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Her father’s funeral.
Elma sat shivering on her horse, despite the mountain of furs that draped over her and the horse’s back, despite the heated rocks tucked into every pocket and nook of her clothing. She would have preferred to be in the covered wagon with Cora, but to ride away on horseback seemed more queenly. Elma rode alongside Luca, despite his urging that she’d be safer in the wagon. “I’d rather see my death coming,” she said and was allowed to stay on the horse.
Godwin and the advisors had gathered to see them off. There was very little fanfare, for the kingdom was officially in mourning. So, Elma rode away in silence, flanked by her guards and her servants, a wagon full of weaponry clatteredbehind them. A quiet snow began to fall, though it was hard to tell in the fog.
“May the winter star guide us,” Elma said, her voice muffled by furs.
The descent from the Frost Citadel was one of the most treacherous legs of the journey. The road was cut into living rock, with a sheer drop on one side and the jagged mountain on the other. The way was kept clear by industrious citadel guards, but fatal falls, deadly storms, and avalanches were common.
They rode two by two as the wind cut through to their bones. Elma had always hated this stretch of road. She remembered the first time she came down from the citadel, in a burst of teenage rebellion. It had been a frightening experience, and she had needed rescuing by her father’s guards near the base of the mountain, where at last she had succumbed to terror and sat crouched against the mountainside, unable to go near the road’s edge.
Elma’s heart only stopped racing, knuckles still white on the reins, when they were safely off the mountain and back on flat land.
“I thought for sure the wagon was about to blow off the road,” Cora gasped, her eyes still wide. They had stopped to assess any damage to the wagon’s wheels after the rough road and to ensure that no one had plummeted from the mountain without anyone noticing. Elma clasped her maid’s hand tightly. They stood huddled together near the wagon, which shielded them from the icy wind.
“You should have ridden with me,” said Elma.
Elma squinted into the thick snow and thought she could see glimpses of dark shapes against the sky, far off. “Is that the city?” she said aloud.
“No, Majesty,” said Luca, pointing in an entirelydifferent direction. “That’sthe city of Frost. You can’t see it in this snow. Only a few minutes’ ride though, in good weather.”
“What was I looking at, then?” Elma asked, frowning.
“The mountains, Majesty.”
Elma frowned. She had become so turned around in the snow, set on edge by the descent from the citadel. “Did we lose anyone? Is the wagon all right?”
“All the men are accounted for,” said Luca. “The wagon is all right.”
“I’m not getting back in that death trap,” Cora said, her voice wavering.
There weren’t enough horses for Cora to ride too, Elma knew. The wind was harsh, and the men didn’t need to be under the watchful eye of their queen at every moment. Elma took Cora’s arm, holding it tight. “I’ll ride in there with you,” she said. “If it falls off a cliff or into a ravine, at least we’ll go together.”
This seemed to appease Cora, and they crawled into the wagon together. It was filled with furs and pillows and hot bricks, even a cask of hot wine that would be cold by now. The rocking of the wagon was jarring at first, but after a few swigs of wine and a hot brick against her stomach, Elma found herself relaxing. She thought she might even sleep, if she were lucky.
When Elma wokein the dark, she knew immediately that something was wrong. She was cold, achingly so — her hot brick was no longer warm, which meant she had been asleep for hours. And the wagon was still. If they had stopped to camp, Cora or Luca would have roused her. Elma waited in silence for her eyes to adjust.
“Cora?” she said, her voice so soft she almost didn’t hear herself. Fear rimed her heart. She heard no sound from outside, none of what she might expect — horses shifting in the snow, guards unpacking for the night, a bonfire crackling.
All she heard was the wind.
Cora, if she was still in the wagon with Elma, did not respond.
The darkness was no longer blinding — Elma was beginning to see shapes emerging, though just barely. The lumpy furs. The tiny round window on the far side of the wagon, through which a pale moonlight made its way. The snow had abated, then, but not the wind.
Elma dared not move. She tried not to breathe. If something had come out of the wilds and attacked them, it might still be nearby. The stories she’d heard… she tried not to think of them, of the human-shaped forms that were said to dwell in the ice storms, with elongated arms and grasping hands, howling jaws and eyes that rolled white and unseeing. Of winged things that burst from the clouds and stole children from the streets, of great slavering wolves that were bigger than they ought to be.
“You’re good at this.”
The voice, so sudden in the quiet dark, frightened Elma nearly out of her skin. Her pulse sped, heart in her throat.
Something shifted across from her. A man’s figure, barely visible in the shadows. If he hadn’t moved…
Elma found she couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. Was he one of the snow demons of folklore, here to toy with her?
“Most of the time,” said the voice, “people make a break for it. Foolish. Or they try to fight me, even more foolish. I can’t guesswhatyou’ll do, which is exciting for me.”
This was no snow demon. His voice was cocky and well-bred, judging by the accent. “My maid,” Elma said, not caringthat her voice shook, that her throat was so dry her voice broke on the last syllable.
