Frost Like Night (13 page)

Me neither,
thought Ceridwen.

Jesse nodded. “That's only the first of the wonders that will come.”

“Only after we defeat Angra,” Ceridwen cut in, finding her voice again. “And we will need your help for that. We will need soldiers to sneak into Juli, but we will also need some to stay behind and guard the camp.”

Her levelheadedness made the soldier cock a surprised look at her. Finally he lifted his queen's seal and pointed it at her. “I command my soldiers, but . . .” He gulped in a breath and blew it out with a quick shake of his head. “I will follow your lead.”

“I—” Ceridwen stammered, blinked. “Thank you. My leaders and I will be meeting shortly, to discuss our strategy. In the Summerian section of camp.” She hesitated, not
able to believe she was actually saying this. “Join us.”

The soldier touched his fist to his forehead in a show of acknowledgment before turning back to his men, who gathered around him with whispered questions.

This was not at all how she had expected this meeting to go—she'd thought it would take days to convince them. Not
minutes
.

But they had the Yakimians' support. They would finalize their attack, and then they'd go to Juli.

Home,
a small place inside Ceridwen whispered.

She stepped closer to Jesse.

He instantly stiffened. “I know I promised I wouldn't speak—”

“Thank you,” she said.

Jesse smiled, puncturing dimples into his cheeks. “I told you”—he put his hand on her arm—“I owe you this. You deserve someone who will fight for you.” He hung there, his thumb rubbing circles on her bare shoulder. “I . . . ,” he started again, seemed to think better of it, and straightened. “I should check on my children now.”

He bowed his head but kept his eyes heavily, intently on hers.

She managed a feeble nod in return before he eased away, down one of the many roads that snaked through the camp.

“Well, damn.” Lekan bumped her with his shoulder. “Was he always that sexy?”

Ceridwen smiled but knew he'd catch the rise of scarlet creeping up her cheeks. “Come on. We have soldiers to assemble.”

Lekan smirked. “There's time. You know. If you need some time.”

“Lekan.”

“I'm just saying,
I'd
certainly want some time if Kaleo had just swept in and prevented a coup on my behalf.”

“Lekan.”

“All right.” His smirk wilted as Ceridwen headed into camp and he kept pace alongside her. “But we do have time now, Cerie. And we might not always have time.”

She had told herself that already, but fear had kept her from acting. Fear always kept her from acting. Jesse's performance, though, had somehow thoroughly dissolved her fear, in ways that made her feel like a silly little girl. One act of bravery, and she was ready to throw herself at him?

But she could only afford to live in a world of wants, not needs.

For the first time in she couldn't remember how long, she hooked her arm through Lekan's as they walked through camp and smiled. Really smiled.

Until Kaleo came racing up the road, his face red with exertion.

Ceridwen's chest pulsed with a mix of panic and readiness. An attack? Angra?

Lekan intercepted him. “What happened?”

“There's something you need to see,” Kaleo panted, hands on his knees. He peeked up at Ceridwen, mouth agape. “Or, well, people.”

Ceridwen's panic receded into hope. “Meira?”

“Almost.” Kaleo straightened. “Winterians.
Lots
of Winterians.”

THE NEXT DAY
brings more sparring, with Oana and Rares trading off who attacks physically and who attacks mentally. The initial few rounds begin the same as the first one—it takes a few attacks before I open fully to my magic. But by the end of the day, the sparring sessions start with me already blocking Rares from my mind as I counter Oana's sword, and it takes only a few short minutes to end each fight.

I have control of my magic. At least, the beginning of control.

As soon as I think that, I realize what it means. I could stay in Paisly, shielded from Angra, and train until I'm perfect—or I could latch onto the early blossoming of readiness and leave.

The decision feels like it's been in my heart all along. I
knew what I'd do the moment I got here.

A war awaits.

I kneel over the trunk in my room, hands on the edges, staring into the clothing. I know I need supplies—blankets, extra clothing, food—but I can't make myself move.

“We've almost got dinner—” Rares's voice cuts off when he enters my room, but I know he can't read my thoughts anymore. Maybe he just senses the change in me, sees the way I bite the inside of my cheek.

“I know what you're going to say,” I whisper to the trunk. “That a few victories in a training ring don't mean I'm ready. But . . . this isn't normal training.” I look up at him. “I know I've barely begun to understand all this, but I have what I came here for, and I don't have time to perfect it. This isn't in preparation for a war—the war has already begun. I—”

“I'm not going to stop you, dear heart.” Rares leans against the doorframe, his eyes soft. “Where will you start?”

I stand. “I'll need support. Mather said everyone from Ventralli was planning to gather in a Summerian camp east of the Southern Eldridge Forest. They're removed enough from the world that the Decay might not have affected them yet.”

“And then?”

“I'll use the support to help me get close to Angra. Get the keys from him. And . . .”

Rares studies me, and I watch him in turn, struck yet again by how different he is from Sir. I wouldn't be able to see a single emotion on Sir's face—just the stoic countenance of a general, immovable and solid.

Part of me wishes for Sir's emotionlessness, if only to avoid the pang of grief when Rares sniffs and rubs his eyes.

“Oana and I will do what we can here. The Order has already been at work readying our army—we'll join you as soon as we can.” He steps forward, mouth open to say more, but whatever he's about to say is forgotten when he notices my empty hands. “You'll need supplies! Food, at least, and—oh, Oana's better at this than I am. Take what you need from the kitchen. I'll go get what supplies she thinks you should have.”

He leaves, rushing out the door, and I don't breathe until he's gone.

Actions are always far easier than words.

I gather a nice assortment of food in the kitchen, but, unable to find a sack big enough to transport it in, I duck out in search of a storage closet.

A closed door sits just next to the kitchen. The knob sticks under my hand, but a firm bump from my shoulder sends the door groaning open. A window shines hazy evening light into the room, and that coupled with the light from behind lets me see enough that I freeze, hand on the knob.

This definitely isn't a closet.

A rocking chair wavers in the center of the room, its curved legs moaning at the air from the open door. Beside it, a wooden bassinet sits beneath a thick layer of cobwebs and dust. A moth-eaten quilt hangs limp over the chair, the colors faded from years of sitting in the sunlight through the window.

My heart convulses as I take cautious steps into the room. The last time I saw a bassinet—one made of fabric and covered in silk, not wood and delicate carvings—was in the dream Hannah showed me. Her memory of the night Winter fell.

My
bassinet.

“They have a child?”

I spin to the door, where Mather stands, one shoulder slumped against the frame. The hazy light from the window casts him in grayness.

“No,” I say. “But they want one.”

Mather nods. His head hangs low against his chest. “I've been thinking about it lately more than I ever did before.”

“About what?”

His head lifts. “Family.” He waves at the room. “Parents. Everything we didn't get.”

I'd forgotten how recently Alysson died, how fresh her absence still is. So many deaths crowd my heart, all overlapping each other with grief. But as I watch Mather now, he pivots to lean his back on the doorframe, the hall's light illuminating his face. He always looked more like Sir, but I
can see Alysson's softness in the curve of his nose, the way he purses his lips.

“I never understood it,” Mather starts. “That love, I mean. It was always so far removed from what we had. I saw families when we went out on missions, but I never—” His breath catches. “I didn't realize until too late how much I wanted it.”

When Mather looks past me to the nursery again, there's no mistaking the tears in his eyes. He holds them back, jaw tight, arms digging mercilessly into his chest.

“What do you think it's like?” he whispers. “To love someone like that? Even the
hope
of someone? To keep a room locked away on the wish that someday they'll come? I can't fathom it.”

“Alysson knew you loved her,” I breathe, unable to make my voice any louder.

His smile is sad. “I know.”

The memory of Oana's words, how being a conduit as we are makes us barren, shoots remorse through me that I didn't even know I'd had. I never thought about this—having children, a nursery—but Mather and I were forced to live a life without parents as much as Oana and Rares were forced to live a life without a child. Not that I can understand their pain, but I imagine it aches in a similar way. This is yet another area we're forced into without a choice.

If Mather could talk to his mother the way I used to talk to mine, he wouldn't hesitate. If Rares and Oana could
talk to their child like Hannah could to me, they'd fight to reach me.

It's those two realizations that remind me just how fractured my relationship with Hannah was. Because I should want to talk to her, and she should be desperate to talk to me. But I haven't felt anything from her since I shut her out, no battering against my defenses when I weaken, no constant attempts to slip past the magic.

“I think I understand that love,” I say. “At least, I'm beginning to. Family isn't always who you're born to. It's who you're with, who you love. Those families can be even stronger.”

Mather exhales a laugh. “Like a chosen family?”

There it is again.
Choice.
The word that haunts my every action. “Yes.”

“I'd still have chosen Alysson,” Mather whispers.

I close my eyes, his words cocooned inside more emotion and more
want
than I've ever heard from him. My chest itches, already responding to my unconscious will, and as I open my eyes, I turn to face the room.

Dust lifts off the furniture. Cobwebs peel off the walls. The window pops open and all the grime and dirt undulates out on my command, leaving every surface gleaming like new. The quilt stretched over the chair remains ragged, but the filth is easy to remove, and the pillows and blankets in the bassinet sit fluffed and clean and ready to be used.

Because they
will
be used. Oana and Rares will someday soon be able to have the family they deserve. The family
Mather should have had; the family
I
should have had.

That's all I can do. Help create a world where the life I always wanted exists, even if I don't live it.

A place deep inside me aches every time I think like that, so close to fully accepting my fate.

“Meira?”

I scrub away any tears with my sleeve before I turn to him. All I want is to do what Rares suggested—give him a choice. Let him know what awaits me at the end of this journey, the reason for my tears.

But the moment my lips part, Phil appears. “Rares said we're leaving?”

I breathe, sending oxygen out to every muscle. “Yes.” I'm caught by another piece of information I haven't shared with them, one that makes my own body sway with memory.

“And our route will be a little . . . unconventional.”

Mather rises away from the door, intrigued. “How so?”

But I wave off any explanation. “Packing first.” I wince. “Pain later.”

That night, Oana loads us down with supplies—satchels, blankets, food, bandages, as well as a plethora of things we probably won't even need. As we all stand in the front yard of their compound, I grab her arms to prevent her from stuffing another apple in my bag.

Rares puts his hand on her waist, watching me. Dozens of words crowd in my mouth.

I'll see you again.

You two mean more to me than I know how to say.

The bassinet in that nursery will be used. I promise.

Oana wraps her sleeve around her hand and runs it down my cheek. “I know, sweetheart,” she says, and somehow, that undoes me more than if she'd sobbed her farewell.

I hug her and Rares. “Thank you” is all I can get out, and it's weak and pathetic and not even half of what I want them to know. But they take it and pull back, eyes shining.

I turn to Mather and Phil, who are just as loaded down with supplies. They're barely healed, and already I'm pushing them on. But they don't question me or complain.

Though they might after what I'm about to do to them.

“This will hurt,” I warn. “And feel . . . terrifying.”

Phil's eyebrows launch up. “What?”

But I don't give them a chance to worry. I take their hands and release the magic in my gut to take us to Ceridwen's refugee camp. An instant heaviness yanks down on my chest, the strain of magic use, but intensified—I haven't done this before, transported myself, let alone others, and the weight of it drags at my endurance as though I'm lifting a sword heavier than I'm used to. I falter, but hold.

The only problem is, I've never been to Ceridwen's refugee camp. The only location I have is what Mather told me—that it's a day's ride from where the Langstone meets the Southern Eldridge Forest. Is that all I need? Or do I need to have a specific place in mind? This isn't the best
time to worry about this, I realize, as the whir of magic launches us into the void—but I refuse to let overthinking unsettle me, not when Mather's and Phil's lives depend on me. So with what concentration I can muster, I focus on the border of the forest where it meets the Rania Plains.

Half a heartbeat later, a solid
whoomph
ricochets through my body as my feet plant on the ground. Black sky gleams above me, dotted with stars, and stalks of prairie grass wave all around. The earthy, dried scent of the plains clashes with memories of the moist air of Rares's compound. I pause but, thankfully, the only dizziness that comes is minor, and no nausea incapacitates me this time.

I can't say the same for Mather and Phil.

I'm fairly certain Phil started retching before we even arrived. He heaves into the grass while Mather, seated on the ground, presses his face to his knees, hands over his head, emitting a low moan.

“What . . . did you . . .” Mather squints up.
“Do?”

He notes the landscape. His eyes widen. He folds to the side, mimicking Phil.

I almost rush forward, but their nausea was caused by magic-induced travel—maybe magic can undo it?

A single thread of iciness launches out to them, and both Mather and Phil turn to me with looks of utter confusion. The ease of magic use still shocks me, how uncomplicated it is now—which makes me realize one other thing I need to do.

We're so far removed from anywhere Angra might know to look for me that his magic hasn't found me yet, not like it did in Paisly. But I still relax my mind, creating the same sort of protective barrier that kept Rares out of my head. Angra won't find me until I want him to.

Phil wobbles to his feet, hands out as though he doesn't trust his body. “What the actual snow above was that?”

I start to answer when Mather huffs a laugh.

“That is how we're going to win this war,” he says. “The more I see what you're capable of, the more I start to fear for Angra.”

Phil looks utterly horrified, his lips curled back before he catches Mather watching him and shakes it off, opting for a tight-lipped stare. “You're stronger than Angra?” he asks me.

I fight off a wince. “Magically? No. But in other ways . . . I hope so.”

The edge of the Eldridge hovers a few paces to my left, shadowed in darkness, while the plains sweep outward on all other sides, ripples of grass as far as I can see. Heat rises from the earth, lingering from what was surely a warm day, and as I shift my chakram along with the satchel strapped across my shoulders, I groan.

“It isn't as useful as it would first appear,” I say. “I have no idea where Ceridwen's camp is from here. Or if everyone else even got there. . . .”

Did Jesse free Ceridwen? Did the Winterians get the Ventrallan heirs out of the kingdom?

Mather squares himself in front of me as if he has the ability to hear the chaos in my mind as clearly as Rares did.

“We'll figure it out,” he says.

“But—”

“We'll figure it out,”
he says again, putting both hands on my shoulders. “They're all there. I'm sure of it. Now—left or right?”

I swing my head in both directions. Prairielands one way; prairielands the other. I can't think of a way to use my magic to help me decide. For this, I'm just Meira.

That thought isn't nearly as terrifying as it once was.

“Left,” I say. “Have to start somewhere.”