Crown of Ice

CROWN OF ICE

VICKI L. WEAVIL

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author makes no claims to, but instead acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the word marks mentioned in this work of fiction.

Copyright © 2014 by Vicki L. Weavil

CROWN OF ICE by Vicki L. Weavil

All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by Month9Books, LLC.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Published by Month9Books

Cover by Whit & Ware Design

Cover Copyright © 2014 Month9Books

Dedicated to the memory of my grandparents:

Ellen and George King

Norma and John Lemp

“The whole world is a series of miracles,

but we're so used to them we call them ordinary things.”

-
Hans Christian Andersen

CROWN OF ICE

VICKI L. WEAVIL

SHATTERED REFLECTIONS

My parents lie somewhere beneath the snow, buried with my mortal life.

I spend endless days searching for their remains. Tucking a piece of the mirror inside my fur-lined cloak, I harness one of my milk-white ponies to a sledge. Flying over ice and snow, I hold up the shard to catch the rays of the sun.

“Show me,” I order the reflective glass. “Show me where they sleep.”

The fragment of mirror flashes with prismatic color, but I never catch a glimpse of my parents’ icy grave. They are gone—lost to the mountain and the winds. An unfathomable ocean of snow sucked them into its depths, far from even my powers of perception.

I can see much, but never their faces.

I was only five when they were swept from me. When I recall that horror, I remember my tears. I never weep now, but in those days it wasn’t unusual for me to cry. My mother claimed that I was born with rose-petal skin—too fragile, too thin to protect me from the world’s thorns. A single harsh word or a sharp look would reduce me to hysterical tears. Seated between my parents in our small sleigh, my father gently admonished me for grabbing at the reins. It was enough. I began to cry. My parents hushed me, their eyes frantically darting about. But it was too late. My wails echoed through the narrow mountain pass. A roar drowned my cries and a great wave of snow rushed toward us.

My mother lifted me up, as if to wrap me in her arms. A gust of wind tore me from her and bore me aloft, carrying me some distance before tossing me into a snow bank. I didn’t see the sleigh disappear, but I heard everything—the screams of the horses, the agonized cries of my parents. Late at night I hear them still.

The villagers always said God took a hand in my life. But it wasn’t a deity that snatched me from my parents’ icy tomb. It was the hand of master mage Mael Voss, conjuring a wind from the safety of his frozen fortress. Surveying the countryside though the largest fragment of his magic mirror, he spied my plight and saved me. Not from any sense of tenderness, or pity—there were no such emotions clouding his crystalline eyes, even then. He had a use for me. He saved me for himself.

Voss sent the farmer to find me and carry me, shaking and wailing, to the village—an old man who never understood why he was compelled to trudge across his frozen pastures that day, or why he climbed to the pass that led from his village to the greater world. He located me by the sound of my crying. The one time it served me well.

No sounds, even to my enchanted ears, can reveal my parents’ resting place. They’ve been silent far too long. After a while I lay the reins lightly against the pony’s neck to turn us from the mountain pass. As darkness creeps over the fields and forests we head to a castle carved of ice. We head home.

At night the palace’s crystal halls are tinged sapphire. One of the first bits of magic that Voss taught me was to set the carved walls alight so that I’m not forced to walk the halls in darkness. I conjure a cold light that glows within the thick walls without melting the ice. I mastered this trick quickly once I knew what those shadows held. If I leave an area in darkness, they come—the girls who reigned as Snow Queen before me.

“I must find it.” Their hollow words wind about me like a shroud. “The last piece. I must place it. Give it to me.”

They are only shadows—swirling mists that occasionally coalesce to create phantoms of their former selves. So many girls, from so many eras. Some from the far past, their ghostly bodies attired in ancient robes and strange, peaked headdresses, and some dressed in the garb of more recent years. I know there is nothing left of their real natures—a curse has destroyed their minds. All thought is lost to them, except for the memory of their final terror. Of every shape and size and time, they share only one trait—the absolute agony that burns within their hollow eyes.

They suffer a fate that makes ordinary death look like a blessing—the loss of so much more than a body. It is the sacrifice of the soul and the destruction of mind and will.

I would free them if I could. Allow them the respite of a true death. Send them to their rest.

But it does not matter what I might desire to give them, I cannot alter their plight. They thrust their hands at me, but their fingers can neither hold nor grasp. They are not dead, they cannot die. Mael Voss made them immortal when he made them queen.

But the wraiths, deathless as they are, hold no power. They are merely the remnants of girls who failed. They could not accomplish the one thing that Voss asks, no,
demands
—that his Snow Queen piece together a shattered looking glass.

He needs the mirror whole for some purpose I cannot determine. I only know it is a magic totem that Voss values above all things. Stranger still, Voss requires the assistance of other hands to restore the mirror, despite his own magical prowess.

The wizard constantly foils my attempts to understand the purpose of the looking glass, but I know why I was brought to this cold kingdom. It is simple enough to connect my fate to the stories I heard as a child, told in hushed tones near a brightly burning fire. How, long ago, Voss stole a girl from one of the surrounding towns and transformed her into something the villagers could comprehend, and fear. The embodiment of brutal winters, of ice and death—the Snow Queen.

Voss gave his young queen magic of her own. She never felt the cold that froze others in a breath. Frostbite could not eat into her body. She could call forth blizzards and blighting frosts. She could even slow heartbeats until animals and humans fell into stupors that led to death. But Voss was no fool. He’d create no creature whose power could challenge his own. He added a draft of poison to his spell. The girl who reigned as queen had to reassemble the magic mirror before her eighteenth birthday. Fail, and she was transformed into a bodiless wraith, doomed to forever wander the halls of her former palace.

My name is Thyra Winther, and I am seventeen years old. I have five months to restore the mirror or suffer the fate of my predecessors.

I often encounter them in the shadows, their translucent faces frozen into masks of grief, their eyes devoid of memory, of sense. I stride past them. Or through them, if necessary. A disgusting sensation, like walking through a spider’s web—light as milkweed floss but clinging to my skin. Still, I’d rather endure such unpleasantness than stay in their company, haunted by a constant reminder of my fate.

“The final piece,” they whine. “I have it. I hold it. I will place it correctly. I will remain queen.”

They cannot truly speak with me—their words are those burned upon their tongues when their lives were ripped into shreds of mist. Only when they warn of my future, channeling the power of the mirror’s curse, do they speak anything other than their foolish, repeated phrases.

“You’ll do nothing.” I snap at them. “You are smoke and air and unending stupidity.”

It does no good for me to show any kindness. They comprehend nothing. Their gaze is turned inward, focused on their own memories of horror.

I stalk away to the safety of my bedchamber, where a cold flame fills the icy fireplace and the skins of slaughtered beasts cover the walls and floor.

They all failed, all those who came before me. But I will conquer Voss’s task. I am no ordinary girl—nothing like the wraiths, although they were once a bit like me. I am brighter than the borealis, sharper than an ice crystal, stronger than the northern winds. I will reassemble the mirror and reign as Snow Queen forever.

***

Curled upon my bed, I contemplate the leather-bound notebook in my hands. It contains pages of calculations, all the equations I’ve created to systematically piece together the fragments of the mirror. The looking glass itself does not reside in my rooms. It lies upon a massive wooden table in the Great Hall of the palace. Two-thirds of the mirror now gleams brightly, the fragments perfectly fused together. But I’ve learned that each piece must be placed in the exact position from which it fell. Insert it incorrectly and the mirror will reject the fragment, spinning it off to the opposite corner of the frame.

I keep one piece of the mirror in my chambers, as I know Voss keeps one in his. The final two pieces, to be placed when all the rest is complete—and our protection from one another.

So far, Voss is pleased with me. I’ve progressed further with the reconstruction than any girl before me. He claims that I’m fortunate in my choices, but it’s not luck that has gotten me this far. It’s logic and mathematics. I wield these skills to piece together the mirror and survive the isolation of Voss’s icy fortress.

As I page through the notebook I notice a multiplication sequence and a memory surfaces. I am eleven years old and my foster mother Inga Leth has forced me to accompany her to church. She has no interest in taking me anywhere else, but at church I am her badge of honor, the symbol of her virtue and charity. Everyone else has left, headed home to their Sunday dinners of salted fish and potatoes. But Inga’s still chatting with the minister, her hands flying about, punctuating her words.

Scrunched down in a hard wooden pew, I stare at the simple metal cross that hangs over the altar. Two lines that intersect—not centered but balanced. I lose myself in contemplation of the mathematical precision of that figure. My eyes instinctively follow the lines down and up and across. Perfect.

“I can do calculations in my head,” says a voice, and I slide around on the varnished seat to face a boy. He is my age or just a bit younger. He has hair the color of walnut shells and eyes as dark as holes cut in an ice-covered lake.

“I can,” the boy repeats. He must have read the doubt on my face.

“Who are you?” He doesn’t have that look of the others who stare at me. His eyes are bright with curiosity instead of disdain.

“My name’s Kai Thorsen. My parents and I are visiting my uncle.” He examines me carefully. “What do they call you?”

“Thyra,” I reply. “Thyra Winther.”

“Oh. You’re the orphan rescued from the avalanche.”

“Yes.” I force myself to stare into his dark eyes. Even visitors to the village have heard my story. “I’m good at sums, my teacher says. Better than most boys.”

“I don’t think you’re better than me.” Kai states this as a fact. There’s confidence, not arrogance, in his voice.

“Calculate something then.” I pull a small notebook and pencil from my skirt pocket as I slide over to allow him to sit next to me.