Page 3 of Fortress of Snow

“Hmm.” Warin and Edith exchanged frowns.

Mazy’s stomach dropped at the way her half brother and his wife looked at her, the sour downturn of their mouths, the narrowing of their eyes.

If Father had known he would suddenly become sick and die, he would have betrothed her to someone, but he had been in no hurry to marry her off. “There is plenty of time for that. You are not anxious to leave your home and your father, are you?” he would say if she asked about any potential suitors, wondering about her future.

She had happily said no. Why would she want to marry when she had a happy home and a father who loved her?

But now she had no one to care if she lived or died—no father and no husband—no one except her brother John. And she had heard nothing from him in over a year.

The rest of the day went by slowly as she tried to speak politely and kindly with Warin and Edith. She even tried to help with their eighteen-month-old, Percy, but the child mostly cried and only wanted his nurse, adamantly refusing to let Mazy console or entertain him.

The nurse said with an apologetic expression, “His new teeth are coming in. But when he feels better, I’m sure he’ll want to play with you.”

Mazy smiled and nodded, then went into the small room where her father’s body lay in his coffin.

She sat on the stool beside him and whispered, “Father, why did you have to leave me?” She’d been stuck in this little village, in this drafty old castle, her whole life, while John had gone away training and having adventures, learning to fight with the sword—which was the one thing she asked to learn that her father refused to teach her. John even occasionally did heroic deeds, helping to defend castles against would-be conquerors. He wrote few letters, but the ones he did send made his life sound very exciting and valiant.

“Do not worry,” Father would tell her. “One day I shall take you to see all of the king’s castles and go to all the places your brother has been. We shall have many adventures too.”

“When shall we go, Father?”

“Soon, but we have plenty of time. You are still so young.”

When she turned sixteen a few months ago, she had pushed him to set out on their journey. “I am not so young now.”

“You must wait until the summer. Summer is when men go on journeys.”

But when spring came, her father fell ill. And now her adventure with her father, the thing she had looked forward to all her life, was never to be.

As she sat alternately staring at her father’s face—because she would never be able to look upon it again—and looking awayfrom it because it hurt too much to see him lifeless, she heard someone come into the room behind her.

“There you are.” Warin clasped and unclasped his hands as he came toward her in a strange shuffling gait, as if he couldn’t quite decide whether or not he wanted to walk forward. But he finally made it halfway across the room.

Mazy did her best to wipe the tears from her face before he noticed them.

“So, did Father have some potential husbands in mind for you? Someone he was thinking of betrothing you to, perhaps?”

“He never told me of any.”

“Surely he must have known you would need someone to provide for you.” He placed his hand against his chin, as if he was confused and mulling over this quandary.

He probably thought you would provide for me. You are my brother, after all.

“Perhaps I can find someone suitable, but I must say, I thought Father would have taken care of this.”

She wanted to tell him not to trouble himself with finding her a husband, that she would try not to disrupt his life too much or eat too much food, and she could find her own husband among the villagers, perhaps a butcher or baker whose wife had died. But Father said sarcasm in a girl child was extremely rebellious. She did long to say it, though, just to see the look on Warin’s puffy face.

“Well, I shall do my best.” Warin sighed heavily. He did not progress any farther into the room, did not view Father’s body in his coffin, and said nothing to comfort Mazy before walking out.

She hated to admit it, even to herself, but she had been hoping that Warin would show her some compassion. Any half-decent person would have expressed some sympathy at the loss of their father. As a brother, he could have commiserated with her in grief and the prospect of never being able to talk to their father again. Though Father had never seemed very fond of Warin, he was still his father.

Perhaps Warin resented that Father had sent him away after his mother died. Mazy could not remember her father ever saying a kind word about Warin’s mother, calling her a cold, selfish woman. Her father’s animosity seemed to have spilled over onto Warin, as he rarely spoke of his older son, and when he did, he sounded predisposed against him.

Still, she had thought Warin would have at the very least pretended to mourn the father who was leaving his title and all his worldly possessions to him.

What was to become of her now? Could she trust Warin with her future? Would he match her with a man she could love and have a good life with? Someone who would not mistreat her and would be faithful? She suspected those things were not even a part of his thought process.

Mazy had given no thought to what would happen to her if her father died. He’d always been hearty and strong, despite his age, and she could not imagine him dying. Until he did.