Chapter 12

"Princess," someone whispered, shaking my shoulder.

I opened my eyes and saw a concerned-looking Cyra standing over me. I'd fallen asleep in the chair at my father's bedside. He was gray and motionless on the bed.

Dread twisted my stomach. "Is he…?"

"No," Cyra said, squeezing my shoulder. "He's unchanged."

The bedchamber was empty. The sky outside the window was black. The candle on my father's bedside table sputtered, its flame casting a shadow on the wall. In the hearth, the fire burned low.

"What time is it?" I asked, sitting up and rubbing my eyes. And where was Ronan?

"Past midnight," Cyra said. Her expression shifted to exasperation. "I would have come sooner but I was fetching blankets for Lord Nerial."

I knew my face matched hers. "You're not a servant."

"I'm pretty certain he views everyone he encounters as a servant." She waved it off. "It doesn't matter. Let's get you to bed."

"Oh no, I'm fine."

She frowned. "At least come eat something. I have hot water and food waiting in your room." When I hesitated, she took my hand. "I'll sit with the king. If anything changes, I'll come to you right away. I promise. You're no good to him if you become ill. And he would expect you to look after yourself, especially when you're possibly hours from becoming queen."

Gratitude filled my chest. I stood and hugged her, tears pricking my eyes. "Thank you, my lady."

She tightened her arms, and her voice was thick as she whispered, "Any time, Your Highness."

I gave her my chair and, moments later, I sat before the hearth in my bedchamber with a bowl of thick soup and a glass of wine. As I dipped my spoon in the bowl, I studiously avoided looking at the bed.

But ignoring it wouldn't make it go away. At some point, I had to sleep in it. Gods, my life had become a metaphor.

I set my spoon down, my appetite suddenly spoiled. For ten years, I'd prepared to take the throne. Ronan had always been by my side. I'd assumed he would always be there, even after I became queen. I'd pictured him as an advisor—someone I could trust to give me good advice. I expected to rule with his help, not the other way around. But as he'd told me recently, a good queen accepted the truth.

And the truth was, I couldn't rule Winter on my own. I needed him to keep the kingdom covered in frost. Otherwise, my people would die. And if Winter rejected me, I could die, too. It didn't happen like a lightning strike. In the ancient stories, unworthy kings withered with the land.

My mind went to my father, his body cold and shriveled in his elegant silver robes. His hair had thinned since the last time I saw him, and the long white strands now clung to his balding scalp. But the worst part was his mouth. His skin adhered to his bones, rendering him little more than a skeleton, and his lips stretched too tightly over his gums. No matter how many times the servants tried to close his mouth, it sprang back open, making it appear as if his jaws stretched in an agonizing scream.

The soup I'd eaten settled like a rock in my stomach. I stood and went to the hearth, my gaze on the blue flames. Ronan had accused me of being too proud to give up the throne. But could I really hand him the crown and serve as his consort? My magic hadn't progressed, but I was only twenty-one. If I ceded power to Ronan, would I always wonder what might have been? My father's line had ruled since the ancients created Ishulum. I was the last of my house. If I stepped aside, the name Ilymaris would live only in the history books. My father had wanted a son so badly. He'd settled for me—and now I contemplated reducing his legacy to a footnote on a page.

But if I took the scepter and never gained the magic to wield it, people could die. It wasn't a hypothetical anymore. My father wasn't going to survive. Ronan was strong enough to keep the cold. If I married him, it would go a long way toward quelling any opposition from the Council about a bastard sitting on the throne. Most of the ladies at court would jump at the chance to be Ronan's wife. I couldn't deny that we were compatible in bed. Gods, I still ached from the things he'd done to me.

Also, despite everything, I was in love with him. And he felt something for me. Maybe it was love. He wanted the throne, yes, but a man who made love like that had to harbor some kind of deep feelings, didn't he? At least part of his heart belonged to me.

Power can corrupt even the purest heart.

I jerked my head up as Sigurn's warning ran through my head. You can't afford to trust anyone, not even those closest to you. Proximity to power tends to make people want more of it.

Sigurn was probably the only person on either side of the Covenant who understood my situation. If only I could sneak into Andulum and speak to him again. But I couldn't. Ronan probably had guards posted in the stables.

I braced a hand on the hearth as a sigh lifted my chest. My gaze strayed to the latch that unlocked the entrance to the tunnel behind the walls. I'd hidden Sigurn's dagger in haste the first time I'd returned from the Covenant. It was a dozen steps past the door. I'd been too worried about getting caught to go much farther.

With a burst of resolve, I went to the bedchamber door and locked it. Then I returned to the hearth, pressed the latch, and slipped into the tunnel. A few steps inside, I summoned my magic and let it flicker over my fingers. As the blue glow swelled, I extended my hand in front of me, letting light splash over the floorboards.

The rumble of men's voices brought me to a halt. Because the voices were familiar.

Ronan.And…Lord Estalar?

My heart thumped harder. I flicked the fire from my fingers and crept forward, following the sound. As the voices grew stronger, the sounds became words.

"…then we need to move tonight," Estalar said.

"No," Ronan's deeper voice rumbled. "Not while Haluven lives. It's too dangerous."

My throat went dry. A deep sense of foreboding settled over me as I stopped and peered through one of the tiny openings in the wall.

Ronan stood in a darkened bedchamber with Lord Estalar and two other men, both members of the Winter Council. One was Lord Caradyr, a relatively young warrior from the southern border. The other, Lord Anduil, was known for creating beautiful ice sculptures during solstice celebrations. He appeared as young as Caradyr, but a closer look revealed the weight of age in his eyes.

Lord Caradyr nodded. "Lord Ronan is right. We have to time this perfectly. The moment Haluven dies, Ronan must go to the Crypt and take the scepter."

Fury blistered through me. Ronan wasn't waiting for me to come around to his plans. He was planning without me.

"Maybe one of us should stay in the Crypt from now on," Estalar said.

Lord Caradyr narrowed his eyes at Estalar. "Why, so you can take the scepter the second Haluven expires?"

Estalar gave him a withering look. "To stop the other lords from taking it before Ronan gets there."

"No," Ronan said. "No one in the Crypt. The other lords are likely to notice if one of you suddenly goes missing."

The other men exchanged looks. Finally, Estalar nodded. "All right. No one in the Crypt."

Anduil studied Ronan. "It's no small thing to take the scepter, Morendiel. Are you prepared for the consequences if Winter rejects you?"

Ronan's gaze was steady. "The consequences of not acting are too dire to contemplate. I'm doing what I must."

By taking my father's crown.

Anger pounded through me as I spun and rushed back to my bedchamber. Ronan couldn't even wait for my father to die before putting a knife in my back. My gaze fell on the bed, where he'd told me I was under his skin. How I was the only woman for him. All lies. He'd said those things knowing he already had three lords—two from the Council—ready to help him take my place. Those kinds of alliances didn't happen overnight.

And I was an idiot for not forming my own alliances. This whole time, I should have been cultivating friendships with the lords on the Council. When Ronan left me on my own with a castle full of suitors, I should have used that time to find out which nobles supported me. But I hadn't done that. As a result, I had no idea who would back me in a battle with Ronan, or which lords might be willing to pledge their men to my cause.

Except maybe I did.

An image of Lord Ulred flashed in my mind. When my other suitors had laughed at Lord Velador thrusting a dagger into a chair cushion, Ulred had bowed before me with an earnest expression and an offer to introduce me to his horse.

But he'd also promised me an army. Just say the word, Princess, and you'll have two hundred swords at your command.

My heart raced as an idea took shape in my head. With Cyra's help, I could get a message to Lord Ulred. He was always prepared for war. He could reach the castle within a day or two.

Moving swiftly, I returned to my father's chamber. Cyra rose as I entered, instant concern etched on her face.

"What happened?"

"Ronan," I said, practically spitting the word. "He's going to take the scepter, and he has three lords ready to help him." I quickly relayed everything I overheard in the tunnels.

When I finished, Cyra looked as angry as I felt. "Those treasonous swine."

"Lord Ulred promised me an army if I ever needed it," I said.

She blinked. "I remember."

"Do you think you can get a message to him? I'd do it myself but Ronan might be monitoring my correspondence."

A determined expression entered Cyra's eyes. "Leave it to me."

Relief flooded me as I clasped her hands. "Thank you. But please be careful. I don't know how far Ronan is willing to go to get what he wants."

She scoffed. "He's the one who should be careful."

Despite the disappointments of the past half hour, I smiled. "Men love underestimating us."

"Thank the gods they never get any smarter."

We grinned at each other. Then she squeezed my hands and whispered, "I'll be as fast as I can." She swept from the chamber, her steps purposeful.

Alone once more, I paced the room, my mind racing with plans and contingencies. Eventually, my nervous energy led me to my father's bedside. He was unchanged, his mouth open and his eyelids so thin they were like parchment.

Suddenly, his eyes snapped open.

I slapped a hand over my mouth, just barely muffling my scream.

His head turned slowly toward me, and his frost-coated blue eyes pinned me in place. His mouth worked, his jaw clicking as it opened and closed.

"Father?" I whispered. Was this real, or was it some twisted nightmare?

"Sigurn…" he wheezed.

I froze. My father knew about Sigurn? Heart hammering, I leaned down. "Sigurn Brighthelm?" I reached out a trembling hand and touched the edge of my father's robes. He seemed to stare directly into my eyes, but I couldn't be certain he actually saw me. "What do you mean, Father?"

He struggled to form words, his features contorted in obvious pain. "Sigurn… Bond…"

My breath caught. "What bond?"

The fire in the hearth roared to life, blue flames dancing and snapping. As if they answered its call, the stag tattoos around my father's wrists began to glow. I stared at them, my throat as dry as the deserts of the Summer Court. My father's chest rattled, and I jerked my gaze back to his face.

"Scepter…" he whispered.

I leaned closer, desperate to understand. "The scepter, Father? What about the scepter?" Frustration built, and I gripped his robes. "Tell me what to do."

His eyes fluttered shut, and he turned away, another ominous-sounding rattle emerging from his chest. "Scepter…" He went silent. His tattoos faded. The fire in the hearth shuddered and returned to its previous level.

Panic seized me. "Father?" I placed a palm flat on his chest, expecting the worst. But a faint beat pulsed under my hand. He wasn't dead.

I straightened, my thoughts spinning. What did he mean by Sigurn and a bond? And the scepter…

Did he want me to take it? Now wasn't the time for indecision. Ronan wasn't waiting. I shouldn't, either. The tunnels would get me downstairs without being seen. If I stuck to the shadows, I could probably reach the Crypt undetected. My father had spoken to me and no one else. Dying words possessed their own kind of power. Only fools ignored them.

I touched my father's hand. "Thank you," I whispered, then turned and hurried from the chamber.

* * *

Twenty minutes later,my heart knocked against my ribs as I stepped into the Crypt. Blue fire sputtered in torches on the walls, which bristled with hoarfrost. The Lords of Winter stared straight ahead with sightless eyes, their hands clasped around their legendary swords.

I avoided looking at Sylvar Morendiel.

My mother lay on her bier, her body gray and shrunken. Even so, traces of her beauty remained. Her rich brown hair was arranged in heavy plaits that wrapped around her head and provided a frame for the jeweled diadem that sparkled like snow. Her sigils were frostblossoms—little flowers whose buds mimicked snowflakes. And like snowflakes, no two were the same.

An ache shot across my chest. She was truly gone now, but she'd been gone for so long that everything felt the same. Even before she fell into sorrow, she'd been…absent. When I searched my memory for the sound of her laughter, I came up short. The handful of fuzzy recollections that lived in my mind featured closed doors and ladies-in-waiting cautioning me to be quiet. My mother had reigned over a court of whispers.

At last, I turned to the scepter. It floated above its icy pedestal, the orb at the top writhing with so much concentrated power that it was like an alien intelligence peering down at me.

My stomach churned. A cold sweat dampened my upper lip. My breath frosted the air as I struggled to calm my nerves. The orb was the heart of Winter, and Winter was unforgiving. It could be brutal.

It could kill.

If I took the scepter while my father lived, would Winter strike me down? Testing it wasn't an option. Once I took it, my fate would be sealed. The kings of Winter didn't abdicate. They were either strong enough to keep the cold, or they weren't.

If my father meant for me to take the scepter, why had he mentioned Sigurn? Was I supposed to bind Sigurn to me first? I had so little to go on, and there was so much at stake. The kingdom. My future. My life. What if I wasn't worthy?

The scepter glimmered above me, the orb spilling light in fractal patterns over the floor and the front of my gown. The seething blue fire in the center filled my vision, drawing me forward a step…then two.

"Please," I whispered, stretching a hand toward it, "let me be worthy of you."

Footsteps rang out, followed by men's shouts. Grabbing my skirts, I dashed to one of the statues and ducked behind it just as the sound of boots echoed around the Crypt.

"She's not down here," a man said, the sound of his labored breathing harsh in the quiet Crypt. "I told you this was a waste of time."

I tensed. They were looking for me. Because someone ordered them to.

"Come on," a second man replied. "She couldn't have gotten far."

The pounding of more footsteps filled the Crypt, and then a third voice sounded. "What are you two doing down here? We need to find the princess. Lord Ronan wants her confined to her chamber."

"What do you think we're doing?" the first man demanded.

The newcomer snorted. "Fuck should I know? Looking up the queen's skirts, I guess."

Anger tightened my gut.

"Fuck off, we're coming," the first man said. The scuffle of several pairs of boots filled the Crypt, and then they thudded their way upstairs.

When silence reigned once more, I rose and stepped out from behind the statue. Ronan was going to make me a prisoner, and then keep me in my room until I married him.

Not happening.

My father mentioned Sigurn for a reason. I had to believe that.

And I knew what I had to do.