Never did she think that something as simple and natural as the cold would be the thing that ended her. A curse or a blade to the heart, maybe. But never the cold.
First Isla was sad. Then she was afraid.
And then she was angry again.
Cleo was right ... she was a fool. She had followed the Moonling ruler without a plan, so desperate to get answers. And the heart.
And revenge.
She took all the words to her mother back, calling them from the sky, roping her prayers down. If she had powers, she could maybe lift a finger and access the rock deep below the ice. Or a tree. Or call to an animal that would help her free.
I do blame you,she said in her head.If I die, I blame you. What kind of Wildling falls in love, knowing the costs?She wondered what her mother would look like now. An older version of herself, she supposed. Once a ruler had children, they began to age more properly, looking older and older the more their family line grew. Each family only had access to so much power. After the curses, the island and realms grew weaker. But in a way, some people, by losing their families, became stronger.
Isla had no family. And she was still weak.
Alone.
No ... not alone.
Her necklace. Grim had told her to touch it any time she needed him. He could save her. Her hands were too far—she had no chance of breaking them free. But her chin—maybe she could touch it to the chain ...
A sound from deep in her throat echoed against the surrounding mountains as she strained, the nerves at the base of her neck crying out in pain. She angled her head the farthest she could, head pounding.
But with the ice Cleo had trailed up her throat, it was not enough.
She collapsed, her head hitting the back of the mountain. She barely processed the ache. Even if somehow she could touch the necklace, Grim couldn’t be out at night, she realized. He couldn’t get to her until morning.
And by morning she would be dead.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
LIES
Hot breath puffed against her cheek. She heard splitting ice—someone was heaving a blade against it. Cutting through the frost to get her out like carving a statue.
Isla couldn’t open her eyes. They had frozen over, like the rest of her. Her eyelashes had glued together. Though she could not see, she knew it was still night, for it had gotten colder.
Her lips tried to part, to thank whoever was setting her free. But they were sealed closed, knitted together by frost. Whoever they were, they banged their weapon hard against the ice, over and over, the vibrations going through her bones. They were going to strike her if they weren’t careful.
“It’s her, isn’t it?” a voice said. It was wickedly deep—and amused.
Another voice. “Look at that face. Of course it is.” She felt something sharp against her cheek. A blade? No, a nail. A long one. “We’ll make a broth from her bones that will fill us with power. We’ll burn her hair and inhale the smoke to make us beautiful again.”
Isla stopped breathing.
The first voice said, “She’s awake, isn’t she? Do you think she can hear us?”
“I don’t care. Where is Thrayer? This ice isn’t breaking easily.”
Something rustled nearby. Then, “I’m here. You found her like this?”
The first one squealed. “Trapped like a rat in honey.”
“Good. Very good ...”
The ice went warm, shifting into water. She slipped down the side of the mountain, landing at its base. Even though her body was freed, she couldn’t move a muscle, even to reach her neck.
Someone gripped beneath her shoulders and hauled her up.
