Tears of Frost Read online

  Dedication

  For the girls. All of us.

  Map

  Author’s Note

  In the world of this trilogy, magic is born of a power imbalance. Magicians carry inside them a long history of subjugation, including rape, bodily harm, and abuse. Because this book delves more deeply into their magic, it delves more deeply into these subjects, too. In many ways this story is my meditation on sexual assault and depression, two threads that for me have always been intertwined.

  Everyone’s experience of assault and/or depression is unique. I’ve done my best to represent them with fairness and sensitivity.

  I believe stories work in two ways: they transport us to a place we have never visited, and at the same time, they resonate with the truest parts of who we are. In this way, books can be powerful agents of healing. But when a book transports you to a place you no longer feel safe, that resonance can be painful and retraumatizing. I do not ever want to do my readers harm.

  If you need to put this book down at any point—even right now—please do so. Take care of yourself. That is the most important thing.

  And if you are suffering, please never be afraid to reach out for help. On that note, I’ve included a list of resources in the back of this book. I know from personal experience there are always people ready to offer support, even when it feels hopeless. In my own life, the best gift I have ever given myself is learning how to ask.

  Bree Barton

  Epigraph

  Long before blood poured from flesh,

  and breath clung to bone,

  before the ancient runes were ground to glass

  to shift shapes in the aether,

  back when mothers whispered truths

  cloaked as once-upon-a-times,

  Know this, little ones, they said.

  When day breaks, frost becomes a flame.

  When dusk falls, beasts become the prey.

  And when the moon is weeping,

  the witches do their reaping.

  —Addi proverb

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Map

  Author’s Note

  Epigraph

  28 Days Till the Weeping Moon

  Chapter 1: Fugitives

  Chapter 2: Like a Blade

  Chapter 3: Dirt and Blood

  Chapter 4: For the Both of Us

  Chapter 5: Serenade

  Chapter 6: Bruised Ass

  Chapter 7: Frostflower

  21 Days Till the Weeping Moon

  Chapter 8: Dead

  Chapter 9: The Darkest Night

  Chapter 10: Angel of Ashes

  Chapter 11: Delicious

  Chapter 12: Devil

  Chapter 13: Exposed

  Chapter 14: A Blaze of Scarlet

  19 Days Till the Weeping Moon

  Chapter 15: Home

  Chapter 16: Braggarts and Thieves

  Chapter 17: Guttural

  Chapter 18: Twisted

  Chapter 19: A Violation

  Chapter 20: Only One

  Chapter 21: Kissed by Fyre, Steeled by Ice

  17 Days Till the Weeping Moon

  Chapter 22: Wrenched

  Chapter 23: Bite-Sized

  Chapter 24: A Little More Magic

  Chapter 25: Experiment

  Chapter 26: Break You

  Chapter 27: Not a Normal Girl

  Chapter 28: Plunged

  11 Days Till the Weeping Moon

  Chapter 29: More Death

  Chapter 30: Fierce and Lovely

  Chapter 31: Thick With Pleasure

  Chapter 32: Cottage by the Lake

  Chapter 33: Liar

  Chapter 34: As Good as Dead

  Chapter 35: Somehow Familiar

  1 Day Till the Weeping Moon

  Chapter 36: Perfect Likeness

  Chapter 37: Family of Ghosts

  Chapter 38: A Mother’s Touch

  Chapter 39: Fairy Tale

  Chapter 40: Tinkering and Toiling

  Chapter 41: Kindred Spirits

  Chapter 42: Duet

  The Night of the Weeping Moon

  Chapter 43: One Last Mistake

  Chapter 44: Splinters

  Chapter 45: Sapphire Silver

  Chapter 46: Reservoir

  Chapter 47: The Forgotten

  Chapter 48: Cell

  Chapter 49: Sweetest Sister

  Chapter 50: A Space Between

  Chapter 51: Hurt You

  Chapter 52: Alive

  Chapter 53: Terribly Susceptible

  Chapter 54: Left to Burn

  Chapter 55: The Shadowess

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Resources

  About the Author

  Books by Bree Barton

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  28 Days till the Weeping Moon

  My dearest sister,

  Let me tell you a story.

  Once upon a time, there was a reinsdyr. She had soft gray fur with white patches like spilled milk. The reinsdyr lived alone, apart from the herd, in a snow-sugared forest. When she grew hungry during the long winters, she wandered closer to the mountains to find food.

  From their den, the ice leopards watched the reinsdyr graze the fields below. They saw her munching on roots and frostflowers, nibbling pink apples and mushrooms with tiny caps. They rejoiced when she found a nest of robin’s eggs or an arctic char flopping beside the lake, knowing she would grow fat and flavorful. “A reinsdyr is only as good as its meat,” they said, “and we need meat to survive. You cannot change your nature.”

  While the ice leopardesses nursed their young, the largest, fiercest leopards left a trail of frostflower petals, luring the reinsdyr up into the mountains. They waited. They did not have to wait long.

  When she came, the leopards proposed a trade. “We will give you food,” they said, “if you give us something first.”

  So the reinsdyr gave them what they wanted.

  They were not gentle, and they were not kind.

  Perhaps you have heard this story before, dear sister. It is an ancient legend of the snow kingdom, a story the Luumi tell their children before tucking them in at night.

  They tell me you have awoken, that you are traveling to the land of ice leopards and reinsdyr just in time for the Jyöltide celebration. But your place is here with me, not in Luumia. You belong by my side.

  Zaga has sharpened my men into a keen, deadly blade. They are hunting you, joined by an army a thousand Dujia strong.

  I trust you will come willingly when they arrive.

  All my love,

  Angelyne

  Chapter 1

  Fugitives

  THERE WERE FIVE OF them. Thick chested. White faces filthy with dirt and scruff. After stomping through the forest each day, they sat around the fire at night, roasting fatty goose legs and swigging tin cups of stonemalt. Coarse men, eating and drinking and farting like the brutes they were. From the shadows outside their camp, she listened to them swap stories about the brawls they’d won and the girls they’d lost.

  She had no plans to kill them.

  Not at first.

  She knew Angelyne had sent the men to track her down and haul her back to Kaer Killian. So far they’d done a piss-poor job. If anything, they were keeping her fed: she circled back every morning and sifted through the charred remains of their campfire. Slurped greasy meat off leftover bird bones. Drained the dregs from a forgotten flask. She even shat in a man’s hat the morning he was fool enough to leave it behind. He came back for the ugly rag and had it halfway to his head before he started screeching. She’d laughed so hard from her hiding spot she
nearly gave herself away.

  If they thought they were tailing her, they were mistaken. The advantage was hers and she intended to keep it. She would die before letting them drag her back to the castle.

  But Pilar d’Aqila was a decent sort of person.

  She’d give them a fair shot at dying first.

  As Pilar lurked on the outskirts of their camp, her thoughts grew darker, more violent. The men spoke of the servant girls—girls she’d met at the castle—ranking them by the firmness of their breasts or the plumpness of their asses.

  “I like ’em pretty and pint-sized.” The first man slapped his thigh. “Spunky, too.”

  The fifth man, who seemed to be the leader, groaned. “Too spunky is no good. They make trouble when you grab them for a kiss.”

  The story he told next, to a chorus of claps and guffaws, made Pilar’s blood burn.

  She didn’t know the men’s names, but she didn’t need to. First. Second. Third. Fourth. Fifth. The order in which she would destroy them. Like notes on a scale, one leading to the next.

  She knew she should keep quiet and concealed. Five brutes, one girl: the odds were stacked against her. But the fouler the men got, the fouler her temper.

  By the time the river rats shoved a fresh-caught prisoner into the circle—hands bound, potato sack over his head—her fists were itching for a fight.

  “Look what I found,” said the third man. “Our thief.”

  Pilar’s pride flared—she was the one thieving, not this clod in a potato sack. The fourth man kicked the back of the prisoner’s legs and his knees buckled. He dropped dangerously close to the crackling fire.

  The fifth man stepped forward and whipped off the sack. Kneeling on the forest floor was the prince of the river kingdom.

  Former prince, anyway. Last surviving son of Clan Killian and all that.

  Quin looked rough. His eyes were wild, his blond curls matted with dirt and leaves.

  “Please, wait. I can explain.” He fumbled for the leather pouch looped onto his belt, hands clumsy from the ropes around his wrists.

  “What’s this? Gold?” The fifth man snatched the pouch, tested its weight, and laughed. “You think we want your coins? The young queen has put a fine price on your head. She sits on all the Killian gold.”

  He stooped to look his prisoner in the eye. “Have you been stealing our food, Your Highness? Sucking down our scraps?”

  “N-no,” Quin stammered. “I swear to all four gods, I haven’t.”

  Pilar balled her fists so tight, her nails cut into her palms. The prince wasn’t her responsibility—but he didn’t deserve to be punished for her crimes.

  The fifth man had a hungry gleam in his eye. She knew that gleam.

  “Take a man’s meat and he might forgive you.” He scraped a dagger from its sheath. “Take a man’s malt and he’ll slit your throat.”

  To hells with it. Pilar attacked.

  She launched herself from behind a tree and into the circle. Skidded through the fire with the side of her boot, kicking a spray of smoldering coals into the first man’s face. Sparks scorched his eyes as he leapt back cursing.

  The second man lunged, grabbing a fistful of her glossy black hair. She clenched his fleshy palm tightly to her skull. Slammed her free hand into his elbow, popping the bone backward. He screamed.

  She wasn’t done.

  With her feet firmly planted, she hinged at the waist, spinning him in a half moon until he lost his balance and plowed into the ground. The bigger they were, the harder they fell. She crushed his nose with her boot—the sole of which was still mildly on fire from the coal trick—stamping out the embers on his face. Two birds, one boot.

  The third man let out a war cry and grabbed her from behind. He hooked his brawny arm around her neck and tried to drag her down. Not a chance. She arched her spine and thrust her hips back, driving both elbows hard into his ribs, over and over, until she heard the bones crack. Her hand swung between his legs, palm up, striking his groin. He gasped and stumbled backward.

  The fourth man was hardly worth mentioning. One solid punch to the throat and he crashed to the earth, strangling on a broken windpipe. The gurgle like a song.

  There was a rhythm to fighting, a tempo. The men lumbered. She danced.

  A fist collided with her face.

  She took the punch gracefully. Not that knuckles to the nose ever brought much opportunity for grace. She staggered back as red streaks clouded her vision.

  “Demon witch,” growled the fifth man.

  She spat blood-saliva. “Why don’t you grab me for a kiss?”

  He took the bait. Grabbed her wrist and pulled her closer. His other hand was occupied—with the dagger, she noticed. Not ideal. He swiped at her and she dodged the blade, barreling into him instead of away. The boldness of the move surprised him. She balled up her trapped fist and clasped her free hand over it, using her shoulder strength to wrest her arm out of the spot where his grip was weakest. One of her favorite tricks.

  He looked impressed.

  “Aren’t you going to enthrall me, little spitfire? I’d welcome your sweet touch.”

  Rage flooded every muscle of her body. In her mind she saw the cottage by the lake. Wooden rafters. Dirt floor. Broken horsehair bow.

  When the man raised the dagger, she smashed her arm bone into his, knocking the blade off course. Then she flattened her free hand and rammed all five fingers into his milky blue eyes. Don’t only block—counterattack. That was her training: Defend yourself, but do not hesitate to hurt him.

  Her fingertips had eye juice on them. She didn’t care. All her training was worth it, even the ugliest parts.

  Pilar seized his wrist and wrenched it, loosening his grip. The dagger dropped—directly into her sticky hand, which was ready and waiting.

  “For the girls,” she said. “All of us.”

  She plunged the blade straight into his heart.

  He burbled air and blood, then sank—not gracefully—to the ground. The quiet was pleasant. Or it would have been, if not for the groans and whimpers of the surviving men.

  “Pil?”

  She whirled around, ready to take on a sixth, before remembering there was no sixth. Just Prince Quin, kneeling on the forest floor. Staring at her in shock and disbelief. Which was kind of insulting, when she thought about it.

  “Pilar Zorastín d’Aqila.” She spat a long red dribble into the fire. “Only my friends call me Pil.”

  Never mind she didn’t have any.

  Pilar wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, leaving a brown smudge on her tawny gold skin. Shook her short black hair out of her eyes. Crouched and yanked the blade from the fifth man’s chest.

  In a few strokes she sliced through the ropes binding Quin’s hands.

  “Thank you,” he murmured, rubbing his wrists. She wondered how he’d managed to escape Angelyne’s magic when he couldn’t even escape five men. The prince wasn’t exactly built for a life on the run.

  He met her eyes. “I owe you one.”

  The words jarred. This was the boy she’d shot by arrow—an arrow meant for Mia Rose. The boy she’d plied with rai rouj their one drunken night on Refúj. The boy whose sister was dead because of her.

  If anything, she owed him.

  Pilar made an instinctual decision. Her favorite kind.

  “If you’re headed to the snow kingdom,” she said, “come with me.”

  “How did you know I was going to Luumia?”

  “You’re running too, aren’t you?” She slid the blood-slicked dagger into her boot. “Two fugitives are better than one.”

  Chapter 2

  Like a Blade

  THE SILVER COIN CLANKED against the flask in Pilar’s pocket as she and Quin moved swiftly through the woods. The pale trees were tall and twisty with blue needles at the top. Swyn, the river rats called them. To her they looked like music, a forest of white treble clefs.

  Pilar felt for the coin and ran her thumbnail over the groo
ves. Once she crossed Dead Man’s Strait and sailed into Luumia, the name engraved on the coin would prove useful. In twenty-seven days the Weeping Moon would rise. That night, on the steps of the Snow Queen’s palace, she would come face-to-face with the person she’d risked everything to find.

  Till then, all she had to do was survive.

  Her knuckles were bruised, lip swollen. She could imagine her skin purpling beneath her sharp, dark eyes. But she felt no pain. Pilar was viciously alive.

  Quin cleared his throat once, then twice.

  “If you have something to say,” she said, “say it.”

  He cleared his throat again. “Your nose is bleeding.”

  “I took a fist to the face. Your nose would be bleeding, too.”

  “Then why don’t you heal yourself?”

  “Because I don’t want to.”

  “Is that why your face looks like that?”

  She stopped walking. “Explain yourself.”

  “The cut you got from the guards.” Quin motioned toward her cheek. “You still have the scar.”

  Months after the guard’s glove sliced her cheek open, it still hurt. The blow had fractured her cheekbone. Whenever she moved her jaw, a jag of pain shot all the way to her forehead. At night her eyes blurred, black fleas dotting her vision.

  “I don’t practice magic,” she said. “Not anymore.”

  “Even to heal yourself?”

  “I like the scar. Adds character.”

  The longer answer was more complicated: the scar made her look battle worn, yes, but it also served as a reminder. Never trust anyone. Not even your own mother.

  She cocked her head. “You of anyone should know the cost of magic.”

  “I do.” Quin bit into the words. “Though if I may be so bold: you seem equally content to murder people with arrows and blades.”

  “Like the man I killed moments before he slit your throat.”

  “He wouldn’t have hurt me.”

  “How naive can you be?” She shook her head. “You didn’t deserve to die. Not when I was the one stealing their food. Though I did return it. In a manner of speaking.”

  She waited for Quin’s expression to fade from confusion to horror. Then she grinned.