Thread of Frost

Ch. 13: Bloody City

Isolde raised her lantern.

The night air was crisp. She could feel the snow sinking into her wool socks, pooling in her leather boots. Somewhere, an owl hooted. She adjusted her fur hood — black, borrowed from one of the sleeping girls in the convent — and stared out into the dark woods.

The carriage was late.

Isolde glanced at her beat-up pocket watch. It was eleven o'clock, and the screams would start at midnight; they always did, on Holy Days. She had to make it into Bardan in the next thirty minutes, or else people would...

Well.

She swallowed.

A light blinked on in the distance. There was the sound of rattling carriage wheels, followed by a soft whinny. Her heartbeat picked up. She took an instinctive step back, melting into the trees, but the carriage slowed as it approached.

"New cloak?" Bo asked.

He was dressed in his usual threadbare brown cape, his hair silver and gleaming. He smelled of pine and the fruit-scented pipe that he smoked. His carriage was packed with small brown parcels; allegedly food to be delivered to the palace, although Isolde knew that a good handful would be secretly redistributed to the poorest Bardanians.

Isolde swung into the carriage. "You're late."

Bo snapped his reins. "There's a huge queue of carriages coming across the bridge. Everyone's trying to get into Bardan today."

"Why?"

"Didn't you hear?" Bo glanced at her. "The emperor's choosing a bride."

Isolde gripped the side as the carriage lurched. "I thought Lestia chose the bride."

He flapped a hand. "Same thing."

"I don't see why half the empire needs to come into Bardan for that."

Bo shrugged. "Drinking. Festivities. Well wishes." He steered the carriage around a large snowdrift. "Wouldn't put it past some folk to bring their daughter in and paint a mark on her forehead, too."

"Sacrilege," Isolde said dryly.

Bo lifted a shoulder. "Well, if it ends with a crown..." His dark eyes were troubled. "What's an eternity of suffering for a lifetime of happiness?"

A snowflake amulet swung from the front of Bo's carriage, occasionally knocking her on the shoulder. Bo believed in the gods, Isolde knew; he prayed every Holy Night for a better future. She wasn't so sure. Either Lestia didn't exist, or the goddess had never particularly cared about her existence. It was difficult to say which was worse.

Isolde rubbed at her wooden leg. "I don't see why Halson wants a bride, anyway. He's awfully young."

Bo glanced at her. "He's twenty."

"Exactly."

He shrugged. "Reckon the Emperor saw what's happening in Wynterlynn. He'll need to shore up his defenses."

Isolde dropped her hand. "What's happened in Wynterlynn?"

"Blimey, snjya." Bo shook his head. "Do you live under a snowbank?"

Isolde smiled. Snjya. "Little snow angel." Even now, two years later, Bo didn't know her actual name. But she liked having a nickname; she'd never had one before, and it was nice feeling like she belonged to someone in a different way than she belonged to anyone else.

"I live in a convent, Bo," Isolde said. "The other morning, we discussed the intricacies of porridge making. It was thrilling."

Bo's eyes were fixed on the road. "They're all dead." He adjusted his grip on the reins, black gloves tightening. "The Delafort family is dead."