Third left after the echo chamber. Leif recalled what the Commander had made him memorize. Then down the sloping shaft where the air currents reverse. After the fall, you’ll find a chamber with three exits. Take the middle one. When you arrived, pay attention underneath.

  Why so complicated?

  Leif touched the necklace Eirik fastened around his neck. It was a single shard of ice, hung from a thin leather cord.

  The sheer strangeness gnawed at Leif.

  Why send him alone through this labyrinth? Eirik could have guided him effortlessly. Secrecy was one thing, but this felt like a test. Of what? Memory? His ability to follow convoluted instructions while questioning his sanity?

  Leif held his torch high.

  The tunnels twisted. He passed the echo chamber, a domed space where his own torch-light scuttling footsteps came back to him as the sound of a running army. He counted the left turns. One. Two. At the third, he plunged in.

  The sloping shaft was next.

  He made the mistake of misjudging the steepness. His boot caught on something slippery as he slammed into the shaft wall with his shoulder, a bone-jarring impact that knocked the breath from his lungs.

  He skidded the last ten feet on his side.

  Groaning, he pushed himself up. At least the torch had survived.

  He found the chamber with three exits.

  This path was more winding. His torch sputtered again as he picked up his pace. Being lost down here, alone, with the torch dying… it was a primal fear.

  He nearly missed it.

  The passage opened into a small cavern. It was maybe fifteen feet across, the floor uneven, covered in loose dirt and rocks.

  There was nothing here. He’d reached a dead end.

  Panic flared. Had he taken a wrong turn after all? No, this had to be it.

  He knelt, his torch held low. The light flickered over the dirt and scattered stones. It looked completely natural. He ran his gloved hand over the surface. Dirt. Rocks. More dirt.

  Frustration warred with the conviction that Eirik wouldn’t send him on a fool’s errand. He started methodically clearing a small patch near the center with his hands, scooping away loose soil and pebbles.

  His fingers scraped against something far too smooth to be natural stone.

  A slab?

  He cleared more frantically, his excitement mounting.

  He unearthed a large, square section of the floor, maybe five feet to a side, covered in a thick layer of packed earth. It blended perfectly with the surrounding cavern floor. He scraped the last of the dirt away, revealing a milky-white surface. It wasn’t stone.

  It was ice. A massive, seamless sheet of ice, perfectly fitted into the floor.

  He’d found it. But what now?

  He ran his hands over its surface. He tried to find an edge, a place to get purchase. It was fused perfectly to the surrounding rock. How was he supposed to move it?

  Frustration boiled. He slammed his fist against the ice sheet. A sharp crack echoed in the small cavern.

  Hollow.

  He leaned closer, his torchlight playing across the surface. There. Near the edge he’d struck, a hairline fracture had appeared.

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  He dug his fingers into it, ignoring the biting cold that seeped through his gloves, and pulled.

  With a grating of frozen earth grinding against rock, the massive sheet of ice began to lift.

  He strained, his bruised ribs flaring in protest. Slowly, inch by agonizing inch, he heaved the thick ice slab aside. It slid off the supporting structure beneath with a thump, revealing a square cavity in the floor.

  Leif held his torch over the opening.

  A throne. Made of ice.

  The word echoed in Leif’s mind. A throne.

  He staggered back a step. Possession of a throne was the ultimate declaration of sovereignty. It was the symbol of a king. For a lord, a tenant-lord sworn to Baron Varn and Earl Borin, to possess such an artifact was treason of the highest order.

  What in the seven frozen hells has he gotten us into?

  He needed to destroy it. Melt it. Shatter it into a million harmless puddles before anyone else ever knew it existed. He took a half-step forward, mind racing with how he might even begin –

  And then, a voice spoke.

  "So, you found it."

  Leif yelped. He stumbled back and nearly dropping his torch into the dirt. His hand flew to the hilt of his sword, eyes darting around the empty cavern.

  Who? Where?

  "I didn't know where to put it," the voice was familiar. "So this is the present... arrangement."

  It was Eirik’s voice.

  But Eirik was away, riding towards Ironhelm Keep. Leif had seen him leave. The voice wasn’t coming from the shadows or the tunnels. It was…

  Leif’s gaze snapped back to the throne.

  No. His mind rebelled. No, that’s madness.

  "Commander?" he called out. "Eirik? Where are you?"

  "It’s complicated. You did a good job finding it. The instructions were a bit convoluted, I’ll admit."

  Leif was utterly poleaxed.

  "Wha… what… how?" Leif managed. "You… this… it spoke?"

  "The ice necklace speaks. The... thing... in front of you does something else, along with being a rather uncomfortable statement piece. You’re the only one who knows it exists, Leif. For obvious reasons."

  "Obvious reasons? Commander, do you have any idea what the lords would do? What the King would say? They’d burn Abercrombie to the ground and salt the earth!"

  "Yes, I’ve had a similar thought or two," Eirik’s voice agreed. "Which is why it’s hidden in a secret cavern under a labyrinth that only you know how to navigate."

  A cold dread settled in Leif’s gut. "So… you want me to destroy it?"

  Eirik’s voice held a dry chuckle.

  "I doubt that you could. I’m not entirely sure I could, not without turning most of this mountain range into a puddle. It seems… resilient. But no. I don’t want you to destroy it. Why don’t we use its functions for now? We can discuss things while I’m away, which is certainly faster than sending riders."

  "Discuss things? While you’re away?" Leif’s mind, still reeling, latched onto the implication. "So you are putting me in charge once you are away?"

  "Isn't that obvious already?" Eirik’s voice was matter-of-fact. "You’re the one who actually sees that all is in order when I’m distracted. You’re acting commander. Congratulations."

  Leif didn't feel congratulated. He felt like he’d been handed a lit torch in a powder magazine, with a ticking throne hidden nearby.

  Eirik's voice rang out again.

  "Let’s test something. Do you have a dagger on you?"

  "Yes. What of it?"

  "Take it out. And drop it on the throne."

  What? The command was so bizarre that Leif almost questioned it. But the sheer strangeness of the situation had already pushed him past conventional skepticism. He drew the dagger.

  "On the seat?" he clarified.

  "Right in the middle," Eirik’s voice instructed.

  With a feeling of profound unease, Leif stepped forward, leaned precariously over the armrests, and let the dagger fall. It clattered onto the center of the icy seat.

  And vanished.

  Leif jerked back as if bitten. "Frost’s teeth! Where did it go?"

  There was a few seconds of silence that stretched. Then, with the same abruptness, the dagger reappeared. Lying exactly where he’d dropped it, gleaming in the torchlight.

  WHAT MADNESS IS THIS?

  "A means of conveyance," Eirik’s voice explained calmly. "It moves objects between us. Works both ways, presumably. You can send things to me, I can send things to you. Very useful for emergencies."

  Leif just breathed His entire understanding of the world, of magic, of reality itself, was lying shattered on the cavern floor like a dropped wine glass.

  He looked down at the necklace around his neck.

  "Do I have to wear it?"

  "You wear it whenever you’d want," Eirik answered. "I have no interest in prying, Leif. You know that. But note that this is the only channel I see Abercrombie while I’m away. So… you decide what you or what you want me to see or not. You have my full trust, and that’s why I am putting you on command."

  "…I understand, Commander," Leif said. "I will not fail you."

  "I know you won't, Leif," Eirik’s voice responded. "Now, unless you have any more crises to resolve, I should probably return to my horse. Konrad gets this… twitch… when I appear to be communing with the air for too long."

  "Commander, may I ask where you are now?"

  "About two days away from Ironhelm Keep. The scenery is… white. Very white. Konrad was very insistent on we take as few breaks as possible. Apparently, the Duke’s schedule is sacrosanct."

  “Fare you well, Commander,” Leif said. “And guard my mother.”

  “Isolde is well capable of guarding herself, Leif,” Eirik’s voice replied. “But I will see no harm comes to her.”

  Silence returned.

  Leif took one last look at the throne, then set about the laborious task of heaving the immense ice slab back into position.