Chapter 7: The Ice Palace

Illyra had never left the comfort of her forest home before. The terrain in Winter Mountain was not what she expected. Heaps of snow, everywhere, that her mare stumbled through when the drifts were uneven. Wind howled through the mountain peaks that loomed around her, casting daunting shadows, like giant fingers threatening to close around her.

The trees were different than she was used to. Pines and furs, green needles everywhere. There were holly bushes and other winter-thriving shrubs growing in patches around the trees. It wasn’t a forest, though. The trees and greenery clung precariously to the flat spots on slanted peaks, growing at odd angles.

Illyra noticed there were so few forest animals, mostly just squirrels, and birds. It was so quiet and lifeless compared to her forest.

“You seem unsettled,” Zane said, pulling his horse up beside her.

Illyra hadn’t even noticed she’d come to a halt. Zane, as best she could figure, was the general of the Snow King’s army. He spoke to her more than the other soldiers, despite her resistance.

“It is quiet here,” she muttered just as a howling gust of wind nearly ripped her furs off. Illyra clutched the edges, holding them tighter around her.

“Quiet?” Zane asked, chuckling.

“There are no animals in the tress,” she clarified, pulling her eyes from the pines and looking at the general.

“You don’t want the creatures from the mountain caves to take an interest in you,” Zane mused, smiling slyly.

“It would be more interesting than staring at blankets of white,” Illyra said. She sighed, shuddering beneath her furs. They weren’t enough to keep the bitter chill away. Her fingers cramped around the reins and she thought they might freeze in place.

“It’s not much further now,” Zane growled, kicking his horse on.

The next corner they rounded, Illyra’s eyes popped. Straight ahead the ice palace rose, as if the glacier it was carved from grew from the ground like a plant, roots deep down under the snow.

She hadn’t thought the castle was actually made of ice, but there it was, turrets and spires with dangerously sharp points. The facets of ice reflected the weak sunlight and Illyra could see the guards on patrol around the castle.

It was the most beautiful structure she had ever seen, like a giant gemstone, a natural wonder. How many winter fae of the royal line had it taken to construct the palace?

They approached a drawbridge, made of ice, that creaked and shuddered as it lowered. Ice fragments broke off, shaved flakes showering Illyra and sending another shiver down her spine. Everything was so wet and cold here.

“See to the horses,” Zane told one of the soldiers. He offered Illyra a hand to dismount.

“I’m perfectly capable,” she insisted, swinging her leg over and dropping onto the ground. She misjudged the height of the horse, stumbling and falling back. Illyra cried out, grabbing at the horse’s reins, and missing.

She pitched backward, colliding with something solid, like a wall, but warm. Solid and warm muscle.

“Whoa, there,” a deep tenor voice murmured. Arms came around her steadying her.

Illyra gasped and turned just enough to see who had caught her. Skylar, the one who had attacked Calista. Quickly, she pushed his arms away from her. She did not want him touching her, not after what he’d done.

“I’m fine,” she insisted.

“I’ll take the princess to the waiting chamber,” Zane offered, grabbing Illyra’s arm.

“Why do you all want to touch me?” she snapped, pulling away. “I can walk on my own.”

“Fine, let’s just go,” Zane grumbled.

Illyra followed him to the ‘waiting chamber.’ She was pleasantly surprised to find that inside the castle, it wasn’t cold. Not just because the ice offered shelter from the wind, but something else, like magic, warmed the air inside. She could sense that magic, which meant it belonged to autumn fae.

That meant, at some point in history, the autumn fae had helped the winter fae build their palace.

“Wait here. The king will call you when he is ready,” Zane informed her. He shut the door.

Illyra was alone. She ran to the door and jiggled the knob – locked. Of course, it was locked. She might have been there to negotiate peace, but she was still a prisoner.

With a sigh, Illyra looked around the room. She had not been to her own palace since her family had sacrificed themselves. Although it was to keep her safe, she’d been denied the luxuries of royalty, luxuries she coveted.

The waiting room was lavishly furnished. Illyra made herself comfortable on a white, silk couch, the most comfortable couch she’d ever laid on. Fur blankets were draped over the back of the couch. There were shelves decorated with artifacts of gold, bronze, and various types of gemstones, all meant to display wealth to any visitors, she knew.

The door creaked open again and Illyra’s spine stiffened. Zane reappeared. He had changed into another set of armor, something shinier and with his general emblem on it.

“The king will see you now,” Zane said. His voice was serious, diplomatic, so different than how he’d been on the road.

Illyra stood and straightened her furs and her dress beneath. It was time to portray the regal propriety of a royal autumn fae.

She followed Zane through the palace halls, noting the light came from candles flickering behind magically formed light formations that amplified the brightness. Paintings and tapestries lined the walls. It was the kind of place Illyra had always dreamed of living, a palace worthy of royalty.

Zane brought her to a large, double door and held his hand up. She waited while the guards on either side of the door pushed it open, revealing the throne room on the other side.

A sapphire blue carpet ran from the doors to a three-tiered dais across the room. A throne of ice sat on the top platform, a man and woman on either side. They were elegantly dressed, the woman in armor and the man in silk robes.

It was the man sitting on the throne that pulled Illyra’s stare. He sat casually, shoulders slumped, one leg thrown over the armrest as he bounced it up and down, ice blue eyes bored and angled to the ceiling.

“Skylar!?” Illyra gasped, stopping dead halfway down the blue carpet.

The woman beside him stepped forward and grabbed the hilt of her sword. “Address the king formally, peasant!” her voice was sharp, pale blue eyes narrowed into an icy glare.

“Peace, sister,” Skylar drawled, tossing a dismissive wave at her. He stood up, descending the dais with a straight, more formal posture. “Though, she has a point.” He pulled the collar of his black shirt aside, revealing a silvery snowflake birthmark that ran down his neck and disappeared beneath his shirt.

Illyra gaped at him. The Snow King, her greatest enemy since before she was born, had been in her home, had ridden beside her for three days. What game was he playing?

“You should have identified yourself,” Illyra said, crossing her arms. She narrowed her eyes at the Snow King.

“I don’t answer to you,” the king pointed out harshly. “Now that you’re here, little princess, kneel and accept your fate.”

Skylar’s sister drew her sword.