This last, she directed above his head. Silas noted a ripple of soft noise behind him, an uncomfortable shuffling of their silent, bewildered audience, met by that same flicker of hot rage in the Sorceress’s eyes.
She stroked, almost absentmindedly, at the pendant around her throat. Her sweet voice rang louder and stronger than before, but beneath it was a noise like crackling static, splintering and overlapping.
“Is it not?”
The splintering grew, and for a bewildering moment, Silas could not source the sound—not until a biting cold washed beneath the soles of his boots, and the shock sent him skidding back, almost impaling himself upon Captain Doran’s blade.
Silas fought to remain upright as the ice spread.
It spilled from beneath Avette’s feet, spiralling and swirling in a glassy shimmer that crept across the tiles, climbed the walls, closed over their heads—and reached for the small crowd in growing, jagged stalactites.
Panic swept the room, soft and quiet as the creeping ice.
Another ripple sounded around the walls, this time followed by a series of soft thuds. Silas did not need to turn to know what he was hearing. But turn he did, sliding on the ice just as his heart slid down his chest.
Kneeling.
More than half of Selma’s court were kneeling on the frosted stone floor; some with their heads bowed to avoid Avette’s gaze, some openly sobbing—but kneeling just the same. Silas felt his stomach swoop at the sight, falling further and further as a vast and yawning pit tore open inside him.
No.Get up,he pleaded with them.Don’t do this.
Among the few standing was Lady Imogen. At her feet, her fellows were pale and shivering. Even upright Imogen did not seem to fare much better, but she caught his eye, and he forced a smile at the immovable resolve in hers.
Brave girl.Brave, like his own Adeline.
“You,” called that sweet, steely voice behind him.
Imogen held his gaze for one long, defiant moment longer, then turned to face the Sorceress. Silas followed her, fear now clawing at him in earnest; fear not only for Adeline, who he prayed was far away, but for Imogen, now in Avette’s sights and well within her reach.
Avette watched the girl, alight with sudden interest. He noted the birdlike cock of her head as those eyes drifted over Imogen in all her finery, a magpie catching the glint of sunlight off a rare jewel.
“Your name?”
“Lady Imogen Kiely.”
“Kiely,” Avette echoed. “An old name, that one. It means grace and beauty, which is fitting, I think. You could not remain standing in this moment and be namedQuinn,for wisdom.”
Imogen said nothing, and for a moment, neither did the Sorceress. Silas watched as she toyed with the pendant, herlips tilting with faint amusement while glints of glowing blue streamed through her pale fingertips.
“You do not bow,” said Avette. Not asking so much as noting, as though she’d merely commented on the colour of Imogen’s dress.
“My queen is dead,” Imogen said, in that same mild tone.
Too bold.
Avette’s smile remained amused, though her fingers tightened around the pendant. Her voice was almost drowned by the slow creaking of ice layering ice, long blades of stalactites reaching for the courtiers below with slow, tangible longing.
“Your loyalty is admirable,” said Avette. “Though, as noted, not entirely wise.”
With trembling gasps of cold and fright, several more fell to their knees, eyes cast to the icy, daggered ceiling growing ever lower, ever closer. And still, Imogen was unmoved. Avette’s smile did not falter, but rather set in place, hard and cold, as though her own magic had once more frozen her where she stood.
“Imogen,” came a small voice, thin and broken. Mareda, her teeth chattering with the seeping cold. She raised her head in a stuttered, shivering movement to turn imploring eyes to her old friend. “Just—Imogen,please, just—”
“No.”
Avette’s ice mask shattered, dark eyebrows arching as her pretty smile went flat.
“No,” she said slowly, as if tasting an unfamiliar word. Her dark eyes swivelled to trap Silas in her sights once more. “Where is your daughter, Your Grace?”
