Frost Like Night (15 page)

I SPLIT MY
concentration among filling the Thaw with just enough magic to combat the nausea of travel, placing us close enough to Preben Palace but not so close that we catch Angra's attention, and keeping a shield around my mind so Angra can't feel me coming. But he could have the entire city in a barrier of some kind, waiting for me to break through—especially if he's already caught Ceridwen and Sir. He'd know I'd come for them, and he'd be waiting for me.

If he knows I'm coming, though, no amount of preparation will help.

The amount of magic I have to use to do everything I need saps my energy before I've even gotten us to Juli. The tributaries that branch off from the Feni sparkle in the fading sun, adding light against the endless orange and gold of Juli's sandstone buildings, and as I deposit everyone in an alley on the outermost ring of Juli, I fling another wave
of iciness back at myself—strength, energy, keeping myself alert through the strain that makes me want to crumple in the dust.

The Thaw stumbles as we land, each of them gaping with awe and terror. Except for Mather and Phil, who clutch their stomachs and sigh in relief at the absence of vomiting.

“What now?” Mather asks, preventing the Thaw from lingering on anything but the task at hand: saving our friends. And getting the keys from Angra.

I shake my head at myself. Saving everyone is my first priority—if we can get the keys too, then we will, but not before everyone else is safe.

I step forward to peek out of the alley. Last time I was in Juli, parties raged up and down every street, wine and music and gyrating bodies oozing from the buildings.

Now evening approaches, but already the streets around us are almost empty. Shutters bang idly against windows; unattended flames simmer in the fire pits that line the street. Across from our alley, one lone wanderer flings himself into an inn and slams the door as if evil might follow; the building next to it shows only the faces of women and men pressed to the windows, watching the street with eyes that scream fear. They look so like the people I saw in Abril, long ago—hiding from the world, hoping the problem of fixing it will fall on someone else's shoulders.

If I had wondered before what Angra wants, the sight before me now would confirm it. He has taken the joyous,
chaotic, beautiful riot of Summer and stamped it out until it resembles his controlled, fearful Abril.

I turn back to the Thaw, hands balled at my sides. “We need to get to the palace—that's where Angra will be, so that's our best chance of finding Ceridwen or anyone with her. And maybe, if we get close enough, I can use my magic to sense where Sir is.”

“We're just going to traipse through Juli?” Trace's brows pinch over his nose and he tugs at his shaggy white hair. “We don't exactly blend in.”

My eyes drop to the ground as I think—and the answer presents itself.

Summer's orange sand sticks everywhere—to the walls of buildings, the clothing of travelers. It coated everything we'd had when we passed through a sandstorm on our first visit to Juli—maybe it can serve as camouflage now.

I bend and start scrubbing the particles into my arms, my cheeks, my hair, and the Thaw follows my lead. Soon our Winterian features are covered, and by readjusting a few of our wraps and scarves, we might just go unnoticed. The empty streets work even more to our favor—if we hunch over and scurry from shadow to shadow, we could actually make it.

I take a deep breath in and lead everyone out into the nearly deserted streets.

Mather sidles up beside me, everyone else falling into line behind us. “What are we going to do if they've already
been caught?” he whispers, his voice low against the eerie stillness around us. Wind whistles between buildings, causing Phil to hurry closer to us.

“Get them out,” I reply, as if that's enough.

“Once Angra has been defeated, they'd be freed that way,” Mather returns. “You know William would tell us to finish the war before saving him.”

I glance over my shoulder, taking stock of the Thaw. “I don't think he— Oh,
really
?”

Mather turns to see what catches my attention. Phil, Hollis, Feige, Kiefer, and Eli crowd behind us, but back a few paces, Trace stands near the building with the faces pressed to the window. The front door is open, a girl leaning out, the drooping orange fabric of her shirt pushing recognition through me. That place is one of Summer's brothels.

And Trace is leaning against the doorframe, chatting with her as if we aren't trying to infiltrate an enemy city.

In panic, I fling a burst of magic at him, protecting him even more from Angra's Decay. I've been protecting all of the Thaw, though, haven't I? I refocus on keeping them safe, just in case, a cold funnel of magic pushing out of my chest and into them.

Trace doesn't react to the magic and only turns when Mather growls, “Trace!”

He jolts and looks at us, his eyes jerking from Mather to me. He chokes, realizing what we think, and waves his apologies to the girl as he jogs up the road toward us.

“I didn't—I mean, she was pretty, but—I figured she could help us,” he says. “Tell us where Angra is, that sort of thing.”

Mather frowns. “Did she?”

“Seems there's a gathering up at the palace tonight.” Trace grins. “An announcement or something—guess Angra's been making such announcements every few nights. The first night, he presented the Summerian people with his magic, hence all the . . .” Trace waves at the desolate city. “The second night, the advisers, or whoever has been in charge of Summer since the king died, gave control of the kingdom to him. Tonight's supposed to be another one.”

“Angra's held three separate gatherings since he's been here?” I squint. “It seems a little . . . excessive.”

“Maybe.” Mather tips his head. “Or maybe it's taken him that long to secure his power?”

“So it isn't a trap?” I press. “He hasn't been staging these gatherings to draw us out?”

Mather smiles in a way that's more a wince. “That's a given. Everything he does is probably, in some way, meant to squash his enemies.”

I grunt but push past my worry—we know it's a trap. We knew from the beginning that this whole mission would be dangerous. Nothing's changed.

But it seems like every time I find out information that appears not to change anything, it does just the opposite.

The palace grounds echo the fear and apprehension that choke the city. Servants flit in and out of the gates, preparing for whatever gathering will be held tonight, which makes their panic easy to slip into, and we hide in a shadowed overhang by the stables. We stand in a tight group, the Thaw pressed in around me, and I reach out to my magic, the constant coldness reminding me that I'm keeping a shield around my Winterians and myself—Angra won't be able to sense us, and his Decay won't be able to infect us.

But we're here, on the grounds, and I'll have to risk using more magic now.

The Thaw is silent as I close my eyes, arms knotted across my chest. I let tendrils of magic snake over the ground and up to the palace, splitting apart and spreading out like frost crawling over a window. I should be able to sense Sir—his Winterian blood is connected to the magic within me, and he should be close enough to feel, the same way I pushed magic into the workers deep in the Tadil while I stood atop the mine.

“What is she doing?” Phil hisses.

“Searching for Mather's father, I'd imagine,” Trace answers quietly.

“I don't know about you all,” Feige starts, “but I'm ready for an enemy I can
see
. No more of this . . .”

My eyes are closed, but I take it she waves at what I'm doing. A few of the Thaw shift, their clothes rustling, and that's answer enough. They're uncomfortable with magic
use, as I knew they would be—the bulk of their magic experience was Angra's control of Spring. The few months we were back in Winter, with me using magic sporadically to help crops along, did nothing to alter their already fearful view of it.

I almost tell them not to worry. It'll all be gone soon.

Mather shushes them, a sharp hiss between his teeth, and I bow my head to my chest.

Find him,
I will my magic. I don't realize until I think those words how desperately I need it to work. Because if I can't sense Sir here . . . Angra might have already killed him.

A sharp jolt of connection makes me straighten.

“What?” Mather's hands go to my arm.

My eyes fly open.

“Sir,” I pant, relief cooling my limbs. I look at Mather. “I know where he is.”

I take off, led purely by the need in my heart. My magic doesn't sense any Decay in Sir—his strength of will must be enough to resist, for now at least.

Of course it is. Of course he'd hold out against Angra.

We slip into the palace through the servants' entrance, keeping our heads bowed, our features as obscured by scarves as possible. Luckily, every servant we pass keeps their shoulders hunched and faces to the ground as they rush to complete their tasks. I lead the Thaw through halls that once dripped with vibrant pink flowers and braids of silk—now the walls are bare, darkness serving almost as
the only decoration. And, more than that, there's a heaviness to these halls, one that feels so reminiscent of Angra's palace in Abril that my heart can't stop galloping.
Pain
—that's what my body remembers most about Angra's home. Excruciating, shattering pain.

I stop before each corner, glancing down it to make sure Angra isn't lying in wait. I can't feel him anywhere around, which means he either isn't here—unlikely—or he's shielding himself as much as I am from him. He could be one wall away, and I wouldn't know.

Finally, I duck up one last staircase and come to a balcony overlooking the celebration hall. Four stories of arching sandstone balconies spiral around, the ceiling nothing but a great sweep of the night sky. Fire pits line the room, all burning low and casting just enough light to highlight the people below.

The gathering is a stark contrast to the last celebration I saw here. There is no music, no color—people stand in tight groups, talking in quiet, low voices, every so often casting wary glances at a balcony directly across from me.

We're on one of the second-floor balconies, the walkway empty of any other souls. Still we press to the wall, slinking through the shadows. My magic hums, compelling me forward—Sir should be here.

My breath hitches.
Trap,
I think.
It's a trap. Angra knew we'd come.

But then I turn.

Sir crouches behind the railing, his body squished against a pillar. His attention is pinned on the balcony, centered across from him. No doubt Angra will appear there, and Ceridwen's planned assassination attempt will occur.

At the sight of Sir, images break apart in my mind, thoughts of him dead at Angra's hands, his body broken and bleeding on a battlefield. But he's all right—he's alive.

I hadn't realized how terrified I'd been until now.

The Thaw stops, hidden behind one of the larger pillars. I slide forward one step.

“Sir,” I whisper.

He jolts and flies to his feet, utter shock scrawled across his usually stoic face, before he falls back to hide behind the pillar next to him.

His attention shifts to a movement at my left.

Mather steps away from the shadows and everything about Sir's demeanor softens. Where he had looked at me with shock, Sir looks at Mather as if he's staring at the most precious thing in the world.

Sir's arms drop limp. “You're all right,” he mouths.

Mather hesitates, shrugs. But Sir doesn't give him a chance to respond—he stumbles into the space behind our pillar, and everything I ever thought I knew about Sir is proved wrong.

He hooks his arms around Mather's neck and hauls him forward, head bowing to tuck against his son.

Mather goes stiff.

Sir is hugging him—desperately, pleadingly.

Mather's eyes close and he dissolves, his fingers digging into Sir's back. A sob shakes through Mather's body, sorrow unleashed from his mother's recent death, from his tortured relationship with his parents, from the way I know he's always wanted this as much as I have. And while I am gloriously happy for him, a sharp flutter takes my breath away.

I've resigned myself to my relationship with Sir. I am his queen; that's all I'll ever be.

I clear my throat. “Where is Ceridwen?” I whisper.

Sir pulls away from Mather. When he faces me again, every bit of softness is gone.

He nods to the floor below us.

I press back against the pillar but angle forward so I can see the floor. My gut aches when my eyes land on Ceridwen, hidden in an alcove by a fire pit, her eyes cutting every so often to the same second-floor balcony across from us.

“We have archers,” Sir whispers, nodding to the balconies above. “And swordsmen.” He points at his own weapon, then to two more bodies hidden on this same level, on balconies closer to the one that holds all attention. One of the swordsmen is Henn.

I pause. They haven't yet been caught. They haven't yet been consumed with Decay.

This . . . might actually work.

“What can we do?” I ask, a breath against the music below.

But Sir can't answer—the moment I ask, a door opens on the main balcony. We all drop, crouching behind the thick sandstone railings and pillars.

The crowd pivots toward the open door. Their quiet whispering ceases, dead silence making the low-burning fire pits roar.

From the shadows of the opened door, Angra emerges.

Mather puts his hand on my knee. I grab his fingers, squeezing once, but the rest of my body has gone numb. I keep from looking at Ceridwen, knowing the pain that must be racking her. Angra is here, lording his power over her kingdom.