Tears of Frost

by Bree Barton

  The room spun.

  Rose stood slowly. “I loved your mother, Pilar. There was a time when I thought we would have a life together. A family.”

  “No.” Pilar couldn’t breathe. “That isn’t possible. You can’t be . . .”

  The Snow Wolf. The greatest Dujia killer in all four kingdoms.

  Griffin Rose bowed his head. His voice cracked like a cup, spilling words.

  “Mia and Angelyne are my daughters,” he said. “But you were my daughter first.”

  1 Day Till the Weeping Moon

  My undeserving sister,

  The moon weeps, and still you have not answered me.

  Very well. I will tell you the one story I have not yet told: the story of the sisters.

  When the witch crept into the village under the canopy of night; when the Renderer sharpened his colored pencils; when the Flesh Thief purloined her bits of flesh; when the Silver Sorcerer poached their magic and used it for himself . . . the three sisters stayed behind. There, tucked safely into the kabma, they did what all sisters do.

  They told each other stories.

  The eldest sister told tales of battle. Dreams of fierce mares galloping over white fields, their hooves flattening the flowers. Sometimes she was a demon with a breastplate of silver. Sometimes a sea monster, sometimes just a girl. But no matter the shape of her body or the length of her teeth, she was always a warrior.

  The middle sister told tales of wonder: mystical fog-cloaked lagoons and lights rippling through the sky. Her curiosity was insatiable. Her stories became ways to simmer mystery down to truth.

  The littlest sister didn’t care for truth. She was a liar.

  The best storytellers always are.

  In her stories she was not reviled by the villagers. She was a lovely human girl with dazzling wit and devastating grace. She turned heads as she swept through opalescent ballrooms, silken gown rustling like a velvet summer breeze. The ladies admired her, the men loved her. She was not the daughter of a monster. She was a queen.

  When the villagers came for Græÿa’s children, carrying torches dipped in oil and fire, the eldest sister relied on her fists. She tried to hurt them, even as red flames licked the thatch roof. The middle sister relied on her intellect. She appealed to their reason, trying desperately to prove her family’s innocence.

  It was the littlest sister who saved them. She knew these men would not be defeated by blood or logic. So she dipped her quill in ink, pulled out a fresh piece of parchment, and wrote a different ending.

  Once upon a time, the monsters survived.

  As with most endings, it is really a beginning.

  The myth of Græÿa goes like so: we do not know how the witch’s children died, only that they died. But there is more than one kind of death—and more than one means of survival. New life can come from the deadest of places, if you only know where to look.

  You have now met all the Souls of Jyöl. The Warrior and Wonderer number five and six. But I am far more interested in the Liaress, the Seventh Soul. She is the most powerful. The Liaress made the other Souls immortal, all with a few strokes of her pen.

  A reckoning is at hand, sister. Tomorrow, when the moon weeps light into the palace, you must choose how to align yourself.

  Remember the things I have told you.

  Sometimes the men are the monsters.

  Sometimes the monsters are the light.

  Truthfully yours,

  Angelyne

  Chapter 36

  Perfect Likeness

  WYNNA’S CHAMBERS IN THE snow palace glimmered. White marble floors swirled with gold and copper; a deep porcelain tub ringed by milky candles; gilded sconces reaching for the ceiling like claws. The Luumi crest was emblazoned over the fireplace: a frostflower crushed beneath an ice leopard’s paws.

  The bed curved into a sumptuous canopy, dark cherry wood carved as birds and blooms. The bed itself boasted snow fox blankets half a foot deep. Heavy velvet drapes dripped vermillion from the bay windows, reminding Mia of frosted blood.

  Outside, the balcony offered a view of the seaside: boats kissing the horizon with sails of pale blue, gleaming copper hulls bobbing on the bay. In the distance the glacier loomed large, its ivory fingers reaching down into the ocean. Dollops of smoke rose above the bustling port as cream-capped waves frothed at the shore, snow frilling the water’s edge like a fringe of lace.

  In a word: horrific.

  Mia pulled the drapes shut.

  Before she’d fainted, she had a vague memory of her mother saying she would “tend” to her in her chambers. But Mia had awoken on the canopy bed, alone. No sound save for the crackle of logs in the hearth, a wolfskin rug laid before it.

  Why did her mother have her own chambers in the queen’s palace? Did she live there? As if it weren’t betrayal enough that her mother had hired Zai to ferry her from White Lagoon to Valavïk.

  Of course the irony was that Mia had wanted Zai to ferry her to Valavïk. But she could have done without all the subterfuge.

  Secrets are just another way people lie to one another.

  Her mother had forged an endless rope of lies, one woven into the next.

  Mia kept replaying the moment on the balcony. When she’d imagined their reunion, she always saw her mother rushing toward her, bundling her in a tender hug. Wynna would beg for her daughter’s forgiveness, and even though Mia had sworn she’d never give it, she would feel months of icy numbness thawing in her chest.

  In reality, their reunion hadn’t resembled that fantasy in the slightest. Her mother’s face was cold and distant. If she had instructed Zai to bring Mia to the palace out of love or longing—aching to see her daughter, missing her terribly—that was one thing. Even regret would have sufficed: a bone-deep remorse over all the pain and suffering she’d caused.

  But Wynna’s words were transactional. Emotionless. Mia felt no joy rolling off her mother, only a sense of resignation. You’ve come at last. Not a celebration: a verdict.

  Mia straightened. It didn’t matter that her mother hadn’t released a thousand golden butterflies for her return. What mattered was that Wynna would be able to counter the magic in the moonstone so they could beat Angelyne and save Quin.

  Mia could be transactional, too.

  A knock echoed through the room.

  Her heart leapt. She hurried to the door and pressed her ear against the wood. Was she still holding out hope that her mother would ask for forgiveness? She loathed herself for even thinking it.

  “Mia,” came the muffled voice. “It’s Zai.”

  Her stomach clenched.

  “Can I please come in? I want to apologize.”

  “I don’t care what you want,” she called through the door.

  “I have food.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “She made you a potato cake with sweet brown mustard. Just the way you like.”

  Mia’s resolve wavered. Her mother knew better than anyone that potato cakes were her favorite. A simple meal from simpler times.

  She adjusted her jacket and opened the chamber doors.

  It struck Mia how different Zai looked. His black hair was no longer confined to the leather band; it hung free, kissing his chiseled jawline. He leaned into the doorway with a new swagger.

  “Good morning, Mia Rose.”

  She extended her hand, palm facing up. “Potato cake.”

  Zai started to give her the copper plate, then hesitated.

  “I’d like to sit with you.”

  “I don’t have anything to say.”

  “We don’t have to talk. You can eat, and I’ll just . . . watch you eat.”

  “Why would that appeal to me?”

  He shrugged.

  Mia snatched the copper plate and started to close the door. But she paused halfway. She couldn’t resist.

  “Was any of it real? The alehouse? The boat? Your stories about your family?”

  She started to close the door again, but Zai caught it wi
th the toe of his boot.

  “It was all real. I own the alehouse. The boat is mine. My family lives in Kom’Addi—all but one cousin, who chose a very different direction.” He paused. “I came to White Lagoon to make my own way.”

  “I see. And at what point did you become my mother’s lackey? Or since you brought me here to the palace, should I say the queen’s?”

  He frowned. “I don’t work for Freyja. I work for myself. From time to time I make shipments when the price is right.”

  Mia almost laughed. “I’m a shipment, then.”

  “No. That isn’t . . .” He rapped the door with his knuckles. “I mean, yes. You were a shipment. But only at first.”

  She rolled her eyes. She had zero interest in hearing the rest of this monologue, about how she’d gone from being a shipment to someone he cared about, his feelings blossomed into something more, et cetera.

  “So you’re a man of coins. Tell me: what do you spend it on? Fyre ice for your boat, perhaps? Casks for your alehouse? And do you carry whatever cargo they tell you to? Even when it means luring girls onto your boat under false pretenses?”

  He regarded her closely, with that same piercing gaze. She hated that she found him handsome.

  “I won’t lie to you, Mia. I was waiting for you. A few months ago your mother told me you’d be coming to Luumia, and she offered me a handsome sum to bring you to Valavïk. But then you came, and it wasn’t at all like I expected.”

  Zai pressed one palm into the doorframe, leaning toward her.

  “I’ll tell you anything you want to know. No more secrets.”

  “I sense a contingency.”

  “All I want is to sit down. My foot is tired of being a doorstop.”

  “All you want is a chair, and you’ll tell me anything?”

  He flashed a roguish smile. “Make it a good chair.”

  Mia had never seen his expression anywhere close to roguish. It unnerved her—and intrigued her, too. Who was the Zai she had spent the last week with? And how close was that Zai to the real one?

  “Why should I trust you?”

  “I never outright lied to you, Mia.”

  “That itself is a lie.”

  She started to close the door with his toes still underneath it. Zai yelped.

  “You’re right. I did lie to you. But only once.”

  He stared into the empty room behind her. Ran a hand through his black hair.

  “I said I couldn’t render you. That I don’t draw people I know. The truth is, I do draw people I know. That’s what I’m best at. But the other part . . . that was true.”

  She raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

  “I couldn’t render you because by then . . .” He shook the hair out of his eyes. “You weren’t just a shipment I was carting between ports. I didn’t want to hurt you. Sometimes, when I render people, they get hurt.”

  “You’re saying when you draw someone in charcoal, they get hurt in real life?”

  “You really don’t know, do you?” His round brown eyes were soft, almost playful. “Honestly, you ask more questions than anyone I’ve ever met. But during all those months in White Lagoon, you never once thought to ask this one.”

  She looked at him, baffled. He held her gaze.

  “Do you remember what I drew, Mia?”

  She thought of Zai sketching feverishly on the boat, the way he bristled when she came too close. No wonder he’d captured her mother in flawless detail: he’d seen her in real life.

  And then Mia remembered seeing her mother in the White Lagoon, fierce and silent. The same way he’d drawn her.

  The exact same way, come to think of it. Same voluptuous red tresses pinned in the Luumi style. Same wide hazel eyes. Same unsmiling expression. Every curve and wrinkle—even the tilt of her head—identical.

  One minute Wynna was there in the lagoon, flesh and blood. The next minute, she’d vanished.

  The wheels were turning in Mia’s brain. All this time she’d feared her sanity was fraying. But her mother had never been in the lagoon at all. Mia had seen her perfect likeness because Zai had sketched her on paper . . . and etched the image into Mia’s mind.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but she spoke first.

  “You have magic,” she said. “You’re a Dujia, too.”

  Chapter 37

  Family of Ghosts

  “THIS DOESN’T MAKE SENSE.”

  Mia paced her mother’s chambers, trying to organize her thoughts. Zai had thrown open the drapes so that bluish sunlight spilled into the room. After all the fuss about a chair, he hadn’t taken one. He sat barefoot on the rug in front of the roaring orange fire, his arm slung over a low chair. His toes were angular, all roughly the same length.

  “You’re trying to fit magic into the box you were given,” he said. “But your box is too small.”

  “In the river kingdom I was taught only Gwyrach could have magic. We looked like women, but really we were demons. In the fire kingdom I learned we had another name. We were Dujia, daughter of the Four Great Goddesses. We were angels. Either way, there was one constant in the equation: we were always women.”

  “I’d argue you were women most of all.”

  “But that’s exactly why magic was born inside us. For centuries men have treated our bodies as vessels to bring them pleasure, or bear their children, or whatever they chose. We wear the scars of that heavy history. Magic was created the first time a woman’s body rose up against oppression.”

  “Do you think only women have been oppressed?”

  Mia stopped pacing. She stared at him, unblinking. For once in her life, words eluded her.

  “You are correct,” Zai said, “that women have suffered from violence. Magic was the body’s answer to these abuses. But you are not the only ones who fought to survive.”

  He dragged his fingers down the wolfskin rug until he reached the muzzle.

  “Remember what I told you about the physical world? Fires, oceans, wild beasts—all become bloodthirsty when their survival is at stake. This violence is echoed in the human heart. We’re the ones who cut our bloodlust into a blade, sharpened it like a set of teeth.”

  He tapped the wolf’s yellow canines.

  “The violence of animals is pure. Eat or be eaten. It isn’t personal. But we muddied ours with hatred.”

  He met Mia’s eyes. “Growing up in Glas Ddir, did you know any Addi?”

  “Not a one.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  “Because our king was a bigot. He hated anyone he perceived to be different.”

  She thought of Quin and the boy who’d taught him piano, and what Ronan had done when he discovered them together in the crypt.

  “That’s right,” Zai said. “When Ronan sealed the borders, it wasn’t just to keep you in. It was to keep us out.”

  He pushed himself to his feet and walked to the window, where he gazed out onto the port.

  “I won’t bore you. You already know the Addi bear a long history of oppression. When the colonizers came to Luum’Addi, they were threatened by our music, our dress, our language. They forbade us from singing the Yöluk or worshiping our gods. Addi who looked like me”—he gestured toward his rounded eyes and dark hair—“had it hardest, because to them we looked the most like monsters. But we all suffered.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mia said, and meant it. Once again she’d been ignorant, confined by her own assumptions. Had she really thought only women faced imbalances of power? It seemed hopelessly naive. But why had she never heard anything about men practicing magic? Her mother didn’t mention it in her journal, and there certainly weren’t any male Dujia on Refúj.

  She thought of something Pilar d’Aqila had said. That’s what you don’t understand about magic. It isn’t evil—it’s a way of combating evil. A way to topple the power structures that have held women captive for thousands of years.

  Mia felt vaguely smug. At least Pil had been wrong about something.

  “The
Grand Fyremaster is trying to make amends to all Addi,” Zai said. “Women and men alike.”

  A detail snapped into place. “You know Kristoffin Dove. Of course you do! He was drinking at your tavern the night we met.” Mia frowned. “Did he know you were dragging me off to the palace?”

  “We may have discussed it. He was headed in the same direction.” He sighed. “I would never cause you harm, Mia. That night on the boat—”

  “No need to talk about that again.”

  “We never did talk about it. I want you to know that my putting you in that position . . . feeling forced to do something you didn’t want to do . . .” He turned from the window to look at her. “I read everything wrong. I can’t forgive myself for it.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” she said stiffly. “I thought I wanted something, but I was wrong. When I told you to stop, you stopped.”

  She leaned hard into the mantel above the fireplace. “But not all kinds of harm are physical. My mother spent the last three years lying to me. You picked up the lie and carried it farther.”

  “I’m sorry. I should have told you the truth from the start.”

  The tension in her shoulders began to ease. She knew her anger at Zai was misdirected. Yes, he’d lied to her. But only at her mother’s behest.

  Where was her mother? After three years of not seeing Mia’s face, it hurt that Wynna had evidently decided her time was better spent elsewhere.

  “You said you’d tell me anything I want to know,” she said to Zai.

  “And I meant it.”

  Mia didn’t want to fight anymore. She wanted to understand.

  She joined him at the window. “Do all Addi have magic?”

  “I think many of us have magic in our blood,” he said, thoughtful. “But this knowledge has been crushed to powder, like so many other truths inside us. So small we can no longer see them.”

  Mia didn’t have to feel the fire-warmed room to know it was a good deal hotter than the snow outside; the contrast in temperature had coated the glass in a thick film of condensation. She watched Zai etch a perfect circle into the fog, then section it into six parts.