Chapter 3

Magic lingered in the air as Liria moved up the path, her silver hair trailing to her hips.

Glesso.Every time she said it, the bond between us crackled, reminding me that I'd sworn to do what her father couldn't.

No. What he refused to do.

I understand well enough. My father isn't dead, but I've lost him all the same.

Pain had flitted through her green eyes when she said it—the emotion there and gone so quickly I might have missed it. But I'd seen it before, on the day she looked me in the eye, all of eleven years old, and made me promise to teach her everything.

Even then, she'd been a bundle of contradictions. By turns solemn and playful. Coolheaded and impatient. Obedient yet possessing a deep stubborn streak that had rendered me proficient in blasphemy. But she had a knack for knowing how far she could push me. On the rare occasions she pushed too far, she was quick to apologize. She was proud, but she humbled herself when she knew she deserved it. When she knew she was wrong. Above all, she was curious. She'd meant what she said that day in Haluven's apartments. She wanted to learn.

Because she wanted to rule. If I had to guess, the crown had replaced her parents in her heart. If she couldn't have their love, she'd get it from the throne. But desire didn't always translate to skill. Sometimes, the gulf between wanting something and achieving it was too vast to bridge.

And the lords of the Winter Council fretted more each day. With every tree she failed to frost, they pressured me to find a suitable husband for her. Someone who could keep the cold until Liria's magic reached its full potential.

But, increasingly, the Council worried she would never wield the scepter. No woman had ever sat upon the Winter throne. Perhaps, they reasoned, Winter intended to give its blessing to Liria through her husband. Heralds had ridden out, spreading the news to every corner of the kingdom. Immediately, I'd been inundated with requests for her hand. Immediately after that, I'd learned just how stubborn my ward could be. Whatever her failings at magic, Liria was exceptionally skilled at outmaneuvering me when it came to suitors.

And, now I knew, tailing me when I went to the Covenant.

"Fuck," I said under my breath, my gaze on her shrinking form. Even as exasperation stirred, a smile tugged at my lips. If I'd known what I was taking on ten years ago, I might have told my fellow lords on the Council to find another fool.

An image of Liria doling out coin to a bunch of besotted border guards rose in my mind. If I was a fool, at least I had company. Still, I'd have to speak to the men's commander about an appropriate punishment.

Ahead, sunlight gleamed on Liria's hair and caught in the silver embroidery that flowed down her skirts. She certainly looked the part of Winter's Princess. Except for her eyes. No matter how many times I looked at her, those big pools of emerald green were always something of a surprise.

Liria and Lady Cyra disappeared into the castle.

My amusement faded. Velador was a powerful lord with an estate on the Silver Sea. Undoubtedly, he'd approached the castle from a less-traveled route, hoping to evade the border guards' notice and arrive before the other suitors. His magic was strong. And he was young. Exactly the kind of candidate the lords of the Council could install and then manipulate to carry out their bidding.

Liria was going to dislike him on sight. But the Council was growing restless. Liria usually knew how far she could push me. Unfortunately, her instincts didn't extend to the Council.

With another curse, I headed up the path. But when I reached the castle, I passed the Great Hall's painted double doors and entered a smaller, undecorated door tucked away in an alcove. Narrow stone steps twisted downward. As I descended, torches set in rings on the walls burst into cold fire, the blue flames licking at the stone. The temperature plunged. After a dozen more steps, hoarfrost climbed up the walls. I kept going, and shimmering blue light rose up the steps to greet me. The cold swelled. The torches continued to flare to life, each burst of fire marking my progress. Finally, I reached the bottom and stepped into the Crypt.

Statues of tall, somber-looking men ringed the walls of the circular room. Torches crackling with cold fire blazed between the statues. Larger than life, each man held a sword vertical to his chest. The Lords of Winter—heroes and legends memorialized in stone. Their eyes stared sightlessly. Their bones filled the pedestals under their feet. My father's statue was the newest. Breaking with tradition, the craftsmen had cast his likeness with empty hands so I could carry Summerbane in my father's honor. No one knew I would rather die than leave my father's hands empty. The day I fulfilled my vow, Summerbane would return to its rightful owner.

My chest tightened. I tore my gaze from my father and let it settle on the living couple in the center of the room. Queen Maeve rested on a stone bier, her eyes closed and her long, brown hair arranged in two braids that lay heavy on her chest. Haluven sat beside her, his blue eyes fixed on his queen. The antlers of the stag sigils that ran over his chest and down his arms were visible above the embroidered neckline of his shirt.

Steps away, Haluven's scepter hovered above a pedestal carved from solid ice. Cold fire burned in the orb that topped the scepter's staff. Once a year for the past ten years, I'd carried the scepter from the Crypt and cast frost over the kingdom. Then I'd descended the steps, replaced the scepter, and begged my friend to follow me up the stairs. To rejoin the living and rule his kingdom. To raise his daughter instead of letting me do it.

Haluven never responded. Year after year, he continued to sit, his gaze locked on his queen.

"The Council wants Velador," I said, walking forward. My footfalls echoed off the walls, which were coated in thick hoarfrost. In past eras, the kings of Winter had dragged enemies to the Crypt and chained them naked against the spiky formations. When fatigue set in and the unfortunate prisoners sagged against their bonds, the spikes flayed their skin from their bones. The floors had run with blood, and screams had filled the Crypt. And when the prisoners' immortality healed the injuries, the process had started all over again.

But it had been a long time since anyone was chained to the walls. Now, the Crypt's only prisoner was willing. And silent.

"He's a bad choice," I told Haluven as I stopped at Maeve's shoulder and faced him across the bier. "Given enough training, he might wield the scepter one day. But it'll take decades, if not centuries. Until then, he'll spend all his time traveling the kingdom on horseback and spreading the frost tree by tree." I let a cynical grunt escape my throat. "The Council doesn't want a king. They want a workhorse. They'll keep Velador busy frosting the forests while they continue to scheme here at court."

Haluven stayed silent, his gaze unwavering as he stared at Maeve. At first glance, her chest was still. A closer look revealed the slightest rise and fall. A flicker of life. But her skin was gray, her beautiful features as cold as the statues of the dead men that surrounded her.

In the months after the stillbirth, I'd spent hours in the Crypt. More than once, I slept on a bedroll at Haluven's feet, thinking he might rouse if I lingered long enough. I carried a chair down the spiral steps and sat at his side, speaking of all the idiotic things we'd done as boys and young men, when he was a dashing, beloved prince and I was a bastard with a famous father and a chip on my shoulder. "A proper pair of halfwits," my father had often said, fondness thick in his voice. "Both of you have more magic than brains."

When retelling the stories of our youth didn't rouse Haluven, I'd switched to giving him detailed reports of Liria's progress. I spoke of her magical training. Of her birthdays. Of the frustrations and joys that came with looking after a spirited, intelligent child.

Later on, I talked of her achievements as a young woman. Liria was everything a queen should be. Beautiful, intelligent, and witty. With a wry smile tugging at my lips, I told Haluven how she'd learned to turn that wit against me when we argued.

I shared my dealings with the Council. I bitched about the lords who served only to further their own interests. I talked until my voice grew hoarse and I nodded off, my head jerking upright as I startled from sleep. I talked until I ran out of things to say.

Through it all, Haluven showed no reaction. Once upon a time, he'd stood with a hand on my shoulder as we watched cold fire lick over my father's broken body. Before the whole court, he'd bade me kneel before him and then touched the tip of his sword to my shoulders, his voice ringing with emotion as he erased Ronan ap-Sylvar and remade me as Ronan Morendiel, Lord of Tur Dorna.

But those moments were dusty memories now. No matter how many times I stood across the bier and recounted them, Haluven was silent. Nothing moved him. His long, white hair hung over one shoulder. Every few days, servants washed and brushed it. They wiped the frost from his skin and polished his crown. Maneuvered him in and out of his clothes.

"And for what?" I said aloud. "None of it fucking matters."

Haluven stared. The Crypt stayed silent.

"I loved you like a brother," I said, bitterness welling. "I would have done anything for you."

No response. Of course.

"Liria has been following me to the Covenant. She saw me cross into Nordlinga." Haluven knew of my vow. When he was still lucid, he'd given his blessing, even going so far as to order the Winter Guard to stay away from the barrier. He'd made it easier for me to move between the realms unnoticed. He'd understood my need to avenge my sire.

But Haluven said nothing now. Not even the knowledge of his only child venturing near the Covenant could rouse him.

I huffed. "She's been doing it for years, the little sneak. I suppose I should be grateful she didn't try to enter Andulum. But she's too smart for that. She understands the danger of falling into human hands. And she understands her value as your heir. She would never put herself in jeopardy unless she had a good reason."

Silence.

"She's frustrated with her training, and I don't blame her. She's made scant progress these past few years."

Silence.

"If heart made a queen, Liria could take the throne today. Sometimes, I could curse the gods for denying her magic."

Nothing.

"You should see her." Liria's flushed cheeks and full mouth flashed in my mind. Her eyes had sparked green fire when she put her face in mine and dared me to deny crossing the Covenant. "She's brave," I said, my voice gruff in my ears.

Haluven stared at Maeve.

Anger burned through my bitterness. "You should see her," I repeated.

Silence.

Maeve's hands were folded over her stomach. One of the servants had braided ribbons into her hair.

"You mourn a dead woman, Halu."

Nothing.

I placed my hands on the bier and leaned over Maeve. Gaze on Haluven, I did something my father had warned me to never, ever do.

"You are going to lose her," I said in the Old Language.

Wind whipped around the Crypt, extinguishing the torches in one violent rush. Magic warped the air and flooded my lungs. The cold fire atop the scepter flared, spilling from the orb and setting the room ablaze. Ice cracked as Haluven lifted his head and glared at me, his eyes the same brilliant blue as the scepter's orb. His voice was like the rasp of a blade leaving its scabbard.

"You dare speak a curse against my queen."

I ignored my suddenly racing heart and matched my glare to his. "I spoke of your daughter, not your queen."

Haluven held my stare for a long moment. Slowly, he turned his head back to Maeve.

"That's it?" I demanded, squeezing the edge of the bier. "Nothing else to say?" A decade of resentment boiled up, and it coated my voice in viciousness. "You have a living daughter one staircase away. She's smart and vibrant. If you had shown her just a sliver of attention, her magic might have matured. But you would rather rot down here, pining for your lost love."

Haluven lifted his gaze once more. "What do you know of love, Ronan? Of loyalty?"

For a moment, I was speechless. "I've kept the cold for ten years. I've presided over your bickering, backstabbing Council." The edge of the bier dug into my palms as I squeezed it more tightly. "I've raised your daughter. The one you don't see."

"Ah, but you do."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

A knowing look gleamed in Haluven's eyes. "Whispers reach me. Conversations filter through the stone and fill this place. People speak of you often, my friend. The Sword of the North. A pity, they say, that you were born a bastard. Otherwise, you might have made a fine king."

"I've never coveted your crown, Haluven. Always, I have served you."

"The Council worried about your ambition," he said, his rough voice echoing off the stone around us. "Some thought you would seize the throne if they made you regent. Others swore you were too smart to risk taking the scepter while I lived. They believed your bastardy would stop you from reaching for something beyond your grasp. What if Winter rejected you? The scepter has killed usurpers in the past. And if you died, who would keep the cold? No, they said, Ronan Morendiel wouldn't tempt fate. The Sword of the North would never put the kingdom at risk to satisfy his lust for power. So they removed temptation. Then they gave you my daughter as a ward."

Unease drifted through me. I straightened and let my hands fall away from the bier.

Haluven's eerie, glowing eyes pinned me in place. "Liria's magic was flawed from her first breath. The moment I lifted her from the forest floor and learned her name, I knew she would never be strong enough to wield the scepter. The frost will fail under Liria's reign. Winter will reject her. Why do you think Maeve and I tried so hard for another child?"

Everything within me went still. "And you told no one. All this time, you've said nothing."

"It would have plunged the kingdom into war. Perhaps, some upstart lord would have come to the Crypt and killed me. And when Winter rejected him, another would have taken his place. One by one, they would have seized the scepter, presiding over a warming, dying kingdom. How many people would perish before a worthy successor came into power?" Haluven's shoulders rose and fell as a sigh passed his lips. "But as you said, none of it fucking matters."

Anger flooded me. "Your people don't matter? Your daughter's life doesn't matter? If the frost fails, everyone dies. I was your best friend. You could have told me. Gods, Haluven, you could have told someone."

"As you will?" The knowing look in his eyes dug into my soul, unlocking doors and flinging the secrets they guarded into the open. "You're the only lord with this knowledge, Ronan. Once the other nobles learn Liria is unworthy of Winter, they'll try to seize the throne without her. But you could take it now. Keep the knowledge to yourself and claim the throne. Your magic is strong. Everyone knows it. The only thing holding you back is your tainted blood. Would your power be enough to overcome it? Would Winter accept a bastard on the throne? Who knows. But imagine if it did. You wouldn't even need Liria."

Revulsion crawled through me. "You would see your own daughter cast aside?"

"A wise king considers all possibilities. For example, your lust for my daughter might compel you to claim her when you claim my throne. How freeing that would be for you, Ronan. No more hiding your desires behind a cloak of false virtue. If the frost holds, you'll have everything you want." He tipped his head slightly, and the sound of ice cracking echoed through the Crypt. "That's possible, don't you think?"

We stared at each other. "You are not the man I thought you were," I said quietly.

The torches on either side of my father's statue flared to life. I couldn't stifle my gasp as I jerked my head toward the glow. Cold fire licked up the walls and cast blue shadows over my father's solemn face and empty hands.

"No father was ever so proud of his son as Sylvar," Haluven said, drawing my gaze back to him. "He negotiated the Covenant and saved our people from annihilation after the humans rose against us. Any man would have been proud of such an achievement. But Sylvar considered you his greatest achievement."

My chest tightened. One by one, the rest of the torches sputtered to life, bursts of cold fire punctuating Haluven's speech.

"I used to envy you. So powerful. So noble. An accomplished warrior, just like your sire. I had the crown, but you had your father's love. What did it feel like, I wondered, to enjoy the respect and admiration of the most legendary warrior in history?"

The last of the torches flared against the hoarfrost.

"Then I realized I should have pitied you," Haluven said. "Because Sylvar, for all his admirable traits, had a fatal flaw."

My chest pulled tighter. I stared at my friend. Absently, I realized I'd clenched my fists at my sides.

"Lust," Haluven said, and the sibilant sound seemed to sputter in the torches. "He got a child on a lowborn woman. And no amount of pride could cleanse your blood. You were Sylvar's greatest accomplishment, Ronan. And the embodiment of his weakness."

An angry sound broke from me before I could stop it. Haluven echoed a common sentiment among our people. Elven society regarded illegitimate children as extensions of their parents' lack of control. No matter how careful I was, people always expected me to be impulsive and intemperate. I'd heard the slurs my whole life. I'd just never expected to hear them from my best friend.

Silence fell over the Crypt. Slowly, Haluven turned his gaze back to Maeve.

"Get up," I rasped through a throat gone dry. "Go upstairs and tell the Council what you told me. Do your duty as king."

The torches fluttered, and ice crackled as Haluven settled more deeply in his chair. The glow in his eyes dimmed. "That is not possible. I am finished being king." A low, mournful groan rippled around the Crypt, as if the statues echoed his anguish. Haluven's voice faded, and his words came more slowly. "Leave me…to my…sorrow. I leave you…to your choices. Whatever…they might be."

A heavy silence settled over the Crypt. Haluven was as still as he'd been when I entered. Frost glazed his eyes. He'd say no more. The torches sputtered. The statues stood sentinel. Cold fire flickered over the hoarfrost. The Crypt was the same as always. Nothing had changed.

Except everything had changed. Out of the corner of my eye, my father's statue stood tall and straight.

Lust.

He'd rarely spoken of my mother, who had died birthing me. To sire a bastard was to demonstrate a lack of control—something anathema to all of elvenkind. It didn't matter that I'd kept the cold for a decade. If I ran upstairs and told the Council what I'd learned, my fellow lords would laugh at the idea of me taking the scepter. It was one thing to wield the scepter while Haluven lived, quite another to take it for myself. As things stood now, I acted as a proxy. A servant. No baseborn elf had ever ruled a kingdom in Ishulum. If I seized the scepter, there was every chance Winter would reject me.

But a chance wasn't a certainty.

My father's statue loomed at the edge of my vision. Haluven's taunts played in my mind.

Sylvar considered you his greatest achievement.

Would Winter accept a bastard on the throne?

Imagine if it did.

A chance wasn't a certainty, but the lords of the Council wouldn't see things that way. They would rather rip the kingdom apart trying to claim the crown for themselves than entertain the thought of me becoming king. And Liria, who had lost her parents, would lose the only home she'd ever known. The moment the Council learned of Haluven's revelation, they would move.

Unless I moved first.

The Crypt's silence pressed against me from all sides. The Lords of Winter observed me through sightless eyes. The scepter shimmered, daring me to take it. But that, as Haluven said, was impossible. As long as he lived, he held Winter's favor. If I took the scepter now, I would be a usurper.

You'll be one anyway,a little voice whispered in my head. Whether I moved now or later, I would always be a usurper as far as Liria was concerned. Haluven had dumped his knowledge on my shoulders and then left me to make my choices alone. When it came to Liria, all possible outcomes ended with her losing the crown. Maybe her life. The scepter didn't always kill the unworthy. But could I really take that gamble? I'd grown up hearing the histories directly from my father, who had known them better than anyone. Winter could be ruthless.

But if I went to her now and spilled Haluven's secret, she'd have no reason to believe me. Worse, she might join the lords of the Council in suspecting I simply wanted Haluven's crown for myself. If I lost her trust, I might lose her completely. Every option—every possibility—before me was fraught with risk.

I turned and went to the stairs. Although he was silent behind me, Haluven's voice dogged my steps. If the frost holds, you'll have everything you want. But as I climbed the stairs, I remembered what I'd told Liria the day I became her guardian.

No one gets everything they want.