Frostfall: The Aborean Chronicles, #1

By Andreas Christensen

From the author of Exodus and Rift comes an epic fantasy of vast scope, in which compassion and honor clash with deadly schemes and betrayal.

 

Ever Vigilant. Those are the words of House Frost, rulers of one of the northernmost territories that owe allegiance to the United Kingdom of Aborea. There, Richard Frost of Northguard rules in King Vincent Montcassel's name. The United Kingdom fiercely protects its borders from incursions from the world beyond civilization, both natural and unnatural. In particular, the use, study, and teaching of magic is strictly forbidden, and anyone associated with it faces harsh sentencing.

 

Beyond the Ice Fangs, the mountain range that forms the northern border of the United Kingdom lives the savage Skraelings. Little is known of the Skraelings and their way of life, and few people in the kingdom have ever met one of them. When a Skraeling raid into lands ruled by House Frost proves fatal, it sets in motion a series of events that will change the kingdom– and the world– in ways that no one could have predicted.

 

Meanwhile, to the south, another threat lurks. Something sinister is hiding within the shadows of Caledon, the kingdom's capital, pulling its invisible strings in order to bring chaos and plunge the realm into war.

 

While tragedy befalls the kingdom and its houses, and the mighty vie for power and glory, the only hope for humanity may be a sharp mind and an open heart.

 

Frostfall is the first installment of the Aborean Chronicles, an epic fantasy saga for fans of George R. R. Martin, Robert Jordan, and Elizabeth Moon.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andreas Christensen
• Release date: Jun 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393945727

Book preview

christensenwriting.com

FROSTFALL

THE ABOREAN CHRONICLES – BOOK 1

From the author of Exodus and Rift comes an epic fantasy of vast scope, in which compassion and honor clash with deadly schemes and betrayal.

Ever Vigilant. Those are the words of House Frost, rulers of one of the northernmost territories that owe allegiance to the United Kingdom of Aborea. There, Richard Frost of Northguard rules in King Vincent Montcassel’s name. The United Kingdom fiercely protects its borders from incursions from the world beyond civilization, both natural and unnatural. In particular, the use, study, and teaching of magic is strictly forbidden, and anyone associated with it faces harsh sentencing.

Beyond the Ice Fangs, the mountain range that forms the northern border of the United Kingdom lives the savage Skraelings. Little is known of the Skraelings and their way of life, and few people in the kingdom have ever met one of them. When a Skraeling raid into lands ruled by House Frost proves fatal, it sets in motion a series of events that will change the kingdom– and the world– in ways that no one could have predicted.

Meanwhile, to the south, another threat lurks. Something sinister is hiding within the shadows of Caledon, the kingdom’s capital, pulling its invisible strings in order to bring chaos and plunge the realm into war.

While tragedy befalls the kingdom and its houses, and the mighty vie for power and glory, the only hope for humanity may be a sharp mind and an open heart.

Frostfall is the first installment of the Aborean Chronicles, an epic fantasy saga for fans of George R. R. Martin, Robert Jordan, and Elizabeth Moon.

Map of the United Kindgdom of Aborea.

Macintosh HD:Users:andreaschristensen:Downloads:Frostfall_map.jpg

Drawn by Magister Wentham, CMXXVII

Amended by Master Jakubi, CMXLI

Property of the Royal Library of Magehall.

FROSTFALL

THE ABOREAN CHRONICLES – BOOK 1

Prologue

The eight-man scout patrol dismounted, and Bronin took a moment to pat his destrier on the flank. He was an old horse, granted, soon to be retired to farm work outside of Castle Dread, but with age came experience. Bronin had ridden many a horse since he first arrived at Castle Dread, some twenty years ago, and few had served him as well as this old boy. Nearly fearless, but vigilant, and Bronin knew he could count on him to get him out if it came to that. Once, a pack of wolves had caught them by surprise. While most of the other horses had shied and panicked, this one had fought back, knocking two of them unconscious, and kicking another until it was dead. He'd even managed to bite one who had jumped to attack Bronin from the rear, saving his master from being killed like so many of his fellow scouts. Yes, the scouts of the Black Legion depended on horses like this one to do their job, and live to tell about it. Which was, in fact, the most crucial mission a scout had.

But now the horse was frightened. Bronin couldn't tell what made him so, but he knew enough to trust there had to be something going on, something men didn't perceive, but horses did. Well, it was the reason they were out here in the first place, so it was something to expect. He drew his blade, a longsword, with a newly sharpened edge, and held it out before him.

The orders had been clear. Find the witch and bring her in for questioning. If they met any resistance, they were to kill anyone who opposed them, but the witch was to be taken alive at all costs. Sir Derek had wanted them to execute the witch on the spot.

It's the law. It'll be her eventual punishment either way, he'd said, but Lord Winters had overruled him.

The Legion needs answers, he'd said, and the dead will give us none. Lord Winters was a man of the faith, but he wouldn't let his religious leanings cloud his judgment, as Sir Derek might. Bronin respected Sir Derek, though, despite this one weakness. They had fought together on several occasions. In the Esterlands, it was Sir Derek who had saved them all when the legionnaires were about to be overrun. He had proved himself so many times, there wasn't a man Bronin would want more to stand beside him in a battle.

Sir Derek was a hard man and invaluable in a fight, but it was well known he was more pious than most, and when it came to magic, he had no tolerance for it. A few of the legionnaires were like him, but most didn't care one way or another. Nobody liked magic, of course, and although most didn't even believe in it, they would see to it that anyone who tried using it was punished. It was the law. Magic was strictly forbidden, and the penalties for practicing, teaching, or studying magic were harsh. Sir Derek and others like him saw themselves as doing the gods' work.

Bronin didn't care much about any gods, and to be honest, he thought most of what the church preached was fairy tales designed to put fear into children, to make them listen to their parents. But something sinister was definitely going on in these mountains. The reports, though probably somewhat exaggerated, spoke of human sacrifice and the defilement of virgins. One source, a mountain shepherd, even told how he had found a dead baby, headless, in a creek, with strange markings on its chest.

Sometimes a wizard would pop up and convince villagers that they had magic powers that could save the year’s harvest. A witch might save a life by use of forbidden spells of some kind or another. Bronin didn't think such cases were actual magic. Knowledge of and the use of herbs and medicines weren't magic. Usually, these witches and wizards were not well defended. Sure, they might convince some peasants to take up arms to protect them. Some might even be so dedicated as to stand their ground, even against an overwhelming force. Normally the dumb bastards would run off or die quickly, and the witch or wizard would be captured and taken back to Castle Dread.

Getting closer, sir, he said to Will, their commander. I can feel it in my bones, and the horse feels it too.

It was getting darker, and the moon was already up. His breath was misting, and the moonlight made it sparkle. Once upon a time, it would have amazed him. Thinking of his first excursions into the mountains as a raw recruit, some twenty-odd years ago, almost made him chuckle.

Bronin was of the North, from a small village called Tinderwood, just south of the Ice Fangs. He was used to the cold, and he'd been as far as some of the highest passes in the vast range that formed the northern border of the kingdom. He remembered how the stories always described southerners as weaklings, who didn't even have proper winters. That sometimes there could be a winter altogether without snow in the capital, while Tinderwood lay covered six feet deep.

Oh, he'd learned fast during that first winter as a legionnaire. Winter in the Iron Mountains could be just as bad as in the Ice Fangs. Sure, the capital might be warm enough, with winter grass growing and leaves on the trees all year round. And Castle Dread lay in the foothills. The weather could be nice and warm when they rode out, with no sign of what was waiting for them in the mountains. Up here, though, it was often like a northern winter. This far up, the snows never really melted, and the howling winds were freezing cold. And that was during the warm season. In winter, it would be even worse. Blizzards, temperatures that could kill an exposed man within minutes, and no way to reach the isolated villages deep in their valleys, where wizards and witches practiced their dark arts. That was why it was so important that they do this now, instead of waiting too long.

Bronin and the others walked, leading their horses, into an open meadow, near where the shepherd had explained he'd found the headless baby. They passed the low brush that marked one end of the field and stopped. Something had happened here, something ugly. Spread around in front of them were dead bodies, lots of dead bodies. As they began walking again, Bronin saw that some were headless, like the baby, while others were cleaved in two, or chewed on. Men, women, and children. When he saw a woman who was disemboweled, guts hanging out, heart ripped out and half-eaten, he almost gagged. This wasn't like anything he'd seen before.

It was... dizzying.

Then he saw it, a glint of moonlight reflecting on something on the ground.

He bent and picked it up. It was a medallion, heavy, but not as heavy as gold. Perhaps it was iron? He held it up to get a better look at it. It had a spiral pattern of sorts. It was hard to see in the moonlight, but perhaps it could be green and something that looked almost blue, with an engraved design along the edge, like a snake. In the middle was something that looked like an eye.

Did it mean something? Was it just something that one of the dead had lost in the carnage? Or perhaps it was something from one of the killers? There had to be more than one of them. To think that some witch did this, alone... It was impossible. He'd never heard of a witch or a wizard who could do something like this.

Something moved in the periphery of his vision. He whirled around and got a glimpse of something. Someone.

Hey, he shouted. Hey, halt!

A figure appeared, before disappearing again. Bronin saw him long enough to recognize that he looked like a man. Quick, obviously, dark, slender. A scream from the side made him look. Will stared at him with wide eyes, an arrow through his throat. A gurgling sound came from his mouth, and blood bubbled out. Will stumbled, and Bronin saw that blood was also coming out from his neck, quick bursts of it. His commander fell to the ground, and Bronin turned again, just in time to notice three figures approaching.

The three figures looked almost human. Almost. They were similar but different from each other as well. Two had dark, ebon skin, while the third was completely pale. All were slender, tall, with pointy ears. They were too far to see the color of their eyes, but from where Bronin stood, their eyes looked slanted, dark. The one in the middle had long, flowing, white hair, and carried two long curved blades. The one on the right had equally long hair in a deep sea-green color and held a bow with an arrow nocked and ready. The last one had long purple hair, that stood up like spikes in a curve from forehead to neck, while shaved tightly on the sides. This was the one with pale skin, and it held a longsword in one hand and a small shield in the other.

His destrier reared, and Bronin lost his grip on the reins. The horse ran off, along with most of the others.

Bronin considered his options. For the first time in his years as a legionnaire - for the first time in his life - he considered fleeing. But he didn't have time.

The one with the bow raised it, aimed and shot quickly, in the blink of an eye, and a man behind Bronin screamed.

What were those creatures?

Another figure appeared off to the side, and Bronin gaped. This one looked older than the others, with long white hair, white moustaches in the shape of a horseshoe, crimson robes, and a crooked back. It made a circling movement with both its hands, and purple light shot from the sky, like thunderbolts, killing most of the legionnaires.

Then there was silence. The air smelled of sulfur, and something else, something he couldn't describe. Like defeat. Bronin looked around. He was the only legionnaire left standing. A few of the others were dying, writhing in pain while their life's blood flowed out of them. The figures began approaching again.

What do you want from me? he cried, his voice cracking. He didn't need his twenty years as a legionnaire to tell him he was at the mercy of his captors.

You? The white-haired creature said and laughed, a rasping, evil laughter. You are nothing to us, human. But you saw something you weren't supposed to see, and now you have to die.

Chapter 1

Tor

Tor skipped out into the near-empty courtyard and giggled at the fresh snow that had fallen in the night. It was still early fall, and he knew there would be a while until the snow lasted more than a few early morning hours, but knowing it had begun made him ecstatic. Tor loved winter. He bent and picked up a handful, packed it as hard as he could over and over again. His fingers stung from the cold, but he kept packing it. Then he looked at it with a measuring eye. Not quite round, and it didn't look too solid. Still, it was worth a try. He looked at his sister. The Frost words were Ever Vigilant, but there was nothing vigilant about Amelia now. Tor grinned; such an easy target. He flung his arm back, took careful aim, and flung the ball toward his target. The snowball almost fell apart in the air before it reached her, but it struck home nonetheless.

Ouch, what... His sister exclaimed as the snow exploded on her back and, to Tor's pleasure, down her neck.

That's cold! She turned toward him, trying to shake the snow off, and noticed him. Her face became a scowl. Torjus Frost, you scamp, she growled and began walking in his direction. Tor knew when to stand his ground and when to run. Now was the latter. He grinned at his sister before he turned and ran.

Amelia thought she was such a lady, and one day she probably would be, but for now, she was just a silly girl, with her nose in the air and her mouth in a constant pout. Tor loved teasing her, pushing her until she lost that high and mighty composure. Sometimes Rhea would be his accomplice, but today his twin sister had scurried off early, even before he got up. She was probably off in the kitchens. The smell of fresh apple pie had almost drawn him down there too until he looked out and saw the roofs covered in a light sheet of snow.

Tor looked back over his shoulder. There was nothing high and mighty about the way Amelia ran toward him now, though. She screamed something he didn't quite catch, and he laughed, which made her even more furious.

The grouse and the peacock, side by side, he shouted back to his sister. All he got back was angry grunts, so he continued. Stay, said the peacock, I cannot abide. He laughed so hard he almost couldn't utter the words, but it didn't matter. She knew the rhyme as well, it was one every child knew. You're just a grouse, and look at me, what do you see, what do you see? Then he drove it home, Can you fly, can you fly? Then follow me! Amelia nearly caught up to him, before he managed to jump across a pile of horse dung, which she stepped in, making her even angrier. He guffawed. The grouse and the peacock flew away, but the peacock tired and went to ground, went to ground. The grouse circled above and sang his song, I'm flying high, I'm flying high.

He turned a corner and changed directions, trying to shake her off. But the tracks in the fresh snow gave him away, and Amelia nearly got a hold of him before he bolted off again. This time he ran for the gardens. He knew that if Amelia caught him, he would be in for a switching. Then she would tell their mother and father. Well, she would tell Mother and Father anyway, but that didn't concern Tor too much. Father would probably laugh and think it was a fun prank, while Mother would say a few choice words and make him promise not to do it again. That he could do, as he had so many times before.

Tor ran through the open gate that separated the gardens from the rest of the castle and saw Aurora sitting there with one of her books. He heard Amelia's footsteps slowing behind him, and walked straight up to his oldest sister, hoping she would help negotiate an honorable peace.

AURORA

Aurora had always liked the gardens. She used to go out here to read and to think. She found that everywhere else was always crowded, or she'd be disturbed. Here one could find solitude. Aurora found the natural sounds of birds and squirrels, and the bubbling of water from the springs or the little brook was actually better for reading than the complete silence of the library.

In the gardens, she could lose herself forever in leather-bound tomes, like the one she was studying now; The siege of Bridgeport and the battle of the Silverfish Narrows. She didn't like the writing style; it was Old Aborean, an archaic form of the Common Tongue that was only spoken on Stonepike. It was more common in writing, though. An educated woman like herself would be able to read it even though she didn't understand much of what the priests said when they spoke it in ceremonies and such. It was an interesting read, though. The descriptions of armies marching on each other, the battles, and the machinations of siegecraft were some of the most accurate and realistic she had found. It wasn't an entertaining read, with vivid descriptions of knights and their splendid adventures, like the books her siblings James or Ben, or even Rhea might like. Certainly nothing like the romantic tales that Amelia enjoyed. No, it was very matter-of-fact and descriptive, something one could learn a thing or two from.

Not that Aurora expected to ever have any use for this kind of knowledge. At seventeen, she was old enough that Mother was already fretting that she ought to be married or at least betrothed.

But Aurora had no interest in such things. Besides, they all wanted her to become a lady, and she didn't feel like a lady. She wanted to learn and explore and do something with her life.

She sighed. She sometimes wished she had been born a man. No, that wasn't quite it either. Men were stupid creatures, going off to war and getting themselves killed, like her uncle Galen. Just eighteen years old, when she was just a little girl, he had been killed during the Broken Mountains campaign. Galen had been chasing after a Skraeling war band, even though anyone who'd read a single book on Skraelings knew one of their tactics was to lead the enemy out from their defenses, into terrain more suited for their one-on-one combat style. But a true warrior never listened to such advice, or read books about such things. Oh no, books were for priests and scholars and children.

Besides, fighting smart wasn't honorable. Uncle Galen had been honorable. Now he was just dead. She missed him, though, despite his faults. Uncle Galen had used to sit her on his lap and tell her stories, like the ones they told the Skraelings up beyond the Ice Fangs. Tales of the olden days, before humans became the sole rulers of Aborea, back when elves and dwarves and halflings and even dragons were common. Stories of the Old Ones, a mysterious race related to humans, extinct centuries ago. The Old Ones had practiced magic and lived in the northern woods, where they could talk to animals and trees, and even change the weather.

Her favorite story, though dark, was the story of the Elven Fratricide. A thousand years ago, there were wood elves and high elves and their mischievous brethren, the night elves. The high elves were mighty and noble, haughty by human standards, powerful rulers who stood above all others. The wood elves were wise and gentle as well, and valued friendship and selflessness above all else. Then there were the night elves, skilled craftsmen, inventors, and warriors, who stood below their brethren, who valued power and gold above all else. They were funny, though, and Aurora liked the little stories of how they made all sorts of pranks on humans and dwarves and halflings. But they did have a dark side, an envious side. A thousand years ago that envy made them kill all the other elves in one bold stroke, making the night elves the only kind left in this world, to rule and to profit for two hundred years. Then they disappeared from the face of the earth, to sit in the dark, keeping their hoard and their skills to themselves. Some said the humans chased them into their caves and sealed them off, while others said the last of the dwarves lured them inside. Others again said the night elves were all killed. The stories were many and contradicted each other. In the end, though, the stories of the Elven Fratricide was a tragedy.

The elves were all long gone now, of course. Master Thomas said they may have existed once, but there was no proof of it. It was just as likely the elves were only creatures of folk tales, like giants and mermaids, told children for entertainment or to make a moral point. A figment of the imagination. Aurora didn't know what to believe. She'd never seen an elf, and after all, Master Thomas was a scholar. He usually knew what he was talking about. Scholars read more books than anyone else, and they traveled more of the world than anyone. Master Thomas claimed the only magical creatures still alive were the small dragons in the Cassel Mountains, the ones held by the dragonriders of the royal line, House Montcassel. She'd never seen a dragon either, but if that was all that was left, she hoped she'd get to see one someday. 

She sometimes wondered if perhaps the world had been a more exciting place a thousand years ago. Magic was, of course, strictly forbidden. However, the dragons were allowed, but if the dwarves or the elves or other magical beings had existed, they couldn't just ban them from existing, could they?

She heard the giggles before she heard the running footsteps. Someone came running, fast. She closed the book and looked up. Soon enough, her youngest brother Tor came running through the gate, with twelve-year-old Amelia on his heels. She shook her head, knowing she would have to mediate between the two. Again.

BEN

Ben saw the strike coming, and parried easily, before making a double thrust false attack, then swirled and placed his sword at the neck of the opponent.

Got you! he said, grinning at his older brother. James flicked his eyes down and smiled. Ben followed his eyes and saw the wooden dagger at his side.

Got you too, James said quietly.

Great, now we've got two dead fighters and no victor, Sir Dalton rumbled across the training grounds, an open field just outside the castle wall, beneath the looming dragon tower. When are you two going to understand that war is a bloody business? You have to defend yourselves too. It's not all about taking out the enemy.

Sometimes it's worth sacrificing yourself for the greater good, James said. Ben nodded in agreement. Sir Dalton shook his head and scowled at them.

"Youngsters! Always so eager to sacrifice themselves for this and for that. Let me tell you a thing or two, lads, most of the time, there will be more than one enemy, and you will find yourself outnumbered. That means you will have to kill more than one apiece. And how will you do that if you always go sacrificing yourselves? Besides, most of the time, it won't be worth it. Sometimes it's enough to remain standing afterward. Live to fight another day. Bah, I guess it's those books you read, fancy stories of gallant knights prancing around in their shining armor, charming all the little ladies until they get a chance to sacrifice themselves. Look, you'd better start listening to me. I've seen war lads, and let me tell you this; there is very little sacrificing going on in war. Most men who are eager to do so die early, and that's the end of it. The rest of them go on to fight until they're dead and cold, or until the whole business is done with. The lucky few may go home and tell their war stories, while the ones who sacrificed themselves never get that luxury. They're dead, and likely soon forgotten." With that, he turned on his heel and stomped away, leaving the boys with their wooden swords. Ben searched for words but couldn't find any. 

Sir Dalton was a great swordsman and a good teacher, but he didn't understand. James understood. There had to be some things that were greater than oneself, things worth dying for. Wasn't that the whole reason men went to war? It couldn't all be about survival and personal safety. 

At sixteen, his brother was old enough to squire, and soon Ben would be too. Ben felt his mood lightening at the thought. James was heir to Northguard, which meant he wasn't able to squire for a knight, even if he was of age. He had to learn all the ins and outs of the art of ruling since he was going to be a lord someday. That ruled out knighthood. Ben, on the other hand, had no such duties. He could go on to become a knight if he pleased and if he worked hard at it. In a year or so, if they could find an opening somewhere. A year felt like an eternity, though, and he knew squires sometimes started earlier. He just needed more practice to show Sir Dalton and his father that he was ready.

Again, he said. James shook his head and put the sword aside.

Sorry, I have a class with Master Thomas. The great houses of the realm and their history.

Sounds dull.

That's... pretty accurate, James said and smiled before he turned, leaving Ben alone on the field. Ben was supposed to be studying too, Aborean languages, but since Master Thomas would be busy with James for a while, he figured he could get away with being late.

He was fourteen and a half, and still, they had him recite ancient history and learn dull things like Politics of the East or Greater and Lesser Houses of the Realm. He wondered how long it would take until he got his chance. The war in the Esterlands could be over in a year, or even just a few moons, and unless he got a placement soon, there was no way he'd be able to take part before it all ended. Then the only opportunities for glory would be raiding Skraeling warbands, and to be honest, there wasn't much glory in that at all. He decided it was time to have that conversation with his father, and this time he would not back down.

JAMES

So, why do we count House Covington among the great houses if they no longer hold any lands on this side of the ocean? Master Thomas asked. James thought for a moment before answering.

We don't. We remember House Covington because they ruled once and because they hurt so many in the end, but we don't count them among the great houses anymore, he said. Master Thomas nodded.

True. The Covingtons are no longer counted among the great houses of the United Kingdom of Aborea. They are, however, still a great house, even though they live in exile. They do have an army of sorts, and they are popular in some of the cities in the Esterlands. The Breos also stood with them until the end, and may still hold some sympathy with them.

Even though the exodus of the Covingtons took place many years ago - I was but a boy then - it is something everyone who lives in the kingdom is aware of, even the peasants. They may not feel it makes much of a difference who sits the throne, but let me assure you it does. The taxes that many scholars claim was the reason the houses first began to oppose the king caused starvation and poverty. This lead to repercussions that eventually started the war. Thousands were dead long before anyone even thought of open rebellion. Master Thomas straightened and looked out the window.

So, knowing that House Covington was toppled and forced into exile, and the fact that House Montcassel has ruled ever since, how do we know this is what the gods wanted? Given that the gods choose the king and that Covingtons ruled for centuries, how do we know the gods have now chosen House Montcassel? Why not House Irons or Trueheart or perhaps even House Frost? Or, if the gods were especially cruel, the Carlyles? What is the basis for saying that King Vincent of Montcassel is the one and true king, by the grace of the gods? James nodded. He had thought about this more than once. How could the gods name someone king and then let others overthrow them? And later, the usurper would then be called king by the grace of the gods.

The Covingtons massacred the nobles from the other houses. They eradicated House Oldstones, killed three generations of them, even the small children. They burned their towns and tore down their castles, erased them from the history books, in order to wipe out the only house that may have had a legitimate claim to the throne, at least at the time. The Covingtons were evil.

True, they did all that. But no, I don't think an entire house can be called evil. You're right about one thing, though. The Covingtons did several horrendous acts that eventually drove the other houses to band together and overthrow King Andros. However, his predecessor, Jonathan the third, was considered a good king, a righteous king. So if both were kings by the grace of the gods, as is King Vincent today, wherein lies the king's legitimacy? Is it truly the grace of the gods? Is it the fact that the king is good, and when he's no longer good, he's no longer legitimate?

I think... I think you will get different answers depending on whom you ask. And when you ask. I'm not sure if I believe everything the priests say, but I do think a king needs to be more than just a good man. James trailed off, and Master Thomas smiled knowingly.

I know these are not easy questions to wrestle with, and in fact, I don't know if there is a right answer. But I do know that it is important that you ask yourself those questions. What will your answer be? That's up to you. But you are the heir to Northguard and House Frost. That means you will have to deal with such questions. And you have a role to play in all this as well since nobility is derived from the crown. Or, the crown is derived from the nobility.

There was a knock on the door. Master Thomas opened, and a man-at-arms stood outside. They spoke a few hushed words, and the soldier gave Master Thomas a small rolled up and sealed sheet of paper. The master walked over to the window to read better in the daylight streaming in. James knew the old scholar's eyes weren't what they had once been.

Think about what we have discussed, James, he said, We shall talk more of this tomorrow. I need to speak to your father. James understood it had to be important, so he said his goodbyes, picked up his book, The Laws and Customs of the Realm, and closed the door behind him when he walked out.

RICHARD

So, he decided to wed the crown prince to Lord Wheaton's daughter, the Lord of Northguard, Richard Frost said. Master Thomas remained silent. Not unexpected, mind you, but it does mean the southerners gain more power. I'm sure old Wheaton's happy about it, though.

Wheaton is an old house, my Lord. Respected by north and south alike. I'm sure a union between Montcassel and Wheaton will turn out to be beneficial to the realm.

Well, you're probably right. The boy had to marry someone. Better the Wheaton girl than that spawn of House Carlyle.

Who? Lady Caroline said. Lady Rhiannon is already married to Lord Ronald, and the rest of the lot are all boys. She had been sitting off to the side, and Richard was surprised to hear she even had noticed their conversation. He always discussed things with his wife, but seldom in the company of Master Thomas.

I'm speaking of Lord Erwin's granddaughter, Emily. As far as I can remember, she ought to come of age in a few years. Perhaps not to be married, but I'm sure the old schemer would like nothing better than to have her betrothed to one of the princes.

I see. Of Ben's age then, she said, eyeing him sideways. Richard stood up abruptly.

I'd rather have him marrying an outlander than welcoming a daughter of House Carlyle into my home. His wife laughed softly.

Richard, you are too easy to get fired up. I'm only joking, you know. I wouldn't have a Carlyle girl here either, and I sure wouldn't wish that upon poor Ben. Anyway, he wants to be a knight, which rules out little Emily, whatever we think of her grandfather.

Richard murmured a curse and sat down again.

House Carlyle has too much power with the crown as it is, being the main financier of the royal coffers, he mumbled. Master Thomas shrugged.

Well, the crown does need its gold. What can the king do? The message also mentioned something else. The men looked at each other knowingly. Lord Richard had already read the message, but his wife hadn't.

What? she asked.

There is to be another war council after the wedding, Master Thomas said. It was summoned by Lord Carlyle.

That weasel has been trying to end the war ever since it began, Lord Richard said. The scholar nodded. Everyone knew House Carlyle wanted nothing more than to reopen trade.

My Lord, we all know House Carlyle's reasons are less than honorable, but if I may say so, isn't it time to put an end to it? You spent two years in the Esterlands yourself, My Lord. Thousands of Aboreans have fallen, and still, there is no end in sight.

I don't know, Master Thomas. I don't share the religious fervor of Lord Trueheart, and I'm not afraid that the Covingtons will return to reclaim the throne any day, like the king seems to fear. Still, I've seen slavery and what it does to people, slave and master both. I would fight it till my last breath, for it is evil.

That is a noble stance, my Lord, but is that really what the war is about? It may be, for some, or it might have been when it started, but now I don't know. Perhaps we should listen to what Lord Carlyle has to say for once. It isn't as if the United Kingdom would reinstate slavery, even if we put an end to the war in the Esterlands. There hasn't been a slave in Aborea for half a century. Well, in the eastern kingdoms, of course, but by all accounts, it seems to be dwindling there as well. Perhaps slavery will die out all by itself?

The slave trade is still lucrative enough for Lord Erwin to want a piece of it, though, Lord Richard said. His wife nodded in agreement. I wouldn't put it past him to invest in it. Perhaps not in the kingdom, but in the Esterlands.

Perhaps you're right, Master Thomas said and spread his hands. We shall see.

Master Thomas, I understand the wedding will be held this midwinter, Lady Caroline said, changing the subject. What do you think, should Ben or Aurora remain at home? We need a Frost at Northguard, and normally we'd leave James in charge, of course. He needs to come with us to the wedding, though, as forging alliances and bonds between noble houses is far too important to leave to his siblings. Amelia and the twins are too little to hold any sort of responsibility, and will be for a long time.

My Lord, I would advise that you leave Aurora to rule Northguard. She is old enough, and she is clever and capable. I will advise her, of course, and I'm sure she will do just fine.

Hmm, I don't know. The wedding would be a fine opportunity to find a good match for her. She's seventeen, Master Thomas. About time she met a few suitors.

That's your call, my Lord. Ben, then. A fine young lad. I will take care of most of the daily chores, along with Master Donald, and he will represent the House. Ben is still young, but he'll manage.

What do you say, My Lady? Lord Richard said, turning to face his wife.

RHEA

Rhea stood quietly, staring at her feet, awaiting her father's judgment. James was going to Amberfield tomorrow, to speak to the lord there, Aaron Thorne. James had done that lately, from time to time, gone out to Father's vassals in his stead, to learn how to rule. Since he was the heir to Northguard, he had to learn, Father said, and what better way to learn than this? Ben was coming along as well. Although Ben wasn't the heir, Father said every ruler needed a right-hand man. Ben was going to be a knight one day; that was what he always said. What better right-hand man than a brother and a knight?

Do you feel that you have made up for your mistake, Rhea? her father asked in his ruler- voice. Rhea nodded.

And you, Torjus? Rhea sneaked a peek and saw her twin brother nodding as well.

Tor had tossed snowballs at Amelia, while Rhea had stolen apple pie from the kitchens. Both had been caught, and now they were restricted to their rooms, as they had been for two days. It was unbearable. A castle the size of Northguard held so many secrets and places to explore, from the highest towers to the deepest dungeons. Being stuck in a room was such a waste. She felt like she had lost valuable time, that she must make up for somehow.

And you do realize what you did was wrong? Both of you?

Yes, Father.

Yes, I do. Both nodded vigorously.

Very well. Tor, please be nice to your sister. Maybe Amelia made a bigger deal out of it than was necessary, but you still had no right. And Rhea, those apple pies were tempting, I know, but you were wrong to steal. They were meant for later, and there is no excuse for taking what is not yours. Father looked at them both in turn, then scooped them both up in his big arms.

You little rascals, he said as he hugged them and tussled their hair. Rhea grinned and hugged him back. That was it—no more punishment. Having put away his ruler- voice, he was just their father, who loved them both to death.

You may go along with your brothers tomorrow then. Listen to what James and Ben say and do what they tell you to do. Remember, even at the age of nine; you still represent House Frost. No mischief or I will lock you both up in your rooms and throw away the key. That last part, he said with a wink, and Rhea winked back. Tor just grinned.

Tomorrow they would get to go to Amberfield. Rhea had never been there, but she had heard they had a stone wall set with gemstones made from amber, one of the Wonders of the North. She very much wanted