The Council Chamber
The council of merchants convened in a chamber carved out of glacial ice, with walls so transparent they appeared to disappear into light itself. Twenty guild masters gathered at an oval table, one each for various professions—grains, fur, metals, cloth, medicines. These were the real power behind the economy of the Frost Kingdoms, and they were well aware of it.
Lioran stood at the far end of the table, Evelina at the near end, their placements purposeful. This wasn't the Queen giving orders to her people. This was a negotiation between peers.
Guildmaster Torvald set the conversation in motion—the oldest merchant, whose grain monopoly made him easily the wealthiest individual present other than Evelina herself. His beard was as white as new-fallen snow, his eyes as keen as winter wind.
"The Dragon Lord invites trade with his settlements in the south," Torvald replied, his voice neither unfriendly nor inviting. "Before we speak of terms, I have one question: why should we risk our riches on refugees and heretics the Church has designated for annihilation?"
"Because gain follows opportunity," Lioran replied calmly. "And opportunities are at their greatest where others dare not tread."
"Fine speech. But speech pays crews and fills warehouses."
Lioran waved his hand, and flame erupted in his palm—not hostile, but as an illustration. He curled it into a small caravan, wagons rolling over his hand. "The southern kingdoms are in turmoil. The blockade by the Church causes artificial shortage. Items costing one price here would fetch five times that price in lands hungry for supplies. You'd be the sole source, without any competition."
A younger merchant sat forward—Guildmistress Freya, who ran the textile trade. "And when the Church realizes we're violating their blockade? They'll condemn us as accomplices to heresy."
"The Church already thinks you heretics," Evelina broke in smoothly. "They've sent three crusades against the Frost Kingdoms in the last century. Their view of you cannot degrade further, only their ability to do something about it. And presently, they have their minds south, not north."
"For the time being," Torvald replied. "But in winter, mountain passes become impassable. Next spring, they might come this way. We'd be vulnerable."
Lioran allowed the fire caravan to disperse. "Or you'd have allies. The settlements I'm constructing aren't refugee camps. They're economic hubs—farms, workshops, trade centers. Before the Church reorganizes, you'll have forged ties with land that produces goods the north can't. Grain in winter. Weaves. Smelted metal."
"The south's got those," said another merchant with a wave of his hand. "Why would we need—"
"The south that exists today, yes," Lioran broke in. "But not the south I'm creating. My colonies exist outside Church jurisdiction, outside conventional power structures. We don't pay tithes to bishops or tribute to lords. Which means reduced costs, improved prices, and direct contact with producers instead of through middlemen taking their commission."
The traders looked at each other. Now he had them.
.....
The Negotiation
Freya spoke once more, her voice contemplative. "You present a pretty picture. But it depends on your settlements living. And from what we know, you have maybe six weeks of provisions left. If we invest in trade arrangements with you and you fall apart before spring, we've wasted resources."
"Then make sure we don't fall apart," Lioran replied. "Your initial shipment is an investment. You give us supplies now—for a reasonable price, not alms—and you set yourselves up as our main trading partner for the future. When other kingdoms notice that the Frost Kingdoms achieved where they dared not attempt, you'll have demonstrated courage and commercial sense."
"And if the Church's crusade burns your settlements to the ground anyway?"
"And then you've lost one shipment," Evelina replied. "Against potential decades of profitable trade if we are successful. From a business perspective, the calculation of risk and reward tips in favor of action."
Torvald stroked his beard. "You make a good speech, Queen Evelina. But you have a political stake in this alliance. We merely have commercial interests. I require firmer guarantees than rosy projections."
Lioran's mind turned to Thornhaven, to Mira's letter, to folks skimping on meals so that children might eat. The ember flared in his chest, but not with fury—with resolve.
"I'll provide you a guarantee," he stated. "In writing, signed and witnessed. If the settlements collapse, if the Church lays waste to what we've created, I myself will work for the merchant guilds for five years. My strength, my power, my gifts—all yours to use to recover your investment."
Silence swept across the chamber.
"You'd sell yourself into bondage?" Freya asked, incredulity plain in her voice.
"I'd take blame for my own failures," Lioran amended. "If I'm asking you to gamble your fortune on my assurance, I should gamble my liberty on the same."
Torvald relaxed back, weighing. "That's. surprising. And perhaps worthwhile. A fire mage of your skill would be very beneficial in mining work, smithing, or war work."
"Don't," Evelina said softly, but with iron behind. "Don't consider this a chance to buy slave labor. The Dragon Lord presents this in good faith, as token of his commitment. It must be accepted on that basis."
"Of course, Your Majesty," Torvald replied, although his face indicated that he was weighing exactly how much five years of dragon-fire would be worth. "I did not intend any disrespect. Just the observation that the token has value."
.....
The Terms
They haggled for hours.
Each detail was scrutinized, queried, perfected. Quantities and prices and delivery dates and payment terms. The merchants demanded their advantage and Lioran protected his settlements' interests, with Evelina acting as go-between when positions grew too firm.
At last, with sun slanting through ice walls in the afternoon, Torvald requested formal vote.
"All in favor of opening trade relations with the southern settlements, on terms negotiated and to be set forth in written agreement?"
Hands went up around the table. Not unanimous—three merchants abstained, not wanting to take even a risk with guarantees—but by a clear majority.
"MOTION carries," Torvald announced. "We'll have drafts drawn for signature tomorrow. First caravan leaves in three days' time, weather permitting."
Lioran's knees went weak with relief. Three days. The supplies would arrive at Thornhaven in two weeks. They would weather the winter.
"Thank you," he said, and meant it with all his heart. "You won't regret this."
"We'd better not," Freya said, but she smiled a little. "Though I'll admit, Dragon Lord, you bargain rather well. Most southern lordlings approach here demanding, not offering."
"Most southern lordlings have more than I do," Lioran said. "Desperation teaches different lessons than privilege."
.....
Private Audience
Once the merchants left, Evelina drew Lioran into a private room.
"That was foolish," she said. "Betting yourself as guarantee. If things go wrong—"
"They won't," Lioran broke in. "They can't. Too many people rely on this."
"That's not the way the world works," Evelina replied, irritation creeping into her normally measured tone. "You can do everything right and fail anyway. Promise too much and you'll kill yourself trying to meet impossible promises."
"Perhaps," Lioran conceded. "But I needed to give them something tangible. Something that would show them I believed in what I was creating. Words weren't enough."
Evelina was quiet for a moment, then sighed. "You're right. It's just—" She stopped, choosing words carefully. "I'm not accustomed to caring whether someone succeeds or fails. It's. inconvenient."
Lioran smiled despite the exhaustion pulling at him. "Inconvenient?"
"You know what I mean." She spun to confront him. "In three days, you're gone. You go back south to your settlements, your duties, your battles. And I remain here, governing the north, dealing with my own issues. This is simply another alliance on paper."
"Is that what you want?" Lioran inquired.
"Want is inconsequential," Evelina replied, but her tone rang hollow. "We're kings. Our own wants are secondary to our obligations."
"Perhaps then," said Lioran slowly, "we require greater responsibilities. Ones which enable us to do more than be mere tools of necessity."
They stood there in silence, fire and ice in balance, neither moving nor stepping back.
Finally, Evelina spoke. "When you return south, you'll face everything you left behind. The ember will be tested. Crane's raids, your people's needs, the constant demand to burn rather than build. Will what you've learned here survive that pressure?"
"I don't know," Lioran admitted. "But I have to try. And knowing that someone here understands what I'm attempting—that helps."
"Then don't disappoint," Evelina told him. "Not for the merchant agreements or the promises. But because." She paused. "Because I would miss the only man on this planet who understands my language."
She walked away before Lioran could answer, ice etching behind her.
....
Preparation
The following two days were spent in hectic order.
Merchants had the first caravan—fifty wagons full of grain, salted meat, winter vegetables, spring planting seeds, medical equipment, tools, and cold-weathe clothing. More than Lioran had hoped to get, bought at prices that tested his settlements' credit but didn't shatter it.
Evelina provided an escort—Captain Valdis and twenty Frost Guard soldiers to accompany the caravan via the Gray Reach and see safe delivery.
"Try not to burn anyone on the way there," Valdis dryly joked while they went over the route. "I'd rather not have to explain to the Queen that I let you bum our trade partners."
"I'll try," Lioran vowed.
On the last night, Evelina called him to her private chambers—not the throne room or training grounds, but to her own quarters. It was strangely austere. No fancy furnishings, only ice sculptures of striking beauty and a window with a view of the mountains.
"I wanted to offer you something," she replied, holding out a tiny crystal vial. Within, what appeared to be frozen starlight churned. "It's compressed ice essence. If the ember ever begins to burn out of control, shatter this. It will not extinguish the fire, but it will provide you with a moment—just an instant—to reclaim yourself."
Lioran accepted it gingerly. "Thank you. For all of it. The training, the negotiation, the—"
"Don't," Evelina broke in. "Don't say goodbye as if we'll never meet again."
"Will we?"
She went to stand at the window and stare at the stars. "The north and south have been apart for too long. Maybe it's time that ended. Maybe." She didn't finish the sentence. "Maybe when spring arrives, I'll come call on these settlements you're constructing. See if they're as grand as you say."
"You'd be welcome," Lioran said. "More than welcome."
"We'll see." She turned away from him, and for an instant, her restraint failed. Ice and fire danced in tandem, their lips colliding in a kiss flavored with winter and warmth together, with possibilities both did not fully comprehend.
As they parted, Evelina's dignity reasserted itself like armor settling back over her shoulders. "Go. Save your people. Show them that all that you've promised isn't just sweet words."
"I will," Lioran said.
At sunrise, he left Glaciheart, fifty wagons rumbling behind him, hope in grain and smoked meat.
Behind, a queen waited in her window, gazing until fire went out of sight.
Before, war and winter waited.
But for the first time since Kyrris' death, Lioran felt that perhaps he would succeed.
The caravan rumbled south, for home.