Son of a Pitch Entry: Silver and Ice

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Title: Silver and IceCategory and Genre: YA Fantasy
Word Count: 80k
Query:Eighteen-year-old Ebraham hunts silvertongues--those born with a voice capable of controlling minds. With the aid of a magicked amulet, an uncanny ability to read people, and just a touch of overconfidence, he has become Elysia's most renowned silvertongue hunter. So when the Winter Queen commands him to capture the silvertongue who has infiltrated the Fifth Regiment, he is sure he'll have this mission closed in a blink.

Until he discovers the regiment’s beloved Captain Alivia Youngblood is the hidden silvertongue. A brilliant military strategist, Youngblood may be the key to finally turning the tides of a decade-long war against the Vigilanthams, the kingdom's mortal enemy. However, with orders from the Winter Queen to seize Dark Water Point--a Vigilantham stronghold impossible to breach--it appears that the Fifth Regiment is doomed to a suicidal battle. . . unless someone comes up with a plan to save them all.

Caught in a world of lies and deceptions, Ebraham must decide who the kingdom's real enemy is: the Queen he serves, or the silvertongue he has come to respect.
First 250 Words:I once chased a silvertongue up the twenty-third peak of the Devil’s Ridgeback in the dead of winter. Didn’t have a cloak, furs, gloves, or anything a sane person would think to wear in the middle of a blizzard. Nearly lost my left ear to frostbite, and two toenails blackened and fell off afterwards. Still caught the silvertongue at the end though, and that’s what matters—placing the mission above all.

Now I can’t help but compare the coldness settling over my skin to that wretched adventure from two winters ago.
A cool draft whispers against the nape of my neck. The soft swish of a heavy cloak dragging along the marble floor echoes in the throne room. Frost spiderwebs beneath my leather boots, chilling my feet into a deep ache. Only one person in the kingdom of Elysia controls such powerful magic.
“Rise, young Tracer.” Queen Hiema’s voice comes like a breath of snow.
I finally straighten from my deep bow, spine protesting, neck and shoulders stiff. By the time I lift my eyes, the Winter Queen has already made her way onto the dais in front of me, though she doesn’t sit on the throne. My breath hitches at the sight of the queen. In person, her cold and terrible beauty is more devastating than even the most vivid descriptions sung by the bards. Pale lashes frame cat-like eyes the color of ice chips. Lips stained a deep wine red, long fingernails painted gold and studded with diamonds.