Frost Like Night (16 page)

Summer is his.

Firelight cuts through the shadows around him, dancing off his black tunic and pale hair as he steps to the railing.

“Summer!” Angra bellows. The crowd shifts closer to him, drawn as flowers to the sun. “The world has transformed. I bring to each kingdom a chance at unity—a chance Summer has welcomed with great reception. . . .”

He drones on, a speech about unity and peace and things that set my insides on fire, so I ignore him in favor of studying him. Does he have the keys? They're more a threat to him than the locket ever was, and he kept that around his neck. There's no way he'd let those keys leave his person. So how do we get close enough to him without getting ourselves killed? Maybe, if Ceridwen's archers get a good shot, it will stun him enough for us to make a move. Or—could
an arrow really assassinate him? Surely his magic wouldn't let him die so easily. But it could definitely distract him.

“. . . will shift our world into a state of equality, where prejudices will die and new life will grow. Further”—Angra leans forward—“the Seasons and Rhythms will no longer hold to biased, childlike opinions. We are all equal, and as such, I, a Season king, present to Theron Haskar, a Rhythm king, a token of my trust and bond.”

Every bit of blood in my body rushes for my head, wrapping me in a dizzy fog.

I knew he'd be here, but I hadn't let myself dwell on it, the same way I keep from looking at Ceridwen—I can't think about him now.

Movement from two places in the room cuts my attention.

One comes from below, where two men start walking across the back of the room. They're Yakimians, and I almost dismiss them as slaves—but they're armed, and they walk with a sudden purpose that stands out in the quiet crowd. Slowly at first, their footsteps gain traction with each step, and it isn't until they're halfway across the room that Sir, on the other side of Mather, grunts low in his throat.

This isn't part of the plan.

Another movement comes from the door behind Angra, the darkness unfurling around the figure of a man. He isn't injured, not a bruise or a scratch or anything to indicate
he's been ill-treated—which is almost more horrible. He's whole and clean, dressed in a Cordellan military uniform, looking so normal that I have to squeeze my nails into my palms, the pain reminding me that this is real, not a nightmare.

Mather sucks in a ragged breath, his hand on my knee clenching tighter, grounding me.

Theron steps up to the railing. Angra reaches into a pocket on his black tunic to withdraw a chain from which two thick black keys hang.

I teeter forward, catching myself on the stone.

“These keys represent both our past mistakes and our future freedom,” Angra continues, and holds them out.

Below, the two Yakimians reach Ceridwen's hiding place. She frowns at them.

I feel everything that happens next before it occurs, like the anticipation of watching a storm cloud roll in over the plains.

Theron takes the keys, opens his mouth to say something no doubt grand and rehearsed in response to Angra's display.

But the Yakimian men start shouting.

“You are unfit to lead us!” one cries. “We never should have trusted you!”

“You deserve death!” the other adds, and they draw their weapons and dive at Ceridwen.

The crowd dissolves into panic, their silence broken now
by horrified shrieking. They rush for the doors as soldiers advance from the side halls, Angra's men, their uniforms a mix of Cordell and Spring, their faces set with . . . amusement.

I send one more blast of protection to my Winterians, keeping them clear of Angra's Decay, and launch to my feet. No hesitation—the open-air room means dirt coats every tile of the floor, making it easy to lift the particles and create a haphazard version of a sandstorm. The air fills with blinding dirt as the crowd's chaos rears into terrified screams and the jostle of weapons.

Sir and Mather react without needing instruction, sprinting after me down the balcony. The Thaw trails behind us, their weapons drawn. The sand starts to settle, so I whip it up again, but another force snatches it away from me. The unexpected loss of control sends me stumbling into the railing.

The sand clears, controlled by Angra's outstretched hand.

I'm leaning over the room, so close to his balcony now that I could reach out and touch him. Henn stands next to me, having joined us as we raced past his hiding place.

Angra grins. Beside him, Theron smiles, just as pleased as Angra, albeit with more relief than satisfaction.

I push myself back from the railing and rip my chakram free, but the pillars make throwing it impossible. Soldiers appear behind us on the balcony, their booted feet shaking the walkway, and the Thaw turns to intercept them amid a
chorus of shouts and clashing weapons. I send them bursts of strength and swing around the corner to come face-to-face with Angra. The keys are in his hand.

Angra doesn't bother with a weapon—a shadow engulfs his fist and his grin turns sickening. Below us, chaos still bubbles over, but the crowd has mostly departed—the only shouting comes from one source, a voice that triggers awareness.

Ceridwen.

She cries out, and I whip around to look for her.

Distracted,
distracted
—

That word consumes me as I blink and Angra punches the air, his shadow pummeling into my chest. I heave backward, hurtling into Sir and Henn, who jog up behind me.

Theron swings forward, catching Angra's arm. “She could be here to surrender!”

Angra holds and I fly to my feet, chakram still raised.

“Have you come to surrender, Winter queen?” Angra asks, but his voice says he knows I haven't. Another shadow gathers around his fist—

Before he can throw it, Mather climbs onto the railing and leaps to their balcony, careening into Angra, who slams back into Theron. The three of them drop to the floor in a collision of thuds and shouts.

I hesitate, eyes scrambling over the mess of bodies for the keys—did they get jostled loose? Does Theron still have them? Why did Angra give them to Theron at all?

But I know why.

Because I'd have no problem killing Angra to get the keys, but if I have to get them from Theron . . .

Angra is on his feet now, Mather between him and me with a dagger drawn. Angra doesn't toy with me this time—he jerks his hand to his chest, pulling the dagger from Mather's grip. Mather staggers forward with a cry of alarm, but Angra is already flinging his hand back out, hurling the dagger at me.

Theron flips onto his knees and reaches for Angra.

“No—she's
mine
!” he roars, and pulls Angra's aim off, the dagger plunging to the right to graze Mather's shoulder before it clatters into the room below.

Mather spins with the force of the blade. Behind me, Phil wails, and any last knot of concentration I had utterly unravels at the sight of blood spraying out of Mather's arm.

Go,
I beg myself.
Get out of here, get out of here—

Panic drives me, such fuel that I don't even need to touch the Winterians. Mather, Sir, Henn, the Thaw—I grab onto their bodies with the same snaking tendrils that let me find Sir, and on a pull that tears at my stomach, I use my magic to remove us from the balcony.

TONIGHT THEY WOULD
assassinate the king of Spring and end his magic-fueled reign of terror.

Ceridwen had felt Angra's Decay picking away at her mind the moment they set foot in Juli, but now, as he stood over her on the balcony, his magic pummeled her like raindrops beating against a parched ground.

But she had been parched for years—she had learned to live without rain.

She kept her place on the main floor, tucked on the outskirts of the quiet, waiting crowd. There was no denying Angra's influence in Summer as she watched the normally vivacious upper class stand in solemn, whispering groups. The trip through Juli had been just as wrong, the streets silent, even the brothels still. Everything about her kingdom was wrong, like a fire Angra had doused with water—no more light, no more passion, no more
life
.

Ceridwen shook her head and glared up at Angra. The archers above him were so well hidden that Ceridwen herself almost couldn't spot them—but she knew they were there, waiting for her signal.

Angra droned on, but still Ceridwen couldn't bring her hand to rise. He presented as good a shot as any.

Ceridwen clenched her fist.

Signal,
she willed herself.
Give the signal—

Her throat all but closed, her eyes glazing over in a sudden burst of dizziness. She staggered, tripping into a servant who held a tray of goblets for the crowd that hadn't drunk a single drop of wine all night. Once, that would have made her rejoice, that her court could be sober at an event—but now she found herself wishing for them to indulge as they used to.

The servant scurried away, outfit soaked with spilled wine. The scent flooded Ceridwen's mind with images of this room, memories of parties where wine had flowed and the courtiers had laughed, and drunk, and succumbed to Simon's magic.

Ceridwen righted herself, dazed. She needed to signal . . . something. Feasting to start, maybe—but no, that had always been Simon's duty. He loved announcing new festivities to the crowd.

Ceridwen shifted, turning to the tent he always erected in the middle of the room—

It wasn't there.

On the balcony, Angra beckoned to someone behind him, and Theron stepped forward.

Angra—kill him. Focus, Ceridwen!

She scrambled forward, her mind clouded, the crowd so close that she could feel each heartbeat egging her on, united in this one clarifying goal: to kill Simon.

A cry fought for life in her chest. She planned to kill her brother? Why would she do such a thing?

Her mind burned, magic prickling across her scalp with dozens of tiny, determined fingers. Simon's magic had never been this persistent—once she pushed it from her mind, it had seemed to sulk away as though even it was too drunk to press her more.

But Angra's magic was determined, and heavy, and warm. It cocooned around her body, waiting for one small window of weakness through which it could climb. It whispered in her ear, words dripping honey,
What do you want, Cerie?

No one had ever asked her that before.

Do you want to join the courtiers? You've always wanted to be like them—so easily able to forget their worries and give themselves over to stronger powers, powers that know better. . . .

Ceridwen turned, bumping into someone else—one of the Yakimians who had come with her, the leader Jesse had had to subdue. One of his soldiers flanked him, their brows furrowed.

“You haven't given the signal,” the leader growled.

Ceridwen swayed toward him. “Signal?” she asked, her
voice soft in the general silence of the room—only one voice rang out, giving some kind of speech. “Where is Simon?”

“I was right from the beginning.” The Yakimian shook his head, lips peeling back as he bared his teeth. “You're weak, and I should have killed you long ago—this mission should have been mine. This victory will go to Yakim! You are unfit to lead us! We never should have trusted you!”

His comrade ripped his blade from its sheath. “You deserve death!”

They leaped for her, all biting iron weapons and rock-hard fists. She dodged their blows thanks only to the vacancy of shock.

The Yakimians are attacking me. Who armed the slaves? Where is Simon?

The crowd broke apart into terror, shoving this way and that as they dove for exits and soldiers moved in. Angra's magic seemed to dissipate from Ceridwen's mind in the sudden chaos.

Angra—she hadn't given the signal to attack. He was still alive, waiting for someone to kill him, just like when she had tried to kill Simon in Rintiero.

But no one else would come in and right Ceridwen's wrongs this time.

She had failed. Again.

Ceridwen screamed, but not from the threat of the attacking Yakimians.

There was no forgiveness to be had. Simon was
dead
.

A thought hit her, then. Some faint recollection of a time without pain, one of her only happy memories: Jesse, in the refugee camp, talking of fresh starts.

The Yakimians' own hatred compelled them to attack her, Angra's magic blinding them to any threat but the Summerian princess, so they didn't flinch as Cordellan soldiers swarmed the room and blades pierced their spines. Ceridwen dove for the first Cordellan, but he hurled her to the ground. She slid across the floor and slammed into a table overturned in the crowd's departure, her body rebounding limply.

She'd come back to Juli to stop Angra—and all she'd done was open more wounds.

A blast of ice cooled the scorching air of the celebration hall. All Ceridwen managed was a feeble acknowledgment—
Coldness in Summer? Meira?
—before hands heaved her upright.

“Ceridwen—” Meira started, but her voice cut off at the way Ceridwen could only stare at the floor. One of the Winterians who had come with her from the camp held her up, taking her weight. “Get her out of here,” Meira told him, and they started moving, hobbling for the door as more blasts of ice warred with the hall's heat.

“Do you think Angra's magic got to her?”

“She'd be . . . doing something, then, wouldn't she?”

“Is she hurt? They hit her in the head?”

Meira knelt before her. Dirt streaked her face, sweat making a paste of the sand and grime from this hidden passage. Ceridwen hadn't been surprised at all when her group had found this former sewage tunnel still boarded up—it had made an easy, hidden entrance into the palace by way of the underground wine cellar.

She glanced around, taking quick stock of who was here and who was not. Meira, a new group of Winterians, General William, and Henn; none of the Yakimians; two of her Summerians. Lekan was one of them, and Ceridwen pinched her eyes shut against the burning tears of relief that he had made it out.

Flame and heat, what would she have done if he had died because of her?

“Ceridwen,” Meira tried. “What happened?”

She didn't sound angry.

She should.

Five deaths had come because of this failed plan. A few of Meira's Winterians had been hurt too—one had a deep gash across his arm; another had a cut along his forehead; Henn had taken a sword to the ribs as he helped Ceridwen limp out of the hall. A single lantern cast shadows on their dirty faces, each of them straining for any sound of approach.

And all because Ceridwen had let guilt blind her.

She slammed her head back against the wall, the rough
stone threatening to puncture her skull.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered.

Meira slumped to her knees. “It's all right.”

“It
is
?” choked one of the Winterians—a boy, who was even now tying a bandage around the one with a cut arm.

“Phil,” the injured one chastised him, and Phil dropped his head, scowling still.

Meira kept her eyes on Ceridwen, as if the mission hadn't been a disaster, as if there wasn't a barrage of injuries around them. “What happened?”

Even just hearing that question made the tears in Ceridwen's eyes overflow, and she pinched the skin above her nose, face contorting to push back a scream.

“Angra's magic,” she started. “It got to me—”

“How?” Meira pressed.

She should have expected that. She owed them all the truth, why she, who should have been the most able to resist magic, fell at all. Was it because of her own weaknesses, or Angra's strength?

“It should have been Simon,” she whimpered, “here tonight. And I hate that I think that, but I'd rather he be alive for me to keep fighting him than—”

She couldn't speak for the sob that gripped her throat. When it passed, she lowered her hand, sight blurring.

“I don't know how to move on,” she said. “I don't know how to forgive him when he isn't here.
I hate him—
”

Meira just sat there, listening, while everyone else waited. Their silence made Ceridwen laugh, of all things, and she chuckled heartlessly through her tears.

“And I ruined everything,” she finished, palms up, because what more could she say?

“You did not ruin everything,” Meira said, but it was as empty as her smile. “Angra gave Theron something I'm searching for—those keys. If I can get them, I can defeat Angra, and we know who has them now.”

“Angra gave the keys to Theron before we revealed ourselves.” William leaned forward. “That was part of his plan. To make sure word spread that Theron has them.”

Everyone heard the words he didn't say.
It's another trap.

Meira's expression stayed the same.

Ceridwen locked eyes with her. “We'll be more prepared. I won't . . . fall apart next time.”

Meira shook her head. “We should do our best to make sure none of us falls apart next time.”

Midnight had long since passed by the time they left the hidden passage. It released them just outside the palace's walls, in an alley more akin to a garbage dump. That felt appropriate as they spilled into the night, covered in filth and blood and failure.

Juli had changed. The overhanging tension that had kept the city silent and nearly empty when they first arrived
seemed enhanced. Fights broke out in taverns; warring groups tumbled through the streets; cries pierced the air from every direction, calling for help in an echoing rebound that made it impossible to track. Farther down the street, soldiers patrolled, barging into houses and demanding any residents turn over the Winter queen.

Ceridwen kept her head down, her muscles taut, and led the battered group out of Juli. They could stay and try to help where they could, but Angra's Decay would no doubt foster two more problems for every one they solved.

Ceridwen bit her lips together, inhaling the smells of the city one last time. Heat-soaked wood; bitter sweat; tangy wine; the grittiness of sand with every breath.

She was leaving. But she would return, and she would fix Summer—and maybe, through that, she would find a way to fix her relationship with Simon, too.