“I miss Arcadius and Miranda. She used to put me to bed at night, and he would tell me stories when I couldn’t sleep.”
“Well, I think I can help with that. I know a story—a story that a dear friend once told me when I was feeling very bad. So bad, in fact, that I couldn’t even eat. How about we get more wood for the fire, curl up in my big bed, and I will tell it to you?”
She watched the two padding about in their bare feet, collecting armloads of split logs.
The empress smiled.
Everyone commented on how gracious she was for taking them in and sharing her personal chambers. Although, there were some who thought that it was a political ploy—that her generosity was extended to make it impossible for any duke to suggest such indignities were beneath him. This was not the reason, only a convenient secondary benefit. Modina did it because she had promised Wyatt she would look after Allie, and she meant to fulfill that oath. As there was no separating the two girls, Modina inherited twins. Having done so, she realized that even if Wyatt returned that night, and the winter melted to summer and all the problems with her kingdom were swept away by some miracle, she would still want the children to live with her. Carefree laughter was something Modina had not heard in a great while. She had stared out her window at a free blue sky to avoid the gray world of grim-faced men. Now a bit of that sky bounced within her chambers. They reminded her of Maria and Jessie Caswell, childhood friends who had died too soon.
She tucked the girls in and lay beside Allie, stroking her hair.
“This is called Kile and the White Feather. The father of the gods, Erebus, had three sons: Ferrol, Drome, and Maribor. They were the gods of elves, dwarves, and men. He also had a daughter, Muriel, who was the loveliest being ever created. She held dominion over all the plants and animals. Well, one night Erebus became drunk and… well, he hurt his own daughter. In anger, her brothers attacked their father and tried to kill him, but of course, gods can’t die.
“Filled with guilt and grief, Erebus returned to Muriel and begged her forgiveness. She was moved by her father’s remorse but still could not bear to look at him. He begged, pleading for her to name a punishment. He would do anything to win her forgiveness. Muriel needed time to let the fear and pain pass, so she told him, ‘Go to Elan to live. Not as a god, but as a man to learn humility.’ To repent for his misdeeds, she charged him with doing good works. Erebus did as she requested and took the name of Kile. It is said that to this day, he walks the world of men, working miracles. For each act that pleases her, Muriel bestows upon him a white feather from her magnificent robe, which he keeps in a pouch forever by his side. Muriel decreed that when the day came when all the feathers were bestowed, she would call her father home and forgive him. It is said when all the gods are reunited, all will be made right and the world will transform into a paradise.”
“Empress?” Mercy said.
“Yes?”
“When you die, do you meet others who have died?”
“I don’t know. Who is it you want to meet?”
“I miss my mother.”
“Oh, that’s different,” she told her. “I am quite certain daughters and mothers are always reunited.”
“Really?”
“Of course.”
“She was very pretty, my mother. She used to say I was pretty too.”
“And you are.”
“She told me I would grow up to be a fairy princess one day, but I don’t think I will now. I don’t think I will grow up at all.”
“Don’t talk like that. If your mother said you would be a fairy princess, you trust her—mothers know these things.” She hugged the girl and kissed her cheek. Mercy felt so small, so delicate. “Now it is late and time for you to go to sleep.”
A bright moon was rising.
Modina thought of the fifty-eight men outside, pitched on a snowy hillside, ordered by her to remain in the cold. Some would lose fingers, others toes, noses, or ears, and some might be dying right then, like her father almost had the night of the blizzard. They might be huddled in a shallow frozen hole they had chipped out of the snow, trying in vain to keep warm with only a thin wool blanket and a few layers of clothes separating them from the bitter winds. They would shiver uncontrollably, their teeth chattering, their muscles tight as they pulled into balls, snow and ice forming on their beards and eyelashes. The unlucky ones would fall into a deep warm sleep, never to wake up.
She thought of the men, imagined their pain and fear, and felt guilt. They were dying on her command, but she needed them to be there. As much as she wished it could be better for them, as much as she wished she could pray for warmer weather, she looked out at the sparkling stars and whispered, “Please, Maribor, I know I am not your daughter. I am but a poor peasant girl who shouldn’t even be here, but please, please make it stay cold.”