Frost Like Night (10 page)

Ceridwen wanted to race to her tent and leave him here with his apologies. She wanted to shout at him to stop throwing emotions at her. She wanted far too much, teetered on the edge of a bottomless abyss, one that was black
and putrid with the events of the past few days, and every word Jesse said nudged her closer and closer to falling.

Her brother had died before she'd gotten to say anything real to him. She'd wanted to scream at him about all the horrible things he'd done, about how he was the one who had forced her into a life of being alone. It was his fault—he chose to be her enemy.

She glared at Jesse. “You say this
now
. You needed the end of the world to figure out that I'm worth fighting for.”

“I always knew you were worth fighting for,” Jesse moaned. “I was just never worthy of fighting for you.”

“I always knew you weren't worthy of me. I always knew you were weak, Jesse, and I don't want to have to put you together.” The accusation cut into her own insecurities. “You are weak, and broken, and
you are alone
. Why did you ever think anyone would help you? You are nothing, and that's why you're alone, that's why you've failed
so many times
—because there was never anything in you to begin with.”

The ground caught her as she dropped to her knees.

She was alone, in ways she couldn't entirely fathom. Her mother probably still lived, but what use had she ever been? Simon was dead, and honestly . . . what had she expected him to become? For him to wake up one day and realize how dangerous he was? No, there never would have been a happy resolution for her brother. Not for Summer, not for herself.

Arms stretched across her back. Tentative, shaking arms that eased her forward, rocking her into Jesse's chest. She knew this chest so well, every tense line of muscle, every expanse of skin. And he knew her body, too. He knew where to clasp his fingers around her arm, past the point on her left shoulder where a long-ago injury still ached if touched. He knew to stroke his thumb across the base of her jaw, just under her ear, steady, rhythmic caresses that rippled across her whole body.

She knew him, and he knew her, and he was
here
.

Ceridwen's body went limp.

“I don't trust you,” she whispered.

“Don't,” he said. “Let me prove myself. I owe you a lifetime of penance, Cerie.”

A lifetime of penance could have meant any number of things. But what Ceridwen saw was her brother's head snapping on his neck. His lifetime had ended, so quickly, before she'd gotten a chance to tell him that she loved him, despite everything he had done, because he was
hers
, part of her kingdom, part of her family, and she couldn't help herself.

If she knew she would live a safe, long life, Ceridwen would be able to rationalize and convince herself that she needed better than Jesse. But now, this life she led—she knew how fragile it was, how she would most likely die too young in battle. In this kind of life, there was only time for wants, not needs. And she wanted Jesse.

She wanted him because she didn't want to wake up alone every morning. She didn't want to know he was out there and not hers when she could have him now. That was greedy, yes—it was also dangerous and careless and stupid.

But that was what war did. It made people realize the importance of stupid things.

A cot groaned under her. Jesse's lips brushed her forehead, his hands smoothed back her hair, and before she could piece together any words, she was gone.

THE TENSION IN
the compound makes breathing impossible. All I can do is stand and stare at the wall, as Oana rushes out and threads an arm around my shoulders. Rares remains poised next to me, head tipped as if he's listening.

Rares can communicate with Alin—so should I be able to communicate with Mather and whoever came with him? They're not conduits, but rulers can use their magic to channel will and strength into their people, so maybe I could . . . what? Channel a random burst of strength into them? Or I could travel there and use my magic to bring them back to the compound instantly—but adding dizziness and vomiting to their injuries won't help anything.

I stagger closer to Rares. “Where are they? Did something happen?”

Rares opens his mouth and lifts a finger simultaneously.
After a beat, he points at the gate. “Now.”

I send it slamming into the wall above as I sprint forward, eyes trained on Alin, who perches on the driver's seat of a wagon. By the time Rares and Oana guide the cart all the way into their compound and drop the gate, I'm already swinging around the cart.

Blue eyes blink up at me, one buried in a swelling mound of purple and red, the other under a cut that runs across his brow. He's one of Mather's Thaw, his white hair dangling around his face in matted clumps.

“Phil?” I guess.

He nods, trembling like a dog cowering from his master.

“My . . . my queen . . . ,” he mumbles, and saying that breaks him. He flies out of the wagon, hands over his head and knees trembling until he drops, huddling in a ball on the ground.

“I'm sorry . . . I didn't want to . . . I tried so hard. . . .”

I watch him, unable to breathe.

What
happened
?

At the edge of my mind I hear Oana's soothing voice, the donkey bleating into the air, the wind hissing in my ears. It all fades to a muted hum when my eyes pin on Mather.

He lies in the bed of the cart, curled on his side as if they hauled his body in and drove off as fast as possible. Blood cakes the whole right side of his head, darkest near a wound on his temple. A saturated bandage hangs around his forehead and his chest rises in clipped breaths.

I've seen him injured before, after missions in our refugee camp; after particularly brutal sparring sessions. But through all those injuries, he winced and cried out in pain, but he was never unconscious. He was always able to look at me, and I never realized until now how necessary that was for my heartbeat to remain steady.

Oana touches my shoulder. “We need to get him inside, sweetheart,” she pleads, and I realize I'm blocking Rares and Alin from lifting Mather out of the cart.

I leap back near Phil, who sobs, and when I turn, he's standing. His arms wrap so tightly around his torso that I fear he may snap himself in half.

“What happened?” My question slams into Phil, making him stagger.

“No . . .” He covers his eyes, the heels of his palms pressing deep. Each moment he doesn't speak lets possibilities thud in me. Images of Mather climbing the mountains in pursuit of me and falling; images of him trying to escape Rintiero and getting attacked by Angra's men—

Phil mumbles something into his wrists.

“What?”

He drops his hands. Looks at me. Then at Mather, now hanging limp between Alin and Rares as they haul him toward the castle.

“I had to make the voices stop,” Phil whispers.

My body goes hot. “Angra?” I guess.

Phil moans softly and nods.

“I told them—where we were going,” he says, gagging between words. “I told them—where you were—and they took us to the mountains—and Angra, he didn't come. He said—he said we'd be enough to make you come back. He had his men beat Mather to show you what Angra will do to everyone who stands against him.” Phil doubles over, hands on his knees. “I told them where you were to make the voices stop, but they beat him in front of me, and I'd . . . I'd rather have the voices. . . .”

The door to the castle opens and Rares backs in, Mather's head lolling against his stomach.

I swallow Phil's words, my own agony, anything that makes me teeter on the edge of falling apart.

Through all I have to do, the sacrifice I have to make, my life is the only one that will be taken. I refuse to lose more people to this.

I throw that need deep into the magic, let it spread through the void.

Mather will live. Do you hear me?

He will live.

Rares and Alin put him on a cot in a narrow room with tables, a washbasin, blankets, and candles. Alin murmurs his apologies as he leaves, returning to his post, and Rares and I hover in the doorway, quiet enough that we can hear the muffled words of Oana caring for Phil a few rooms down.

Rares crosses his arms over his chest, and for the first time since I met him, I can't find a hint of levity anywhere in his demeanor.

I talk before he can. “Angra didn't come to Paisly.”

Rares pulls his eyes away from Mather. “He knows he can't survive a direct attack—at least, not without the rest of Primoria's armies on his side. Which he's well on his way to having.”

I look back at Mather. The blood on his head, pulsing fresh and bright.

“He won't heal without your help,” Rares says.

“No.” I shake my head. “I can't—I will
not
risk his life by hurting him more than he—”

Rares grabs my arms and the sorrow in his eyes undoes me. “The best I can do is make him comfortable while he slowly passes on. He's lost too much blood, the wound is too deep—the only way he will survive this is with Winterian magic.”

One breath is all the time it takes—less than that, actually. One glimpse of Mather, broken, bleeding, out of the corner of my eye.

“I'll keep you from losing control,” Rares assures me, but I'm already nodding. “It's the same as drawing objects to you. Relax your mind and let your choice echo out.”

I push into the room until I slam to a halt just beside the cot. Mather's skin tone is gray instead of the vibrant, healthy gleam it should be. His chest moves almost imperceptibly,
and my own aches in tandem with his tremulous breaths.

The cot squeals as I sit on it and take Mather's hand. Clammy sweat beads on his palm, but I weave my fingers with his, unrelenting against his limp grasp.

Rares was wrong, though. This use of magic is far different from drawing swords to me in the training yard. Then it was simply to understand how magic works.

Now it's war.

Angra brought the fight to me. He dragged me into it, whether or not I was ready.

But he will not win.

And next time, the fight will be on
my
terms.

I keep my eyes on Mather's closed lids, watching for any flutter of awareness, squeezing his hand tighter with each jerking thud of my heart.

He's always been in my life, and I never asked for more than that. Because our people needed saving; because I thought he was Winter's king; because of a hundred different reasons that always let me keep him at the edge of my life, constant and unchanged.

And with the weight of the magic chasm looming over me, I realize what I want now.

I want
him
.

I don't want him hovering at the edge of my life—I want him at the center, beaming that smile that has always shot through me. I want us to be
us
again, Meira and Mather.

I want him to look at me.

The magic glides forward and I open myself to it, willing every drop to pour out of me. Frigid tendrils snake all over his body. I'm amazed at how well I know every part of him, how easy it is to channel the magic away from minor injuries—that cut will heal on its own; that ache in his knee he got from a swordfight years ago, nothing life-threatening—and force all of it to hover over the wound on his head. I hold it there, staring at the bloody injury, squeezing his hand tighter, tighter, tighter—

Mather launches upright, sucking in breaths as though he's been held under water too long.

And he looks at me, finally looks at me, his sapphire eyes darting over my face in a way that feels like home.

“Meira,” he breathes, relief draining the stress from his face. His eyes flash behind me, to Rares, and he shifts up a little straighter, wincing. “Where—what happened? Where's Phil?”

“He's fine.” Rares steps forward. “He'll be patched up soon enough. Angra won't be able to add your lives to his death toll today.”

I bite my lips, fighting the urge to delve into that topic. Rares doesn't give me a chance.

“I'll let you two have some privacy. I'm sure there's . . .” He stops, his gaze falling to where I still hold Mather's hand. I stiffen, unable to decide whether or not to pull away.

“We have time,” Rares finishes. Those words leave a weight
on my heart as he shuts the door behind him, and when I pivot back to Mather, he's leaning toward me.

He hasn't looked at me this openly in months.

I swallow and prod gently at his wound, not trusting myself that it's really healed. He holds under my analysis, eyes dancing over mine, the barest beginnings of a smile on his lips. The musk of sweat radiates off him, but it does nothing to slow the sudden speed of my heart, licking all the way up my throat.

“You reek,” I cough.

His smile expands. “I'm glad to see you too.”

“You need . . . water.” I fumble as I leap up and move to the washbasin. I grab a cloth and plunge it in, holding it there to occupy myself.

The cot shifts as Mather moves his legs to the floor. “Ice above, what did you do to me?”

I launch the towel at him. “Saved your life. You're welcome.”

He removes the bandage and pats the towel against the caked blood, his eyes lifting to me. His attention holds, the silence weighing as if each second drops stones on my shoulders.

“Phil told me what happened,” I manage. “Who else did Angra—”

The cot creaks as Mather rises. “Just us,” he says softly, and I'm able to breathe, albeit only a little. “Dendera's leading everyone else to safety. Phil and I split off to—” He
stops. “To find you. But don't you dare blame yourself, Meira—I didn't go after you twice before. No force in this world could have kept me from going after you a third time.”

I gape at him. Whatever response I expected, this isn't it—him, blood-splattered, moments out from being close to death, but staring at me as if he's been beside me all along, just waiting for any word from me.

Mather swallows, the muscles in his neck convulsing. He takes tentative steps forward and leans next to me, against the washbasin's table. “Angra . . . he didn't come with us, when his men brought us here. He didn't stage a direct attack. Why? Why are you here?”

I run my fingers around the outside of the washbasin. Discussing magic and Paisly and my plans for Angra—it suddenly feels like the easiest topic of conversation, instead of talking about all the things I want when I look at Mather.

So I explain it all to him—but I leave out a few details. I tell him what I am now, what happened when Angra broke Winter's conduit. I tell him what Angra is too, what the Decay is, how it's spreading. I tell him about Rares and why I followed him—because he is part of the Order, and I couldn't control my magic, and I needed to know more so I can defeat Angra. I tell him about the labyrinth, about the three tasks and the magic chasm and the keys I need to get from Angra to open it.

But I don't tell Mather exactly what I need to do to destroy magic. Or even how the magic would keep me alive indefinitely, if I were to not die in the chasm.

Still, when I'm done, he stares at me with horror. Then it washes away with a shake of his head, and he turns, crossing his arms as he drops back against the table.

“We need to get to Winter. To the . . . labyrinth,” he says, dazed. “Before Angra can take full advantage of the uprising Cordell started.”

“Eventually. But I can't do this unprepared. Angra won't give me many chances.” I stifle a sigh. “And he won't give me much time, either.”

“Then we'll force him to give us time. We'll get an army—we have to have supporters somewhere.” He shifts against the table, his eyes fluttering shut on a wobbling breath. “We'll attack him, pull his attention, buy as much time as you need.”

I smile and wrap my hand around his arm. “We'll plan later—rest now.”

He smiles. “Is that an order, my queen?”

I nudge him toward the bed, but his arm hardens under my touch to make himself immovable.

“Yes, it's an order,” I say, shoving him futilely. “And might I add, I order you to never get so close to death again.”

My teasing falls flat under his gaze. I think, at first, it's
from the mention of what Angra did to him, but he lifts his other hand and grabs my fingers.

“I'm sorry,” he says, his eyes heavy. “I'm sorry this was the only time I came after you.”

I almost ask what he means, but the explanation hits me so hard I choke.

“I didn't go after you twice before,”
he said.

“You always did what was best for Winter,” I say, breathless from the regret that fogs his face. He's been carrying this guilt around for months? “You couldn't have done anything to save me when Herod took me to Abril. Angra still thought you were Hannah's son. If he'd caught you . . . it would have been much worse than what he did now. You helped me by staying away—it would have destroyed me to see you in his hands. And I left Jannuari on political business. How were you to know it would end like it did? Besides, you helped me far more by staying in Winter and training your Thaw.”

One side of Mather's mouth cocks up, his eyes racing over my face. “I knew you'd try to convince me I shouldn't feel bad. But duty aside, I should have done more. Been more. For you. I'm sorry, Meira.”