Frost Like Night (24 page)

MEIRA'S SPEECH HAD
taken the pain caused by the attack and smothered it like snow kicked over a fire. At least, the pain in the soldiers around Mather—even as he applauded, each clap of his hands thumped against the black grief in his heart.

He took stock of the Thaw without meaning to. Each of them was outfitted with weapons and dressed for fast travel. And each was solemn, applauding only because the energy of the crowd compelled them to ignore their grief for one sweet moment of clarity. But the moment would pass, and reality would crush them again, just as Mather knew it would crush him.

The look on Phil's face when Conall had stabbed him hadn't been regret or sorrow, nothing Mather had expected. It had been only anger.

Angra's magic had done that. Taken loyal, happy Phil and made him . . . feral.

Mather should have seen it happening. He knew Phil had been hurting after the torture in Rintiero, but he had never thought . . . he hadn't even
considered
. . .

But he was the leader of the Thaw. It was his job to see such things.

He had failed Phil. He had failed them all.

Mather swallowed as Meira's speech ended. She pressed past them, heading toward the front lines, and they, as her guards, should follow. But Mather watched William, Dendera, and Henn fall in behind her, and he breathed a sigh of relief that he had a moment to speak with his Thaw before duty swept in.

Only one moment. War never allowed for more than that.

Mather turned to the Thaw, who pressed tightly together as the soldiers moved around them, the cheering tapering off into murmured farewells.

“You have a choice,” Mather started, his mouth dry. “I won't force any of you to go to war. Staying to protect the camp will be just as worthy—”

“Save it.” It was Kiefer who cut him off, and Mather paused, meeting his eyes with a stern glare. If Kiefer had some objection to their plans that would leave him stomping off in a huff, Mather didn't have the energy to deal with it now.

But Kiefer's face was soft, almost. “We're going with you,” he stated.

And that was all. No mention of how their trip to escort the refugees had led to Phil's death, and how Mather hadn't been with them for it—no mention of the other times they had been split apart, and the dire consequences of each.

Just unity, now. Unity and obedience, from Kiefer, no less.

“I'm sorry,” Mather heard himself say. Two words that he hadn't meant to utter, though they had been in his mind ever since he'd seen Phil lead the soldiers into camp. Was it a sign of weakness to apologize to the Thaw like this? William had never once apologized for anything. Whatever it was, those two words rippled in the air, and he closed his eyes.

Silence didn't stay long before someone slapped him in the face. Hard.

Mather blinked down at Feige, her cheeks flame red and her lips pursed.

“No,” she growled. “None of this is our fault. This is
Angra's
fault. All of it.”

Her anger raged up into her eyes, and Mather felt that warning from when he'd first sparred with her. This wasn't just anger from Phil's betrayal. This was anger from every moment of living in Angra's work camp, from all the terrors she had endured under his reign. Phil's betrayal was
sadly, horribly, one more nightmare in a long line of nightmares, all stemming from Angra.

Trace shifted, his fingers tight on the knife hilts sticking out of the holsters on his thighs. He bobbed his head in a quick nod, one echoed by Hollis, Kiefer, and Eli without hesitation.

Hollis stepped closer to his sister. “But let's agree, now, that the best way for us to get through this is by helping each other.”

“We won't let each other get so consumed by the Decay that we're beyond help,” Trace added. “We can bring each other back. The Summerians have been trying to teach people how to resist magic, so I know it's possible. We're never alone. No matter what Angra's magic tries to make us believe.”

They didn't blame Mather. They didn't blame Phil. And as Mather looked into their eyes, the sorrow in his heart shredding anew, he saw beyond their own sorrow the same flicker of life that had first endeared them to him. They were fighters, through it all. They were survivors, and they would continue to survive, no matter the tragedies they faced.

“Well?”

Mather jumped. Trace lifted his brow.

“You're our leader, Once-King,” he said. “Are we together or not?”

Mather hardened his shoulders. He felt their motto now more than he ever had before.

“We will not be defeated,” he whispered. And he meant it.

Three thousand soldiers left the camp, a mix of Autumnians, Yakimians, Summerians, and Winterians.

As Mather marched alongside his Thaw, he couldn't stop himself from darting studious looks at the people around him. William, straight backed on his horse. Dendera, once again the reluctant warrior Mather remembered, fierce and deadly next to Henn.

And Meira, just as alert as William, just as fierce as Dendera. A heavier weight hung over her now, an even stronger fervor to keep everyone safe. While their massive army made camp each night, she walked the perimeter, almost unaware of how Mather and rotating members of the Thaw trailed her, once again her guards. And only when Mather coaxed her to bed did she go, reluctant until she got inside the tent—then she tumbled into the blankets and fell asleep beside him so fast that he knew she was draining herself, stretching the edges of her magic in some way.

But he just curled around her, his arm across her hip, his face tucked into her hair, and tried to make himself as calm as possible, a place she could go to every night for rest.

The preparation for the coming battle honed everyone's focuses. Which was why no one said anything about his
sleeping arrangements with Meira—out loud, at least. William stared at Mather every night and every morning, and by the time they reached the valley, even William seemed unable to remain cloaked in his usual emotionlessness and stoicism.

Mather understood instantly why Caspar had recommended this site. The foothills of the Klaryns made up the right side, rising into the mountains beyond, while the left side was a hill coated in trees that created the illusion of a gold and orange wave cresting over the grassy plain through the middle. Halfway across the valley the emerald grass ended in such a deliberate break that it could only be caused by magic—the Winterian border of white and snow and evergreens.

This battle would happen on their terms, with no escape in any direction.

Caspar, Ceridwen, and Meira set to work immediately upon reaching the valley. Tents were erected at the westernmost end, effectively claiming the Autumnian side of the battlefield in their favor. Soldiers posed in lines across the grass, fanned out into the trees to start patrols for enemies advancing from the rear, and attempted daring escapades up the steep cliffs to attain more thorough vantage points.

Mather and his Thaw stayed clustered near Meira. She didn't seem to mind, too consumed by double-checking their plans with Caspar or going over a map with Ceridwen or casting sweeps for trouble. She caught Mather's eyes
during one such sweep, and he smiled.

A pause, and she smiled back, then leaned over to say something to Ceridwen.

“She's your queen first and foremost.”

Mather turned to William, who stood next to him just outside the largest open-air tent, the one for strategy and planning. When Meira had kissed him in the Autumnian camp, Dendera had managed to smile through her shock. But William hadn't reacted at all. Mather had tried to explain what it was—not something they should worry about, not something fleeting, but a true, lasting relationship he intended to fight for.

William had crossed his arms, narrowed his eyes, and walked away.

Mather shifted toward him now, brow lifted. “I know.”

William pinned Mather with look. “Do not lose sight of that. Especially now—she is your queen and you are her soldier.”

Mather kept his voice low. “What do you think will happen? If anything, this makes me even
more
disposed to protect her, and I—”

“Protection isn't all she needs,” William cut him off. “She is the queen of Winter, and you are a soldier of Winter. Both of your goals should be the well-being of our kingdom—regardless of how that would affect either of you, emotionally or physically. You will protect Winter beyond your feelings
for her and I expect her to do the same.”

Mather had heard similar speeches from William before, and he knew Meira had, too.
“Winter first, above everything”; “Your goal is our kingdom's salvation, nothing more.”
He had never been on this end of such a speech, where he was the soldier and she the monarch. Was this what William had told Meira all those years, his reason for not wanting her to love Mather? So her feelings wouldn't interfere with their kingdom's progression?

Worse than that, Mather knew Meira agreed with William. He knew she would choose Winter over him, and try as he did to mute his constant worry, he couldn't stifle it now.

She would die for them. And William would expect Mather to let her.

He had already lost too many people to Angra—Alysson, Phil, and dozens more over the years. He might not have been able to save Alysson or Phil, but he'd be damned if he'd just sit back and let Meira die too.

Grief coated his mouth, metallic and rancid, almost forcing him to gag or scream or let it out in some way. No more deaths.
No more.

“Someone needs to fight for her,” Mather stated. “Alysson did the same for you. I'm hers first, and Winter's second.”

“Family trouble?”

Mather swung to Meira, heat flashing up his neck.

“No, my queen,” William told her. “Are you ready to leave?”

Mather balked. “Leave? Already?”

Meira balked, too, but recovered faster than him. It wasn't William's question that threw her—it was the way he stood there, distant and stoic as ever.

“Yes.” She included Mather with a glance. “We received word of Theron's location. Angra is marching with his army, but . . .”

“Jannuari?” William guessed when Mather didn't trust himself to speak.

Meira nodded. She pointed toward a smaller tent off to their right. “Get your weapons and meet me back here in ten minutes.”

“Angra hasn't arrived,” Mather argued. Panic swelled in his chest. They were leaving for Jannuari in
minutes
. He thought they wouldn't leave until Angra marched on them, that he might have one last night with Meira, his body curled around hers in the tent they shared.

Meira's softness faded. “Angra is already close, and he knows where we are. We need every moment we can get.”

Mather's mouth dropped open. “How do you—”

But he stopped when she absently touched the locket, the glittering piece of jewelry that was so out of place on a woman dressed in borrowed Autumnian leather armor, a Paislian robe and boots, and a chakram.

Her magic. She could use it to sense Angra—so could Angra sense her? Or could she protect herself from him, only let him know where she was when
she
chose it?

If she could do that, Angra could no doubt shield himself from her. So why was he letting Meira know where he was?

Mather bit back these worries. She knew what she was doing. He trusted her.

“All right,” he agreed. The sooner they ended this, the sooner that bastard would no longer be a threat to her—and the sooner Angra would pay for everything he had done.

Mather jogged off toward the structure she had indicated, the one overflowing with weapons and gear. The rest of his Thaw stayed around the main tent, watching him go with a mix of worry and angst. He'd be leaving them again soon.

But this would all be over soon too.

THIS IS TOO
easy.

I manage to block Angra for our entire journey. But when we make it to the valley with no ambushes, no change of plans, no bad news, I know something is wrong. Angra wouldn't let us get away with our plan if he knew about it—so either we somehow succeeded in making a move that surprised him . . .

Or we're in a lot of trouble.

Soon after I let down the barriers and unleash the hold I have on my magic, I know we don't have much time. Hunched over maps of the valley and surrounding mountains with Ceridwen and Caspar, I don't alert them to the fact that I'm prodding the area around us for Angra, my eyes on the table but my mind far, far away.

Just how far can I stretch my magic? I've been keeping
watch over our immediate area throughout the trip, but can I go farther?

I poke the forest around us. Nothing.

The Winter side of the valley. Nothing.

The mountains, the forest beyond—nothing.

But then—

I grip the edge of the table, feigning interest in whatever Ceridwen points at.

Angra falls into my awareness, a bead of water breaking the still surface of a lake. No direct contact, my mind still barricaded from any attacks, but I recognize him—and I'm entirely certain he's doing the same to me, latching onto my location now that I'm no longer blocking him.

Ah, there you are,
I can almost hear him say.
So nice of you to join our war again.

Angra isn't blocking me with magic like I did to him for so long—almost as though he's been waiting for me to try to find him. He wants me to know he's coming.

Because he's already on his way, no doubt leading an army toward us. At the very least, we did get to choose the location of the battle, but the fact that Angra is already on the move says he didn't wait for his full forces to gather before he left. He must still have enough to thoroughly destroy us.

His is the only presence I sense. Though Caspar just moments ago received word from his scouts that Theron
is indeed in Jannuari, part of me hoped he was wrong. But Theron isn't with Angra, and I'd be able to feel his link to magic, at least—he's a conduit-wielder now, even if he doesn't have his conduit anymore.

My heart drops, but I stretch my magic toward Angra. Theron definitely isn't with him.

Does Theron even have the keys anymore? Angra could have taken them before this. But if I reach Theron, and he doesn't have the keys, there'd be no reason for me to stay. If Angra truly does want to lure me into a trap, his best way of doing it would still be for Theron to have the keys, and for me to have to get them from him.

If that's the way Angra wants this to play out, then Theron still has the keys, and he's waiting for me in Jannuari.

Angra's biggest weakness lies in my kingdom.

So he left one of my biggest weaknesses there too.

“He's coming,” I announce, popping my head up. Ceridwen and Caspar pull back, cautious frowns easing across their features.

“How far?” Caspar asks, already bending over another map and tracing possible routes from Jannuari. The last report we got from Caspar's spies was little help—they nearly got caught and had to run before any information could be gleaned.

I knock his hand aside and point lower, to the area that tugs at my consciousness, the unnerving feeling of someone watching but at a distance. A spot just shy of the
Autumn-Winter border, north of us still, but not nearly as far as Caspar had been expecting. Angra's soldiers in Oktuber must have told him of our presence in Autumn.

Caspar rears away from the table and whirls on two of his warriors, posted outside the tent. “Call in our scouts. Tell them to fan out northeast. I want numbers, speed of travel—”

His voice fades as he stomps off into the camp, spouting orders at his soldiers without a backward glance. That's his tactic, I've learned: waste no time. Which fits the life Autumn leads—move, do,
be
, because at any moment, Angra could come crashing in.

Ceridwen leaves too, Lekan following, both of them bent in a quiet hum of discussion that fades once they exit the open-air tent. I'm left with the swishing of the afternoon breeze through the trees that hug the edge of our camp, the steady banging of smiths in the crude excuse for an armory we set up nearby.

I don't allow myself time for thought. I turn, seeking out my newly acquired shadows. Mather's Thaw lingers around the tent in a protective formation that made Sir nod approval. Whatever Mather did to train them in the short time he had, it was effective.

Mather talks with Sir at the edge of the tent, the two of them angled toward each other. I hesitate, struck yet again by how blind I was for so long not to realize they're related. They even argue identically—heads tipped to the
right, eyes level and unblinking. The similarities bring up a much-needed breath of coolness, the gentle cascade of . . . home.

I cross the tent to them, branding their images into my memory with each footfall.

Moments later, Sir, Mather, and I stand in the main tent, as ready for war as three people can be.

Sir looks like he did every moment of my childhood—outfitted in black and weapons and severity. Mather tightens the strap of his leather breastplate, the deep russet material worn and pliable with age. He has two short swords on his back, a small pouch of supplies wrapped across his chest, and knives strapped over his boots and pants.

I'm far less armed. A short sword swings at my hip and my chakram sits on my back, but any other weapons felt too restrictive. If we're to do this, if I'm to use my magic, I want the freedom to move unhindered.

Most of my life I spent fighting to have weapons at all. Now I'm marching into war and choosing to go with only two.

But I'm a weapon on my own.

Ceridwen comes up beside me, herself already outfitted for war, only in far more Summerian style—bands hold skintight leather plating over airy orange pants and gruesome weapons I've never seen before, small daggers with guards that curve into deadly spikes of their own. She
shakes her fingers through a few curls that have fallen loose of the strands of braided leather she wove her hair into.

“We have a farewell in Summer,” she says in a tone I haven't heard from her in a while—the veil of political neutrality. “When someone goes on a long journey, those who stay behind wish them the energy of a wildfire. The power to take things that try to hinder you—wind, thrashing enemies—and use them to make you stronger. The power to burn so brightly that all who look will wonder how darkness ever existed in the same world as you.” She puts a hand on my shoulder, but her resolve breaks, her eyes glassy. “Scorch this world, Winter queen.”

I draw her into a hug, clearing my throat to strengthen my voice. “You're the ones who will do the hard work. I'm just taking a leisurely trip into the mountains.”

Ceridwen pulls back and fixes me with a long, hard look. Her tear-rimmed eyes hold the barest threat. “We'll celebrate our victory
when
you return.”

I want to thank her for everything she's done. Helping me in Summer, joining my crusade, and believing in me. I want to tell her how glad I am to count her among my friends, and that knowing she's alive to shepherd the world on makes what I have to do slightly easier.

But I can't say anything without confirming to her that I don't plan on returning. So I give her shoulder one final squeeze and bob my head in a vague bow.

“Scorch this world,” I echo.
For both of us.

Caspar bids me farewell in a far less emotional way. The sentiment from him is the same, though—speed, strength, victory. Dendera and Henn gather to say their own good-byes. We form a sort of procession, Mather and Sir moving down the line to receive well-wishes too. Mather's Thaw is last in line, waiting with straight shoulders, appearing more like soldiers than I've ever seen them.

Phil's betrayal did this. Or maybe every piece of this war has done this to them, chipped away at their exteriors until nothing is left but the resilient people who face me.

They pause, silent, and I swallow. Saying farewell to Caspar and Ceridwen was one thing. Even Dendera and Henn didn't trigger the flutter in my chest. But facing the Thaw is like facing all of Winter, all the people I've been fighting to protect my entire life.

“I won't let you down” is all I can think to say.

That softens a little of their severity, their expressions flashing with gratitude.

Trace inclines his head. “You never could, my queen,” he says, brows pinched.

My jaw clamps shut, and I almost break, again. Thankfully, I'm saved by Mather, who moves in with final orders for them—they're to serve under Caspar during the battle, and give whatever help is needed.

I pull away, letting him have a moment alone with them, and step out of the tent, my eyes sweeping one last time
over the area. Angra hasn't moved from where I last sensed him, which is . . . odd. He knows where our army is—he should be leading his own soldiers into position. Or does he intend to sit back and watch his puppets bring about the end of the world without him? I rub the back of my neck, scowling at the empty stretch of valley before me.

In a few hours, these tufts of grass will be nests for bodies. The untouched banks of snow at the opposite end will be macabre in their ivory and scarlet designs.

But the sooner I do this, the less blood will be shed. I just have to concentrate on the task at hand—one act, then another, then another. Right now, all I need to see is where we're going.

Mather and Sir step up beside me.

“I'll put us in Jannuari,” I say. “We'll find Theron and get the keys from him. As soon as we have them, I'll get us to the Tadil—the quicker we do this, the shorter the battle will have to be. Angra put more guards on the mine, so there will probably be soldiers down there—but hopefully we'll have surprise on our side. Once they're down, face the door—we have to cross the barrier and get through it as soon as possible.”

Mather nods. “Get the keys. Cross the barrier. Got it.”

Sir is less ready. “The last time you tried to cross the barrier—”

“That's why I need you both,” I say. “Three people have
to cross, all with the same will to reach the magic chasm. A united effort.” I stretch my hands out to them, hoping they don't see how hard I'm shaking. “I don't know if the barrier will fall completely after that, and if soldiers will be able to follow us in and carry our fight into the labyrinth itself—”

I blow out a breath. One thing at a time.

Theron's face overtakes my memory, the look he gave me in Juli. Eyes vacant of all emotion, save for a possessive, dominating leer.

One thing at a time.

“A united effort,” Sir echoes as he takes my hand. “I'm with you, my queen.”

Mather takes my other hand. The moment the three of us are linked, I funnel all my concentration toward a single destination.

Winter.