To break his family's curse, Faolan mac Domnall seeks to marry the beautiful Saoirse, princess of Mide. Spirited and outspoken, the wild Saoirse wants nothing more than to escape the life that's been decided for her. Determined to outmaneuver a twis...
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"Well fought, brave knight! Who is next?" called the voice. Her voice. It broke him from the lull of the void. It was the only drop of color in the whiteout of this frozen world, the only music in the silence of snowfall.
A scattering of brittle applause from the court resounded as the defeated knight limped from the arena. His glacial armor had crumbled away in handfuls of fallen snow during the mock battle. Without the layer of the fae queen's icy plate, he could see the broken skin and the shards of ice that pierced it. Grevious wounds. The pale, frost-bitten flesh was too numb to bleed.
"Tamlin?" she sang.
Obedient, he stood and bowed to the court. The armor splintered and reformed at each joint as he moved. The magic that breathed through it flowed like the tide, following the pull of the inconstant moon.
And she was the moon. Seated at the center of her jewel-toned court, she was bathed in a creamy lace that glowed golden against the alabaster of her skin. A circlet of winter flowers at her brow, her smiling lips a shock of crimson, no member of the court outshone the ethereal loveliness of his Winter Queen.
"Will you fight to be my Champion, sweet Tamlin?"
All the eyes and attention that had orbited around the fae queen shifted to him—Tamlin. For surely that was his name if she kept calling him, if he responded to it each time.
Though she whispered sweetly, it rang as a discordant note in an otherwise flawless melody. Like an itch behind his eyes or stroking a cat from tail to head, there was something uncomfortable about the name.
The image of a mud-covered cat, tattered and crooked, called to him.
Tamlin wracked his brain, but the image faded with a breath of ice. His armor bent low in another bow, sharp and stiff, as if to force the thought from his head.
You are Tamlin, the armor seemed to say. What does a great knight care for cats?
He drew the glacial broadsword and nodded toward his matching opponent. A faint trickle of fear touched his chest. Calluses in the wrong places, the hilt chafed his palms. The weight was unfamiliar in his grip.
I don't know how to use a sword, he realized.
Another howl of ice smothered the thought. All great knights know the sword, it whispered. Don't be foolish, Tamlin.
Before he could search for the memories of swordplay and battle, of great knights and greater victory, Tamlin heard the horn. The bout had begun.
His opponent rushed forward with a mighty yell, angling a greatsword over his shoulder with deadly practice. Without thought, Tamlin countered, using the momentum to avoid the blow. In mirrored steps, the knights circled like hungry wolves.
Another howl and Tamlin's opponent lunged forward a second time, feinting with the heavy blade. A hit. From far away, Tamlin felt the force of the frozen weapon against his side.
The blunt shock of it drove the breath from his lungs. He gasped to draw in the thin, icy air.
With hardly a breath recovered, the onslaught continued. Tamlin ducked away from the greatsword—falling to a knee—his balance lost. The impact against the frosted marble sent a tremor through his spine. In pain and shouting wildly, he raised his own weapon to lock it with the slashing greatsword. Blades crossed overhead, Tamlin hissed as his opponent bore down upon him with fierce strength.
His heart cried out in defeat, echoing the gasps of the fae queen's court. Tamlin was not strong or quick or clever enough to beat him. Even in the heat of battle, the realization quivered with a familiar doubt. He steeled away the thought and prepared to surrender the match.
My poor pet, her voice breathed in his ear. Let me help you.
A river of winter's breath coursed through him, filling his chest. His breath misted in glacial clouds, the air no longer sharp in his lungs. The cold touch at his knee, at his side, banished the phantoms of pain. His arms ceased shaking under the weight of the swords—a new, deadly strength flowed through them.
Roaring with the power of it, Tamlin threw back his opponent and charged.
The armor carried him through the motions. Lunge. Parry. Block. His new strength rang in each strike. An icy fire burned him forward with savage intent.
Tamlin raised his sword toward his fallen opponent, ready to inflict the final blow. The court cried his name, a low chant.
He could not.
There was no honor in this type of victory. In all the legendary stories of his father, never had he struck a man already beaten.
My father?
The strange memory of a dingy cottage cracked the Winter Queen's spell, but it stirred to counter him.
You will be the greatest warrior ever to live, the ice at his heart whispered. You're stronger than Braden ever was.
"It's not my strength," he breathed.
You're fiercer than Cian, it tempted him.
He dropped the sword.
Don't be a fool.
Idiot boy.
His heart cried in bitter victory. He would never be one of his brothers. He would never live up to the legends of his father. But he was strong enough to bear the frozen touch of this winter queen. Brave enough to defy her. Clever enough to hide his name and loyal enough to hide another's.
He had always been Faolan, and that was enough.
"My Champion is merciful!" the fae queen cried, gliding toward him, breaking him from his revelation.
Before he could speak, before he could claim his true name, she pressed the frozen crimson of her lips to his. She stole his voice. She stole his breath. She stole everything.
"Come, Tamlin," she ordered, her brilliant blue eyes shining in his defeat. "We hunt the dawn!"
