Between Tides Thunder(7)

“I love you, too, Daak.” My voice is soft, as if saying the words too loud will shatter the precious moment around us.

“I know,” he whispers back. “I’ve always known.”

Another beat of silence.

“I’ll always love you, Mayah. And I’ll find you.”

The words linger between us—fragile, final.

Fleeting.

A sudden boom of thunder rattles the icy walls of my chambers, and I gasp, instinctively burying my face in his chest.

There hadn’t been a storm in weeks.

Daak tightens his hold. “It’s just noise,” he says, but he knows it’s more than that. He’s seen what it does to me.

Thunderstorms used to be rare in Tundrayn, but they’ve grown more frequent in the last two decades. And every single one steals the air from my lungs. They reduce me to a child again—small, sniveling, helpless.

What will I do in Arbinj, the land of brutal stormwielders and their violent thunderstorms?

“Mayah,” Daak says, gently tilting my chin. His forehead presses against mine. “You’re going to survive this. You’re going to do what you’ve always done. You’ll create a better future for all of Tundrayn. And you’ll do it with that stubborn fire in your chest that terrifies half the palace. And me, if I’m being honest.”

I laugh, but it’s watery. “You make me sound like a force of nature.”

“You are.”

Another rumble shakes the windows. I flinch, and Daak holds me tighter.

“I’ll see you again,” he says, voice fierce in the dark.

He holds me until I fall asleep, the storm raging around us.





CHAPTER THREE




DAAK IS GONE WHEN I wake, but I’m not surprised. A flock of servants rush in and dress me for the betrothal ceremony.

By the end, I don’t recognize myself in the mirror. My dark hair is left loose, gentle waves cascading down my back and a few loose curls framing my face. Dark kohl lines my blue eyes, and the effect is so dramatic they appear almost too large for my face. My lips are dotted with rouge, a soft pink against my pale skin. Snowpowder, dusted across my cheeks and the bridge of my nose, conceals my faint freckles.

Servants lead me through the corridors, three carrying the train of my gown, until we arrive at the Hall of Ancestors. They form a neat line outside the towering double doors, arms folded and heads bowed.

Only Tundrayni royalty may enter the Hall of Ancestors.

I steel myself with a deep breath.

The door thuds shut behind me.

Hundreds of ice sculptures line the vast room, tall statues of men and women that no longer tread the snows. Icicles hang from the high, vaulted ceiling, casting long shadows across the carved faces—some are still sharp, though others bear features blunted by time.

“Honored ancestors,” I whisper, my breath misting in the cool air. “Today is my betrothal. I seek your blessing and wisdom.” I clasp my hands together and bow my head before weaving a path through the aisles. Though I stop briefly at each statue, there is one in particular I seek.

Turmah. My grandmother.

I crane my head, eyes squinting against the filtered sunlight. Her features are still crisp, not yet weathered by the years. Turmah appears regal and serene. In the straight bridge of her nose and smooth curve of her chin, I see Father.

Her ice robes are cold beneath my reverent fingers.

I’m not the first Tundrayni princess that was sent to Arbinj with the hope of peace. My grandmother made the journey decades before me. Her marriage lasted only three months—three months of agony and humiliation and abuse—before a group of Tundrayni warriors rescued her.

I trail my fingers higher until I reach Turmah’s sleeve. The ice here is sharp, jagged, where a piece of the sculpture was hacked off.

Because when Turmah returned, she was missing her left hand.

Before she escaped, her Arbinji husband had chopped it off, along with her betrothal ring. After she returned home, Turmah married one of the warriors who had rescued her, later giving birth to my father. According to stories from white-haired servants, she was never the same after her ordeal, always easily startled. Haunted.

The war with Arbinj has escalated since then, claiming more lives on both sides with every passing season.

I swallow around the lump in my throat and pray my marriage yields better results for my kingdom than Turmah’s, even as icy dread chills my heart.

With one final look, I briefly greet the remaining sculptures, then leave the Hall of Ancestors behind.

There is no statue of Mama.


The ice throne is freezing beneath me. My delicate betrothal gown is beautiful, but Tides, what I wouldn’t give to be wearing something warmer. My pajamas, even.

The murmurs of the assembled Tundrayni nobility, all dressed in their finest blue and white furs, ripple through the Great Hall. Even with such short notice, the servants managed to ready the large, circular room for the ceremony.

In the center, where I sit shivering, is a large dais made of solid ice. Beside me is another ice throne, gleaming in the sunlight seeping in through the large windows. The twin seats were carved specifically for the ceremony and are smaller than Father’s majestic seat that sits in the Throne Room.

Father enters shortly thereafter, dressed in formal sapphire furs, his white beard gathered together with a thin blue ribbon. On his head sits the ice crown, its sharp, translucent spears rising toward the heavens. The echoing stamp of boots rumbles through the hall as the nobility rises to greet their king as he sits beside me. Father appears at ease, raising a regal hand to the assembled guests, but tension lines the set of his jaw.