The Winter King
Page 70
Before he could act on that yearning, logic prevailed. Distance. He must at all costs keep a wise distance. Besides, she needed time to settle in, and he had more pressing matters to attend to.
Resolute, he turned and headed back to his own rooms.
CHAPTER 11
Ice Spears, Garm, and Other Perils
The Temple of Wyrn was built in a cave on the southern face of Mount Vetr. A long, narrow stone road led from Gildenheim’s eastern gate, across a bridge to the neighboring peak, and up to the mouth of the cave. Within, the cave’s walls and ceiling were coated with ice, and a long promenade led to the wide, rounded main chamber of the temple. There, an altar carved from a block of ice dominated the room, and in the center of the altar sat a chalice of diamond- and sapphire-encrusted platinum, in which burned a cold blue flame that emitted no heat. Crossed ice spears hung on the wall behind the altar, beneath the carved ice mask of the goddess Wyrn.
The last time Wynter had entered this temple, he’d stripped down to his skin and taken the narrow passage to the left of the altar, traveling through a deadly, magical gauntlet littered with the frozen bodies of men who had tried—and failed—the same gauntlet before him. He had survived the tests and made his way to the secret chamber buried deep in the glacier on the opposite side of the mountain, and to the dark pool of liquid ice known as the Ice Heart. That liquid was said to be the immortal essence drained from the heart of Wyrn’s once-mortal husband, Rorjak, who’d traded her love for power, using the gifts she’d bestowed upon him to father the Frost Giants and become the first Ice King. It was to slay her husband that Wyrn had fashioned the ice spears and given them to her brother Thorgyll.
Wynter knew the legends were true. Three years ago, he’d put his lips to that liquid ice and swallowed a mouthful of it. The chill had sped straight to his heart and frozen him from the inside out.
“Remembering?” Galacia Frey’s voice whispered across the ice, echoing softly.
He turned and saw her standing in the shadows of the entrance that led to the priestesses’ private chambers. “Yes.”
“You are colder now by far than you were when you left.”
Wynter held her gaze. “Yes.”
“Is there still hope, do you think?”
“I thought you summoned me to find that out.”
Her lips curved in a cold smile. “I did.” The smile vanished. She stalked towards the altar, her long snowbear-fur robe trailing behind her. “Approach the altar,” she commanded.
There was something about the tone of her voice that put him on edge. Since the day she’d become a priestess of Wyrn, she’d treated him with distant reserve, but this was different. Warrior’s instinct made him move slowly, his fingers inches from Gunterfys’s grip. He sniffed the air, wondering if the other two priestesses were lying in wait, but he detected only Galacia’s faint scent. The temple ice muted smells, and no breeze stirred the air, but if the others were near he would have known. Not an ambush, then.
She stood behind the altar, between the cup of blue flame and the wall of spears, looking regal and reserved. When he continued to hesitate, she arched one haughty, mocking brow. “Afraid, Wyn?” she gibed softly.
The familiar, taunting amusement made him grit his teeth. They’d known each other since childhood. She’d never given much respect to a man’s pride—except as a weapon to tweak him with. Obviously, that was still one of her favorite weapons. Regrettably, it still worked.
Damnable woman. He’d show her who should be afraid of whom. Wynter dropped his hand from his sword hilt and leapt up on the altar dais in one swift step. He realized his mistake in an instant.
The world went white.
Air and snow and ice whirled around him in a blinding tempest. He yanked Gunterfys from its sheath. “Galacia!” he roared. The power of the Ice Heart swept over him in a burning rush and gathered at the backs of his eyes. He spun, sweeping Gunterfys and the Ice Gaze blindly in the white wind.
Then froze when the point of a spear pressed against his back.
The tempest slowed to a flurry of snow, then disappeared. He was standing before the altar, facing the wall of spears. One of them was missing. A thick layer of frost from his Gaze lay over everything, except the steadily burning blue of the flame in the cup.
“Drop the sword and shutter your Gaze. Now, Wyn,” she snapped when he didn’t instantly obey. “Pass the test, and you’re free to go. Refuse, and you die now on the point of my spear.”
“Damn you for a coldhearted witch!” he hissed, but he knew he’d been bested. Galacia had positioned her spear in the perfect spot. A single thrust would drive it between his ribs and straight through his heart. He opened his fist and let Gunterfys clatter to the floor. The cold rage of the Ice Gaze drained away.
“Good. Now put your hand in the flame.”
“Are you mad?” He started to turn around. The spear’s needled point dug deeper, freezing his shirt and numbing the flesh beneath.
“Do it,” she ordered.
“Woman, you will regret this.”
“The regret started long ago. Now, put your hand in the flame.” She jabbed the spear in his back again for emphasis.
He shoved his hand into the center of the blue flame burning in the chalice. The fire flared high in a sudden explosion of red-orange light. He cried out in pain and yanked his hand back. The flesh of his hand was sizzling, and blisters had formed across his palm.
The spear at his back fell away.
Resolute, he turned and headed back to his own rooms.
CHAPTER 11
Ice Spears, Garm, and Other Perils
The Temple of Wyrn was built in a cave on the southern face of Mount Vetr. A long, narrow stone road led from Gildenheim’s eastern gate, across a bridge to the neighboring peak, and up to the mouth of the cave. Within, the cave’s walls and ceiling were coated with ice, and a long promenade led to the wide, rounded main chamber of the temple. There, an altar carved from a block of ice dominated the room, and in the center of the altar sat a chalice of diamond- and sapphire-encrusted platinum, in which burned a cold blue flame that emitted no heat. Crossed ice spears hung on the wall behind the altar, beneath the carved ice mask of the goddess Wyrn.
The last time Wynter had entered this temple, he’d stripped down to his skin and taken the narrow passage to the left of the altar, traveling through a deadly, magical gauntlet littered with the frozen bodies of men who had tried—and failed—the same gauntlet before him. He had survived the tests and made his way to the secret chamber buried deep in the glacier on the opposite side of the mountain, and to the dark pool of liquid ice known as the Ice Heart. That liquid was said to be the immortal essence drained from the heart of Wyrn’s once-mortal husband, Rorjak, who’d traded her love for power, using the gifts she’d bestowed upon him to father the Frost Giants and become the first Ice King. It was to slay her husband that Wyrn had fashioned the ice spears and given them to her brother Thorgyll.
Wynter knew the legends were true. Three years ago, he’d put his lips to that liquid ice and swallowed a mouthful of it. The chill had sped straight to his heart and frozen him from the inside out.
“Remembering?” Galacia Frey’s voice whispered across the ice, echoing softly.
He turned and saw her standing in the shadows of the entrance that led to the priestesses’ private chambers. “Yes.”
“You are colder now by far than you were when you left.”
Wynter held her gaze. “Yes.”
“Is there still hope, do you think?”
“I thought you summoned me to find that out.”
Her lips curved in a cold smile. “I did.” The smile vanished. She stalked towards the altar, her long snowbear-fur robe trailing behind her. “Approach the altar,” she commanded.
There was something about the tone of her voice that put him on edge. Since the day she’d become a priestess of Wyrn, she’d treated him with distant reserve, but this was different. Warrior’s instinct made him move slowly, his fingers inches from Gunterfys’s grip. He sniffed the air, wondering if the other two priestesses were lying in wait, but he detected only Galacia’s faint scent. The temple ice muted smells, and no breeze stirred the air, but if the others were near he would have known. Not an ambush, then.
She stood behind the altar, between the cup of blue flame and the wall of spears, looking regal and reserved. When he continued to hesitate, she arched one haughty, mocking brow. “Afraid, Wyn?” she gibed softly.
The familiar, taunting amusement made him grit his teeth. They’d known each other since childhood. She’d never given much respect to a man’s pride—except as a weapon to tweak him with. Obviously, that was still one of her favorite weapons. Regrettably, it still worked.
Damnable woman. He’d show her who should be afraid of whom. Wynter dropped his hand from his sword hilt and leapt up on the altar dais in one swift step. He realized his mistake in an instant.
The world went white.
Air and snow and ice whirled around him in a blinding tempest. He yanked Gunterfys from its sheath. “Galacia!” he roared. The power of the Ice Heart swept over him in a burning rush and gathered at the backs of his eyes. He spun, sweeping Gunterfys and the Ice Gaze blindly in the white wind.
Then froze when the point of a spear pressed against his back.
The tempest slowed to a flurry of snow, then disappeared. He was standing before the altar, facing the wall of spears. One of them was missing. A thick layer of frost from his Gaze lay over everything, except the steadily burning blue of the flame in the cup.
“Drop the sword and shutter your Gaze. Now, Wyn,” she snapped when he didn’t instantly obey. “Pass the test, and you’re free to go. Refuse, and you die now on the point of my spear.”
“Damn you for a coldhearted witch!” he hissed, but he knew he’d been bested. Galacia had positioned her spear in the perfect spot. A single thrust would drive it between his ribs and straight through his heart. He opened his fist and let Gunterfys clatter to the floor. The cold rage of the Ice Gaze drained away.
“Good. Now put your hand in the flame.”
“Are you mad?” He started to turn around. The spear’s needled point dug deeper, freezing his shirt and numbing the flesh beneath.
“Do it,” she ordered.
“Woman, you will regret this.”
“The regret started long ago. Now, put your hand in the flame.” She jabbed the spear in his back again for emphasis.
He shoved his hand into the center of the blue flame burning in the chalice. The fire flared high in a sudden explosion of red-orange light. He cried out in pain and yanked his hand back. The flesh of his hand was sizzling, and blisters had formed across his palm.
The spear at his back fell away.
