Frozen Tides Page 33

  “No, I won’t.” Her foot found a sturdy hold and she grinned up at her sister. “Look at me! I think I’ve found a new way to escape from the palace.”

  But Emilia’s trellis had not been nearly this slippery, and her chambers were much closer to the ground.

  Cleo heard some commotion beyond the door. With no time to think, she crawled through the window and sat on the ledge. The cold air brushed against her bare legs beneath her gown. Blindly, she tried to find a foothold. She searched with the toe of her slipper until finally she found one.

  Narrow, so narrow. And so icy.

  She said a silent prayer to the goddess she’d long since stopped believing in, and finally let go of the sturdy windowsill, now clinging completely to the snow-covered trellis.

  “I can do this,” she whispered. “I can do this. I can do this.”

  She repeated the phrase with each new foothold she found.

  Snow continued to fall, thick and heavy, which only made every movement more treacherous.

  One step at a time. One foot lower. Again. And again.

  Her heart pounded hard, her fingers began to go numb.

  Suddenly, her foot slipped. She scrambled to hold on. A scream caught in her throat as she lost her grip and fell.

  She landed, hard on her backside, and, stunned but uninjured, gaped at the side of the castle.

  There was no time to rest. She stiffly pushed up to her feet and started moving.

  She had to find shelter, a place to rest and hide. And tomorrow, when the sun rose, she would hasten to Ravencrest where she could try to send word to Jonas and Nic.

  The sound of dogs barking startled her, and she scrambled to hide behind a pile of firewood. From there she watched two guards and three black dogs emerge from the thick woods. The dogs dragged behind them a sled carrying the carcass of a deer.

  “Take the dogs to the kennel and have them fed,” said the taller guard.

  His companion nodded and unhooked the dogs’ harnesses from the sled and led them off toward the far side of the castle.

  The remaining guard took hold of the reins and continued to drag the sled toward the castle. He looked up at the stormy sky, at the snow falling and coating his cloak, then pulled the bow off his shoulder and threw it down on the ground, along with the quiver of arrows. Then he took a seat on a large log, pulled out a silver flask from his cloak, and took a swig.

  “Damn long day,” he muttered.

  “It really has been,” Cleo agreed as she swung a piece of firewood at his head.

  The guard looked at her with surprise for a single second, before he fell over, unconscious.

  She hit him one more time, just to be sure.

  Quickly, Cleo removed his cloak and threw it over her shoulders. Then she scanned the area, knowing she needed to go deeper in the forest if she wanted to stay hidden until dawn. Her gaze then fell upon the bow and arrows.

  If magic really did exist in this world, then maybe it was possible that her archery skills would emerge when she needed them the most. Even if she hadn’t hit a single target during her lessons.

  That’s what happens when you have a coward as a weapons instructor, she thought darkly.

  Cleo grabbed the bow and arrows and ran as fast as she could through the deep snow and into the woods.

  CHAPTER 31

  MAGNUS

  LIMEROS

  Magnus had visited Lord Gareth’s castle only once before, but he was certain he remembered the way. He couldn’t access the palace stables, so he ran to the nearest village and stole the first horse he came across—a gray mare likely used only for short trips and errands.

  She would do. She had to.

  His destination was nearly a half-day’s journey northeast, and the snow was only falling more steadily and thickly as the sun set behind the dark gray clouds and day became night.

  Soon the storm grew so strong that the roads and pathways had become completely obliterated by the snow. Magnus had lost his way, couldn’t recognize a single checkpoint, and now had to go by instinct alone.

  After trudging through the snow for hours, the horse began to protest by shaking her head and baying with displeasure. She needed water, food, shelter, and rest. So did he.

  But he couldn’t stop.

  Magnus leaned forward and stroked her mane. “Please keep going. You must. I need you.”

  In response, the mare let out a mighty neigh, then bucked and threw Magnus from the saddle. He fell hard to the ground, but immediately scrambled up to his feet. Quickly, he tried to catch her reins, but they slipped through his gloved fingers.

  Finally free, the horse galloped off into the distance.

  “No!” he yelled after her.

  He stared after her bleakly for several long moments of disbelief.

  “Yes, wonderful,” he finally muttered. “Here I am, with nothing but a cloak and a thin, useless pair of gloves to keep me from freezing to death out here in the middle of bloody nowhere.”

  He started walking, noting the position of the half-moon, which he could occasionally see through sporadic breaks in the clouds. The snow had now risen to his knees, making it impossible to move quickly.

  The moon moved behind a heavy cloud, and once more his world was plunged back into darkness. Yet, he continued to move forward.

  Another hour. Two, maybe three more after that. He’d lost track of time long ago.

  Finally, he slowed to a halt. He hadn’t wanted to admit it, but now he was certain and there was no denying it: he was well and truly lost.

  He wondered how the king would choose to end the princess’s life.

  Would he be gentle with her, a girl who’d already experienced so much pain? Or would he be cruel, take his time torturing her before finally letting her soul go free?

  King Gaius was so afraid of a sixteen-year-old girl that he insisted on having her captured so he could kill her himself.

  A girl loved by her people, not only for her beauty, but for her spirit and courage.

  Magnus had been cruel to her. Dismissive. Rude, cold, and unsympathetic.

  Last night was the cruelest he’d ever been. He’d ransacked her chambers and stolen the earth Kindred while she was out shooting arrows with Kurtis. And then the last thing he said to her was that he never wanted to see her again.

  His behavior was unforgivable.

  But even then she’d seen past it, had insisted that she saw something more in him.

  Magnus wasn’t any different than the king. He, too, was afraid of the princess. Her spirit was so bright, he’d been blinded by it.

  And yet, he’d never wanted to close his eyes to block out that light.

  “I will kill him if he touches her,” he managed to choke out, his throat raw. “I will tear his heart out.”

  To think, not so long ago, Magnus longed to be like his father. Strong, ruthless, decisive. Immune to any form of remorse.

  When he’d learned that it was the king who had ordered Queen Althea’s death, Magnus had ached for vengeance. But instead of acting on it, he’d doubted himself at every turn.

  He was through doubting himself.

  Magnus forced himself back to his feet. Weakly, slowly, he trudged onward, until the cold became so great that, despite his thick winter boots, he couldn’t feel his toes.

  So this is how it ends, he thought.

  Just as he’d been given perfect clarity about his life, it would be taken away. What a cruel joke.

  He looked up at the black sky and started to laugh, snowflakes melting on his cheeks and sliding down to his chin.

  “All right,” he said, his laughter growing sharper and more pained. “I’ve lost. I’ve lost and I’m lost. If only Kurtis could see me now.”

  He should have taken out the boy’s eyes as well as his hand.

  So many regrets.

  If these were indeed his final moments, he would much rather think about Cleo than this. She’d once accused him of having a cold heart. Soon that would b
e very literally true. He’d heard that freezing to death was a great deal like drifting off to sleep—peaceful, with no pain.

  But he needed pain. He needed to feel something so he could keep fighting against it.

  “Oh goddess,” he said aloud. “I know I haven’t been your most humble servant. Nor do I believe in your radiance, now that I know you were only a greedy Watcher with stolen magic. But, whatever you are, whatever is out there looking down at us stupid mortals, please hear my prayer.”

  He wrapped his arms across his chest, trying to harness what little warmth he had left for as long as possible. “Send me pain so I know I’m still alive. Help me continue to suffer. For if my father has already killed her, then I need to live so I can avenge her.”

  So dark, that night. He could see no stars through the clouds. Nothing to light his way. Only the cold press of snow all around him.

  “Please, goddess,” he implored again. “Give me a chance to make this right. I promise I won’t ask for anything else, ever again. Please”—he lowered his head to the snow and closed his eyes—“please let me live so I can kill him. So I can stop him from ever hurting anyone else again.”

  Suddenly, Magnus heard something in the distance. An eerie howl.

  His eyes snapped open and he scanned the endless darkness. The noise rang out again. It sounded like the howl of an ice wolf.

  He glared up at the black sky. “I was trying to be sincere, and this is what I get in return? A hungry wolf to tear me apart on the worst night of my life? Much gratitude, goddess.”

  The clouds parted and, gradually, the moon became visible again.

  “Better,” he muttered, pushing against the snow and forcing himself to his feet. “Slightly better.”

  With the help of the dim moonlight, he scanned the area again, searching for something, anything, that might offer him help. There was a forest up ahead, past the snowy plain. It wasn’t nearly as good as a village, but the trees might offer him enough warmth and shelter to survive the night.

  Magnus trudged toward the forest, keeping one hand on the stolen sword at his side in case any hungry ice wolves decided to interrupt him.

  He made it into the forest, and immediately set about searching for anything that might serve him well as shelter. But when he finally saw exactly what he was looking for, he was certain his eyes deceived him.

  It was a small stone cottage, no larger than something that might belong to a Paelsian peasant, but to him it might as well have been a palace.

  He approached cautiously and peered through a dirty, ice-encrusted window, but couldn’t see anything inside. No smoke rose from the chimney. No candles were lit. Just barely, he was able to climb three chiseled stone steps that led up to the door.

  He tried the handle. It was unlocked. The door swung open without effort.

  If this turned out to be the work of the goddess, he promised to start praying much more often.

  Magnus stepped inside and felt around in the darkness until he found an oil lantern and a piece of flint. He struck the flint and lit the wick.

  He nearly sobbed when the room swelled with light.

  Taking the lantern in hand, he inspected the cottage. It was a single room, with a straw bed in one corner, equipped with a few ragged, but dry, quilts. In the opposite corner, he saw a large hearth, and some cooking pots.

  On top of the hearth, next to another lantern, he found an effigy of the Goddess Cleiona, emblazoned with the symbols for fire and air. That meant that this cottage had at one point been occupied by an Auranian—or a Limerian who was secretly loyal to the Auranian goddess.

  He built a fire with wood from the cottage’s modest supply. He sat in front of the fire, atop a thick rug embroidered with a hawk and the Auranian credo: OUR TRUE GOLD IS OUR PEOPLE.

  Magnus decided that the former occupant had most likely been arrested and taken away to the dungeons for worshipping Cleiona. If Magnus lived through this, he swore he would find that man or woman and free them.

  There wasn’t enough firewood inside to last the night, so Magnus took the lantern and ventured back outside. He found an ax and a chopping block, along with some larger pieces of wood, leaning against the cottage. He set the lantern down and prepared to do something he’d never done before in his entire life: chop wood.

  But before he could take a single swing of the ax, a shout from not far away caught his attention. Magnus pulled up the hood of his cloak, snatched up the lantern and the ax, and went to investigate. Fifty paces away, he came across a dead man lying in the snow. He wore the green uniform of a Kraeshian guard, and had an arrow sticking out of his left eye socket.

  Another shout caught his attention, back in the direction of the cottage. He tightened his grip on the ax and made his way back, slowly and cautiously.

  Another guard lay dead behind the cottage, an arrow lodged in his throat. Magnus knelt down and yanked the arrow out to see that it bore Kraeshian markings.

  He needed to check inside, to see if someone lay in wait. As he cautiously neared the door to see that it was ajar, something from behind hit him, hard, knocking him over the threshold of the cottage and through the door. He lost his grip on the ax and landed with a deep thud on his back. A cloaked assailant clutched an arrow and tried to stab him with it, but Magnus grabbed his attacker and rolled him over, knocking the weapon from his hand.

  The henchman was small and agile and managed to wriggle free, but Magnus grabbed him by the back of his cloak and threw him down on the floor. He shoved the hood back from his attacker’s face, ready to crush his throat.

  A silky lock of long blond hair swung free from the hood. Magnus gasped and scrambled backward.

  Cleo.

  She grabbed for her arrow, but her hands found the ax instead. She hefted it up and, with a war cry, stormed toward him.

  Magnus caught the handle of the ax just beneath the blade and snatched it from her grip, throwing it to the floor.

  He took her by her shoulders and pushed her back against the wall.

  “Cleo! Cleo, enough . . . it’s me!”

  “Let go of me! I’ll kill you!”

  “It’s me!” He pulled down his own hood so she could see his face.

  Finally, recognition dawned in her cerulean eyes.

  Cleo continued to stare at him as if he were the last person she expected to see here—or anywhere.

  “I’m going to let go of you now.” He held up his hands and took a step back from her.

  She was alive. Somehow, she’d escaped her captors, escaped the king. And she’d just killed two Kraeshian guards with nothing more than her bare hands and a couple of arrows.

  To think he’d doubted that she’d ever become proficient at archery.

  Cleo remained silent, unmoving, as if in shock.

  “Do you even hear me?” he said, in the most calming tone he could muster.

  “You!” she suddenly snarled. “This was all your doing, wasn’t it? Trying to win back your father’s approval by delivering me to him! So, what now? Did you come here so you could kill me yourself? Or are you going to bring me back to that castle so you can sit back and let him have the honor?”

  “Cleo—”

  “Shut up! I nearly broke my neck getting away from Amara. And then I nearly froze to death out here! Yes, I had the earth Kindred. Yes, I lied to you. What did you expect? For me to suddenly start sharing everything with you? You, the son of my worst enemy?”

  Magnus just stared at her, unsure if he was impressed or horrified by this poisonous tirade escaping the petite blonde.

  No, he was impressed. Very impressed and very happy.

  Her cheeks flushed bright red. “I know you didn’t hear my speech this morning, but it was a damn good one. I’m sure you’ll think I’m lying, but I asked everyone to accept you as their king.”

  “And why would you do something like that?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

  “Because,” she said, letting out an exhausted sigh. “I believe in y
ou. Even when you’re being cruel to me. Even when you make me want to run away and never come back. I believe in you, Magnus!”

  Her chest heaved up and then down as she took a deep, choking breath.

  Magnus struggled to find his voice. He desperately searched for it; he needed to reply.

  “I thought you were dead,” he finally managed to say. “I was certain I was too late and that my father . . . that my father had . . .”

  Cleo blinked. “So you . . . you’re here to rescue me?”

  “That was the general plan, yes, but it seems you’re perfectly capable of rescuing yourself.”

  And then he sank down to his knees, his attention fixed on the wooden floor.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she said, warily now. “Why won’t you look at me?”

  “I’ve been a monster to you. I’ve hurt you over and over, and yet you still continued to believe in me.”

  “Actually, it’s not until recently that I started.” Her tone had grown uncertain and tentative, her voice quieter.

  “Forgive me, Cleo. Please . . . please forgive me for all that I’ve said. All that I’ve done.”

  “You . . . you really want my forgiveness?”

  “I know I don’t even deserve to ask for it. But, yes.” It was true agony to realize how wrong he’d been about her. About everything.

  Cleo lowered herself to the floor, peering up at his face with a concerned frown. “You’re not acting like yourself at all. Are you in pain?”

  “Yes. Horrible pain.”

  She reached out with a shaky hand and pushed his hair back from his forehead. He raised his eyes to meet hers. He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t put all that he was feeling into words. So instead of speaking, he just held on to her gaze, no mask in place, no protection, his heart open and raw and messy.

  “I love you, Cleo,” he said, the words finally coming to him, with no effort at all because of how true they were. “I love you so much it hurts.”

  Her eyes widened. “What did you just say?”

  Magnus almost laughed. “I think you heard me right.”

  Cleo drew closer to him, continuing to stroke his hair, which was damp from the melting snow. He froze under her touch, unable to move or to breathe. No thoughts, no words, only the feel of her fingertips on his skin. She stroked his face, his jaw, her touch growing bolder as she traced the line of his scar.