Crush the King (Crown of Shards #3)(22)

*

Afterward, Sullivan kept his promise. He tucked me under the blankets, then spooned against my back and drifted off to sleep. I slept as well, but some time later the soothing blackness receded, replaced by memories I would have rather forgotten . . .

I had never been so hungry.

My hunger was like a gargoyle in my belly, constantly growling, grumbling, and demanding to be fed. But there was nothing in the snowy woods to eat, unless I wanted to gnaw on some pine cones.

I eyed one of the spiky brown cones that littered the ground. Would eating a pine cone kill me? I didn’t know, but it certainly wouldn’t be good for me. Then again, neither was wandering around the woods in circles.

Three days ago, I had stumbled away from the ruined remains of Winterwind, my family estate. My father, Jarl Sancus, had been poisoned with wormroot by Ansel, my traitorous tutor, while my mother, Lady Leighton Larimar Winter Blair, had been murdered by a Mortan weather magier while we’d been fleeing from our home. I’d gotten lucky and had managed to kill the weather magier, and I’d been wandering through the woods ever since.

I thought I’d been walking south, heading toward the nearest town, but I must have gotten turned around in the trees because I hadn’t come across any signs of civilization. No hunters stalking deer, no one chopping wood, not even a traveler on the way to Unger or Andvari. My only company was the bluefrost doves softly cooing in the treetops, and for all I knew, I was the last person alive on the entire continent. But staring hungrily at pine cones certainly wasn’t doing me any good, so I wrapped my arms around my still-growling stomach and trudged on.

The only good thing about walking through the woods was that there was plenty of water. I stopped in a clearing, scooped up a handful of snow from the ground, and shoved it into my mouth. The cold crystals froze my tongue before they slowly, reluctantly melted.

I was still crouching down, shoveling snow into my mouth and trying to pretend that it was something more substantial and filling, when a faint crack rang out.

I froze. Another crack rang out, and then another one, falling into a steady rhythm that I recognized as footsteps.

Someone was coming this way.

I stayed frozen in place a moment longer, then my mind sluggishly kicked into gear, whispering a warning. As much as I longed to find someone to help me—or at least give me something to bloody eat—Mortan assassins could be roaming around, searching for survivors of the Winterwind attack. I surged to my feet, but before I could hide behind a tree, two people strode into the clearing.

They stopped and stared, as surprised to see me as I was them.

One was a man, more than six feet tall, with dark brown hair, eyes, and skin, and a long, bushy brown beard. He was bundled up in a black cloak trimmed with shaggy brown fur that made him look like a grizzly. He was carrying a knapsack on either shoulder, with another, larger one strapped to his back. Several small bags were also fastened to his black leather belt, along with a piece of rope with a box dangling from the end. Black cloth covered the container, hiding the contents.

The other person was a woman with long blond hair, blue eyes, and milky skin, who was as petite and slender as the man was tall and stocky. Her black cloak was trimmed with sleek purple feathers, making her resemble a small, elegant strix.

The two of them must have been traipsing through the woods for quite some time, given the snow that crusted their black boots, but they looked warm and cozy in their thick cloaks, as though the chilly air wasn’t bothering them. I had to clench my hands into fists to keep from shivering in my thin blue dress.

“Hello, there, little lady,” the woman crooned in a soft voice. “What are you doing out here?”

“I’m . . . lost.”

It was more or less the truth, and it seemed to be the safest, most plausible explanation. I couldn’t tell these people, these strangers, who I was or what had happened at Winterwind. Not until I knew for certain that they weren’t Mortan assassins.

Part of me still wanted to bolt into the woods, but that hadn’t done me any good the last three days, so I forced myself to walk forward, as though I weren’t afraid of them.

“Can you help me find my parents? We were heading toward Andvari and stopped to make camp a few hours ago. My mother sent me to get some firewood, but I couldn’t find any, and I got turned around. All these stupid trees look the same.” I let out a weak laugh, hoping they wouldn’t realize how ridiculous my story was.

My mother and father had proudly told me how good we Bellonans were at playing the long game, at waiting, lying, plotting, and otherwise manipulating people in order to get them to do what we wanted. My mother had told me countless bedtime stories about Bryn Bellona Winter Blair and how my gladiator ancestor had used her wits, skills, strength, and magic to found our kingdom. I wasn’t trying to do something that grand and important, but I had a sneaking suspicion that my survival depended on my playing the long game now, even though I had never attempted it before.

The woman glanced at the man, who shrugged. She looked at me again, another, wider smile creasing her face.

“Of course we can help. What happened?” She gestured at my dress.

I looked down. My dress was torn and ripped from the Winterwind attack, and blood also stained the tattered fabric, turning it more brown than blue. My blood—along with my mother’s blood.

Thinking about how the Mortan weather magier had killed my mother made bile rise in my throat, but I swallowed it down and focused on the strangers again.