Her breath tangled in her chest. A woman in blue, cradling the broken frame of a man, limp in death. She’d only meant to hold the clouds apart for a moment, but instead she let the sunlight linger so she could study the image.
A lover? Wife?
Mother. She wasn’t certain how she knew, it wasn’t as though the mosaic of glass portrayed the ages of either of them. But something about the curve of the woman’s back, the sorrow on her face reminded her of Mamma, when Kyrja had caught her crying, years ago. Something about her and her siblings, but she didn’t know why, even now. Perhaps when Fodur had ordered Kyrja to move into separate quarters. Or when Krystiana had been sent off for a year to survey their eastern defenses in response to a threat from Ellas. Or when Einar had reformed the prison systems.
Kyrja hadn’t understood her mother’s distress about that at the time. She did now. Even as her heart insisted that Einar—encouraging, fair-minded Einar—could not possibly have intended for the place to be one of such complete misery. Yet when she’d stepped foot in there for the first time today, everything about it had been a shock to her system. The state of the ice, yes. The poor prisoners half-frozen within.
But just as surprising had been the building itself. She’d known it was fed by a network of springs, for maintaining the cells’ bars. But sensing them had been extraordinarily difficult, and sensing anything outside them was all but impossible. She’d thought at first it was just the thickness of the stone, but that couldn’t be it. Stone alone didn’t dampen the Blessing. She’d poked and prodded with her senses until she’d finally realized there must be veins of crystal worked into the very foundations, the walls, everywhere.
The implications were staggering. Because the only reason to create such a thing was to use it against the Blessed. Which meant that, at some point in Fjordlandi’s history, those Blessed hadn’t been above the law. She stared at the stained glass, still trying to wrap her mind around that.
“Beautiful work, isn’t it? That window is over eight hundred years old, original to the building.”
Startled, Kyrja released her hold on the clouds and let the sunlight wink away, spinning to see who had caught her playing with the light.
An old dominie padded from a room attached to the back—front?—of this chamber, a smile on his face that froze when she looked up. Then eased again. “Forgive me, Your Highness. I would bow, but I’m afraid these old bones would never recover from it.”
She should have left the ice tiara at home—would have, had she thought to. But Fodur had drilled into her all her life that she was never not a princess. If she left her room, it was as a royal, and so she must look the part. The accessory had become secondnature, and it was so light she forgot it was there most of the time anyway.
His apology she waved away. “Unnecessary anyway. I hope I’m not intruding.”
“Never, Highness. All are welcome here, though few can afford to come for anything more than a moment of sightseeing.”
She’d surely frowned more in the last four days than in the previous four years combined. “Afford?”
He continued his slow padding toward her—and didn’t look surprised by the question. “Of course. The pew tax—it’s little enough for the Fjorders, who never want to attend, but too steep for the thanes, who would if they could.”
“Pew tax.” She’d never even heard of such a thing. “If it’s prohibitive, why don’t you lower it?”
Now he blinked at her. “It isn’t the kyrka that sets the tax, Highness. There is only one man in the land who can levy taxes.”
Fodur? Why would he…
Never mind. His hatred of the ancient faith was no secret. She sighed. “May I sit?” She’d been on her feet all day, aside from those few minutes on the prison floor.
“Please, make yourself comfortable. Can I assist you, or did you simply need some quiet with our Giver? If the latter, I can leave you in peace.” The dominie stopped halfway between the front bench—pew?—and the gilded steps he’d just come down.
Kyrja sat. “I…don’t know.” The questions she’d come here to ask suddenly seemed ridiculous. She was a Blessed, a royal—the Heir now. How could she be wrestling with something Fodur dismissed so easily? “I suppose I just wanted to make certain everything is in order for tomorrow.”
The dominie inclined his bald head. “Down to the last detail. Your mother had the arrangements drawn up many years ago, and we had only to review the documents to know her wishes. My wife and I have been working on them since the momentwe received the horrible news. Though allow me to extend my deepest condolences. Our hearts broke when we heard that not only was she the victim of the explosion, but your siblings as well.”
He might as well have punched her. No one at the palace had offered condolences—condolences meant emotion. Feeling.Weakness. They gave none, assuming she wanted none.
She hadn’t realized how much she craved it, required it, until just now. “Thank you.”
The old man hesitated a moment more, edged a step closer. “If I may be so bold, Your Highness. The Words say that the Giver is always near to a broken heart and a contrite spirit. You need only to reach out your hand” —He held out his, palm up, fingers bent— “and he will grasp it. You need never be alone. His deepest desire is to be with you.”
As if it were that simple. Just reach out.
A metaphor, she knew. But as the old dominie turned back toward the room he’d come from, clearly meaning to give her that peace whether she asked for it or not, she couldn’t resist mirroring the movement of his hand. Duplicating it, because one hand didn’t seem enough for a bridge to Himmel.
The Giver. She’d heard Mamma pray many times, but Kyrja had never dared. Somehow Fodur would know. And he’d punish her for it.
Just now, she didn’t care. What could he do? He was stuck with her. He needed her, whether he liked it or not. And besides, even the Ice King couldn’t read minds.
Giver, I pray my mother is with you now, in spirit. I trust that she is. She said you know me, that you love me. That you desire the best for me—for all of us. If her words were true, if yours are…then please show me. If you are truly the Love that she claimed, then I need you.
She sifted through her memories, searching for every stray word Mamma had spoken of her Giver. A sentence here, a few fragments there. She pieced them together like a window mosaic, thirty years of fractured faith.
