Page 113 of Heart of the Summer Queen

The captain bristles at the sharpness in my voice but only replies with a curt grunt, jabbing his fingers toward the road and silently spurring our escort back into motion.

Elaric’s eyes linger on me, clearly doubting my strength. I don’t turn to look at him. Meeting his gaze risks him glimpsing the heaviness in my eyes and protesting to the guards again.

Pushing against taxed muscles, I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. I craft a portrait of Dalia in my mind, my brushstrokes so vivid that I can all but see her face reflecting upon the guards’ gleaming steel armor.

Determination floods through my limbs, shaking away the numbness which has sunk into them and granting them renewed vigor.

I will return home. I will be reunited with my sister.

It feels like an age passes before we arrive at the summit. A deep sigh of relief shudders through my lips as I step beneath the enormous iron portcullis and into the castle’s outer courtyard.

I pause, scanning over our surroundings and marveling at the intricately detailed statues of great birds and beasts. Scores of bright flowers flourish here in the courtyard, adding plenty more color to all the greenery.

The only castles I’ve ever stepped inside have been frozen or ruined, ghosts of their former selves, and so it’s little wonder Eruweth’s castle ensnares my attention. As I peer around, I can’t help but wonder what the Crystal Palace will look like now the curse has lifted. Given how its size dwarfs Eruweth’s castle, I imagine it must look even grander. And if the gardens aren’t as colorful once thawed, I will persuade Elaric to plant countless rows of flowers. Having lived amid snow for three hundred years, I doubt he will need much convincing.

My examination of the courtyard is interrupted as the guards shove me forth, leading us further into the castle.

They escort us beneath ornate archways and up towering stone stairs toward the innermost part of the castle. As we pass, the servants stop to stare. I’m not sure what they must think of us. Do they take one look at our tattered clothing and believe us to be criminals? Or do they fear us, believing us to be involved in witchcraft?

I don’t stand still for long enough to identify whether it is fear or disgust etched into their faces.

We reach the castle’s great hall, and the guards heave open the doors, ushering us inside.

Our footsteps ring through the high, vaulted ceiling. Morning rays spill in through the mosaic windows, painting the gray stone walls with a tapestry of color.

Countless pillars line our path, leading the way to the dais at the far end of the hall. There, the king sits upon his throne. Agleaming crown perches atop his head, auburn waves framing his face. Several gray strands weave through his hair, and judging by both them and the lines creasing around his eyes, I wager he must be in his fifties.

The king doesn’t look up as we approach. His attention stays on the mass huddled before his throne. It isn’t until we stop that I realize what it is: Isidore’s body.

While I know the witch is already dead, I can’t stop my gut from clenching. Nor can I stop my hand from twitching toward the sword no longer in my possession.

“Your Majesty,” the guard captain says, dropping to a deep bow. The others follow suit. Aside from the ones securing us, that is. They just bow their heads. Once the captain and the rest rise, he continues, “We’ve brought you those suspected to be involved with the witch.”

Involved with Isidore? It’s hard to repress my snort.

Our only involvement with her is her death, and it’s ridiculous they think otherwise. Do our ragged clothes not provide enough evidence of our struggle?

At the captain’s words, the king stirs from his vigil. His gaze drags across to us, though his expression remains carefully masked, neutrality veiling his thoughts. Somehow this proves more nerve-wracking than if he were to curl his lips at the sight of us. At least then we would understand precisely where we stood.

The king gestures for his guards to release us, and though they retreat a pace, their hands still hover near the hilts of their swords. As if fearing we may strike their king at any second.

As the king speaks, his voice echoes through the cavernous hall like the rumbling of thunder. “Witnesses report you were sighted at the center of the chaos engulfing this city.”

I chew on my lip. I suppose there’s no arguing that first point.

“There are also claims that another witch was present, besides this one.” The king’s focus drifts back to Isidore’s lifeless body, her white robes bloodstained. “Reports state you were seen conversing with this unknown sorceress.”

Again, neither I nor Elaric attempts to deny the king’s statements. We cannot argue against the truth, even one so poorly understood.

“In one instant, Isidore threatens my city with endless winter,” the king says, “and then the next, disorder erupts through our streets as frost recedes from our lands. Tell me the role you both played in this and tell me swiftly. With the hysteria spreading through Eruweth, I find my patience quickly waning.”

“We killed her,” I simply state. Steel edges my words as I meet his eyes. “Isidore cursed your kingdom, and then she cursed my husband, the King of Avella.”

“The King of Avella,” he repeats, leaning forth. His hands tighten on the throne’s gilded arms as he examines Elaric. “That cannot be. I know King Theron of Avella well, yet you are not him.”

“I am his son,” Elaric says, unfazed. “My father has been dead for over three centuries.”

At this, the king nearly tumbles from his throne but swiftly regains himself. A strangled sound escapes him, one somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “Three centuries you claim? What a ridiculous tale!”

---