My gaze is drawn to an icy dais in the center of the camp. Standing atop it is none other than the vizier himself, Perth Quellos.
Even from so far above, I can see the conniving glint in his eye as he observes the gathering. On his head sits a metal crown encircling a bright green gem; I remember seeing him wear it back at Castletree. Emerald mist writhes and shifts around it like a living thing.
A cloaked figure stands beside him. Though their face is hidden by the hood, the same green glow emanates from the shadows. Do they wear a crown of the same?
“What’s going on?” I whisper to Farron.
“I don’t know.” Anger flashes in his gaze. “They’re camped upon the burial grounds from the War of Thorns. Such utter disrespect to our history, to our dead.”
The crowd hushes as the vizier raises his hands. Dark charisma oozes out of him, a very different presence than I’ve ever seen him possess.
“Beloved denizens of Winter,” Perth begins, his voice carrying across the wind with a magically amplified force, “long have you waited for our prodigal prince to return and lead our realm to righteous deliverance. Standing before me are those of you who were brave enough to cast off your shackles of loyalty and instead stand for what is right.”
A booming applause rages up from the soldiers. Some clatter swords to shield.
“Long have the realms been at the whims of the High Rulers. Long have we pretended they are the tenets of Queen Aurelia herself! But the Queen abandoned us, and Keldarion has followed suit. It is time for us to stop believing the lie that the High Princes want what is best for us. Instead, we must carve our own fate into history!”
I can barely hear the roar of applause over my pounding heart. If this is a Winter rebellion, why are they in Autumn?
The vizier spreads his fingers wide, voice hoarse and raspy. “I have seen with my own eyes what evil has befallen the Winter Prince! In my quest to free the Vale of its attachments to these futile leaders, my designs accidentally crossed into Autumn territory. But now, word comes that Coppershire shelters the High Princes, and they intend to make war on Winter. So, we shall strike first!”
Farron grabs my shaking hands in his. A fervor takes the crowd, and Perth’s crown blinks with that poisonous inward light.
“Coppershire will be the first to fall, but the rest of Autumn will soon follow. Then we shall take Spring and Summer. All the realms will know of the mercy of living under a free Winter. A Winter not led by a useless boy, but by the people!”
The crowd begins another uproarious cheer, but Perth holds up a single finger. “It is you who must do this thing. You who must sacrifice your mortal body to become something greater. Something worthy of the great destiny that awaits Winter. Who shall be the first?” He surveys the crowd. “Who stands brave enough to deliver Winter’s grace?”
“I do.” A young soldier steps out of the crowd and onto the dais.
A sliver of a smile crawls up Perth’s face. From out of the wide sleeves of his robe, he pulls a dagger. “Then you know what must be done.”
The man takes the dagger with shaking fingers and holds it to his breast.
“What’s happening?” I whisper to Farron.
“I don’t—”
A horrible squelch sounds in the valley. The man’s hands fall from the dagger that he plunged into his own heart, and he hits the icy dais with a thud.
“Do not mourn him,” Perth calls to the crowd, “for he is to be reborn as something greater.”
His crown pulses with green energy, and his cold eyes gleam with anticipation. He mutters an incantation and raises his arms out to the sides. A frigid wind swirls around him, carrying the unmistakable stench of death.
The fallen body twitches and convulses. Frost forms on the skin, and the limbs jerk, then stiffen. The dead man’s eyes shoot open, but they are no longer filled with the warmth of life. Instead, they are glazed over with cold, soulless emptiness.
A winter wraith. This is how they’re created. It’s been Perth Quellos’s doing.
“Kel trusted him,” I manage.
Farron’s face scrunches with anger. “Quellos framed him. He allowed these creatures to ravage Autumn.”
The wraith rises, its movements jerky and uncoordinated, the skin a sickly shade of blue.
It stands obediently beside the hooded figure on the dais.
“Now,” Perth says, “who is next?”
Farron and I watch in horror as soldier after soldier volunteers. Each one drives a dagger through their own heart, only to be resurrected into something unnatural and obedient.
“We have to warn the city,” I urge and Farron nods.
The terrified voice of a soldier halts our escape. “Your Eminence, with all due respect, there are not enough of us here to take the capital! Should we not gather more troops?”
Perth gives a sinister grin. “Why, my good man, you are surrounded by the rest of your comrades.”
Frosty light pulses from Perth’s crown, and green mist seems to stream from his eyes, his nostrils, his mouth, as he raises his arms. A rotten stench of death and decay fills the air as the ground around the camp rumbles. The earth stirs, turning over and over itself until…
Hands. Bony hands shoot up from the ground. Skeletons claw their way to the surface, their limbs creaking and cracking as they pry themselves loose from dirt. Not just fae, but the skeletons of goblins, too. All the fighters who were taken during the mudslide during the War of Thorns.
Icicles protrude from the bones as they shamble toward the base of camp, hollow eye sockets fixed on their master. Hundreds and hundreds shuffle forward, falling into rank.
Farron’s breathing quickens. “No… It can’t be.”
Perth purposely camped upon the mass grave. He planned this.
His voice beams with reverent pride. “At dawn, we march on Coppershire!”
Anger and grief war in Farron’s eyes, but I grab his arm and yank him away from the army. We take off at a run, finding shelter in the treeline once again.
“Those are our dead,” Farron says. “Those are the bones of our fallen soldiers!”
“He’s going to use them to take your living ones.” I grab my mate’s head between my hands. “We must warn Coppershire at once.”
Farron closes his eyes and nods.
“My horse ran off. We’ll have to find a way back to the city, and quickly,” I say.
Something sparks in Farron’s gaze. He looks up at the burning sun. “I know a way.” He touches the space above his heart. “We broke the curse, but I think the Enchantress left something. A gift.”
Slowly, he unclasps his cloak, letting it fall to the ground. Then he pulls off his shirt and pants. Standing in the bare golden light, my mate looks angelic.
His fae body melts away, revealing a majestic wolf with fur the color of fallen leaves and rippling flame. He shakes himself, and the air encircling him shimmers with energy.
Gone is the beast. Before me stands a guardian.
I glide over to the wolf and tentatively reach out to touch his snout. He nuzzles against me. Then he lowers his body and motions for me to get on. I mount the wolf, weaving my fingers through his rich fur. And as the great beast dashes across the Autumn realmlands, he lets loose such a howl that it shakes the very hills themselves.
71
Farron
I am strong.
Not the wolf. Not the beast.
I, Farron, High Prince of Autumn, am strong.
For now, the wolf and I are one and the same.
My powerful legs bound through the streets of Coppershire and toward Keep Oakheart. My mate’s thighs clutch tight around me, her hands woven into my fur.
Everything is heightened. I know where each guard is before I even see them: I smell their leather armor, hear the patter of their feet on the cobblestone. The beating of my great heart is both new and familiar all at once. You were always inside me.
The guards I can’t avoid are too astonished to spot a beautiful woman atop a massive wolf to pose any threat.