“On entering the King’s Court, the Merrow Prince found a beautiful sorceress conjuring a flurry of snowflakes. A gaggle of hot and parched children crowded around her, laughing as they caught the ice on their tongues, her own laughter ringing above them like a song of silver. She was the Princess of Eisalaan, a rare beauty beloved by all. The Prince was at once enchanted by her kind, caring nature, and invited the Princess to visit him at the lake–”
“It’s me!” Iseult’s cry was distorted by a yawn, but she stabbed her finger at the illustration. Adeline only saw a willowy blonde princess curtseying before a tall prince with rumpled, dark hair. But this was the magic of the storybook at work; as the Merchant had promised, they would each see something entirely different.
“I bet you’re as lovely as ever, Iz,” she said.
Mareda went on.
“They spent the summer on the grassy banks, swapping charms and falling in love. But they were not discreet in their joy. The King was a proud and prejudiced man, and he became murderous at the thought of Merrow blood tainting his own lineage, pure as the fallen snow. He locked the Princess away, and sent his men to carve out the heart of the Merrow Prince.
“With the help of her magic, the Princess escaped, and ran to warn her love. As she approached the lake, she saw the King’s Gard entering the water, unsheathing their swords and sharing bloodthirsty grins.
“Knowing she would be too late, the Princess felt her heart crack open with the weight of her devastation. Her magic came flooding out; the ground froze where she stood, and the clouds above her burst with showers of ice.
“As the desperate flurry stilled, the Kings Gard crept from the shelter of the forest. The Kingdom was transformed, one white expanse adorned with the silver shimmer of frost. The Princess was lost to them, frozen where she stood, with her cracked heart pouring ice into the earth ever after. Eisalaan has been frozen ever since. Some say the Merrow are still encased beneath the Laune to this day, forever safe from the wrath of the Hateful King.”
The story was not a long one, but Iseult had drifted off to sleep by the final sentence. Adeline kissed her brow and wished her dreams of magic and Merrow.
Mareda set the book down on the bedside table, and together they slipped out the door. A Gard patrolled the hallway outside and bowed to them as they passed, his soft grey cloak sweeping forward with the movement.
They bade him a happy New Winter and walked on in silence. It wasn’t until they rounded a corner that Mareda glanced back over one shoulder, seeing that they were alone.
She wrung her hands, casting a sideways glance at her sister, before speaking in that soft, measured way Adeline knew so well.
“Adeline, the gloves,” she began.
“Pretty, aren’t they?”
Mareda reached for her hand, pulling her up short. Her pale brows pulled together in a gentle crease.
“This will be your twenty-second Winter –”
“I’m aware.”
“– so you could have your own Coronation to consider. You have every right to campaign.” She hesitated. “If you wanted to.”
And there it was. Mareda had announced her campaign almost three Winters ago. This was the closest she’d ever come to asking Adeline outright if she, too, dreamed of being named the Queen’s Heir. It had just hung between them, Adeline wishing she would ask, Mareda plainly afraid of her answer.
“I don’t want to,” she said simply.
Still Mareda did not release her hand. She held Adeline’s eyes too, like her piercing blue ones could see into her mind if she only peered hard enough.
“Why?” she asked finally. Uncertain. Almost whispering.
Adeline did not answer for a long moment. There was a reason it had taken them so long to get here, to have this conversation. The same reason she hadn’t wanted to talk about what happened last night at the tavern.
Mareda was her sister. They had grown up in the same palace, both princesses, with the same education and opportunities and only three years between them. And yet, there was one thing that set them on different paths, one cold, looming figure casting a shadow over their shared childhood.
She had to be careful, so very careful.
Adeline squeezed her sister’s hand, looking down at where their fingers joined as she picked over her words.
“Our mother’s legacy is… not one I feel particularly attached to.”
Mareda tensed. She knew, heard the repressed scorn behind the truth. Adeline went on though, not giving her a chance to pick up that old, worn out thread that had so often pulled taut between them.
“Butyourlegacy, Marry… A legacy of goodness, kindness. When historians and poets write of the Beira dynasty,yoursis the chapter I want to be a part of.”
Her sister softened. And when Mareda leaned in to kiss her cheek, Adeline heard the soft breath of relief that escaped her, and was glad for it.
