Thread of Frost

Ch. 11: That's Not Ryne Delafort

Something cold settled in her chest.

"That's impossible," Camille heard herself say. "The Delafort boy is dead. He's hanging on my castle gates."

She raised a hand. A bird had settled on Ryne's shoulder, pecking at his shoulder; he didn't stir. The stranger shrugged.

"That's what Stavie said."

Camille lowered her hand. "Well, your friend was mistaken."

The stranger stuck his hand in his pockets. "Stavie doesn't make mistakes."

Eris twisted the hound's collar absently. "Annalise could have been with another man. There are rumours that Seraena Agnirian keeps a lover from Wynterlynn in her palace. Perhaps Annalise was with him."

Something tightened in her chest. "Do not speak to me of Annalise Cidarius."

"But—"

"I have been lenient thus far, Eris Delafort." Her voice sounded odd, Camille thought. Lighter, and breathier than she was used to. "Do you really wish to remind me of your previous oversights?"

Images flashed through her mind. Eris, kneeling on the floor in front of him; Eris, screaming as a whip split the skin of his back. Red blood on the floor. The sound of muffled sobs. He'd betrayed her somehow, Camille realized; she'd charged him with an important task and Eris had let her down.

Eris's throat bobbed. "No, Your Majesty."

"Good." Camille turned back to the stranger. "Do you know what I am?"

Golden thread unspooled from her fingers, running like strawberry vines across the stone bridge. The thread was solid, Camille realized with surprise, like golden chains interlinked on a necklace. She was a powerful Dayweaver, but this...

Ice slid down her spine.

She couldn't spin dream magic like this.

The stranger patted his face with a handkerchief; his hands shook a little as he placed it back in his pocket. "Yes, Your Majesty."

Camille's voice was soft. "Then you know what I'm capable of."

"Yes."

She took a step closer. "Tell me what I am, Renfrew. Don't be shy."

"You're..."

He flinched as her golden threads snapped at his ankles, and a sick sense of satisfaction filled her. Camille leaned in closer.

"I'm...?"

"Lucia," he whispered.

Everything stilled. The smell of decomposing bodies drifted down to her, mixing with the sulfurous water and the scent of burnt dog. On some level, Camille thought, she'd suspected it. But to actually hear it...

Lucia had possessed her.

She was trapped inside her own body.

Panic flooded her. Camille tried to scream. Tried to move her arms, her hands, her legs. She felt like she was shaking apart, like her very bones were trying to unknit themselves. Her body had betrayed her; it had let in a foreign host.

Lucia — she could no longer bear to think of it as her, Camille thought, as Camille — took a step forward.

"I don't like liars, Renfrew," Lucia said. "Are you a liar?"

His eyes darted away. "No."

"And is your friend Stavie a liar?"

"No, Your Majesty." The man's throat bobbed. "I swear it."