Daggers of Ice

Chapter 6

The Northern Lands.

Arianna.

Arianna twirled her finger an inch above the goblets rim, watching as the liquid within followed the movement, drawn by the swell of her magik. She did not look up as the doors closed behind the last of the emissaries, though she felt the pointed looked at Raenor sent her as he followed them out.

She sat, chin propped upon her hand, her other fingers tapping the arm of her throne as the doors closed behind the last of the emissaries.

You are cold.

Raenor had reported that the giants were growing restless once more. And then the courtiers had joined for the assembly. A few of the more outspoken had stepped forward. Would the giants attack? Were they to go to war on two fronts?

Had they been doubting her?

When would Myria return? She had sent the dryad west, to investigate rumours of raided villages. She needed her counsel. She needed her friend.

You are ice.

The liquid in her goblet froze, snap-frozen by that tiny flex of her finger.

The giants would not attack, no matter how restless they may grow.

She had been to the Ettinsmoor but a handful of times. The first time had been as but a child when they had travelled there on Jadis's great sled, speeding across the frozen lands. They had been greeted with warmth and had enjoyed a great feast with those 'civilised' giants, as Jadis called them. And she had told them that Arianna was not to be touched.

When they had been travelling back to the castle Jadis had told her that they were not as civilised as they thought they were – for they were but a pale mockery of the giants of Charn, who were creatures of beauty and grace.

They had visited them a few more times, invited by their King and Queen to join the revelries of their seasonal feasts. They had even fought in the Battle of Beruna, as the Narnians called it. With their ally, the White Witch, not for her. For Jadis had once told her that giants were prideful beings, very full of themselves.

And when Jadis had fallen, they'd retreated completely back to the moors.

And so, Arianna had let them be. Until a year passed when she had decided to visit them in a show of good faith, despite the warnings from Raenor not to do so. And without the presence of the White Witch whom they had both feared and respected, Arianna was nothing to them. Her crown meant nothing, her words even less. She was nothing more than a small creature to be eaten, something to be skinned and baked into a pie.

And they had tried, thinking her to be an easy target.

They would not make that mistake again and she had told her courtiers as much. As restless as they grew, the giants would not attack her lands. Not when they had watched her daggers cut through the neck of their king, drenching herself in that thick, red blood. And those large beings had scrambled back from her, the whites of their eyes showing all around.

She knew only parts of the giants' language, but one of the words she knew well was one that was whispered through that room that day, on many pairs of trembling lips.

Witch.

The King-killer, they whispered to the trees and the stony moor.

The King-killer was something to be feared.

She had thought that Jadis would be proud; but the woman in the ice-mirror had scolded her, telling her it had been reckless. That the giants could have just as easily ripped her to shreds.