith, Kit excused himself.
Elden hadn’t gotten far before he caught up to him, and although Kit knew the Wraith was aware that he was being followed, he didn’t turn around. The columns in this corridor glowed wine-red, reflecting in the glossy surface of the bodysuit he always wore—carefully designed for flexibility and concealment of weapons.
“I suppose it’s true what they say,” Kit called, his words echoing down the corridor.
The Wraith spun on his heel, a wicked smile on his ashen face. “And just which of those wonderful rumors are you referring to, General?”
“The one where you have no heart,” Kit replied.
The Wraith’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I do as I’m asked. Same as you.”
“At least I know where to draw the line.” Kit strode down the corridor, stopping when only two feet separated him from the Wraith. “Never would I murder an innocent girl. Not even if her father told me to.” He paused, then amended,“Especiallyif her father told me to.”
