Weirdly, he’d been sitting in it anyway. I could see the imprint of his body, looking ridiculously small against the large surface. But instead of him melting the snow, as I’d have expected, he seemed to have done the opposite. Where he’d sat and along the nearest arm rest the frost was thicker, almost enough to count as snow.

It sent a chill through me, although I wasn’t sure why.

“—have they?” Aeslinn was saying, his hand clenching on our bicep.

His grip was strong enough that I could feel it through the armor. Maybe because his fingers were indenting the heavy metal, and sending frost scurrying over the surface, threatening to freeze the joints. Arsen had a brief impression that a larger hand gripped him, a giant’s hand, but he shook it off and answered calmly.

“Yes, Your Grace. The forces of King Cae—that is, Lord Alacono—have been stopped at the Morroway. The river is frozen, but they cannot hope to pass. The storm you have sent is too much for them.”

“But for how long?” Aeslinn demanded, his hand tightening. “Am I to keep this up forever?”

“Not forever, Your Grace. They will freeze if they tarry too long. There is little cover there.” Arsen had carefully changed neither his tone nor his volume, but if he thought that would influence the king to do likewise, he was disappointed.

“Do not presume to lecture me about my own country, boy!” Aeslinn snarled. “Or about my perfidious brother-in-law!”

“No, Your Grace.”

“He is cunning; he will have expected this. He’ll find a way to reach us, and in the meantime, he’ll ravage the countryside to supply his army, and ensure we have nothing left for our own!”

He let go suddenly and stalked away, and Arsen somehow didn’t flinch despite the prickly feeling of blood rushing back into our arm, which had gone numb. Although whether from the cold or the lack of circulation, I wasn’t sure. He glanced down, and the imprint of Aelsinn’s fingers, perfectly preserved in frost, stained the metal, which had half caved in under the pressure he’d been exerting.

“And why should I feed them?” the king demanded, oblivious. “What have they brought me? What have you?”

Arsen looked up. “Victory, Your Grace, along several fronts—”

“You speak of victory when that dog drives deep into the heart of my lands? You speak of victory when our great city lies shattered and burned? You speak of victory—”

He cut off, and the next second, he was in our face. And, okay, I thought, really wanting to back away. That… was not the face of a sane man. Or fey. Or anything else.