by Lexa Hillyer
“What were you doing here in the first place?” Wren asks. “You came when I did and now you’re leaving with me and you didn’t share your private business with Violette. Why?”
Binks grins. “After hearing your pitiful tale of woe, I suppose I saw a better opportunity.”
He pauses, but Wren only stares at him, waiting for him to explain. He leads her down the path and then across the yard into a dense cluster of trees. He looks cautiously over his shoulders as though even the young oaks might be listening. Then he whispers, “Have you ever heard the tale of the Hart Slayer?”
Wren stares at him.
He huffs impatiently. “The hunter who disobeyed the king and delivered his killings to the poor. No? Doesn’t ring a bell?”
Wren shakes her head, wondering where this is going.
“Some of us fae had a little theory all these years.”
“A theory,” Wren repeats.
“Yes, yes. A theory.”
“About the Hart Slayer?”
“Why, yes, obviously, about the Hart Slayer.”
“Which is . . . ?” Now she is the one beginning to lose her patience.
“Well, you see, it was said the Hart Slayer had a gift. That everywhere he hunted, purple flowers would sprout up under his feet. The royal forest grew rich with the bright-petaled things. They were almost like his signature—a hint that he’d been lurking about, doing, you know, whatever it is he did. Hunt and all that.” Binks waves a hand as though he has never quite been sure what hunting involves. “He liked the harts best.”
“Hence the name,” Wren says, desperately trying not to roll her eyes. “What are you getting at?”
“Purple flowers. Purple flowers!”
She shakes her head. Whatever he’s implying, it’s not apparent to her.
“Well.” He sighs. “Some of us—myself, Claudine, and Violette included—came to suspect the Hart Slayer might bear some relation to Belcoeur. After all, both were known for having a way with the natural world and, in particular, that type of flower. Don’t you see?”
“The Hart Slayer is Belcoeur’s descendant?” Wren says slowly.
“Why, yes, obviously, that’s what I’m getting at!” Binks says.
“And this Hart Slayer could be the reason my curse is still active. . . . But why are you telling me this, and what did you come to Violette’s for?”
“There’s more to this theory,” he explains. “More than one of the fae have heard Malfleur boast that she cannot be killed, except by one of her own blood. If it were true that Belcoeur had an heir to her magic and her bloodline, even an unknowing one, that descendant might be our only hope against Malfleur. ‘Man’s greatest foe,’ as the myth of the Hart Slayer states.”
“And you wanted Violette’s help in finding the Hart Slayer to save Deluce?” Wren asks.
“Not exactly.” Behind his foppish, aging handsomeness, she sees a true kind of ugliness in his features. “I was going to seek her help in winning over Malfleur. And now you’ve given me hope—you’ve given me a way. You must see how we may come to be aligned after all, you and I!”
Wren pauses, her mind turning. “No, I do not.”
“The Hart Slayer was long thought to be dead. But some, like Claudine, insisted he was still out there. And now, you see, he must be alive—or some descendant of his, anyway. Your little curse is proof of it, isn’t it? Belcoeur’s blood still runs free in this world. The Hart Slayer must be found.”
Wren stalls. “But how? When was he last seen?”
Binks shifts uncomfortably. “Well, that’s the thing. The slight hiccup, you see, is that the Hart Slayer was never seen, except in glimpses. Around the time that the king became engaged to Queen Amélie, the infamous hunter quite simply disappeared, and no one knows what became of him.”
“Queen Amélie . . . ,” Wren says slowly, thinking about what Binks has said. “Princess Aurora’s mother.”
He nods. “Indeed.”
“But the king and queen married and the Hart Slayer disappeared? And no one ever saw this famous hunter?” The answer seems so obvious to Wren that she cocks her head, surprised by Binks’s blustery look of blank confusion. Now it’s her turn to toy with him. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“Obvious? What, girl, what’s so obvious?”
“Queen Amélie. She was the Hart Slayer.”
He stares at her as though she has just sprouted a mushroom from the top of her head. “What?”
“There’s something you should know about me, Lord Barnabé. And that is that I am a very practical person.”
“Then we have very little in common, but go on,” he says.
“People don’t usually just disappear.”
He waits. “Well?”
“Is there any reason this hunter might not have been a huntress? Why couldn’t the Hart Slayer have been a woman? It would certainly explain why she stopped hunting, and the flowers stopped blooming. I imagine it isn’t very easy to run about hunting deer when you have recently wed a king.”
He mulls over what she has just said. In the meantime, their minds seem to leap to the same conclusion. “With Amélie dead, that would mean Princess Aurora was the last descendant of Belcoeur.”
“Aurora is destined to kill Malfleur.” It feels right when she says it. It must be true.
“So are you with me? Will you help?” Binks asks.
“Help?”
He smiles, showing his sharp teeth. “Yes, help. Help kill the Hart Slayer’s daughter.”
Wren’s jaw drops open. “You want to kill the one person who might be able to stop Malfleur’s rise? Why in the world would you want to do that?”
The darkness moves into his eyes. “She’s going to win the war, you know.” Binks states it like a fact. “In the end, it won’t matter what we tried to do to stop it, only that she has won, and she will get to decide what to do with the rest of us, you see.”
“No, I don’t see. I’d never agree to just clear the path for her to take over!”
Besides, he doesn’t know what’s hidden in Wren’s heart. He doesn’t know that she has met Aurora—not just met her, but cares for her. Might care for her more than she’s been able to admit to anyone, including herself.
Binks raises his eyebrows. “Such patriotism in one so new to Deluce. But let me tell you, girl, in times of war, one must not think of flimsy principles like good and evil, but of one thing and one thing only: self-preservation. We must find a way to win Malfleur’s favor before it’s too late.”
A chill moves through her as Wren realizes—in piecing together the theory that Aurora is Belcoeur’s descendant, she has just put a target on the princess’s back.
Could she consider killing Aurora? The thought fills her with horror and revulsion, but then she recalls the same sensations sweeping through her when Aurora nearly killed her. If her theory is right—and she can’t be sure that it is—it would mean that Aurora’s death would save Wren’s life. It would lift the curse on Wren, and she’d no longer turn to stone. The idea seems too cruel to contemplate. Maybe there was never any hope of anything blooming between Wren and Aurora, but that one must die for the other to live seems like an added injustice Wren can hardly fathom.
And yet. It would also explain some things. What if Wren only felt close to Aurora because she was unconsciously bound to her by the curse?
“Will you help, then?” Binks asks, cutting into her thoughts. “Will you do it?”
She looks into his eyes, their unsettling flatness, as though there is no soul at all behind them. For a long time she says nothing.
And then at last, she says, “Yes.”
PART
IV
AMONG ALL MEN AND ACROSS ALL FAE
20
Isabelle
She remains belowdecks for the journey north, curled in a pile of furs, holding the slipper of ice in her hands, letting the delirious sway of the ship rock her. She thinks of Aurora—her steady and calming presence, the int
imacy of her finger taps against Isbe’s palms. When she closes her eyes and breathes slowly, she can almost imagine that she is lying next to her half sister the way they used to when they were little, especially during vicious storms, telling each other stories until Aurora’s hands and Isbe’s voice grew tired and they fell asleep like that, folded around each other protectively, like two halves of a whole.
Tell me a story. Maybe if she wishes it hard enough, Aurora will appear beside her. Tell me a story about two sisters. But instead she recalls what Aurora told her about her journey to Sommeil, about the irreconcilable rift between Belcoeur and Malfleur. If even the special bond of twins can be broken, nothing is safe, Isbe thinks with a shudder. Nothing at all.
She clutches the slipper tighter to her chest and slips into a dreamless lull.
The journey across the North Sea to the Îles de Glace is shorter than the journey to the palace of Aubin, but once she and Byrne arrive, they must travel several miles over the glaciers to the ice palace.
In a small seaside village, they are equipped with a sled pulled by large dogs that Byrne says look like snowdrifts come to life, with black noses and fluffy tails. The yipping and howling stir Isbe; the animals are excited and eager to move, and so is she. They settle into their seat, and the sled driver stacks blankets over their legs, asking if they’re here to take in the northern lights. Isbe has not heard of these, but explains that she cannot see, and that they are here for the king himself. She must speak to him.
The driver seems not to care in the end, so long as they’re willing to pay what he’s charging. The sled flies forward with a jolt, spraying snow up the sides and into Isbe’s face. She almost laughs from the delight of it. The icy landscape refracts the sun and she can feel the glare of the islands, like massive white mirrors, warming the air, even as her breath crystalizes at her lips.
They pass through the seaside villages first, which smell of fish and damp wood and harsh sea air, then travel deeper inland, where the brine and salt give way to brisk icy winds, whisking across gaping swaths of uninhabitable frozen terrain. In the distance, huge glaciers rise up to meet the sky, making it look, according to Byrne, as though they are racing toward an endless white wall, a kind of blinding nothingness. “Almost heavenlike, Miss Isabelle,” Byrne says, and it feels like how she’s always imagined heaven: bright and impossible.
By the time they arrive at the palace gates many hours later, Isbe is no longer elated but freezing, her teeth chattering, her eyes nearly crusted shut with frost that has gathered on her eyelashes and brows. She imagines snowflakes crystalizing along her bones. The gates open onto an ice labyrinth; the palace sits in the middle. The driver refuses to take them any farther. They will have to find their way in by foot.
The dogs pant, exhausted from the day’s run, and paw the snow anxiously, awaiting their driver’s next instructions. He unseals a bucket full of sardines, and the dogs begin to whine as he tosses some in the snow. They gather immediately, snarling and snuffling.
“Buck up, Byrne,” Isbe says as they dismount the sled, turning her chin down to block a blast of icy wind from hitting her neck. She pulls up her hood and shivers. “We’ve made it this far, haven’t we?”
But she can sense Byrne’s nervousness—after all, they are now winding through a labyrinth carved into hard, icy snow, and Isbe’s of no use. There is no guide, no butler, no one to greet them. It’s up to Byrne to lead her safely to the maze’s center, and the palace doors.
When they hit the first dead end, Byrne’s discomfort increases. He is fidgeting, causing his arms to shake as he ushers her forward, then tells her they must turn around and try a different route. “Wish we could see o’er the top a’ these walls, miss,” he says desperately, hoarse, the words almost immediately snatched away by the wind.
“Nothing ever came of wishing, Byrne,” she replies automatically, trying to quell her own nerves. Her hands ache with cold, fingers clenched stiff even in her woolly gloves.
“What do you do when you’re lost, then, miss?”
She thinks for a moment. “I reach out a hand, and try to feel what the world is telling me to feel. I suppose I always find something.” So she reaches out now and steps forward until she touches one of the labyrinth walls through her glove. It makes a rough, scratchy sound, snow flaking off against leather. His question has given her an idea. “Let’s not think about the path to the castle. Instead, let’s think only of this wall, and what we can learn from it.”
“How so, miss?” There’s a rise of hope in his voice.
“We’ll follow it.”
And so they do, Isbe constantly keeping her left gloved hand to the wall, letting it graze along the icy surface, scuffing off snow dust. She doesn’t let go, even as they follow the wall into several more dead ends and back out of them again. She doesn’t let go until Byrne gasps.
“The palace, Your Highness.”
“Byrne.”
He clears his throat. “Miss Isabelle, I mean.”
“Thank you.”
The interior of the palace is warmer than Isbe expected; she is able to lower her hood after several minutes and allow her ears to thaw. They are led by a butler into a cozy parlor room. The massive hides of fanged white bears line the floors and walls, muffling the sounds of their steps and muting the echo of their voices.
Byrne has become a faithful narrator of the visual world, but there are times when Isabelle is glad she cannot see, and this is one of them—though she is curious about the castle, she imagines a whole forest of polar bears must have been massacred for the sake of such insulation. There is an unnerving roar trapped in the walls, the reverberation of ice melting, shifting and refreezing in tiny increments, though she can’t help but think it is the roar of the slaughtered animals.
The palace staff is surprisingly animated. Servants bustle in and out of the room, making Isbe and Byrne comfortable, guiding them into ice chairs that are covered too in bushy pelts of soft fur, offering them thick, lined robes to wear over their clothes and formal slippers and insulated jugs of a syrupy drink that tastes both bitter and saccharine, like candied orange skins. Isbe’s knees and toes are still throbbing from the cold, but she’s heartened by the way the servants seem thrilled to have guests, and yet they are practiced and well trained for their arrival. Isbe wonders if they somehow knew in advance that she was coming.
As if in answer to her thought, a new maid enters, pauses to curtsy, then tells her, “The king has been expecting you.”
A little rush of apprehension zips up Isbe’s spine as she stands to follow her. How could the king possibly have known she was coming? Then again, who could guess what powers a faerie as ancient as he might possess?
“He’ll see you in the library,” the maid says.
The library is full of sleepy afternoon light; Isbe can feel it on her cheeks and dancing against the ice walls around her.
“Your Majesty,” she says, bowing her head and listening for movement.
The king clears his throat, and she moves toward the sound. “It is a blessing, child, that you cannot see the wrinkled and overdressed pile of flesh to which you just bowed.” His voice is ancient and dryly humorous. “What brings you to this icy realm?” he asks.
Isbe readies herself for an argument even as she takes a seat across from him. “You must know,” she launches in, “that your daughter Malfleur is going to win the war against Deluce. The tides have turned in her favor. Evil will come for all of us—even you, eventually. Your precious neutrality will inevitably come under threat.”
He is silent.
“So I’ve traveled all this way to ask for your help.”
“My help?”
“I need a special kind of armor. Something strong enough to resist a deadly magic fire Malfleur’s army has wielded against us.”
He lets out a dry laugh. “I’m quite old, you know. Many people believe that I’m already dead, and sometimes I’m inclined to believe that too.”
; “Surely not too old to be of use.” She opens the bag at her hip and holds out the magic slipper. “This is winter glass, is it not?”
He pauses. “It is.”
“And do you know how it was made?”
“Of course. I made it myself.”
Excitement leaps up inside her like a hungry flame. Isbe wants to whoop and cheer and throw her arms around the grizzled old king who, though she can’t see him, must be like a bear himself, she imagines, covered in a white beard and gnarled white hair.
“And can you make more? I need a ship’s worth of winter-glass shields.”
He is quiet for a moment, and Isbe twitches nervously. Finally he says, “Do you know why winter glass is so resistant to destruction in the first place?” He waits a beat, then goes on. “Precisely because it is meant to preserve.”
“Preserve what?” She fidgets. Despite the robe, she feels chilled. Even the air in this room is harsh with cold.
“Stories. Secrets. All ice is a transmutation of actual history, a physical record of what has happened. I simply use my tithe of knowledge to translate specific facts and events into frozen objects. It all started because I couldn’t possibly carry all of the knowledge I had accrued on my own. The mind is a prison, you see. And it is limited in what it can contain. I had to find another way to store what I knew.”
“You’re saying that winter glass is made of . . . information?”
“Exactly. Only when it is melted will its story be known again. But it can only be melted when its true meaning is revealed. It’s a paradox, you see. That is why it’s such a safe method of storage.”
“A paradox.” She pauses, thinking for a minute. “So you wouldn’t be able to tell me what information is stored in this slipper, then, without melting it first?”
“Exactly. But I can’t melt it.”
“Why not?”
“Only the person to whom the story belongs can release it.”
“But how do we find out who the story belongs to?” she asks, growing frustrated.