Winter, White and Wicked - Shannon Dittemore Page 0,1

Not Layce.”

I shrug, my eyes wandering to the window.

“From the rock,” Mystra continues, “Begynd carved a people and, as Sola had done for him, he gave to his children his character, loyalty, and devotion. Desiring to be near those he loved, he poured himself into the depths of the island’s deepest valley, emptying all that he was until Begynd was a vast pool the color of starlight, rich with the power of creation.

“Winter fled the warmth of Begynd’s waters, confined now to the mountaintops high above. But Begynd’s people—the Shiv—lived and breathed on the shores of the great pool, providing for their families, watering their crops, birthing their young—their sustenance drawn from the waters of the one who had chiseled them from stone.

“Begynd knew them there. And they knew him. They brought him their joy and he rejoiced. They waded into the pool with their tears and he healed their wounds.

“And the island, which had once appealed only to Winter, grew fertile and ripe. Settled in the heavens, Sola smiled down on her son’s great triumph, the Pool of Begynd sparkling like a gem set deep in the flinty rock. Beyond the isle, the sea churned black, rich with dangerous magic. Kol, the Shiv called it.

“Begynd’s presence on the island changed everything. Like the many wild spirits scattered across the seas, Winter had never before thought to care where she was sent or what she destroyed, but now she felt for the first time. And what she felt was loneliness. From her seat on the highest peak, she attempted to climb down into the valley, attempted to mingle with Begynd and his people, but the heat of the great pool turned her away time and again. Winter could not exist where Begynd reigned.”

A gust of wind strikes the window and Leni jumps, nearly spilling the chocolate. The latch rattles, sounding like mischief, and I hide a smile.

Mystra frowns at me and continues. “Locked away with naught but her wolves and the kol to keep her company, Winter’s despair turned to anger. For a millennium she raged while far below, on the land that was once dazzled by her charms, the Shiv prospered.”

“And then a shipwreck!” Leni exclaims.

“Yes,” Mystra says, her voice suddenly full of adventure. “A shipwreck. Black waves delivered to the island a shattered vessel and an exiled queen. Once the sovereign of a thriving people, Maree Vale arrived with so little. There was the prince in her arms, the promise of another fluttering inside, and, holding her together, a burning desire to see her kingdom reborn.

“Only a small remnant of her royal entourage had made it to the ship before the invaders arrived. Fewer than that outlasted the storm. Forced to abandon their home on the neighboring island of Kerce, the queen and her subjects had drifted into unsafe waters. Those who washed up on the rocks would have died had it not been for the Shiv. But they were a resilient people. They’d survived the monsters that crawled out of the sea, and the kol that slipped into their minds and brought madness.”

Mystra pauses, her lined face careful. Talk of madness always silences Lenore, wrinkles her brow with questions that have no kind answer.

I steal the chocolate from her hands, sloshing it onto my chin as I gulp down the dregs. “Let’s make more,” I say.

Leni swallows hard and shakes her head. “We’ll spoil our supper.” Her voice is quiet and sad, and I hate Mystra for making her cry.

Our tutor leans forward in her chair, cups Leni’s chin and brushes a tear from her cheek. “Shall we move on to languages then?”

Leni forces a grin and shakes her head. “Finish the story, Mystra. Please.”

“Very well,” she says, straightening as best she can. “The shipwreck, I believe?”

With a huff, I push away from the hearth, my face hot from the flames. “The Kerce survivors had just washed up on the island,” I say. I hate this part of the story. Where everything becomes Winter’s fault.

“Ah. Yes,” Mystra Dyfan says. “And though it was the Shiv who came to their aid, it was in this broken people that Winter saw her chance.”

A chill breath of air stirs the hairs curling on my neck, and I turn toward the window. Leni’s dishrag has fallen to the floor. I wander closer, Mystra’s voice following me as I go.

“Like the Kerce queen,” she says, “Winter knew what it was to have her home stolen from beneath her throne. And so she