by David Estes
A knock on the door made her flinch. The door creaked opened and their uncle, Lord Griswold, appeared. Something about his expression unnerved Annise. He almost looked…refreshed…despite the fact that they’d all been awake for most of the night. His beard was freshly trimmed, his eyes bright and clear, his gray tunic pressed and adorned with the royal sigil.
Sir Dietrich followed him in, offering a slight nod to Annise as he entered. The victor of the melee was even more handsome this close to her, despite the dented armor he continued to wear. Despite his scarred face. She remembered the rest of his body, how many other scars were hidden beneath his armor. He took up a position in the corner, and she pretended not to sneak glances at him.
On the opposite side of Lord Griswold was Sir Jonius, who stared straight ahead. Annise tried to catch his eye, to discern a glimpse of his usual kindness, but he only angled his head further away. It was the side where the top-most portion of his ear was missing, though Annise had never learned the story behind the old wound.
“You were out of your quarters last night,” Sir Griswold said.
“I was in the tower,” Annise said. “I was being punished.”
“Not you,” her uncle clarified. “Your brother. His chambermaid confirmed he’d left after nightfall.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” Arch said. “I went for a walk.”
“Where?”
“Why are you asking him this?” Annise asked.
Her uncle’s voice was like ice. “You will not speak unless spoken to,” he said.
Annise opened her mouth to tell him that she was a princess of the north, that he was nothing but a lord, his authority akin to the brightness of the stars, while hers was as powerful as the sun.
Arch placed a hand on her arm, sensing her anger. “Annise. It’s fine.” Turning back to their uncle, he said, “I went all around the castle. I stopped in the kitchen for a bite to eat. Went by the stables to brush Sampson. Might’ve met a maiden or two for a tickle.”
Annise rolled her eyes. This was the brother she was more accustomed to. Not the man who was so certain he was the king now.
“Did you go to see your sister?” Lord Griswold asked.
“No,” Arch and Annise responded at the same time.
“My father came to see me,” Annise said. “Not Arch.” Nor a ghost that resembled him, she added in her head. My mother, too, but you need not know that.
“Sir Jonius said he saw you near the tower staircase,” Griswold said to Arch.
Annise looked at Arch. Arch ignored her, his eyes never leaving his uncle’s. Suddenly this entire conversation felt more like a trial than a series of information-seeking questions. “That doesn’t mean anything,” Arch said.
“What are you saying? You think Arch killed his own father?” Annise couldn’t believe the audacity of this man. “I saw what happened. He fell. It was an accident. If you’re going to accuse Arch, you might as well accuse me, too.”
“I’ve spoken to Sir Craig. He said you were in the tower room the entire time. That he was guarding your door. You couldn’t have seen or done anything.”
Damn that bloody, drunken knight. Annise didn’t know if he was trying to protect her, or his own reputation. And yet it was strange that the knight hadn’t mentioned her mother’s visit. Curious. “Craig wasn’t there. My father made him leave. And anyway, he’s a drunk,” she said. “He probably saw the Southron Empress in the halls tonight, too.”
“Silence!” Lord Griswold said, taking one step forward and backhanding Annise across the face. Her head snapped back and she tumbled off the bed, shocked by the attack, which seemed to come out of nowhere. Her cheek felt hot and something wet trickled from the corner of her mouth. Once again, she was bleeding. Like brother, like brother, apparently, her father and uncle cut from the same brutal cloth.
Arch was by her side in an instant. “Sister, are you hurt?” he asked, helping her to her feet.
She glared at her uncle, refusing to cry, although her eyes were stinging. “I barely felt it,” she lied.
Lord Griswold seemed to find this amusing.
“Get. Out,” Arch said, pointing at the door. When Lord Griswold didn’t move, Arch took a step forward and said, “As your king, I command you to leave before I see fit to have you hauled to the dungeons.”
Lord Griswold smirked. “On the contrary, you are a murderer, and I’ll have you in chains. You are hereby accused of killing my brother, King Wolfric Gäric, supreme ruler of the north, the Dread King. Your own father. Apprehend him.”
Sir Dietrich stepped forward, his hand moving automatically to his sword hilt. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, my lord,” he said.
“Why not?” Lord Griswold turned, anger flashing in his eyes.
“Because I am sworn to defend the king. That’s him, not you.”
“You were also sworn to defend my brother, which you failed miserably at. Prince Arch has not yet come of age, and thus I am his lawful regent for the time being.”
“And yet not the king,” Sir Dietrich said firmly.
Annise wanted to hug him. Well, first slap her uncle, and then hug Sir Dietrich.
“You’ve made your choice then,” Lord Griswold said.
“It was no choice,” Sir Dietrich said.
“And yet the consequences will be the same.” He snapped his fingers and a third figure slipped through the door, his finger already glowing blue. Sir Dietrich began to unsheathe his blade, but Sir Jonius quickly moved in position to secure his arms while the Ice Lord touched the sword’s hilt, which immediately froze, shattering into a dozen icy shards. The knight hissed as some of the magic seeped into his hand, turning it blue. He tried to lift it, but found he could not. His fingers wouldn’t move either, as if struck with sudden paralysis.
“Stop it!” Annise cried, rushing forward. Lord Griswold cut her off, grabbing her by the hair and slinging her to the side. She crashed into the bed’s footboard, which cracked from the impact. She watched helplessly as her brother tried to intervene but was held by the Ice Lord, who conjured chains of solid ice to bind him.
Dozens of guards marched in, securing Arch and Sir Dietrich, escorting them from the room. Arch glanced back, and for the first time that Annise could remember, he looked scared. In this moment he wasn’t a king, but a sixteen-year-old boy accused of murder.
Sir Jonius pushed him into the corridor, still refusing to look at her. Before she could regain her feet, the door slammed behind them, the lock clicking with an ominous finality that left her slumped on the floor.
All that remained of Sir Dietrich’s sword was a puddle on the floor. Annise wondered if his hand would ever heal, or if it would remain dead and useless for the rest of his life. More than that, she wondered how long or short that life might be.
Thinking about Sir Dietrich distracted her from thinking about Arch. Murder? It was impossible, regardless of the weird vision she’d had on the staircase. Her brother wasn’t able to materialize and disappear like a spirit. He was as human as she was, flesh and blood and bone.
Yes, that was it. Regardless of what Drunk Craig said, she was the only witness, and she would attest to her father’s death being an accident. He’d tripped and fell. That was all.
But who would believe her? Her father was not a clumsy man. If anything, her denial of Arch’s presence in the tower would only implicate her in his death. She was plenty strong enough to have come up behind him and pushed him down the stairs. For a moment she wondered why she hadn’t thought of doing that herself.
A knock on the door startled her away from her thoughts. She rolled off the bed, grabbing a large vase on her way to the door. “Yes?” she said.
The door opened and a guard entered. She flung herself at him, bringing the vase down hard on his head. He cried out in surprise and pain, crashing into the wall. Annise trampled over him on her way out, and he grunted from the impact.
Two guards grabbed her arms, and though she managed to break loose from o
ne of them and punch him in the jaw, a third guard appeared and subdued her kicking legs. They tackled her to the ground and dragged her back inside, throwing her on the bed.
“Enough!” one of them shouted, and she realized it was Sir Jonius. “You are only making this worse for yourself, princess.” His jet-black hair was disheveled from the tussle and he was breathing heavily.
Her lips curled in disgust. She hated Sir Jonius’s two faces. She hated the man who always remembered her name day, giving her small gifts that were exceptionally thoughtful. She hated the man who followed orders without question. She hated the man who seemed to care with one breath and was as cold as an icy blade with the next. “Where is my brother?”
“King Regent Griswold has—”
“Arch is the king.”
“He has yet to come of age, and he’s been accused—”
“I was there. I saw what happened. My oaf of a father tripped. It was an accident!” Annise realized she was gripping the sheets of her brother’s bed so hard they’d begun to tear.
Sir Jonius looked at her hands, then back at her face. “Princess, please. There’s nothing I can do.”
“There’s nothing you will do. There’s a difference.” She could see the pain her words had caused the knight, but she didn’t care. He was nothing but a pawn. That’s all he’d ever been.
Another idea came to her. “I want to see my mother.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Why not?” What have you done to her?
Sir Jonius pursed his lips.
“Jonius, it’s me. It’s Annise.” She remembered something he’d once called her, when she was still little and her shape was considered cute. “It’s your snow angel.”
“Forgive me,” he said, ushering in a chambermaid. He left without another word, the other two guards hauling out the man Annise had knocked senseless.
“I’ll never forgive you!” Annise screamed, launching a pillow at the door just as it closed. The chambermaid caught the pillow with impressive reflexes.
“Oh, sorry,” Annise said. “That wasn’t meant for you.” She studied the chambermaid, who didn’t look familiar. Perhaps her uncle had already sacked all the old servants and brought in new ones. Her face was covered with a shawl, only her dark eyes and smooth pale forehead visible. A few locks of brown hair curled from her brow. She was a solid-looking woman, not unlike Annise’s own shape, with broad shoulders, a small chest, and a wide stance. She was decidedly pear-shaped.
She carried a tray with breakfast—two poached and peppered eggs, buttered toast sprinkled with cinnamon, a shiny red apple, and a jug of milk—which she set on the foot of the bed in front of Annise.
“What is your name?” Annise asked.
“You don’t recognize your own flesh?” the woman answered, her voice stern and deep.
The voice was familiar, but Annise hadn’t heard it in years. “Aunt Zelda?” she said in disbelief.
The woman removed the shawl, and promptly popped one of the eggs into her mouth, struggling to chew. Annise shook her head. She was still coming to terms with seeing her aunt twice in as many days, an event as rare as finding an ice bear that laid eggs.
“What are you doing here?” Annise asked, pulling the tray back as her aunt attempted to snatch another egg.
Zelda eyed the tray with narrowed eyes. “Your mother sent me.”
“Mother?” Annise said, frowning. As far as she knew, her mother had never even spoken to Aunt Zelda. The two were as different as summer and winter. Then again, she’d noticed the look they shared at the tourney, the way they’d slipped away, almost synchronized. “When did you speak to my mother? Where is she? Why won’t they let me see her?”
Zelda reached for a piece of toast, but Annise swatted her hand away. If she wasn’t careful, her aunt would force her to go hungry. “Your mother and I have been friends for a long time,” she said. “Secret friends.”
Annise was surprised, but she didn’t let it show. Her aunt continued.
“Queen Loren”—Annise noticed how she used her mother’s maiden name—“is locked in the dungeons, like your brother.”
Nothing made sense. Surely neither her father nor uncle would’ve incarcerated the queen just for missing the end of the tourney. Plus, she’d just seen her mother earlier that night, and though she acted a little strange, she wasn’t in chains. “Why?”
“She’s being accused of high treason,” Zelda said, pulling an apple from a hidden pocket and crunching loudly.
“What treason?” Annise forgot about her breakfast for a moment and Zelda took advantage of her lapse to snag the other egg and take a bite.
Her aunt raised an eyebrow. “Why, the murder of the king, of course.”
“That’s impossible. She had nothing to do with it.” Annise was aware of the way her voice was rising, but she felt powerless to stop it.
“Of course she didn’t. Her plan to murder your father was to be executed in a week’s time.” Zelda finished both the egg and the apple while Annise struggled to form a coherent response.
“You mean, she was planning to murder him?” Annise finally said, her appetite gone. She relinquished control of the cinnamon toast.
“Try to keep up, dear,” Zelda said. “Your mother was planning to poison him. There is evidence of her attempts to procure darkweed from a most sinister character of the northern black market. “Of course, I was in on it, too, although they’ll never link me to the attempted crime.”
Though she hated to think of her mother in the cold, dark dungeons, it could only mean one thing: “Then Arch is innocent. They have to release him!”
Her aunt tsked. “You are so young, child.”
“I’m nearly eighteen,” Annise protested. “I’m a grown woman.”
“In body, yes, but not in experience. Your mother is accused of attempted murder, while Arch of actual murder. Your uncle is saying they both wanted your father dead, but Arch just happened to follow through first.”
“That’s a lie!”
“Of course it is, dear, but the evidence will be stacked heavily against him.”
“But I’ll have to testify. I know the truth.”
“The truth is a snake of many colors, dear, it can change depending on who is charming it.”
“No, the truth is the truth.”
Zelda polished off the toast and waved her words away. “Listen closely. Whatever happens, you must not draw attention to yourself. Be ready.”
With that, Zelda covered her face with the shawl, snatched up the empty tray, and left amidst Annise’s protests for her to stay.
The wooden execution block had long ago been stained crimson by the blood of those who dared defy the Dread King.
Annise wrapped her arms around herself, her breath misting in the frigid air. She searched the royal viewing box for her aunt, but she was notably absent. The rest of the space was filled by Lord Griswold, his son, Dirk, the Ice Lord, and several members of the King’s Defense, including Sir Jonius.
Earlier that day, Sir Jonius had once again entered Arch’s room, this time to collect Annise. He refused to look at her or answer her questions. Eventually, she’d given up and allowed herself to be escorted to the box, where she now stood, waiting for something horrible to happen.
The commoners stirred as soldiers marched onto the platform. In the midst of them was Queen Sabria Loren Gäric, guarded by swords as if she might fling herself away at any moment. In that moment, Annise believed her mother had never looked more beautiful or prouder. Despite the fact that her blond hair had lost its luster and hung in knotted vines around her face, despite the smudges of dirt and cinder on her typically pristine white dress, despite the swords aimed at her heart and throat, despite the way the commoners jeered and booed her—as a foreigner with clear disdain for the north, she’d never gained their love—she held her chin high, her expression one of fearlessness.
In that moment, Annise loved her, and wished for her mother’s love m
ore than anything. It was an impossible wish, she knew, but then she remembered all that had transpired the night before. Her mother’s words to her, the affection in her voice, the regret…
Then why, Mother, have you always looked at me with such anger? Why did you hate me for all these years? Why do you refuse, even now, to notice me?
“Mother,” Annise whispered under her breath. Her uncle must’ve heard her, because he grabbed her arm.
“A traitor is the mother of rot and bones and dung. She is not your mother anymore. You have no mother.” Annise twisted away from him and said nothing, watching as Queen Gäric was led to a small ladder that ascended to a wooden platform. Above her hung a noose tied to a scaffolding.
Annise wanted to cry out, to plunge herself from the box and onto the platform, to fight through the guards—let them try to stop her—and rescue her mother from this farce of a trial. But her aunt’s words from early that morning stopped her. Whatever happens, you must not draw attention to yourself. Be ready.
As if sensing her restlessness, her uncle motioned to two guards, who moved to either side of her, blocking her in. Frozen hell, Annise thought, I’ve already drawn too much attention.
On the deck, the soldiers stepped aside to allow the executioner to pass. He wore a long, hooded black cloak, boots, and gloves. The hood hung over his forehead, casting his face in shadow. He was a large man, more than capable of moving the platform out from under her mother’s feet.
Slowly, ominously, he climbed the ladder. Sabria Loren ignored him, staring straight ahead, even as he fitted the noose around her neck.
Where is the trial? Annise wondered frantically. Where is the evidence and the witnesses for and against her? This cannot stand! I won’t let it! I wo—
“Queen Sabria Loren Gäric,” Lord Griswold announced loudly, “you are charged with treason against the crown and plotting the murder of your own husband, the Dread King of the North. How do you plead?”
Finally—finally—Annise’s mother turned her head toward the royal box. But it wasn’t Lord Griswold she looked at, but Annise. Annise’s breath caught in her lungs and her heart began to pound out a staccato beat. Her mother’s lips opened, and for a moment Annise thought she was going to say something to her. But then she said, “Guilty.”