Frost Like Night (11 page)

I swallow, but the lump in my throat refuses to dissolve. He adjusts his fingers over my hand, and the bundled muscles in his arms coil tighter under my touch, making me all too aware of how tense his body is, and how close I am to
him. The softness in his face coaxes a dizzy surge through me as his eyes drop to my mouth, staying there for long enough that I sway.

“You should rest,” I tell him, but I barely hear myself.

“Rest,” he echoes, like he only half heard me, like he's having trouble breathing too.

Snow, has he ever been this close to me before?

My lips part.

Should he be?

I back up, and it's enough to break the spell.

He runs a hand down his face. “Rest. I suppose I should.”

He finally lets me help him to the cot, where he collapses on an exhausted groan. I don't let myself linger, backing up so I'm not tempted.

“If you need anything . . .” I trail off, because I'm pretty sure we
both
need something.

Mather lolls his head on the pillow to throw me a playful grin. “I'll come to you.”

I stumble out the door, close it behind me, and collapse against it.

There is something wrong with me still. I didn't expect to instantly fix all my issues, but I thought I'd at least progressed enough to let myself love who I want to love. But when we fight this war, when I get to the magic chasm . . .

I don't want to hurt him.

“Maybe he wouldn't see it like that.”

I jump, surprise flicking out to every limb. “Really?” I groan to Rares, already feeling heat rise to my cheeks. “You've been listening?”

He pulls away from where he had been leaning against the opposite wall. “Your thoughts are practically at a scream, dear heart.”

“Liking you is hard sometimes.”

“You and Oana can swap horrid stories about me later.” He levels a penetrating stare at me. “You deserve happiness, Meira. No matter how brief.”

I cross my arms. “It's not just about me.”

“Ah, and therein lies an interesting development, I feel. I seem to recall a particularly strong emotion of yours. You hated Sir and Hannah for making decisions for you—but it would appear that you are doing the same thing to Mather. Making a decision regarding his future before he's even aware there's a decision to be made.”

“I didn't . . .”

But I can't deny any of it.

Rares pats my shoulder. “I'm willing to bet that boy of yours thinks you're worth any sorrow. Because you
are
.”

An ache pounds in me, one so deep I don't know if even Rares's words can soothe it.

“How can I love him,” I ask, “when I'm not even sure I love
me
yet?”

Rares purses his lips and before I can back away, his
knuckle thunks against my forehead. I start, rubbing my skin, a frown working its way onto my face.

“Stop it,” he chastises. “I told you I wouldn't stand for such talk about the person who will save us. You act as though love is a goal you only achieve after so long spent working at it. And yes, work is involved, but at the end of it all, love is a choice—the kind you have with a spouse, with your people, with
yourself
. If you acted on those things only when you felt them, you'd be like most people—eternally waiting for a feeling that may or may not come. But if you choose, every day, to love yourself no matter what—then, dear heart, nothing can stop you.”

A breathy laugh comes. Everything really is about choice, even beyond the magic's rules. And I've already tried to choose myself, flaws and all.

I put my hand on Rares's arm. “You'll make a fantastic father.”

He blinks, the faintest sheen of tears streaking across his eyes.

“I'm fighting for the chance,” he says. “What are you fighting for?”

The answer doesn't come right away. I know what I'm fighting to
prevent
—the destruction of the world. That was the reason I made Rares tell me Angra's movements during training, using his threat to fuel me on. But that was all based on anger, fear, worry—dark, uncontrollable things.

When I healed Mather, it was instant and easy. It was . . .
peaceful
.

That's what I should focus on when I use my magic. Joyous, wondrous things, like standing here, talking with Rares, and Oana, who emerges from a room down the hall and puts a finger to her lips, mouthing
Phil's asleep.

I understood long ago that this type of family was never mine to have. But another type, something odd but whole with Mather—I could have that. And the rest of the world deserves to have that too.

That's what I'm fighting for. Possibility.

Rares smiles. “You're ready now.”

I squint. “Ready?”

But I feel it. An unraveling deep in my gut, the magic a gentle cascade of icy flakes that settles in me, soft and strong.

“Ready for the final lesson,” he says.

I've been training until now under a blanket of anger, half my mind always focused on worrying for my friends and the rest of Primoria. But as I look at the door to Mather's room, I feel clearer than I have since I got here.

Angra wanted to break me.

But he only made me unbreakable.

I STAND AT
the edge of the sparring circle, hands in the pockets of my robe. The overcast sky trickles soft light over Oana, Rares, and me, and as the clouds grumble, my heart joins in.

I'd assumed the final lesson would be fighting with magic, but the swirling gray storm clouds end at the edge of the compound, a perfect cluster over us and us alone. Another whisper of thunder rolls across the sky, moments away from releasing a deluge over the yard.

Rares made this storm.

Across the circle, he takes a relaxed stance, but I stiffen, even more alert.

“Your magic—it feels cold to you, yes?” he asks.

“Isn't it supposed to?”

Rares starts pacing, shifting around the circumference of the training ring, though I remain just outside. Oana
watches from a bench at the edge of the yard. The amused quirk of her lips only makes me more confused, so when Rares stops directly in front of me, I'm practically humming with wonder.

“To me, magic feels . . . warm,” he says. “Not hot, not cold, but a neutral, tingling sensation. To a Summerian, it feels the opposite of how it feels to you—raging heat. To an Autumnian, encroaching chill; to a Spring, rising warmth. I've always wondered why that is—why, through monitoring the monarchs of the world, I've sensed such drastic differences in how they perceive the magic. All Rhythms feel the magic as I do—as a neutral tingling. Why are the Seasons more extreme? Why do
you
find yourself swarmed with ice?”

I shrug. “I never considered it before.”

Rares smiles. “I have a theory, dear heart. The Seasons are the only kingdoms that stand directly atop the magic. Their monarchs are the only ones whose blood is saturated with power, so much so that it affects their physical affinity for certain climates. What if the Seasons have more of a connection to magic than any other kingdom? What if they have the potential to be the strongest wielders of the Royal Conduits? For me, there is no natural magic—it takes equal effort to conjure rain as it would snow. But for you, I suspect it would be frighteningly easy to summon a blizzard, yes?”

I fiddle with the locket at my throat, the cold metal only
one more spot of chill on my body. The swirl of iciness in my chest is so constant by now that I almost don't notice. It makes sense for the Winterian monarch to be more adept at controlling winter weather. Our whole kingdom has a stronger affinity for it, so that talent should bleed over into me.

“But the Seasons have always been weak. We're stagnant while the Rhythms evolve.” I quote the stereotype perpetuated by most of the Rhythms.

Rares's lips tighten. “That is in our nature, I believe. To recognize a threat and squash it, whether or not we consciously know why it is a threat. I think the Rhythms fear you. Or they would, if all the Seasons truly came into their powers. One already has, and he controls the Decay in a terrifying way—and you, dear heart, will be the next Season to change the world.”

At that, Rares lifts his hands into the air and rain begins to slosh down onto us in heavy sheets. I'm drenched in seconds, my shoulders hunching against the drops.

Rares crouches into a stance I've seen enough now to know by instinct, and my muscles react by pulling me into a fighting pose too, hands up, legs stiff, shoulders relaxed.

“This lesson will be a culmination of everything I've begun teaching you. But we'll start first with a simple sparring session,” he says. “You can use magic only as a defense in fighting. Using it to attack, with intent to harm, feeds the Decay. So attack me—without magic.”

He waits. I purse my lips at the storage bin and call a
sword. Once armed, I swing at him.

Rares moves, hurling his body toward me. Confusion makes me hesitate—he's not using a weapon?

But no—he does have a weapon. And seeing it draws a startled chirp from my lungs.

A rope of water snaps against my blade, nearly cutting into my cheek. At Rares's command, the drops from the rain coil into a whip that tears the sword from my grasp and flings it across the yard.

Keeping magic within an object allows Royal Conduit–wielders to control weather and other elements needed to run their kingdoms; unlimited magic in a person-conduit lets them manipulate these things with greater accuracy. But understanding this doesn't stop my panic, and as Rares's whip snaps toward me again, I scramble back, terror shocking a reaction from me.

I lift my hands. A chill launches out of me and the water droplets of his whip crystallize into shards of ice that fall at our feet.

Rares's eyes sparkle. “Very good!”

My body vibrates with a mix of pride and power. Can I do it again? What else can I do?

Thunder explodes in an echoing pop and I plunge forward. Rares is right—snow, cold, and ice are my natural state, and I let myself feel all that. Every knot of chill I always kept so tight in my chest, afraid to use it, afraid to lose control. But for the first time since I found out what I
am, I succumb to it, welcoming it as part of myself. Because it
is
part of myself—I am a Winterian. I am ice through every part of me.

Rares kicks my sword up into his hand and charges at me. Rain drips from each strand of hair, each piece of clothing. His gray robe hangs heavy, wool soaked through with rain, and one jerk of my fingers turns the wet edge into a solid block of ice, adding water in layers that drag him down. He stumbles, flailing for balance, and as I spin to get in one solid kick that will send his blade flying—

Oana appears between us, a delicate smile on her face as though she doesn't even realize we're fighting. Behind her, Rares smirks and brushes a hand over his cloak, freeing the ice, before he levels a stare at me and tosses the sword back into the bin.

“The coming trials will test you in other ways too,” Rares calls over the roar and pulsing chaos of the storm, which grows in intensity with each passing breath. “Angra will throw everything he has at you as you try to retrieve the chasm keys. The labyrinth also. Physical challenges will be the least of your worries. Attack her, dear heart.” He waves at his wife.

I hesitate but coil my fist for a jab. Before I get halfway to her, Oana moves.

Instead of calling a sword or water coils, Oana spins, arms tight to her body until she drops to her knees and slams her hands to the ground. With that comes—

Lightning.

I stumble backward, the blinding flash sizzling into the ground paces from me. Oana looks up at me, her delicate grin now just as wild as her husband's, and before I can get to my feet, she leaps up and jerks her arms down again, sending another blast into the ground between us. The air heats up in a burst of static and flame, my skin prickling with its energy. I pull myself to my feet and take off running, trying to put distance between the crazy, lightning-wielding Paislian and myself.

Oana prefers lightning. It's not as easy for her to call on as ice is for you, but what can I say? She loves her fire.

I stumble on the rain-soaked grass and go down in a puddle behind the barn, muddy water sloshing over me. Oana didn't follow me back here—yet—but when I look around, Rares isn't here either. It takes me a beat to realize he's in my head, and I leap to my feet.

Stop!
I shout at him.
What are you doing? You can't—

I can't?
he says.
You have no defense for your mind, dear heart. There are only two defenses against the Decay—the protection of pure magic and strength of will—and strength of will can be broken down unless you build it up. You have pure magic to keep the Decay from infecting you, but Angra is still a conduit himself—you'll have to learn how to block him. The labyrinth is crafted of pure magic, and so will demand a higher strength of will as well. Oh, Oana's coming.

A horse whinnies. I dig my fingers into the earth on either side of me until I connect with something—a stone.

Oana saunters into view and I let the stone whirl toward her. While she's distracted, I grab the barn's wall and use it to steady myself as I make my way through the mud, boots sliding until I connect with the only slightly less slippery grass. Lightning sizzles and cracks into the ground behind me and I fling myself around the next structure—the storage bins. From there, the castle is only a few paces away, and I can duck down its side to gain some ground on her.

But you can't hide from me, dear heart. Not until you block me.

I don't know how! How do I block this?

The same way you've done everything else. You blocked your mother, didn't you? How did you do that? Oh, this looks like an interesting memory—

Autumn. The little camp we had in the south for a short while, just before two more of our refugees, Crystalla and Gregg, set out on the disastrous mission to Spring that would enslave them both and ultimately kill them. I'm sitting in front of a campfire with Crystalla while she braids my hair, and Sir talks at the edge, some lesson on Winter's economy. It's too hard to pay attention because Crystalla's fingers are gentle on my scalp, and the smoky aroma of the campfire mixed with the coziness of being here urges my eyelids to sink down, down, down . . .

“Little sacrifice,” she hums in my ear. “My little sacrifice.”

She's not Crystalla anymore.

I whip around to see Hannah, covered in blood, gaping
wounds cleaved through her chest and up her face, thick patches of maroon-black gore. She writhes and slides back, her hands going up to her head, where Herod grips her bloody white hair in a tight fist, dragging her away from me, and all I can do is scream and scream.

STOP!
I topple forward, mud sucking around my knees as the images fade.
That's not what happened! GET OUT OF MY HEAD!

Make me, dear heart,
Rares coos.
Hmm, what about this?

Before he can use more memories against me, I launch out from behind the storage bins, eyes snapping over the yard to find him. He does
not
get to use my memories like that. Hannah was never gentle or caring or motherly at all.

My emotions toward Hannah come so easily. Not anger, exactly—something unnamable and resolute, a dark, cold mix of truth and realization. That was why I blocked her, however inadvertently. She was my mother, but she never tried to be anything but my queen.

Let's see if we can talk to her, yes?

I snarl and scan the yard again, still not finding Rares, but so ready to fight him.
I have nothing to say to her.

And not because I still harbor anger; not because I'm still hopeful she'll change. Because I'm done with her, I don't need her, and if Rares brings her back into this mess she caused, only more problems will arise.

Intention coils in deadly springs in my chest, the air around me freezing with each breath. I realize my mistake
too late—I'm on the offensive, planning an attack on Rares, which leaves me open to Oana's defense.

A sizzle, a snap, and I dive just as lightning incinerates the ground behind me. Oana runs out around the barn, her braids whipping.

I roll and fling my arms over my head, morphing all the raindrops around me into layer after layer of thick, hard ice. It curves over me, a convex barrier that flashes up half a heartbeat before Oana's lightning snaps out of the sky and hisses against it. The barrier explodes, the lightning continuing down to erupt into the ground at my feet. I'm launched backward, slamming onto my elbows as shards of ice cut across my face.

Block me, dear heart!

The Rania Plains. Sir standing over me in the meeting tent, his disappointment a palpable tang on the air. He holds the locket box in his hands.

“I never should have trusted you with that mission. Because of you, Angra found our camp. Because of you, we had to resort to an alliance with Cordell, and it is that alliance that led them to overtake our kingdom.” He sighs. “I always knew you were a failure.”

NO!
I scream at Sir before the image vanishes, and that scream warps into a frantic plea to Rares.
No, stop!

I can't breathe. Sir's image hangs all too real in my head, unraveling me as I roll to my feet. Oana closes in, but I can't draw a breath to fuel myself on, choking under
the words I've feared for so long.

Block me!
Rares shouts.

I launch at Oana. The training ring is a swamp by now, the deluge continuing to flood the area, so when I reach her, I slide to a stop by falling onto my backside. I catch her legs and she goes down too, mud splashing when she drops.

“I always knew you were a failure.”

But it's just me. It isn't Sir saying that—
Sir has never said that
. I'm the one who says it, who keeps that phrase pressed to my heart even as it undoes every seam in my body.

I'm keeping myself restrained. It's only ever been
me
. And I know that—I've known that I'm the one to blame for months. But something about recognizing it now fills me with clarity.

If I'm the only one to blame, nothing else has power over me. Not memories of Sir; not memories of Hannah; not memories of anyone. It's all part of me—mistakes and horror and regrets, but also beauty and peace and love. Like the memory of sitting at the fire with Crystalla and Sir—that was glorious and calm. I can't pick or choose which to keep and which to ignore—it's all of them or none of them, and I
will not
give up my happiness.

I wobble to my feet, legs trembling, arms aching, face stinging with rain and gashes from the ice shards. Oana looks up at me, her smile no less dim though she remains in a helpless, defenseless position. But this isn't truly a fight—she
wants
me to win.

One last chance,
Rares's voice comes again.
This next memory will not be so pleasant.

No, it won't be. It will probably be crippling, dredging up every last one of my insecurities.