THE WATER IS SLUSH by the time the Saad makes her berth. Cold has a faithful presence here, and with dusk rapidly approaching, the air seems almost frozen by the impending absence of sun. Regardless, it’s just as bright as if it were morning. The mirror of the frozen sky against the white water, flecked by tufts of ice and snow, makes for a kingdom that is beautifully void of darkness. Even in the dead of night, the sky turns no darker than a mottled blue, and the ground itself acts like a light to guide the way. Snow, reflecting the eternal tinsel of the stars.
Págos.
I feel the beat of the necklace against my heart as we step foot onto the snow. Finally the crystal is within reach. I have the key and the map to navigate the route, and all that’s left is for Lira to tell me the secrets of the ritual.
The air is crisp on my skin, and though my hands are wrapped under thick gloves, I shove my fists into my pockets anyway. The wind penetrates here through every layer, including skin. I’m dressed in fur so thick that walking feels like an exertion. It slows me down more than I would like, and even though I know there’s no imminent threat of attack, I still don’t like being unprepared in case one comes. It shakes me more than the cold ever could.
When I turn to Lira, the ends of her hair are white with frost. “Try not to breathe,” I tell her. “It might get stuck halfway out.”
Lira flicks up her hood. “You should try not to talk then,” she retorts. “Nobody wants your words being preserved for eternity.”
“They’re pearls of wisdom, actually.”
I can barely see Lira’s eyes under the mass of dark fur from her coat, but the mirthless curl of her smile is ever-present. It lingers in calculated amusement as she considers what to say next. Readies to ricochet the next blow.
Lira pulls a line of ice from her hair, artfully indifferent. “If that is what pearls are worth these days, I’ll make sure to invest in diamonds.”
“Or gold,” I tell her smugly. “I hear it’s worth its weight.”
Kye shakes the snow from his sword and scoffs. “Anytime you two want to stop making me feel nauseated, go right ahead.”
“Are you jealous because I’m not flirting with you?” Madrid asks him, warming her finger on the trigger mechanism of her gun.
“I don’t need you to flirt with me,” he says. “I already know you find me irresistible.”
Madrid reholsters her gun. “It’s actually quite easy to resist you when you’re dressed like that.”
Kye looks down at the sleek red coat fitted snugly to his lithe frame. The fur collar cuddles against his jaw and obscures the bottoms of his ears, making it seem as though he has no neck at all. He throws Madrid a smile.
“Is it because you think I look sexier wearing nothing?”
Torik lets out a withering sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose. I’m not sure whether it’s from the hours we’ve gone without food or his inability to wear cutoffs in the biting cold, but his patience seems to be wearing thin.
“I could swear that I’m on a life-and-death mission with a bunch of lusty kids,” he says. “Next thing I know, the lot of you will be writing love notes in rum bottles.”
“Okay,” Madrid says. “Now I feel nauseated.”
I laugh, but the sound is lost against the rhythm of nomadic drumbeats that barrel toward us. Up ahead, a line of warriors approach. There’s at least a dozen of them, standing in a perfect military arrow, marching fiercely in our direction. Even with the blizzard, they’re easy to spot. The snow does a poor job of obscuring their imposing statures and impressively systematic formation. They hike seamlessly in step with one another, feet crushing into the snow with the pound of every drumbeat. They look like giants, their uniforms so dark, they ink the empty landscape.
When they reach us, there’s a momentary silence while we consider one another.
Even with the layers of fur and armor, it’s not hard to tell the royals from their soldiers. The four members of the Págese family stand like titans, magnificent hunters’ headdresses swooping down their backs in glorious coats. Their eyes peer through the jaws of their respective animals: polar bear, Arctic fox, wilderness wolf, and in the middle of the warriors and his brothers, the snow lion.
Each animal is a glorious shade of white that melts into the snow by their feet. It’s a stark contrast to their black armor and weaponry – spears and swords that are all the darkest shade of ebony. They gleam in a way that’s almost liquid.
The Págese brothers pull back the animal skins shielding them from the cold. As expected, King Kazue is the snow lion. The most deadly of all creatures. Though it stands taller than some men, the Págese king seems to encompass the creature’s size perfectly. He doesn’t look at all dwarfed by the mammoth carcass.
“Prince Elian,” Kazue greets.
His skin is so white, it’s almost blue. His lips mingle with the rest of his face like a variant shade, and everything about him is as sharp as it is straight. His eyes are severe points that arch to the ends of his brows, and his hair is made from rays of sword-like strands that scrape against his weaponry.
Kazue brings his hand to his stomach and leans forward in a customary bow. His brothers follow suit, while the guardians around them stay firmly upright. In Págos, it’s not customary for soldiers to bow to royalty. It’s a greeting made only from one elite to another, and soldiers must stay still and impartial. Unnoticed until they’re acknowledged.
“Your Royal Highness,” I say, returning the greeting. “I’d like to thank you for receiving us into your kingdom. It’s an honor to be welcomed here.”
I turn to the princes, their headdresses matched according to their age and, so, according to their right to the throne. The second eldest, Prince Hiroki, is the polar bear; Tetsu, the wilderness wolf; and the youngest prince, Koji, is the Arctic fox. I formally greet them and they bow in turn.
I wonder which of them is Rycroft’s na?ve little source.
“Of course, it’s not just my brothers who welcome you,” Kazue says, “but our entire family.”
He waves his hand behind him, and a new figure emerges from the soldiers, dressed as gloriously as the royal family. A fifth, standing shorter and with a far less military posture, but a similar sense of indignation. I don’t need the unprecedented addition to pull back the animal skin to know who it is.
Sakura smiles when she sees my face tick, bright blue lips matching the ungodly color of the sky. Her hair is shorter than before, with a fringe cut bluntly to hide the tips of her eyes. A heavy bronze chain sweeps down from her forehead to a white-bone piercing on her left earlobe.
She doesn’t look like a princess; she looks like a queen. A warrior. An adversary.
“Prince Elian,” she says.
“Princess Yukiko.”