Wildest Dreams (Fantasyland #1)(43)
Author: Kristen Ashley

And this we did.

Surprisingly, for the first couple of hours, I turned and curled as best I could into my husband’s big, warm body and somehow managed to fall asleep in the cradle of his arm.

Once I woke, Frey ordered a halt and we all stopped to eat sandwiches Ruben’s woman made for us filled with cold, lean roast beef that had been stacked on slices of thick, chewy white bread while the beef’s juices still flowed, soaking the bread with flavor. It also had a spread of creamy horseradish sauce that was delicious but so thick it made my eyes water though none of the men even made a face as they wolfed the sandwiches down. This was followed with long pulls on wineskins that were filled with smooth whisky that, no matter how smooth, still made my eyes bug out. But Frey gently urged me to drink it to “keep warm inside”. So, since he was being gentle and Lord knew I needed to utilize every tactic to keep warm, I sucked back three big sips.

He was right, it worked. After that, I was definitely warm inside.

As we rode (and Oleg sledded with Penelope curled in the fur rug at the floor of the sleigh, oblivious to the ride, the scenery and everything, in kitty cat la-la land of warmth and definitely liking the sleigh better than riding on a horse and I knew this because she… freaking… told me), the men did not converse at all. They were alert and wary and Thad and Stephan often galloped away from the group, disappearing in front of us, obviously assessing if our path was clear. Lund and Annar often rounded back, clearly assessing if we were being followed. And Orion rarely rode with us, obviously out in the countryside somewhere, assessing if we were safe at our flanks. But Ruben, Gunner and Max stayed put, Gunner riding steady to Frey and my left, Max riding steady to Oleg’s right, Ruben at the front, our constant guard.

As we rode through forest and over plain, Frey spoke to me, mostly telling me what the area we were in was called, the name of the river I’d seen on our way out, what each village was called and adding information, such as which gods and/or goddesses they worshiped.

News: some villages chose specific gods or goddesses to revere above the others, sometimes it was one but it seemed to be on average three and their preferences were known easily for they had that god or goddess’s colors displayed in the town, or the town’s common places had statues, busts or their faces were carved into buildings (this, Frey pointed out to me and this, by the way, was cool and this, I decided, was why there was a lot of green and light blue in Houllebec because clearly they prayed to Hermia and Alabasta).

Although Frey told me this, he didn’t explain why, he simply seemed to be talking to me to keep my mind off things.

And he did, including the fact that he was telling me information that it was likely, as princess of this country, I should know.

It didn’t occur to me once that this was weird.

Not once.

In fact, that thought didn’t enter my mind.

Night fell as it usually did in that world, that was to say in early afternoon and we were riding through another forest when it did it. I was way over the ride by then and as much as I liked Tyr, I wanted off that horse and in a place that was warm so that forest seemed to last forever until suddenly we came out it and the torchlit city of Fyngaard was laid out in the valley in front of us, surrounded by tall mountains, their snowy tops piercing the night sky.

Where I had entered this world.

Where my parents were.

I again noted its beauty but I instantly grew anxious and I must have tensed or pulled in a breath for Frey’s arm around me grew tight but he said not a word.

To take my mind off the impending meeting, as we rode through Fyngaard I looked around and saw it appeared most of the city had attended our wedding for the night I entered this world, it was mostly deserted.

But now, there were people out and about, quite a number of them, walking, riding, standing around the big fire drums, holding their hands to them and chatting. There were also some sleighs, none as large as mine, one-seaters or two-seaters, some with an area at the back where you could put stuff, some without, some being pulled by two horses, most only one. All of the people were dressed differently than they were in Houllebec, their clothes more refined, some of the men and women here had fur trim on their outerwear and there was none in Houllebec and most of the women in Fyngaard wore elegant fur-trimmed hats and slim leather or suede gloves whereas in the village, the women wore knit caps and mittens.

There were also several long lines of two story, connected buildings that had shops on the first floor with people in them or outside looking in, perusing the wares. They definitely had more of a selection then our little Houllebec including yarn shops, a number of dressmakers, milliners, tobacconists, wine and spirits, bookstores, stationery shops and shops that looked like they sold leather and fur. There were even two shops that we passed whose windows were decorated with what looked like spun, colored glass that was fashioned in all shapes from butterflies to hummingbirds to hawks, horses and wolves and even sleighs and ships and one of them had a large, elaborate and definitely cool dragon in its window.

It was all so fascinating, my head often turned or my body twisted to keep sight of something we passed and when we passed the glass shops, I decided I was definitely checking those out, as soon as I could.

There were a number of restaurants, pubs and even what looked like cafés, some with sturdy, wooden furniture outside surrounded by torches and big fire drums where people sat drinking coffee or maybe cocoa, some of the men smoking brown-paper-covered, thin cigars.

It was, I noted, definitely a city and what appeared to be a cosmopolitan one at that.

Our entourage, now including all our riders, did not pass through the city unnoticed. In fact, we caused quite a stir. When eyes came to me, men would bow slightly or women would bob in a graceful, short curtsy. But if eyes caught or moved to Frey, men would lift their hand in a fist and touch their chin and women would tuck their chin down and to the side of their neck.

This was strange but it was cool and for both reasons, I wish I could ask Frey about it but, alas, I should already know so I couldn’t.

We made it out of the commerce area and were winding our way through what seemed a residential area when our party made a turn around a house and I saw it.

The Winter Palace. It had to be for it was huge and it was extraordinarily gorgeous.

It sprawled along the rise at the base of an enormous mountain and the outside carried as much beautifully carved wood as all I’d noticed inside. The many, varied height, narrow-angled gables were all decorated with intricate dark wood carving mingled with long, glistening icicles, most of the diamond paned windows glowed with candlelight, at their tops the light glowed through the carved wood adorning them and the rest of the façade was made of massive dark wood planks.