The monstrous storm hesitated at the Ice Wall, reaching with frigid fingers over the top, sending snow and rock tumbling down the face of the dam before falling back. Growing ever more powerful, ever more angry, the Sturmfrost held back like a living, sentient beast, watching … and waiting.
“Are you certain that you are prepared for the Reciting of Ancestry?” Stariz asked Grimwar. The high priestess wore the black robe of her station, and held the obsidian mask before her as she scrutinized her husband.
The prince had the strange sensation that he was being studied by two powerful ogres. One he had married, with square-block face and protruding jaw. Beneath her was the image of Gonnas, carved in black stone, vacant eye-slits dark and menacing.
“Yes!” he declared. “How many times must I tell you that?”
“Until you have completed the ritual,” she growled back. “I truly wonder if you realize how important it is … how much of the future rests upon your shoulders. I was not here, in Winterheim, during the debacle of four years ago, but even in my father’s remote barony in Galcierheim, the displeasure of our god was respected and feared.”
“I understand,” he said, wishing that she would understand. Huffing in irritation, he pulled on his great bearskin cloak, buckling the golden clasps that held the garment around his bull neck and massive chest. He was tired of reminders, tired of all the preparation for the future that had filled his days since his return from the campaign. It was time to be done with it, done with it all!
“I do not mean to badger you, my husband,” Stariz said with sudden, surprising gentleness, still holding the mask as she came to sit beside him. They were alone in their royal apartments, their slaves having withdrawn to allow the couple some privacy. “In truth, my spells have been full of dire warnings. I fear for you, and for our kingdom. This is a winter’s night of grave portent. You must be alert, watchful for danger.” Her eyes narrowed, a look that penetrated to his core. “Or opportunity,” she concluded.
“Bah-Suderhold is in fine hands!” he snorted indignantly.
Even as he spoke, the words sounded hollow. When he thought about his father, he, too, felt dire concern for the future. How could the realm prosper, under a king who was only concerned with counting his gold, and punishing his slaves? It had been many years since King Grimtruth had embarked upon a campaign. The last time, the prince remembered, his father had returned home with a paltry dozen slaves, Highlanders taken when the ogres had come upon an unfortunate hunting party. Though the king might insist that his son recite the names of their ancestor, back for a hundred generations, Grimwar had little faith his father could perform the same trick. Indeed, for the past three years it had been Stariz, in her role as high priestess, who had performed that ritual.
His wife seemed to sense his unease, but she only glared at him. He hated that look, just as he hated the attention, the privilege that was his father’s due. He hated the knowledge that, so long as Grimtruth reigned, Grimwar Bane would be a mere footnote in the continuing history of Icereach, and the Kingdom of Suderhold.
“My preparations are completed,” he said abruptly, rising to his feet. “I will take in the view from the King’s Promenade while we wait for the rites to begin.”
“But our prayers-” Stariz looked up in surprise as he rose.
“Speak to Gonnas for me,” Grimwar declared, feeling a little better as his wife bit down on her lower lip. She drew the black mask over her face, but he avoided looking back as he stalked through the door that was whisked open by a slave.
The King’s Promenade was a circular hall at the heart of the Royal Level of Winterheim. The central atrium of the mountain was open before him, the shadowy cavern plummeting thousands of feet. Far below, he could see the still waters of the harbor, reflecting the light of the magical ice panels. Goldwing, already refurbished from the summer campaign, gleamed beneath the atrium, gilded rails shimmering like metal fire, oiled decks smooth and perfect.
“It is a beautiful ship.”
He was startled and pleased when Thraid spoke from his side. She stepped up to the stone parapet and peered with him into the depths beneath the great city. “Despite what the king says, I think you did very well to bring back so many slaves … hundreds of them, was it not?”
“Three hundred and twenty-seven,” he replied with a proud smile.
“Did the humans fight hard?” She asked the question absently, as if thinking about something else.
He chuckled, reflecting on the mild skirmishes at the various Arktos villages. “Mostly not,” he allowed. “They seemed almost not to believe we were there.” He was about to go into detail when he realized that Thraid was looking at him with a peculiarly intense gaze.
“What?” he asked, feeling suddenly stupid and apprehensive.
She began to sob, quickly clapping a hand over her mouth. “It is no life-this fate of mine!” she said, crying softly. “He is a monster! And you choose to allow it!”
“I do not!” Grimwar protested in bewilderment. “He makes all the decisions. I have no power, but to obey his commands!”
“How … how could you give in to him about this?” Her voice was a rasping whisper, reaching his ears alone. “You knew how I felt-about you. How could you let your father …” Thraid shook her head and turned away, drawing a deep, ragged breath.
The prince grew increasingly confused. Couldn’t she understand? Surely she knew what it was like, to live a life determined by the whim of one’s father, a king who seemed incapable of thinking beyond his own immediate pleasure!
He glowered, feeling his face grow hot, then shivered with a sudden chill. Turning, he saw Stariz approaching, wearing her obsidian mask and looking as fearsome as Gonnas himself.
He grunted a farewell to Thraid, who glanced up through narrowed eyes to nod to the high priestess. Stariz returned the nod contemptuously, her small eyes glittering like beads through the narrow slits in the mask. She reached to take the prince’s arm, accepting her husband’s escort toward the great feast that was about to commence.
The Rites of Neuwinter combined somber religious ceremony with ribald feasting, a lavish banquet in a vast, warm chamber with the brutal onset of winter, a solemn commemoration of Suderhold’s dynastic history with blood sacrifice and the release of primeval power. The festivities traditionally began in the huge room known as the Hall of Blue Ice, a massive chamber carved from a huge portion of the mountain’s eastern shoulder and protected from the outer weather by a wall-sized window of frost, the deep azure color giving the hall its name.
The chamber was a massive, semicircular vault, with one side a series of tiers rising high into the mountain’s interior. The outer wall was the vast sheet of blue ice, now murky and obscure because of the lightless night yawning beyond. Just outside the window was the juncture where the massive Ice Wall met the flanks of Winterheim. The sweeping dam extended into the far distance, and, beyond that, the surging Snow Sea.
The entire population of Winterheim, ogres and human slaves alike, gathered in this massive chamber. The ogre masters were arrayed around the three lower tiers, seated at huge banquet tables, all facing the vast window of blue ice so that they could see the climax of the rite. They were ranked in order of status, the royal clan and fellow nobles on the first tier, the warriors and merchants on the second, commoners on the third. The temperature in the hall was cosy for now, but each ogre had brought plenty of furs and blankets, for they knew that when the window melted away, the full fury of winter would surge into the chamber.
Above the ogres, the humans gathered in a silent body. Their involvement in the feasting was limited to their role as preparers and servers of food. Those humans who were not working remained on the upper terraces, silent faces turned downward, watching and waiting. All were required to attend, and they, like the ogres, would witness the death of a chosen slave that would mark the culmination of the rites and the release of another bitter, sunless winter onto the tundra, mountains and seas of Icereach.