The morning of the second day dawned clearer than any before it.

  The end-less expanse of snowy plains gave way to a gentle hill landscape, dotted with resilient pine forests laden with a thick layer of white.

  They were close now. Less than a day from Frostfall, if Ser Konrad's brief briefing this morning was to be believed.

  Eirik rode about midway through the array, half-listening to Borin’s steady campaign to frighten his retinue with ever more fantastical stories of tournament violence.

  "—and then the poor sod’s head just rolled right into the royal box," Borin was saying, and he was clearly enjoying every word of it. "Bounced twice off the velvet cushions before coming to rest in the Queen Mother’s lap. She let out a scream that was heard in the kitchens!"

  "That can't possibly be true," a voice ventured.

  "Swear on the Frost Mother's frozen teats," Borin grinned. "Ask anyone who was there. Of course, some of them are dead now. Tournaments tend to do that."

  Eirik tuned them out, no longer paying attention.

  A faint vibration was pulsating against his chest.

  He reached up, tracing the ice shard necklace that lay concealed under his collar. It felt colder than it should be.

  Someone tried to make contact with him.

  "Isolde," he said quietly, moving his horse closer to hers. "I need a minute. Cover for me?"

  She caught a glimpse of his hand pressed against his chest. "Another stomach ailment from the travel rations?"

  "Something like that."

  His pace eased as he allowed the formation to move past him. Olaf sensed what was happening and began to turn, but Eirik held him back with a signal. The large warrior scowled but moved ahead.

  In a matter of minutes, Eirik had moved to the back of his entourage, setting a distance between himself and the nearest ears. There were but a few soldiers of Ironhelm left to follow him, and they kept their proper distance.

  He touched the necklace again.

  "Leif," he whispered. "I'm here."

  The ice shard warmed a little, and then a voice came from it.

  "Commander?" Leif's voice was hesitant. "Can you... frost's teeth, this still feels unnatural. Like speaking to a ghost."

  "It's magic, Leif." Eirik kept his gaze straight ahead. To any onlooker, he might have been praying or swearing at the cold. "What's happened?"

  "We’ve had visitors, Commander. Important ones."

  Eirik's jaw tightened slightly. "Go on."

  "Lord Flint arrived two days ago. Came personally, with a full merchant escort. He brought chests, Commander. Fifteen thousand Silver Talons. Said it was a 'gesture of goodwill' and 'investment in Abercrombie's continued prosperity.'" Leif's voice carried a note of wonder. "I've never seen that much silver in one place."

  Fifteen thousand. Eirik's thoughts reeled with the consequences. Flint was maneuvering. The merchant lord had always been a calculating man, but he finally came through.

  "What about Varn?"

  "Baron Varn contributed five thousand Silver Talons. Not as generous as Flint," he admitted. "Although perhaps more meaningful."

  Five thousand from Varn. It would probably cause him ten times as much pain.

  The politics weren’t hard to discern. They had been making a point to keep their distance this long, although Flint had been providing them with supplies periodically. They had waited until the Order had been taken care of, Rurik had been imprisoned, and the manifestation of the demon had been crushed.

  They had waited until the name of Abercrombie, Eirik's name, carried unmistakable weight in the north. The direct invite by the Duke to Eirik had sealed the deal for them.

  "Leif," Eirik asked slowly. "What is our current military strength?"

  "The Talons have three hundred and twelve, Commander. There are a few fresh faces, but the intake has stopped. Everyone wants to come to Abercrombie to pray, not to fight."

  There it was. The fundamental problem he'd been avoiding.

  His gaze wandered over the snowy hills.

  Right from the start, he had treated Abercrombie the way he would have treated any other settlement he conquered. Walls, sustenance, shelter, economy, and defense, the typical foundations of every lord's power.

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  However, Abercrombie was not any other settlement.

  The people hadn’t come for walls. They had come because they believed—because they truly, fervently, desperately believed—that the Frost Mother was among them. That Eirik Stormcrow was her vessel. That Abercrombie was holy ground.

  He had to learn to accept and capitalize on his greatest strength.

  "The twenty thousand Silver Talons," Eirik said. "I want it divided. We put ten thousand aside, and use six thousand for military expansion right away."

  "Six thousand? Commander, that's—"

  "Enough to triple our forces if we're aggressive about recruitment," Eirik interrupted. "The pilgrims who come to Abercrombie—some have fighting experience and nothing to lose. Find them."

  He could feel Leif working through the connection.

  "We'd need barracks. Equipment."

  "Use existing caves for barracks. Tell Sindri to focus on functional buildings, not fancy architecture. For training grounds, just mark an area near the main courtyard. Let the pilgrims watch us soldiers during training near Mother's statue."

  "And the other four thousand?" Leif asked.

  "Supplies and construction." Eirik further lowered his voice as an Ironhelm soldier rode by. "I would like for you to talk to Sindri himself. I have had a revelation."

  "A revelation, Commander?"

  "Abercrombie's identity," Eirik paused to collect his thoughts. "Are you familiar with great pilgrimage sites, Leif? The great temples, the shrines, where people travel from all over the realm to visit?"

  "Of course. The Sunspire in the south. The Drowned Cathedral in the east. And even the Everwinter Peaks themselves."

  "What do they have in common?"

  Leif paused for a brief moment. "They're... ancient? Holy? The gods laid hands on them, or so it is claimed."

  "Those are experiences," Eirik corrected. "It's not enough to pray. People travel to feel something. To be changed and then return home and tell others what they have seen." He paused to let that register. "It's enough that Abercrombie has the statue and the miracles. What do the pilgrims do when they get there?"

  “They pray. Make offerings. Some try to touch the statue.”

  "And then they leave." Eirik nodded to himself. "They leave, and they take nothing with them. We need to provide them with more."

  The idea was taking shape.

  "Tell Sindri that I would like plans for the area surrounding the statue. Places for the faithful to congregate in an organized manner, rather than milling about like errant sheep." He considered the merchants selling rough statues of himself in the area outside Ironhelm Keep. "Religious markets. Official vendors only—we establish what is sold, take a cut, and ensure quality."

  "Commander, that sounds like..."

  "Like we're profiting from faith? We are. And we'll use that profit to make Abercrombie strong enough that no one can threaten what we've built."

  "I understand," Leif said slowly. "And what about the cathedral? You promised—"

  "I haven't forgotten. Tell Sindri to break ground. Nothing but the groundwork—to sketch the shape in the snow. Let the pilgrims see that their devotion is creating an immortal thing."

  Ironhelm soldiers drilling in the courtyard of Borin’s estate appeared in his mind. His Talons were strong, but strong was not sufficient.

  "There’s just one more thing," Eirik added. "This recruitment I mentioned. I’m looking for more than just warm bodies and swords. I’m looking for believers. When they clash swords, I want them to be fighting for something other than silver."

  "Zealots, Commander?"

  "Faithful warriors. There's a difference. Zealots die for their cause without thinking. Faithful warriors live for their cause but understand when to die for it. We need the latter."

  The ice shard was pulsing against his chest, the bond growing weaker.

  "The Thaw Blizzard gives us twenty days of peace," Eirik went on quickly. "Make the most of it. When I come back, I expect to see double the number of soldiers there are now. I expect the base of the cathedral to be visible from under the statue’s feet. I expect pilgrims to spend their silver coins at markets instead of on suspicious relics sold by itinerant peddlers."

  "It will be done, Commander."

  The cold pulsing ceased. The necklace simply became a piece of jewelry once more.

  He exhaled a deep breath, watching as a mist formed in the icy air. It was a culmination of what had been building inside his mind over the past few days.

  Other lords can construct normal castles and normal armies. He intended to build something that had never been done before.

  He led his horse forward and joined the main formation.

  "Feeling better?" asked Isolde as he rode up alongside her.

  "Much."

  She regarded his face for a moment. "You have that look," she said.

  "What look?"

  Isolde could not ask any further questions when a cry arose from the front of the procession.

  "FROSTFALL! FROSTFALL IN SIGHT!"

  Eirik straightened in his saddle, craning his neck to see past the armored backs of Borin's soldiers. The road had crested a final ridge, and beyond—

  His breath caught.

  The city lay sprawled inside the large natural basin created by the presence of an ancient glacier. Towers made of white stone stood at regular intervals, with peaked roofs topped with real ice that shone like diamonds as it reflected the sunlight of the winters of this land.

  But towering above it all was the imposing presence of Highfrost Keep.

  The Duke's seat rested atop the highest point in the valley and seemed to have grown out of it, as if the mountain had a sudden impulse to reach for the sky. The keep's walls had white marble streaked with blue, rising in a series of tiers that gave the appearance of a frozen waterfall at the moment of its most majestic cascade.

  Spires rose vertically in precarious-looking angles, bridged by walkways. Banners the size of sails flapped from every battlement, the griffin symbol of Frostgrip waving in gusts of wind that seemed to affect the rest of the city not at all.

  "Frost Mother," Olaf breathed from somewhere behind Eirik, unable to maintain his usual irreverence. "It's..."

  "Yes," Isolde said quietly. "It is."

  Eirik said nothing.

  Twenty thousand Silver Talons would have been a veritable fortune this morning. But now, looking at Frostfall, he understood that it was a paltry amount. The money that passed around this place every day would probably rival everything Abercrombie had.

  He had considered himself a strong man, having fought armies and prietesses and demons. He had created walls and statues out of ice and gathered supplies and followers and power.

  Catching a glimpse of Frostfall, of the accumulated value of all those centuries of riches and power manifested there, he suddenly felt small.

  This was what power truly was. The ancestors of the Duke had originally laid the foundations of Highfrost Keep all those years back. Ever since then, each Duke had furthered, improved, and increased it.

  More than that, it was a statement. It said: We were here before you. We will be here after you. Kneel, or be forgotten.

  The column began its descent into the valley, the road broadening as it approached the gates of the city proper. Other groups were in sight now: trade caravans, noble entourages, and common travelers alike, all merging on Frostfall like smaller streams into a mighty river.