Thread of Frost

Ch. 16: Halson

Things moved very quickly.

Isolde was bathed. Perfumed with floral water. An older nun brought a lilac dress and white fur cloak, as well as a pair of trimmed gloves. No hat. She wasn't to hide her mark, the nun explained; it was an insult to Lestia.

Whatever that meant.

She was allowed to pack a case of things. The nun sat on the bed, watching as Isolde placed the items in the bag: a quill; a pot of ink; a face cloth. Several girls gave her hair ribbons, so the bag would appear fuller. When the other woman turned to close the window, Isolde slit a hole in the lining and wedged a romance novel inside.

Then she was escorted outside.

Isolde paused. A carriage was idling just below the stone steps. A far grander carriage, Isolde noted, than she'd ever seen before; it was a silver coach, decorated with curving snowflakes and little tinkling bells. The palace must have sent it. Sister Tria stood in front of it, her hands clasped in front of her.

Inside the carriage, Tilda and Sendra were playing cards.

"No," Isolde said.

Sister Tria's face was impassive. "I beg your pardon?"

"No," Isolde repeated, descending the stairs. "They're not coming with me."

Sister Tria's knuckles were white. "Tilda is well-versed on court etiquette. And Sendra is the best dancer in the convent. Think of them as your ladies' maids."

Isolde adjusted her bag. "I'll ride to the palace alone."

"The woods are dangerous."

"I'll take my chances," Isolde said.

The two women surveyed one another. Sister Tria's eyes flicked to her mark; it was still glowing, shimmering like the light on a frozen lake. The skin tingled slightly. Isolde balled her hands into fists.

Sister Tria cleared her throat. "To appear at the palace without an escort..." Her breath hung in the frigid air. "His Holiness will think it uncouth."

"Halson—"

"Emperor Halson," Sister Tria corrected.

Isolde's voice was cool. "Considering that the emperor is about to share my bed, I think that I'm entitled to call him what I'd like."

Sister Tria's mouth tightened. "He will remain your superior."

"I thought marriage was about partnership."

"The emperor must be shown respect," Sister Tria said.

Images flashed through her mind. Screaming children. Old men hunched in alleys, their heads between their knees. And the gas — always the gas — a thick silver cloud, pouring over buildings. Choking people on their own nightmares until they died from the terror.

"The emperor," Isolde said, "is a genocidal maniac that's deluded enough to think that flooding the streets with nightmare somnium is an acceptable solution to overpopulation." A pulse beat in her throat. "I will not respect someone like that. Ever."

Silence fell.

The wind rustled through the skeleton trees, sending snow flurries tumbling to the ground. A horse tossed its head. Several bells tinkled. Sister Tria's eyes were the colour of spring flowers, the soft blue petals that poked through the snow.

"That mark is wasted on you." Her voice was soft. "If it were up to me..."

"But it's not up to you," Isolde said.

"No."

Her nails dug into the strap of the bag. "The goddess doesn't make mistakes. That's what you always say, isn't it?"