Chapter 1

Ishulum

The Winter Court

The castle had never been so quiet.

No one spoke as I made my way to the royal apartments with my lady-in-waiting, Cyra, at my side. Courtiers in head-to-toe black nodded as we passed, their expressions solemn. But their cheeks were dry, and their eyes were clear.

Our people don't weep.It was one of my father's favorite sayings. If he wept now, I wasn't aware of it. I hadn't seen him or Mama in the seven days since my brother died.

My throat burned as I thought of the sibling who had entered and exited the world so quickly he didn't even have a name. There had been no time to carry him to the Winter Wood and place him in a bed of frost so the gods could tell us what to call him.

The babe had come too early. Cyra had forbidden my other ladies to speak of "the tragedy" as everyone had started calling it, but she couldn't stop all gossip. And adults often said things they assumed children didn't understand. Like how my youngest ladies weren't really talking about the floor when they said Father "wore a path in the carpet" visiting my mother's chamber at night.

Mama had yet to explain what happened between married men and women when they shared a bed, but I'd overheard enough whispered discussions among the courtiers to know my parents were unique. Few nobles wed for love, but they were an exception. Mama was devoted to my father, just as he was devoted to her. I'd never heard them argue. Of course, I didn't spend much time with them.

That would change now—or at least after the funeral. Mama had spent the past ten years trying to give my father a son. The proof of her efforts lay in the Winter Wood, where stones marked the graves of all the other babes that had come too soon.

I wasn't the boy my father had pined for, but I was alive. And now Father waited for me.

As if she sensed my thoughts, Cyra caught my eye and spoke in a hushed voice. "We should move more quickly, Your Highness. The king honors you. We mustn't keep him waiting."

I nodded, matching her pace. Despite the sorrow in the air, pride swelled my chest. Mama was still too weak to attend the funeral, so I would accompany my father in her place. I could only assume Father wanted to send a message to the court. His son was dead, but he had a living daughter. I was heir to the throne, and none would dare challenge my claim. One day, when my magic was strong enough, I would wield the scepter and spread frost over the entire kingdom.

The broad staircase that led to the royal apartments loomed ahead. The massive steps ascended one story and then split into two, with one side leading to my father's wing and the other leading to Mama's.

"Skirts," Cyra murmured, and I nodded again. As we reached the stairs, I grabbed two handfuls of my gown the way she'd shown me. My hemlines had brushed the ground since my eleventh birthday six months earlier, but I wasn't quite accustomed to managing all the extra fabric. Some days, I felt like I'd fastened a tablecloth around my legs. My new gowns were as pretty as Mama's, but I missed running in the woods beyond the castle. When I tried it now, I tripped or got caught up in branches that seemed to grab at my skirts at the first opportunity.

My heart beat faster as I ascended the staircase. Out of habit, I glanced toward the queen's wing when Cyra and I reached the landing. The corridor leading to Mama's chamber was cast in shadow, the artwork that lined the walls draped in black fabric that puddled on the ground.

"Make way for Princess Liria Ilymaris!" a deep voice boomed.

I jerked my head from the direction of my mother's wing and might have stumbled if not for Cyra's steadying hand on my elbow.

"It's just the herald, child," she whispered. "No need to fear."

"I'm not afraid," I said, but my voice cracked on the last word, ruining my declaration. My cheeks heated, and I cleared my throat as Cyra and I climbed the stairs to the king's apartments. Half a dozen knights stood on either side of the landing, their long braids flung over their armor-clad shoulders. The length indicated they'd served for centuries without being wounded in battle. In my father's court, members of the Winter Guard never cut their hair unless they sustained an injury. Suffering a wound was a source of great shame, since it meant the knight had allowed an enemy to get that much closer to the king or his family.

As I reached the top step, each knight placed a fist over his heart and bowed his head. The herald stepped from the shadows and offered the same gesture before sweeping his arm down the corridor.

"He will see you now, Your Highness."

I looked at Cyra. She gave me a brief, encouraging smile. Then, together, we started forward.

"No," the herald said, stopping us. "Just the princess."

My heart sped up as I looked past the herald and down the broad corridor lined with suits of armor and flickering torches. Cyra was right: I had nothing to fear from my own father. But I hadn't spoken to him alone in… Well, I couldn't remember the last time. The affairs of the kingdom demanded his attention.

But those affairs were mine now, too. Of course he wanted to meet alone.

With a final look at Cyra, I swept past the herald and headed down the corridor. A trill of anticipation straightened my spine and turned my steps slow and measured. That was how a queen walked. How Mama walked. If I worked hard enough—if my magic grew strong enough—I could make her stop being sad about not giving my father a real heir.

The double doors to my father's apartments stood open. Morning sunlight spilled from the room and slanted over the thick carpet that ran down the center of the corridor. I hesitated, the hem of my skirts brushing the pale yellow bands, then stepped into the wide doorway.

"Your Majesty?"

Even as the words left my mouth, I realized the man facing the long, arched windows wasn't my father. He looked similar enough from behind. Like my father, this man was tall and broad-shouldered with long, silver-white hair that fell to the center of his back. But there was a tension about him my father didn't possess. This man was a warrior above all else, with an impressive list of victories tied to his name.

Ronan Morendiel, the Sword of the North. All of Ishulum knew him to be a formidable opponent in any battle—conventional or magical. But for as long as I could remember, I'd known Lord Ronan as my father's best friend and closest advisor.

He turned from the window, his blue eyes as pale as the sky above the Winter Court. "Princess Liria."

It took a moment for my surprise to wear off. "Lord Ronan." I looked around the elegant outer chamber that served as a meeting space. "Where is my father?"

Ronan crossed the room. He seemed to realize he towered over me because he went to one knee, putting his head on the same level as mine.

An odd little tremor wobbled in my stomach. I'd never been this close to him. The sunlight gleamed around his head, turning his hair the same platinum shade as my own. He'd drawn the upper half back from his face, revealing his strong jaw, tapered ears, and handsome features touched with more than a little arrogance. He wore court clothes instead of armor, but the lack of steel didn't blunt his size. His wide shoulders stretched the fabric of his black jacket, which was embroidered with the same ink-colored thread. The rest of his clothing was the same unrelieved black, right down to his sword, Summerbane. Legend told that Ronan's father, the warrior Sylvar Morendiel, had pulled the blade from a volcano on the Isle of the Gods. The steel never dulled, and the sword couldn't be broken.

And I knew another thing about Summerbane. The blade had severed Sylvar's head from his shoulders when humans from Nordlinga ambushed him near the Covenant and turned his famed weapon against him. Ronan's wrath was already the stuff of legend. According to the stories, his anger had spread winter as far south as the Spring Court.

"Liria," Ronan said, drawing my gaze from Summerbane's hilt. "I am sorry, child."

I blinked. "For what?" As soon as I said it, I remembered my brother. My cheeks heated, and I tucked my hands into the folds of my gown so I wouldn't fidget. "I mean, thank you. I'm sad for my mother, not myself."

Ronan shook his head. "I don't speak of the babe, Princess."

My heart stuttered. "My mother?—"

"Lives," he said quickly, guessing the direction of my thoughts. He drew a breath like he meant to continue. Then something like pain moved through his eyes.

Apprehension slid down my spine. Lord Ronan was just over two hundred years old. Like most elves, he'd mastered his emotions long ago.

Our people don't weep.And they didn't reveal pain. Sharing too much made you vulnerable.

"What is it?" I demanded. "Where is my mother?" Panic gripped me, and my voice rose without my permission as I swung toward the doorway. "Where is the king?"

Ronan grasped my shoulders and pulled me back around. "Steady, Liria. Haluven is with your mother in the Crypt. The queen has fallen into sorrow."

My breath caught. Death didn't come easily to elves. Our bodies healed most injuries. Unlike humans, we were immune to illness. But we weren't immune to heartache. A great loss—or a series of losses—could drain an elf's will to live. Some slowly faded until they crossed into the Shadow Realm completely, leaving Ishulum behind. But others fell into a sort of living death.

Sorrow sleep. Elves who slumbered might live a year…or a hundred. The sleep was different for everyone. But if they didn't wake eventually, the sleep turned into death. The Crypt lay deep under the castle, its walls and ceiling covered in hoarfrost sharper than any blade. The chamber housed the bones of the great Lords of Winter. Many believed the lords could grant protection and blessings. Maybe my father believed the lords would bless my mother, and he'd carried her down the dozens of steps to the frozen chamber. But I couldn't be certain—because my father hadn't told me my mother had fallen into sorrow.

Because he didn't care if I knew. He didn't care enough about me to bother. My mother was the same. Given the choice between mourning a lost child and looking after the one she already had, she'd chosen the former. I had never been anyone's first choice. Never.

The knowledge wrapped around my heart, climbing higher and higher like the walls that surrounded the castle. They were too tall and thick to scale.

I looked at Ronan, and my voice was steady as I asked, "Has anyone tried to rouse the queen?"

"I believe that's what your father is attempting to do." Ronan's voice went low and serious, the way grown-ups' voices sometimes did when they wanted to make sure you really understood something. "Haluven is wholly focused on Queen Maeve. I've tried to speak to him. Every lord of the Winter Council has spoken to him. But Haluven doesn't respond. He sits next to your mother in the Crypt and says nothing. It's been this way for a week, Princess. Something had to be done."

The apprehension prickled anew. "What had to be done?"

He dropped his hands from my arms. "The kingdom can't run itself, and you're too young to rule. You need a guardian. The other lords asked me to serve in that role, and I accepted."

The same odd tremor returned, like snow sprites in my stomach. "But…I haven't accepted you."

His eyes widened slightly. Then a smile spread over his features, dispelling the arrogance and making me wonder why he didn't smile more. The ladies of the Winter Court already giggled whenever he was near. On days when he trained with the knights in the yard, the women gathered at the windows to watch. If he smiled at them the way he smiled now, they would never stop giggling.

On second thought, maybe it was better that Lord Ronan didn't smile that often.

"I hope you'll accept this arrangement," he said, taking my hand. Tattoos peeked from under his jacket sleeve, the silver swirls wrapping around his thick wrist. The designs were more elaborate than the ones that covered my arms. But he was far older, and his magic was fully developed. When I came into my abilities, I'd have tattoos like Ronan's, which covered his shoulders and spread down his back in the form of his sigil, the dreadraven. The ladies who watched at the windows grew especially attentive whenever Ronan and the knights stripped to their leather trousers, baring their upper bodies. The sweatier and more disgusting the men got, the more the women seemed to like it.

I pushed those images from my mind. "Will you also serve as regent?"

Ronan's smile fled. He rose abruptly, releasing my hand. "The lords of the Council won't allow a bastard to sit on the throne. Not even temporarily. And for good reason. Winter's magic is too delicate to entrust to tainted blood."

"You're not a bastard. My father legitimized you." Everyone knew the story. Ninety years had passed since Sylvar Morendiel, the last elven lord born before the creation of Ishulum, died at the hands of humans. Ronan was known as ap-Sylvar then, since Sylvar had sired him upon a servant outside the bonds of marriage. Out of love for his friend—and to honor Sylvar's memory—my father had proclaimed Ronan trueborn, allowing him to inherit Sylvar's title and his estate, Tur Dorna.

But I understood Ronan's point. Winter chose its king. In the past, usurpers had been unable to keep the cold. The king's magic ensured the land was forever blanketed in frost. Without it, the realm would fall. Not long after, everyone within it would die. My people couldn't endure without the cold, and no king ruled without Winter's blessing.

"Magic is a stubborn thing," Ronan said now, and the smile he offered wasn't the kind that made the court ladies blush. "None of us can outrun the circumstances of our birth, Princess. My fellow lords on the Council will handle matters of state until your father is well enough to resume his duties. I expect I'll have my hands full teaching you how to wield the scepter and keep the cold."

My heart thumped faster, each beat pushing excitement through my veins. "And when will that be?"

"When you're ready."

"I'm nearly twelve. I'm ready now."

The icicle struck without warning—a shot of cold streaking across my upper arm. My throat went dry as I looked down and saw my sleeve ripped wide, my bare skin beneath the fabric unharmed. A fraction of an inch to the right, and Ronan would have flayed my arm open. I hadn't even seen him move.

When I looked up, he watched me with a steady gaze, both hands resting on the pommel of Summerbane.

"You're not ready," he said. "But I will teach you. Do you accept me?"

Did I have a choice? Probably not. As he pointed out, I was too young to wield the scepter. If I wanted to rule, I needed all the magic I could get. Magic like Lord Ronan's. No one dared to say it, but he was just as strong as my father. Some of the other lords could spread frost over a forest…maybe two. It took a special kind of skill to channel power into the scepter and spread frost over every forest in the kingdom with a single burst of power. The last time my mother had delivered a stillborn, Ronan had wielded the scepter on my father's behalf, keeping the cold so my father could mourn. According to Cyra, Winter's magic allowed it because Ronan used the scepter with my father's permission.

I looked at my torn sleeve, then met Ronan's gaze. "You promise to teach me everything?"

His eyes gleamed as he swept me a formal bow, his silver hair slipping over one shoulder as he bent at the waist. "I give you my word, Your Highness. Na-sessni."

Magic sparkled against my skin, its touch like the bubbles that danced in the wine the servants served on special occasions.

"You spoke the Old Language," I breathed, awe and more than a little fear spreading through me.

Ronan nodded. "I said I vow it. I'm bound to fulfill my promise now. Breaking my word will cause me great pain."

"Cyra says it's dangerous to speak the ancient tongue." Every word carried its own magic, which could twist in unexpected ways depending on the speaker's intentions. A lie could grow into a curse that spanned generations. Words of love were especially unpredictable, since they were so often accompanied by strong emotion. A simple I love you could spin into obsession. But vows were by far the most perilous. Once spoken, they demanded to be fulfilled.

"If you're going to be queen," Ronan said, "you'll need to be a little dangerous from time to time."

I couldn't help my glance at Summerbane. "Will you teach me to be a warrior like you?"

He knelt again, and his smile was patient as he reached out and gave my bicep a gentle squeeze. "It takes a man's strength to wield a broadsword."

Bitterness rose. Already, he went back on his word. "If I'd been born a boy, you would teach me to fight. It's not fair to deny me just because I'm a girl."

"No one gets everything they want." Once again, his pale gaze was steady. "Steel isn't the only kind of weapon. Would you rather wield a sword or the scepter?"

"The scepter," I said at once.

Approval shone in his eyes. "Very well. I'll ask again: do you accept me?"

"Yes." I sank into a curtsy. "I acknowledge your authority over me, my lord."

Ronan stood. "If I'm to be your guardian, we shouldn't be so formal with each other. You can call me glesso if you like. It means guardian in the Old Language."

I drew a breath, the word poised on my tongue. Ronan watched, clearly waiting to see if I'd risk speaking magic into the air. "Glesso," I said.

For a fraction of a second, magic sparkled in the air between us. It happened so quickly that I thought I might have imagined it. But the smile in Ronan's eyes let me know he'd seen it too. I'd accepted him, speaking his guardianship into being. Now, it bound us both.

He offered his arm. "Come, future Queen of Winter. Let's go greet your court."