I opened my eyes. Squared my jaw. I could do this. I had to do this.
It was the next right thing.
“ROAR! I AM EVIL NORTHULDRA AND I WILL kill you deader than dead!”
I startled awake from my nap as two orphan children, a boy and a girl around six years old, raced into the dormitory, one chasing the other, a wicked grin on the chaser’s face. The boy squealed, diving onto my bed and trying to hide behind me to escape the “evil Northuldra” while she jumped on top of him, grabbing the pillow from under my head and smashing it into his face.
“I will cast a horrible spell on you!” she jeered. “You will burst into flames!”
I stumbled out of bed, out of their line of destruction, still disoriented from being awoken from a deep sleep. The boy grabbed my pillow from the girl, tossing it away. They began wrestling madly until the boy fell off the bed, slamming his head against the wooden floor.
He burst into tears. “Ow!” he cried, rubbing his head. “You don’t play fair!”
“Yeah, well, neither do the Northuldra!” the girl declared mischievously, not looking the least bit sorry for her part in the accident.
Suddenly, there were footsteps on the stairs. The housemother stepped into the doorway. “Aryn, Peter!” she scolded. “What did I tell you about roughhousing in the bedroom?” She clapped her hands. “Come now! I have plenty of chores to work off that energy!”
“Aw!” they moaned in unison, but did as they were told, slinking out of the bedroom to head downstairs.
I was alone again.
I drew in a breath, trying to still my racing heart. I reached down to collect my mother’s shawl from under the bed and press it to my cheek, relieved that the children’s antics hadn’t unearthed this lone vestige of my previous life.
A lump rose in my throat as I walked across the room to the tiny window at the far side. It had been a month, and I still couldn’t get used to sleeping in here—inside this closed-in, claustrophobic space with its rows of cots and scores of children, so far removed from nature and the elements.
Back home, the wind rustling the leaves and water tumbling over the stones in the river used to sing me to sleep. Now all I could hear were the whispers of the other children, telling each other scary stories after the lights went out, usually about the “wicked Northuldra,” as if my family were some kind of magical monsters lurking under the beds, ready to strike.
Some of the children in the orphanage had been there at the dam celebration. Their parents had been killed, supposedly at Northuldra hands. All they wanted to talk about was how Arendelle would get its revenge, how they would repay these traitors who were given a great gift and returned the favor with murder.
Yes, their own king had been murdered that day. They believed one of my elders had killed him, shoving him off a cliff by the side of the dam. Which was ridiculous, of course. There was no way any of our gentle elders would have committed such a violent act against a fellow human.
Of course, I spoke none of this out loud. Instead, I stayed silent, minding Lord Peterssen’s warning: if I spoke up and gave a clue as to who I really was and where I came from, he would no longer be able to protect me.
Because it wasn’t just the children telling the tales. Everyone in Arendelle was talking about the Northuldra “traitors” and what they’d do if they ever came across one. If I didn’t keep this secret, I might not live long enough to find my family again.
And find them I would. My ankle had recently healed. It just needed a little more time before it could bear the brunt of the long walk to the mist, and then I would go from this place. I would travel back to the forest. Find my family again.
I stared out the tiny bedroom window, onto the cold afternoon streets. Light flakes of snow were falling from the sky, dusting the cobblestones below. Was winter here already? It was easier to lose track of the days shut up inside a wooden box. But I knew soon it would come, blanketing the world in white, the chill creeping into our bones. Back home, we’d all huddle by the fire on cold winter days, cozy under mountains of reindeer hides, cuddling close to keep each other warm. There would be stories. Songs.
I missed the songs most of all.
I opened my mouth to sing. My mother’s song. A song of Ahtohallan, a magical river of memories. Only Ahtohallan knows, she would always say in answer to my endless questions.
A fierce longing rose inside me. Did Ahtohallan know what had happened the day of the dam celebration? I wished I knew how to find her, to ask her. But she was very far away. Too far for a young girl like you to go, the elders would always say when I’d ask if they would take me to the river. My throat constricted as I thought of them, thought of Yelana calling me to come knit on the day of the celebration. Why couldn’t I have listened to her, just that once?
A sob rose to my throat. I missed them all so much. Would I ever see them again?
“Are you all right?”
I whirled at the sound of the voice and, to my shock, stood face to face with none other than the boy I had saved in the woods.
Agnarr.
I stared at him, disbelieving. He was dressed in a sharp red suit with a matching tie, and his blond hair was cropped close to his head. They must have shaved it to work on his wound. It made him look older and his leaf-green eyes even bigger.
I felt my face turn as red as his suit. What was he doing here? He couldn’t be one of the orphans, not in that outfit. Had he come here from the village to thank me for my rescue? Did he even remember? I scanned his face for recognition but saw none. I thought back to that moment in the wagon, when he’d slipped his hand in mine. But he’d been so out of it. He probably didn’t remember.
I could never forget.
He backed away, catching the look on my face. “S-sorry,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I just heard you singing, and…What was that song?”
I wasn’t sure what to say. “Just something my mother used to sing to me,” I confessed at last, though I wasn’t certain this was wise to admit. It was a Northuldra song, after all.
Still, something in his face told me I could trust him. At least a little.
“That’s nice,” Agnarr said, sounding suddenly wistful. “I barely knew my mother. She left when I was a small child. And let’s just say Father wasn’t exactly the lullaby type.” He gave a bitter laugh. “You know how kings are.”
My pulse jumped. His father, a king? But that would make him…
“There you are, Prince Agnarr. I was wondering where you’d wandered off to.”
A deep baritone rang out as Lord Peterssen stepped into the room. His eyes settled on me and he gave me a friendly smile. “Oh, good. You’ve already become acquainted. I hope Agnarr has been minding his manners,” he added, poking Agnarr in the ribs. Agnarr playfully shoved him back.
“I am nothing if not the picture of decorum and grace!” he declared haughtily, but with a tease in his tone. Lord Peterssen snorted in disbelief.
Meanwhile, I was staring at the two of them, my mind racing so fast I could barely put a thought together. Agnarr, the boy I rescued. He was a prince? The heir to the throne of Arendelle?
I’d rescued the prince of Arendelle.
“Your—Your Majesty,” I stammered, dropping to my knees as I desperately tried to recall from the Arendellian fairy tales I’d read how the common people greeted royals, hoping I was doing it right.