Chapter 4: The Duchess's Chair

Frostmarch Keep stood on a black ridge with the wind coming at it from three sides.

The walls were grey stone, the roofs were buried in snow, and the only warm light came from the slit windows of the Great Hall.

Thessaly saw it from the sleigh on the ninth evening and said nothing.

Nerissa said it for her.

"It looks like a fist."

"It looks like a house," Thessaly said. "Be polite to it."

Inside, the Hall was longer than the ballroom in Averrane and half as bright.

Forty northern lords stood along both walls in furs and boiled leather.

None of them bowed.

At the far end, on a low dais, stood two chairs of black oak.

One was Eskil's, with a wolf cut into the back.

The other had been empty for eleven years, and it had dust in the carving.

"My lords," Eskil said, and his voice carried without effort. "The Duchess of Frostmarch."

Nobody answered.

An old lord with a white braid and a face like a cracked boot stepped out of the line.

"Your Grace brought us a southern lady," he said. "We heard. We also heard the Crown Prince threw her back."

Thessaly kept walking.

"He did not throw her back," Eskil said, very quietly. "She threw him."

"Then she is a woman who throws away a crown for a coat," the old lord said.

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but the North has no use for a lady who runs where it is warm."

A few of the lords laughed.

Corvin took a step forward with his chin up.