Frost Like Night (7 page)

He cleared his throat and slid the arrow back into his quiver.

The soldiers around them bore the usual Yakimian air of detachment and Lekan stood silent against her, which made Ceridwen feel suddenly as though she and Jesse were alone. Heat throbbed in her head, dizzying and unnameable.
Anger? Relief? She didn't know what she felt.

She just knew he looked . . . different.

Jesse cleared his throat again. “I found the wagon. I didn't think Giselle would be bold enough to dock where she always does when she visits, but I had to try. I had to . . . save you.”

Ceridwen shifted Lekan's weight. “I don't need saving.”

Jesse swung forward to hook Lekan's other arm around his neck, taking some of his weight.

“No, you don't need to help me,” Lekan protested, leaning into Ceridwen more.

“Please,” Jesse cut him off. “Let me.”

But his eyes were on Ceridwen.

She couldn't breathe.

“Your . . . your children?” she dared ask. Her voice grew in strength. “And the Winterians? Did you hear anything of them? How did you even escape?”

She and Jesse started hobbling Lekan toward the dock, slow work that gnawed at Ceridwen's spine. The sooner they got onto Giselle's boat, the sooner she could find a place to be alone, away from Jesse.

She had ended her relationship with him. And the only reason she had intended to go back for him was to right Raelyn's injustices. Ceridwen had been prepared to see him under those circumstances, when she would have been the savior and he the one who needed her.

She was not prepared for . . . this.

Jesse winced at the mention of his children but seemed to physically force back his worry for them. “They're fine. The Winterians too, actually. They helped me escape. We all split apart, but we're to meet at your refugee camp.”

The tension around his mouth lifted into his eyes.

Ceridwen choked.

That was why he looked different. He wasn't wearing a mask.

When he saw her studying him, the corners of his eyes lifted.

“I broke it,” he whispered. “My mask. It's over, with Raelyn.”

Ceridwen couldn't remember when she had last taken a full breath. Before Jesse had shown up, most likely, and she wheezed now, flashes of light spinning in her vision.

He had broken his mask. He had ended his relationship with Raelyn.

He did it. He finally did what she had wanted him to do for so long that the wish had become a permanent knot inside her heart.

But he hadn't done it until
now
. After Ceridwen had left him. After Raelyn had revealed herself to be dangerous.

They reached the boat, a plank of wood leading them from the dock to the ship's deck. A pile of empty sacks sat in a corner, and as they lowered Lekan onto it, Jesse squatted next to him, his eyes boring into Ceridwen's.

She couldn't look at him. Not now, while Lekan needed
her, while Angra's war still raged—while she wanted to hate Jesse. Flame and heat, she wanted to hate him so much—and as soon as she recognized that need, it roared strong and aching through her body.

She had waited for him for four years. And it had taken a coup and the return of dark magic to make him fight for her in return.

“Cerie,” Jesse said. “Please, talk to me. Let me—”

“No.” Ceridwen worked at checking on Lekan's leg. It needed a proper dressing, and she almost thanked him for getting injured so she had something to do.

Jesse didn't relent. “Please, I know I—”

“No!” Ceridwen snapped. “No, you don't know. Go away, Jesse. Leave me
alone
.”

Her final words lost their fire, dropping like rain falling halfheartedly from the sky.

Jesse's eyes shot to hers. A few lanterns hung around the deck of the ship, not enough to draw unwanted attention or do more than highlight the copper gleam of his skin.

“All right,” he agreed, broken.

He hesitated, hoping maybe that she would change her mind. But finally he stood and took jolting steps across the deck to where Giselle talked with her men.

Lekan's cold fingers touched Ceridwen's arm. “He came for you.”

Ceridwen stiffened. “Your wound needs dressing.”

She started to flag down a passing soldier for supplies
when Lekan caught her hand.

“Yours does too,” he whispered. A deep breath, a wince, and he relaxed his grip. “He sought an alliance with the Winter queen. Before the coup, just after you ended things with him. He intended to overthrow Raelyn before any of this happened.”

Ceridwen's jaw popped open and she instantly snapped it closed. Lekan knew her too well, and that knowledge would force her to confront things she didn't have the strength for yet.

She had a war to plan for. Giselle's soldiers in her camp. Angra's threat spreading through the world. Dozens of other problems, all far more immediate and awful than . . .
Jesse
.

So she found bandages and water and cleaned Lekan's wound, all the while ignoring the way that Jesse watched her every move.

I WAKE IN
the room Oana brought me to, unable to remember the last time I slept so well. Everything in me wavers like an empty sack in the wind, and I realize that's exactly what I am now—empty. I still remember every emotion, every worry, the faces of all the people I need to protect—but they're not consuming me anymore. They're just hovering in my mind.

I poke at them uncertainly. Sir—he's still in Winter, and who knows if he's alive or dead? Theron could be ransacking my kingdom now at Angra's behest. Mather . . . he might not have gotten everyone out of the dungeon. He might not have gotten away.

And while I'm aware of the concern each thought brings, I'm not crippled by it. The prevailing emotion in my head is just . . . nothing. Which allows me to focus on the small, insignificant things I'd all but forgotten.

Like the calluses on my hands, softening now because of how long it's been since I regularly threw my chakram. Or the shocking gauntness in my legs and stomach—have I been eating? I honestly can't remember.

So I do. Dishes sit on the table, fresh and steaming, and snow above, nothing has ever tasted so delicious. I don't even know what they are—something savory that looks like potatoes, and something sweet that has the texture of honey and cake all in one. I eat until my stomach bulges, and head for the washbasin in the corner.

After scrubbing my skin, I open the trunk against the wall and find clothes within. Robes; thin, airy pants; soft leather boots that stretch up past my knees; long scarves knotted into belts in a rainbow of colors. I sort through until I find a sky-blue robe with navy swirls on the sleeves and collar, the tones matching my one accessory, the locket. A silver belt completes the outfit, and as I stand in the center of the room, eyes closed, I allow myself a few moments of steady, silent breathing.

For the first time in months, years even, I can breathe. I can feel things beyond crippling doubt, beyond the consuming effort of keeping my emotions in check.

A knock on the door echoes at the edge of my awareness.

“You're ready for the next lesson,” comes Rares's voice, and I know he means more than the fact that I am awake and dressed.

“Yes,” I start, smiling. “I am.”

It turns out, I slept for days. Three days, to be exact. No matter how good my body feels, my mind throbs with guilt at the thought of how much time I wasted.

I remember Angra's vision, his plan for the world. Is he still in Rintiero? Or has he moved on, spreading his fear and darkness to Yakim, Summer, Autumn . . . ?

I hurry after Rares, expecting him to lead me to the training yard I saw out front so we can dive into the sort of training I know I'll need against Angra. When he takes me into a room not far down from mine, I hover in the doorway, confused.

It's small, half the size of my room, with a cluttered desk spilling papers and books onto the floor. Maps cover the walls—maps of Summer, Ventralli, and Yakim; maps of Winter and Spring. Lines trace paths from Abril to Jannuari to Juli to—

“You were tracking me,” I say, breathless.

Rares steps forward. “Once the Order knew Hannah was on the right path, we hoped someone in your line would come to the decision to get rid of magic entirely. I only kept an eye out for you to come into your power. Which you did, here.” His finger goes to Abril on the map. “And here is where you found the door in the Tadil Mine”—he slides down to Gaos—“and here is where—”

“Okay, I get it.” I slap his hand off the map. “You're a centuries-old magical man who's been using his spare
time to spy on a teenage girl.”

Rares chortles. “Someone got her fire back! But no, I haven't been spying—I was tracking. The only thoughts I ever got from you were magic related, and the occasional worry about war. Need I remind you that certain members of the Order have been tracking Primoria's monarchs for
thousands of years
, waiting for one to decide what you did.”

I drop into a padded chair, all the others serving as more space for books and papers.

“Well, it's still strange.”

He shrugs. “I'll let you take it out on me later. Until then . . .”

I lean forward, eagerness clearing my mind. Yes, training—
no time to waste
.

Rares takes a seat on the edge of his desk, moving a stack of books to the side. One catches my eye—
Magic of Primoria
.

“That book!”

Rares glances down at it before shooting me a grin. “You've seen this before?”

I nod, my eyes darting over the familiar gold lettering. This copy is just as worn as the one I read in Bithai months ago. The Order wrote it; it makes sense Rares would have a copy.

I shift in the chair, ready, waiting,
desperate
.

I slept for three days. It's been four days since Angra overtook Ventralli.

Be calm. I'm here. I'm doing what I need to be doing.

I square my shoulders and look up at him. “What's the next lesson?”

Rares's eyes brighten.

My lips unfold in the barest smile. “Have I surprised you?”

He laughs. “Have you surprised yourself?”

His question throws me and I shrug. “I'm . . . tired, mostly,” I admit. “I'm tired of fighting every single thing in my life. I'm Winter's conduit; I'm Winter's queen; I'm the only one who can stop Angra and the Decay. Not that I've accepted my fate, I'm just done denying it. I've spent years analyzing every choice and resisting every change. I don't like who that's made me. That's not the person I want to be.”

“Who do you want to be?” he asks, the one question I've been avoiding for weeks.

I didn't think it mattered. I
told
myself it didn't matter so I wouldn't crumble under how far I was from who I truly wanted to be. But I've already come so far, let go of so much, that maybe I can let go of my self-inflicted barriers too.

So I level a look at Rares. “I want to be enough.”

His smile is soft. “You already are, dear heart.
Feeling
like you're enough has nothing to do with actually
being
enough—you choose whether or not you are.”

Another choice. That eases me back to the matter at
hand, and I clear my throat, casting off this topic for an equally stifling one.

“The next lesson?” I try again, and Rares waves his hand in agreement.

“Yes, lesson four—do you know what happened to the magic chasm?”

I squint. “Aren't we ready to move on to magic use?” That's how Angra will be defeated, after all. He's too powerful to be taken down with a mere sword—I'll have to counter his Decay with magic, and block any of my people with magic, and save the world,
with magic
.

Rares cocks a brow at me. “Patience, dear heart. Do you know what happened to the magic chasm?”

Anxiety flutters in my stomach—
three days here, four days since the takeover . . .

But I force my eyes to meet Rares's.

“It vanished centuries ago. No one knows how.” I pause. “But I'm guessing you do.”

He grins. “If one were to dig deep enough into the Klaryns—in any Season, not just Winter—they would find the same door you did. The only reason you found it is because of Winter's skill at mining; the Order originally constructed the door through Summer's mountains, with it triggered to appear wherever anyone digs past a certain spot, anywhere in the Klaryns. But that is only the first of many obstacles to prevent the magic chasm from being easily accessed. You encountered one other such obstacle in
your search for the keys.”

Rares fusses with his collar and draws out the key on a long chain. He pulls it off his neck and extends it to me, and I take it, holding it delicately by the chain as he presses on.

“The keys were left in Summer, Yakim, and Ventralli as the creators of the chasm traveled down through those kingdoms from Paisly—and to separate the keys in order to make sure, further, that finding the magic chasm was not easy, and that if someone attempted to open it, the search for the keys would give the Order time to make sure it was someone we
wanted
to reach the chasm. But the next difficulty you will encounter, beyond getting the two other keys back, is the labyrinth that lies behind the door.”

A connection snaps into place. “The Order hid the magic chasm.
Paisly
hid it.”

Rares sighs. “We only meant to keep the wrong sort from reaching the magic until we could destroy it. We didn't intend for your Seasons to take the blame for the chasm's disappearance. But much happened that we did not intend, dear heart.”

A
Rhythm
is responsible for the act that made the rest of the world despise the Seasons.

And while I could easily nurture this spark of anger, I don't. I let it drift away, because it's part of yet more things that have already happened. All I have room for, all I can see, is what lies ahead. The one goal around which all others fizzle: destroying all magic.

“This labyrinth,” I start, my fingers tight around the key's chain, “I'll need to use my magic for it too? But can't you come with me? You will, won't you?”

Rares whirls to a stack of books in the corner. When he turns back around, he holds an old, yellowed paper that looks one deep exhale away from fluttering into a million dusty pieces.

“The labyrinth was created by a small group of the Order's most powerful conduits to protect the magic from being easily accessed—and if it is accessed, it was made so only those worthy can reach it. They kept every detail of it secret. Even when they created it, they—” His voice falters and he purses his lips. “Well. They took their secrets to their graves.”

My jaw tightens. I'm not the only one who sacrificed everything to protect Primoria. The Order of the Lustrate isn't expecting me to do anything they haven't done themselves.

“But”—Rares lifts an eyebrow—“they left us a clue.”

He extends the paper to me and I stand to take it.

Three people the labyrinth demands

Who enter with genuine intent

To face a test of leadership,

A maze of humility,

And purification of the heart.

To be completed by only the true.

I read it twice. Three times. And before I can stop myself, I'm hit with an aching thought:

Theron would know what this means.

I drop the paper on the desk. “A riddle.” I back up, legs bumping into the chair until I stumble and catch myself on the armrest. The key's chain bites into my palm, the key itself smacking against my thigh. “Is that all? Because I—I need—”

This room is far too small. For all my progress, I can't catch my breath, and I fall into the chair as I wheeze at the familiarity of reading ancient passages about magic. My memories of Theron rear high—sitting in his library, listening to him talk through that book,
Magic of Primoria
. I let myself dance with the idea of loving him because he was sweet, and kind, and we both wanted more of our lives. Even though it was an arranged marriage, even though it was political, even though I knew that I could never be the person I needed to be to love him.

He would always be Cordell's heir; I would always be bound to Winter.

I press my free hand against my forehead, swallowing the icy bursts of magic that swirl up my throat. I don't want to fight this guilt anymore, but I don't know how to fix it—because I can't save him. Everything that has happened to him will be with him forever, in the same way all Winterians still tremble from their years of enslavement.

So what can I do?

I could do what I've recently done with everything else. Acknowledge it,
feel
it, and let it bob out into the abyss, a constant presence, but not a crippling one.

Rares hasn't moved from his position beside the desk, giving me room, letting me breathe. And when I look up at him, he nods but stays quiet. Letting me heal on my own.

“What does this mean?” I wave at the paper, my voice croaking.

“For one thing, it means only two people can accompany you. The labyrinth accepts only three at a time, to limit those who can gain access to the magic.”

“So you can come with me?”

“The door and the labyrinth were made so only the worthy reach the magic chasm. You noticed the barrier that repels anyone who tries to approach the door? The only way to pass that is for three people to cross together, all believing in their worthiness to reach the magic—the second part of the riddle,
Who enter with genuine intent
. A united effort. Simple enough, yes? But not entirely. For once you pass through the door, the labyrinth will make you prove that belief. It will test all three of you in ways that measure this worth—leadership, humility, and heart. I don't know what the tests are precisely, beyond the clues in the riddle, but when you face them, you should be as prepared as possible. Of all the people in the world, which two would you want at your side as you face such trials?”

Faces flash into my mind.
Mather and Sir.

I frown. Mather, yes. Sir, though . . . there's a rift between us. But I do know that, if it came down to it, Sir would defend me with his life.

“Once you complete the labyrinth and reach the chasm, you will have only a few seconds to destroy it,” Rares continues. “When the creators built the labyrinth, they started by forming an exit that opens only when someone accesses the chasm. A way for any worthy souls who reach the magic to leave. But the amount of magic needed to seal off this exit was tremendous, and the moment it opens, every conduit in Primoria will feel it. They will know where it is, and they will be able to access the magic too. You cannot hesitate in your mission, dear heart.”

My mission.
Dying.