Heart of Ice (The Snow Queen Book 1) Read online

  The Snow Queen:

  Heart of Ice

  By: K. M. Shea

  a Take Out The Trash! Publication

  Copyright © K.M. Shea 2015

  THE SNOW QUEEN: HEART OF ICE

  Copyright © 2015 by K. M. Shea

  Cover design by Myrrhlynn

  Edited by Jeri Larsen and Bethany Kaczmarek

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any number whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of quotations embodied in articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historic events is entirely coincidental.

  www.kmshea.com

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: First Encounter

  Chapter 2: Gerta & Kai

  Chapter 3: Vefsna

  Chapter 4: The Allegiance of the Chosen

  Chapter 5: The Robber Maiden

  Chapter 6: Forging Friendships

  Chapter 7: Scouting

  Chapter 8: Fleeing Farrin

  Chapter 9: Musings on Magic

  Chapter 10: To Battle

  Chapter 11: Paranoia Confirmed

  Chapter 12: Verglas Magic Users

  Chapter 13: The Fight For Glowma

  Chapter 14: The Aftermath

  Chapter 15: A Military Promotion

  Chapter 16: Curses in Ostfold

  Chapter 17: King Steinar

  Chapter 18: Realizations

  About

  CHAPTER 1

  FIRST ENCOUNTER

  It had been two weeks since Rakel last saw another human (and a full month since she had spoken with anyone), so she thought it was forgivable that when she encountered Oskar, her “attendant,” in the great hall of her ice-castle, she was both surprised and irritated.

  She was surprised because any glimpse of anyone was a rare occurrence, and normally it happened only by chance instead of by someone actually seeking her out.

  Has King Steinar finally ordered that I be put to death, or does he want to cast me out of the country entirely?

  “Princess,” Oskar said. He had dark circles under his eyes, and the stoop in his tall stature whispered defeat. Oskar, ten years her senior, had served her since her exile began twelve years ago. Rakel often wondered what the handsome attendant had done to deserve the post; all other servants were rotated through, serving for only two to three years. During their brief encounters—he was usually the chosen spokesperson if the guards had any news that needed to be communicated to her—he always wore an expression of good cheer. The wrinkles of worry that lined his forehead were unusual.

  “Yes?” Rakel asked, keeping her voice calm and dispassionate. She moved into her preferred stance when meeting others: clasped hands pressed to her belly, straight posture—like a noble, but lacking their haughtiness—and downcast eyes. She had cultivated the gesture to echo the harmless piety of a nun, and more often than not it seemed to reassure whatever poor soul had the misfortune to run across her.

  Sadly, it didn’t seem to be working today.

  Oskar’s bright green eyes were grim. “I ask that you would give me leave to speak to you.”

  Rakel studied his bowed head. “Usually I receive a written request for an audience.”

  “It is an emergency, Princess,” Oskar said.

  “You may speak,” she said, her voice echoing in the emptiness of her frozen palace. She walked the perimeter of the room and paused at a window—which was little more than an elaborately fashioned hole in the wall. She gazed outside at the frozen courtyard and noticed two soldiers—who moved with the caution usually afforded to tip-toeing through a snow bear’s den—stationed just inside the immense wall that surrounded Rakel’s palace of ice. The walls and the soldiers were supposed to keep her in, as if wood and weapons could suppress her powers.

  Oskar smiled. “Thank you, Princess. I appreciate your kindness.” His red hair was a bright spot among the muted grays and blues of the ice-castle.

  Rakel fought the desire to quirk an eyebrow at the man. He is clearly addled. Maybe that is why he was exiled with me.

  “The emergency, Oskar?” she asked as she strolled toward the icy door at the back of the room, wondering about the soldiers. Why are they inside? They always stay out of eyesight. Oskar would not deliver me into their hands to be killed. He’s too noble—he’s even pleasant to me, after all.

  She had spent every day of her exile trying to prove to her guards—her prison-keepers, really—that she was harmless. No one, besides Oskar—whose mental clarity was questionable—believed her. Not that she could blame them. She reeked so strongly of magic, even if one wasn’t aware she was the disgraced and exiled princess of Verglas, they would still be able to point her out as one touched by the unnatural.

  She supposed her hawkish nose and high cheekbones gave her an elegant and severe air, but her eerie, snow-white hair and glacier blue eyes marked her with the disgrace of her power. Her appearance was reminiscent of the forces of nature she could bend to her will: ice and snow.

  Here in Verglas, and in the surrounding countries, magic was something to be feared and held in disdain. Continent-wide, humans cursed with such powers were exiled, slain, or forced into slavery.

  As Rakel opened the icy door and stepped outside, into the snow-covered grounds, Oskar drew up his shoulders. “Verglas has been defeated, Princess.”

  Incredulous, Rakel said, “I beg your pardon?”

  The soldiers cowered, as if she had brandished her magic instead of spoken.

  Oskar frowned at them and returned his attention to her. “The invaders—did you not know of them?”

  “No.” Who would have told me?

  “They entered Verglas late last spring.” He leaned back on his heels as he recalled the details, appearing relaxed in spite of her presence. The two soldiers, however, stood as if they had iron stakes for spines, and they gripped their weapons—one had a spear, the other a crossbow—with an almost tangible fear. “They swept across Verglas and captured all but Ostfold when winter came. Ostfold held out until two weeks ago when the invaders took it in the middle of a snowstorm. Since then, they’ve captured almost all of the last few outlying villages.”

  Rakel thought back over the past year. While she had no way of knowing about the invaders, she should have suspected something was wrong. When her father died and her younger brother Steinar was crowned king, he tripled the guards watching her—as if they, and not Rakel’s keen desire to be forgiven for possessing magic, kept her imprisoned. But their ranks had been thinning recently. Given that Steinar clearly still feared her, she had assumed there was some sort of natural disaster or ongoing conquest. But invaders?

  Recalling Oskar’s exact phrasing, Rakel repeated “Almost all of the villages?”

  The wind mussed Oskar’s red hair. “Your home and Fyran—the village that houses the soldiers and me and supplies your food—are still free. For now.”

  Rakel held in a frown. “I see.” It was a shock to learn her homeland was almost no more. “From what country does our enemy come?”

  “Not a country, but an organization.”

  “Of whom?”

  Oskar tapped his chin. “Wielders of magic—though they have armies of foot soldiers who have sworn allegiance to them. Reports say, however, that the armies are mostly made up of mercenaries, bandits, and other such ilk. It’s the magic users who rule.”

  Rakel’s knees buckled, making her take a step forward to keep from falling in a heap.

  Magic users? People l
ike me?

  “My request, Princess, is that you would save Fyran. The invaders have sent a troupe of soldiers—no magic users, just mercenary foot soldiers. They intend to march on it tonight. If it is not properly defended, the mercenaries will rip the citizens to shreds, and the village will be destroyed,” Oskar said.

  A war raged in Rakel’s heart.

  I should leave them to reap their rewards. They treat me like a monster when all I have done is strive to be unthreatening.

  She remembered her lonely childhood, the fear that her family would order her put down—like an unwanted animal. Above all, she could still hear the whispers. Monster. Freak. Darkness-touched.

  The soft part of her heart—the side that pushed her to appear as unassuming as possible, the side that longed for acceptance, pulled in the opposite direction. But if I help them…things might change.

  Oskar cleared his throat, drawing Rakel from her thoughts. The temperature of the air had dropped under her unconscious influence. Oskar exhaled silvery puffs, and the soldiers now pressed themselves against the wooden wall. The one holding the crossbow shook as he held his weapon aimed in her direction.

  “No,” Rakel said, her deliberation over. “I will not aid Fyran.”

  Oskar tilted his head and studied her with an uncomfortable amount of scrutiny. “The villagers are innocents, Princess. They will be slaughtered in the most brutal of ways.”

  The soldier possessing a spear lowered it into a fighting stance, fortifying Rakel’s decision. No matter what good I do, I will always be feared. “I’m afraid whatever sympathy I had has long since turned to ice in my prison. I will not risk myself for a people who despise me.”

  “They despise you because they fear you.”

  “And whose fault is that? What terrible acts have I committed—besides having the misfortune to be born?”

  “Nothing, Princess,” Oskar said, brutally honest. “I’m aware the request is asking a great deal of you because you have done nothing. But it’s my home. The mindset against magic is the only thing Verglas—and the continent—has known. The invaders—”

  “Yes. The magic-using invaders. What of them?” Rakel asked, her snark piercing her armor of apathy.

  Oskar was unperturbed by the bitterness in her voice. “They ravage whatever they touch, no matter if they fight against soldiers or civilians.”

  “It sounds to me they are likely paying back whatever treatment they encountered before banding together,” Rakel said dryly. “Perhaps I should come with you to Fyran so I can welcome my kindred with open arms.”

  “They are not like you, Princess. They seek to kill and destroy.”

  She hesitated, caught off-guard by the observation. Everyone in Verglas thought she was a creature of darkness. Why did he disagree? Wasn’t his pleasantness to her just a mark of his character? She took two steps closer to him, studying his open expression. “Do you—”

  Click.

  Rakel’s ice magic barely reacted in time, raising a spike of ice that intercepted the crossbow bolt aimed for her heart.

  The bolt quivered, half-buried in ice, and Rakel looked from it to the petrified guard who had taken the shot.

  He slumped to his knees, and his brother-in-arms stepped in front of him, determined to defend him even as he sweated in fear.

  Oskar’s charming smile was gone. He had taken several steps towards her and then frozen, staring at the column of ice. He turned to look at the soldiers. Whatever his expression held, it made the one with the crossbow tremble.

  Rakel breathed deeply. The cold air made her lungs ache. “Leave.”

  “Princess—”

  “Just leave,” she hissed.

  “As you wish.” Oskar retreated, following the soldiers out of the enclosure. When the wooden gate swung shut behind them, Rakel let herself cry.

  She didn’t howl or scream in her grief, even though her heart wanted to. Instead, she sank to the floor and slumped against the wall, her magic a cold comfort as a few tears slid down her face and froze to her cheeks.

  No matter how many times people had tried to kill her, the realization that they wanted her dead never hurt any less.

  I’m glad for the invaders, she thought darkly. I hate this land!

  At dusk, Rakel stood on the balcony of the smallest tower in her self-constructed ice-castle. The temperature dropped with the winter sun, but she wore only a Bunad—a linen shirt, black wool skirts, and a black vest—and a black cloak that fastened at her neck and fell to her thighs. Her massive castle sat nestled against the peak of the mountain, and pine forests spread around it like a dark blanket, but she could see the gap in the treetops where Fyran stood.

  She exhaled and stared at the pale, pastel sky. “Even if they say my magic is evil…I do not see it.” She watched the light from the pink horizon play in her prismatic ice towers. “It must be me, not my magic, that is dark.”

  Rakel was still pondering the thought when the first scream pierced the air. She winced, for it sounded like a child. A few moments later, other shouts and yells ripped the silence of the mountain.

  She clenched the ice-forged hand railing, trying to block out the noise. Screams of terror rang in her ears. She studied the wooden wall that surrounded her ice fortress like a fence, her gaze lingering on the wooden gate that, for the first time since she arrived on Ensom Peak twelve years ago, stood open.

  If I do nothing, I am as despicable as they believe me to be.

  Rakel abandoned her post and hurried through the maze of her castle. When she reached the outer doors, she trotted to the open gate of the fence, slowing down when she stepped through. It was no different outside than inside, but she could have sworn the air smelled fresher.

  Another scream jolted Rakel, and she sprinted through the pine trees—their needles scratching at her as her skirts and cloak swirled around her like a black snowflake.

  It only took a few minutes to reach Fyran—the increased volume of the screams and the smell of smoke alerting her well before her arrival. She kept to the trees, peering through pine needles to get a glimpse of the fight.

  There were thirty or so Verglas soldiers, and the civilians fought side by side with them, carrying pitchforks, pikes, and bows. Armed as they were, it wasn’t enough.

  The invaders moved in a professional unit—dressed in black and crimson—and greatly outnumbered them. They snatched up young girls—who kicked and screeched—and slaughtered men, women, and children. They set buildings on fire—or they tried to; everything was too saturated with snow and ice to flame up—killed animals, and coated the white snow in red.

  Previously, she had only known a cold world filled with the purest hues of white and blue. The greedy orange of the all-consuming fires and the metallic scent of crimson blood were not welcome changes but a brutal assault. She had never seen Fyran up close, but she had read about villages enough in books. The ghastly sight before her was nothing like the stories.

  What are they doing? This isn’t how one treats fellow humans—this is a massacre!

  “Mommy!” a child screamed.

  “Gerta! Gerta, no!”

  Rakel watched in paralyzing horror when two invaders ripped a little girl from her mother.

  “Don’t hurt my baby,” the woman sobbed. An invader bashed her face with the flat of his sword, sending her crashing to the ground. He stabbed his sword at her, but she rolled away just in time.

  “Mommy!” the little girl screamed, lunging at her mother’s tormentor. The soldier holding her yanked her backwards. He swung his sword at her—the edge of the blade gleaming in the light of the fires. He was going to kill her.

  The mother realized this, too, and she jumped at him, knocking him off balance so he released the little girl. “Gerta, run!”

  “I won’t leave you,” the little girl sobbed.

  “You must—no!” the woman screamed when the mercenary walloped her on the head. She fell in a heap, blood trickling down her temple.

 
“Mommy!” the little girl said, scrambling to her mother’s side.

  The invader raised his sword again, and the little girl huddled against her unconscious—perhaps even deceased—mother, crying. He laughed as he chopped down at her.

  “No,” Rakel said. Her eyes narrowed as she extended her hand and clenched it into a fist. A wall of ice at least a hand’s-length thick shot out of the ground, erupting between the girl and the mercenary. The sword shrieked, and the invader cursed when the weapon bounced off the surface. He dropped the blade and clutched his hand.

  Rakel stepped out of the tree-line, drawing closer as she gathered her magic at her finger tips, making them glow silver and blue. I’ll have to use a mere thread of my magic, so the villagers won’t die of fright. But even a sliver would be enough. “Leave,” she ordered.

  The mercenary shoved a thatch of his greasy hair back under his helm and spit. “This village is ours.”

  “Not yet. Leave,” she repeated.

  He threw a dagger, but it bounced harmlessly off the wall of ice that sprouted in front of Rakel, protecting her. He cursed and reached for the crying little girl, yanking her off her mother.

  Rakel hissed, gathered the edge of her flapping cloak, and flung it behind her. Spikes of ice as thick as a child and as sharp as a sword erupted from the ground, nearly impaling the invader. “Release her!”

  The mercenary cursed and stumbled backwards. Rakel pushed him away with a gust of wind, pelting him with icy shards. He let go of the little girl to recover his balance, and Rakel tapped her ice magic, coating the ground beneath his feet. When he slipped and fell, she formed a large block of ice and slammed it into him, sending him flying from Fyran.

  Rakel nodded in satisfaction and turned to face the rest of the village. The pleasant chill of her magic pumped through her body as she studied the invading force. Only a few had noticed her. Those that did faced her, their faces pinched with fear and indecision. The rest continued to fight and ravage like animals. It seems Oskar was right. There are no magic users present—or none, at least, who are using their powers. She flicked her fingers, separating them from the villagers with spikes and walls of hardened snow.