Kingdom of Ice and Bone

Praise for

the Frozen Sun Saga series

A fast-paced, epic tale, a brilliantly imagined world, unforgettable characters, and a wonderful love story.

—Juliet Marillier, award-winning fantasy author of the Blackthorn & Grim and Sevenwaters series, on Beasts of the Frozen Sun

A fierce saga, beautifully told, that will transport readers to a time of magic and gods, battles and clan warfare. A totally engrossing and epic adventure—I couldn’t get enough of Lira and Reyker’s story.

—Jessica Leake, author of Beyond a Darkened Shore and Through the White Wood, on Beasts of the Frozen Sun

This intense, action-packed start to a series offers star-crossed lovers against a brutal backdrop and violent tests of loyalty . . . Purchase for fans of Game of Thrones–inspired fantasy.

—School Library Journal on Beasts of the Frozen Sun

Twists everywhere and awesome new characters adding more personality in every scene they grace.

—The Nerd Daily on Kingdom of Ice and Bone

High stakes and a whirlwind adventure . . . A story you could lose yourself in.

—Hypable on Beasts of the Frozen Sun

Also by Jill Criswell

The Frozen Sun Saga Series

Beasts of the Frozen Sun (#1)

Souls of Fire and Steel (#3)

Copyright © 2020 by Jill Criswell

E-book published in 2020 by Blackstone Publishing

Cover design by K. Jones

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Trade e-book ISBN 978-1-982556-73-0

Library e-book ISBN 978-1-982556-72-3

Young Adult Fiction / Fantasy / General

CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress

Blackstone Publishing

31 Mistletoe Rd.

Ashland, OR 97520

www.BlackstonePublishing.com

For Katla Sahara, who is a force of nature

Upon her death, blessed Aillira found no peace,

for her soul was condemned to the bowels of the Halls of Suffering,

where the god of death reigned.

In rage and envy, Gwylor did rend Aillira’s soul

and thus did the serpent-goddess, the eater of souls, devour the pieces.

From his black prison, Veronis screamed for his beloved,

the sound swallowed by the infinite dark.

—The Forbidden Scriptures

PART ONE

CLAN OF THE FORSAKEN

PROLOGUE

The grass was mossy and green beneath his boots, the air smelling of soil and rain. With the spring snows mostly melted, the vast lava field teemed with life. He crept with his brother through the sprawling maze of rock, so tall he couldn’t see over the top. Silently, they watched and listened for signs of game hiding among the crevices.

A rustle made them both turn their heads. His brother raised his bow, following the sound until the hare appeared. The boy let the arrow fly and it sailed through the air, piercing the creature through its neck. Did you see that, Aldrik?

That shot was beneath you, Aldrik said. You could have struck it in the head.

Reyker’s face fell. It was easy to diminish the boy, to make him question his abilities. Aldrik knew it was cruel, but someone had to push him. Katrin, the boy’s mother, was far too soft on him, and their father let Reyker think too highly of his small accomplishments. Reyker’s other weakness—his desperate desire to please his older brother, to make him proud—was a whetstone Aldrik used to sharpen the boy’s focus, to hone his strength like a blade.

Let’s find another, then, Reyker said, retrieving his arrow and picking up the hare by its hind legs. I’ll strike the next one straight through the eye.

As they made their way between two long sections of rock that rose up like a tunnel from the earth, a new sound came from behind them—the crunch of feet on the ground, the shuffle of bodies. The noises of something stalking closer, but these were boots, not the paws or hooves of game.

Aldrik drew his sword. Announce yourselves or be slain!

Laughter answered. Above the rock wall he saw the telltale flash of steel. We are the wolves at your door, lordlings, a booming voice said. It is you who shall be slain.

Aldrik? Reyker whispered. Who are they?

Enemies. Aldrik and Reyker’s father was lord of the lands of Vaknavangur, and he served Jarl Gudmund, a powerful overlord who claimed to be a child of All-God Sjaf’s loins rather than simply one of the god’s many distant descendants. Vaknavangur was surrounded by tribes who disputed Gudmund’s claim as king of the Streamlands. Your sword, Reyker. Now.

The boy drew his sword with trembling hands.

Aldrik grabbed his arm and shook him. You are a rival lord’s son. They won’t hesitate to gut you. Remember your training. Kill them before they kill you. No mercy.

No mercy. The boy steadied his hands on the hilt.

Eight armed men clambered over the rocks and leaped down, circling them. One was huge with a misshapen nose—a brawny ogre.

Your father was warned to stay out of Jarl Eldjarn’s affairs, the ogre said. Yet he sent men to aid the campaign against Eldjarn on behalf of Gudmund the Pretender. He should’ve listened. Perhaps he finally will, when we send him his sons’ heads.

The warriors closed in on Aldrik.

Aldrik sliced his sword through three of them before the men had even begun to swing their weapons. But the ogre was faster than the others, and Aldrik had to duck under the arc the hulking man’s axe made.

I’ve got the snake-eyed bastard, the ogre said to his comrades. Get the boy.

Three warriors stepped toward Reyker, and something fluttered in Aldrik’s chest, a rancid taste rising from his belly. Is this what fear feels like? He ignored it, bringing his sword up to meet the ogre’s axe. The blow sent vibrations up his arm. The axe’s blade hovered just above his head.

"Is it true your harlot mother was a volva? the ogre asked. Is that why you have eyes like a demon?"

True enough. Aldrik smiled. These men had no idea the danger they’d walked into, the secret strength he possessed because of his witch mother. Aldrik shoved, and the giant stumbled into the wall of rock behind him.

Aldrik glanced at Reyker. The boy had blocked the strike of one warrior’s axe, but he was merely defending himself. He did not take the opening the man left, did not let loose the killing blow Aldrik knew he was capable of delivering.

Fight, Reyker! Kill them!

The boy did not listen.

The ogre launched himself at Aldrik once more, and their weapons locked. After I gut you, I’m going to eat your demon heart and gain your half-breed powers. Then I’ll send the rest of you to Ildja in pieces.

Aldrik dropped his guard, baiting his opponent, and the ogre rushed forward, crashing his axe into Aldrik’s stomach. Pain shot through his nerves, and it was a struggle to stay on his feet. The ogre came closer, grinning. You’ve overlooked one thing, Aldrik said.

The pain was worth it for the look on the ogre’s face as he watched the bleeding hole in Aldrik’s belly close, the skin knitting itself back together.

My mother was blessed by Ildja. As was I.

Aldrik thrust his sword below the ogre’s ribs and sliced sideways, eviscerating him. The ogre hit his knees, holding his intestines as they spilled out into his hands.

No witch’s mutt, are you? the ogre mumbled—his dying words, as he toppled sideways into a puddle of blood.

Aldrik made quick work of cutting down two of the warriors who’d gone after Reyker. The third—who wore a torque of braided gold that marked him as a keeper of the god shrines, a warrior priest who killed only in the name of the gods—had dropped his sword and backed away.

Aldrik kept an eye on the priest as he grabbed Reyker and searched his wounds, ensuring none were life-threatening. Then he shook the boy so hard his teeth clacked together. Why didn’t you kill them?

I couldn’t, the boy said. I couldn’t.

Gud-mund, the priest gasped, staring at Aldrik. You are the god-man I’ve heard whispers about, not your overlord. Only flesh born of the serpent-goddess herself can evade death.

A beat of silence passed before Aldrik scoffed. There is no god-man, you fool. That’s a yarn spun by weak jarls desperately clinging to power they did not earn.

The priest kneeled. I’ve witnessed it with my own eyes. You are the one we have searched for. I pledge my fealty to you, son of Ildja.

Something shifted inside of Aldrik, tumblers sliding gears into place, unlocking a door he didn’t want to open.

It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true.

He’d heard the prophecies of a god-man, progeny of Ildja, the eater of souls. But he was not that man. He had a mother, a volva from one of the covens in the Haunted Isles. She had died giving birth to him—that was what his father had told him.

The priest kept babbling. All my life, I’ve waited for a child of the gods to exalt our nation, to conquer the world in the name of the Ice Gods. You are meant to lead us.

To lead Iseneld into war. To become a plague upon the earth. To thirst for bloodshed and hunger for power, bring the world to its knees. That was what the prophecy said of the god-man.

Aldrik had never been a good person—goodness was arbitrary, and too often used as a kinder label for weakness—but neither had he strove to be a villain.

I’m not a monster, Aldrik said. He’d been saying it to the villagers of Vaknavangur since his father brought him there, screaming it at anyone who stared too long at his eyes or called him cursed beneath their breath. But to them, he would always be Lord Lagor’s witch-born, serpent-eyed bastard. A stain on the lord’s reputation.

A foil to Lagor’s trueborn son, the golden-haired, blue-eyed heir. A boy who smiled freely, fought honorably, offered to help anyone who needed it. A gods-damned storybook hero shaped into flesh.

Innocent.

Breakable.

You will free us, the warrior priest said. You will reign supreme.

The priest needed to be silenced. For some reason, Aldrik could not lift his sword. His mind and body were numb. I’m not a monster.

Reyker, Aldrik rasped. Kill him.

The boy stood frozen, his sword still raised. Aldrik? He’s not a threat.

Please, the priest said, dropping his axe at Aldrik’s feet, raising his arms in supplication. Allow me to serve you, god-man.

I cannot listen to this! Aldrik pressed his hands to his ears. He had killed many men in the eighteen years he’d been alive, would gladly kill many more, but an unarmed priest worshipping him? Reyker, he’s lying. And he’ll go on telling his lie, and others will listen. I’ll be hunted. Do this for me. You must.

Reyker’s hands began to shake again. Are you certain he’s lying?

No. Aldrik wasn’t certain of anything anymore. We can’t let him go. He’ll tell people what he saw. The overlords will find out. They’ll come for me. Or Father will send me away. Do you want me to go away?

Reyker shook his head. But, Aldrik—

You must protect your family. You must protect me. Help me, brother. Aldrik’s voice cracked on the last word, one he so rarely spoke. He’d never been a good brother—Aldrik had purposely broken Reyker’s toys; pursued every girl of age who the boy held childish fantasies of courting; scolded Reyker, barked at him like a warlord, the way their father had always treated Aldrik—but that word, that label of their bond in blood, was something Reyker treasured. It was attention, validation.

Manipulation.

Why would you hide, god-man? the warrior priest asked. You will be celebrated as our savior. We will announce your existence to all of Isen—

Reyker’s pupils swelled to black circles, engulfing the blue of his irises. With brutal efficiency no earthly boy possessed, Reyker drove his sword through the priest’s chest.

Aldrik released a breath—a gasp, a sigh—as he watched the priest’s blood spill across the earth. Reyker was weak when it came to those he cared for, and the boy had done for Aldrik what he would not do for himself. Just as Aldrik had predicted.

Until that very moment, Aldrik hadn’t known that his brother was god-touched. No wonder the boy was so nauseatingly noble. It was a thing Aldrik would remember, a thing he could use again.

I will break you, Reyker, Aldrik thought, so no one else can.

The blackness of Reyker’s pupils receded and the boy’s eyes widened in horror, as if his body had acted without his mind’s permission. The priest slumped forward, and Reyker’s sword went with him.

I am damned, Reyker said as he pulled his sword free.

Aldrik put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. Now you are a man.

It was Reyker’s first kill. The boy was only nine, years younger than Aldrik had been when he’d taken his first life. Reyker swiped at his eyes and stared silently at the dead priest, all emotion leaching from his face. The boy was as blank and pale as a slab of marble.

He did not speak the entire walk back to the village.

When they returned, late and spattered with blood, their father was waiting. He rushed to his younger son, but Reyker would not answer him, would not even look at him. The boy stared off at some distant point, as if he could see something the rest of them could not. Their father’s fear turned to suspicion. What did you do, Aldrik?

Lagor, lord of Vaknavangur, was a man whose presence demanded respect. He was tall and muscular, handsome according to the whispers of the village women. An honest and fair lord, though one you did not want to cross, according to the men. To Aldrik, he’d always felt like a stranger. Indeed, Lagor had been a stranger that day when he appeared in the Haunted Isles—looking wary and not at all like it was his own choice—and took five-year-old Aldrik away from the coven that had raised him since he was born. His mother’s coven. Or so he’d thought.

"What did you do, Father? Aldrik asked. Did you lie to me about my mother? Have you been lying to me since I was a boy?"

Katrin ran from the house, wrapping her arms around Reyker. Even at his mother’s pleas, the boy would not wake from his stupor.

Tell him, Lagor, Katrin said, looking at her husband, then at Aldrik. She had always been kinder to him than his own father, but she had never quite accepted him. She did not approve of the influence Lagor’s bastard held over her son. Aldrik deserves to know what he is.

What. Not who.

Aldrik glared at them, his father and the woman who’d been the closest thing to a mother he’d known after he was taken from the volvur’s island—his family, though they’d never treated him as such. After Katrin ushered Reyker into the cottage, Aldrik turned on Lagor. Ildja is my mother. I am the child of the serpent goddess.

He knew it was true as he said it aloud.

Lagor bowed his head. Ildja came to me after a battle between rival jarls in the Highlands. We must have displeased the goddess because she rained fire down on all of us. Every man fell. I was badly burned, but I stayed on my feet with my sword out, calling her name. When Ildja appeared, I thought I was dead. But she took me to her home and healed me. She kept me there, and we had a brief affair before I returned to Vaknavangur. My time with her felt like a fever dream and I dismissed it. Then she came to me again years later and told me about you. She told me where to find you, so I brought you home.

The seething hate that had roiled inside Aldrik as long as he could remember flared. The feeling that he was not like anyone else in his family, his village, his country, had isolated him, made him question his sanity. This knowledge of his true origins could have granted Aldrik peace, or at least acceptance of his own peculiarities, yet his father had kept it secret, allowing Aldrik to suffer.

This is not my home, Aldrik said. It never was.

It could’ve been. Lagor regarded Aldrik with his stony gaze. But there’s too much of her in you. Even as a boy, you were quick to anger. You hurt the other children when they only wanted to play. You hurt your brother.

Aldrik hadn’t understood his own strength at first, and even after he did, he hadn’t always held back. He’d sent the other village boys home with bruises and broken bones, his brother included. Some were accidents. Some were not. He should have been repentant for the harm he’d caused.

He wasn’t. Poor Reyker. Wouldn’t want your precious heir to be damaged.

Lagor stood up straighter, shifting his body in front of the cottage door. Reyker has always been loyal to you. No matter what you’ve done to him, he has always loved you.

Aldrik’s hands squeezed into fists. Curse his loyalty. Curse his love. I don’t need him, or any of you. Where do I find my mother?

She lives in the belly of the Mountain of Fire, in the center of Iseneld.

Aldrik headed for the stables.

He was on the outskirts of his father’s lands when he heard another horse coming up fast behind him. Aldrik didn’t glance back, but he let his horse slow to a canter.

Reyker’s mount, already lathered and spent, pulled abreast of Aldrik’s. The boy hadn’t stopped to saddle his horse or even to pull on a coat. Father told me you are leaving to join Gudmund’s army, Reyker said. I want to come with you.

No. Aldrik saw no point in correcting his father’s lie. Go home.

Don’t leave, Aldrik. Not without me.

It hit Aldrik again, that feeling he’d had when the warriors had attacked Reyker—a gut-deep revulsion at the thought of the boy coming to harm by any hand besides his own. Lagor was right. Reyker was the only one who had ever looked past Aldrik’s unearthly eyes and cold demeanor and saw someone worth admiring. Some part of Aldrik enjoyed the boy’s admiration.

No more.

What use is a sniveling brat in a war between men? You are worse than useless. You are a liability. A cursed priest killer. Why would I take you along?

Reyker jerked back like a chastened dog. Because I—I killed him for you. Because we are brothers.

In name only. A dog. That was what Reyker looked like—a beaten pup, begging its abusive master for attention. There is no place in my world for weak little lordlings. You are nothing to me.

Aldrik kicked his horse hard and it surged ahead, leaving Vaknavangur in its dust. He was bound for the bright fire that burned in the heart of the island, for a mother who would welcome him and make him the strongest warrior alive, a destiny greater than he’d ever dreamed.

Maybe the prophecy was wrong. Maybe he could become a legend and lead his country without transforming into a monster. And if he could not, well . . . being a monster was a small price to pay for glory, for kinfolk who shared his blood and his mien and didn’t expect virtue where there was none.

He did not look back, but he felt Reyker’s eyes on him, watching him until he was out of sight.

CHAPTER 1

LIRA

I love you.

It was a whisper, a breath, caressing my skin like a breeze. The whisper became a kiss. I closed my eyes and leaned into it, into him, his chest pressing against my spine, his arms encircling me. His mouth started at my ear, wandering leisurely down my neck.

I sighed, my bones turning to liquid. Do you think you’ll ever get tired of saying it?

Perhaps in a thousand years. He took hold of my chin, turning my head so he could reach my lips with his own. They were warm and soft.

For a moment, I’d thought they might be cold. I wasn’t sure why.

I pulled back. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of hearing it.

Then I’ll say it a thousand more times. And he did, his voice deep and quiet, like a placid river meandering through a canyon. He undressed me slowly, trailing kisses up and down my body, repeating those three lovely words in both our languages.

Then it was my turn to undress him, to pour those words over every inch of him, to unleash that promise of devotion into the wind, where it would be carried across the world. The next time I said it, for perhaps the thousandth time, he pulled me against him, his fingers tangling in my hair as mine dug into his back. He said the words with me—a breathless moan that became a roar, and he followed it with my name, a battle cry telling all who heard it how we belonged to each other, that nothing could come between us.

It was a dire warning to any who dared try.

We lay beside each other on a bed of clovers, and I hummed a tune under my breath—an old sea ballad. His body was a warm mass of muscle and flesh. Solid. Unwavering. His chest rose and fell beneath my cheek with each breath he took.

Because he was breathing—his lungs filling with air, not water.

No, he did not drown. That’s what happened to the woman’s lover in the sea ballad, when his ship sank in a storm. That man was not Reyker.

I was getting confused. I stopped humming.

We’d been talking for hours, sharing stories about our families, our childhoods. Confessing our deepest hopes and fears and desires. No matter how much of ourselves we bared, no matter how much I learned about him, I always wanted more.

What will you do when you go back to Iseneld? I did not add after you kill Draki, but it hung in the air between us, regardless. Above us crimson branches stretched out like gnarled arms. Aillira’s thorntree, the one she’d planted in honor of Veronis. It seemed to be watching us, listening to every word.

Reyker smiled sadly, staring into the distance. I want to go back to Vaknavangur. The village where he was born. The village Reyker would have become lord over had Draki not destroyed it, executing every last man. To rebuild and restore it to what it once was. To find the survivors who were forced to flee and help them return to their own lands. They deserve to have a true home. I want to give that to them. I want to look after my people, to be the kind of leader my parents believed I could be. After everything I’ve seen, and done, and survived . . . it can’t all have been for nothing. I must be alive for a reason. I have to do something that matters.

My mind snagged on the word alive.

Yes, Reyker was alive. How could he not be?

My kindhearted wolf. I took his hand, trailing his fingers over the flame-shaped scar on my wrist, relishing the familiar tingle it sent through the mark.

My brave deer. He brought my hand to his lips, placing a kiss on the skoldar. If I did rebuild Vaknavangur, would you come with me?

For how long?

Forever. Or as long as you’ll have me. I know it’s a lot to ask of you—to leave your island, your home.

A flood of heat spread through me. Reyker had chosen me, not just as a lover, but as the person he wanted to share his life with. I could have pressed my palm to his chest to peer into his soul, so familiar to me now, but I worried over what I might find. What if it was shredded? What if it was empty?

Why would I think such things?

I looked back at him. He was still waiting for my answer. I’ll come with you if you promise every day will be like this one.

He plucked a handful of moonflowers from the cluster surrounding the thorntree’s trunk. Every day, I will give you whatever your heart desires. He tore the blooms from the moonflowers and shook a spray of petals from his fist so they drifted over me. I’ll shower you with roses.

You know those aren’t roses.

"Shh. Don’t ruin it. He dumped the rest of the petals in my face. I’ll stay up each night writing odes to commemorate your overwhelming beauty and sharp wit, and I’ll serenade you with them as you wake each morning."

If you’re going to serenade me, I’m definitely not going. I shook the petals off and put my hands over my ears. Your singing sounds like a sick gull.

It sounds like a drunken gull. There’s a difference.

Both squawk like they’re trying to make the sky fall.

Yes, but at least the drunken gull is enjoying himself. He pulled me against him. "Fine. No singing. How about I stay up each night making you sing." His teeth grazed the curve where my neck and shoulder met.

I ran my hands across his chest, down his stomach, brushing my fingertips against the sliver of skin just above where he most wanted my hands to be, smiling as his body tensed, as his pulse galloped.

His pulse. It was beating—not silent, not static.

A strange thought to have.

What’s wrong? he asked.

Nothing. It’s just . . . You’re right here with me, but it feels like you’re far away. I noticed the tightness in his jaw, the downward curl of his mouth. You feel it, too, don’t you? That something’s wrong.

"I am right here, he said, lacing our fingers together. I told you, I will never let anything take you away from me."

But what if you can’t stop it? And then another worry crept over me, one I dared not voice: What if it’s already happened?

I was dead before I met you, he said.

Dead. The word was like a blade sliding into my chest. No—not my chest. His. I closed my eyes and saw a gleaming scythe, a gush of blood.

My eyes snapped open. Don’t say that.

It’s true. He pressed our joined hands against his thundering heart. The man who washed up on that beach in Stony Harbor was a corpse. But you found me. You brought me back to life. I am yours, Lira, and nothing will keep me from you—not oceans, or time, or the gods themselves.

A breeze drifted across the valley, tousling our hair, scattering the moonflower petals, and making the thorntree’s branches creak. Beyond the branches, the sky overhead was an endless, perfect blue.

Too perfect. Colors only looked like this inside souls.

Or dreams.

I sat up with a start. Is this real?

It is. It must be. Reyker sounded as panicked as I felt.

Of course this was real. Why wouldn’t it be? What was the nagging fear, digging like thorns into the back of my mind, that something irrevocable had occurred? That everything was already broken?

Reyker, I whispered.

His name echoed across the valley, bouncing off the stone ruins, turning into a terrified scream. A grief-stricken sob.

A memory.

He froze, his eyes widening. Lira?

My name became a ripple of sound, stretching into an anguished cry.

We stared at each other.

In the distance, a rumble shook the earth. Around us, the valley began to crack apart. The ruins dissolved into the ether.

Understanding swept over us. The cold cruelty of it left me shivering.

No. I clung to him, as if I could hold on tight enough to keep him from being torn away. He did the same, and I knew then that the dream was not a fantasy. This was Reyker. I’d found him somehow, in the otherworlds. Or he had found me.

But it could not last.

The ground shuddered. A howling wind ripped at us. The moonflower petals eddied around us like a ghostly whirlwind until they were sucked out into the growing void.

I love you, he whispered fiercely, his forehead pressed to mine. There was sorrow in his gaze, but not a trace of doubt as he said, No matter what it takes, no matter where you go, I will find you again.

A moment later, my arms were empty, holding on to nothing.

CHAPTER 2

LIRA

I woke with a gasp, tangled in my blanket, cold sweat trickling down my neck, the smooth walls of a cave surrounding me. The floor was crowded with pallets, each one topped with the sleeping bodies of nomads. A few paces away, my brother grunted in his sleep, one arm slung across his face, the other resting on the hilt of his short sword.

Truth seeped in slowly. Painfully.

I am in the Green Desert with Garreth.

Stony Harbor