Frost Like Night (19 page)

EVERY MINUTE OF
every hour of the next three days is packed with readying the armies, settling the refugees, sending out scouts to watch Angra's movements, and discussing war strategies until everyone practically topples over from exhaustion. What moments I can steal, I spend pacing the perimeter of camp, straining my magic to double check that I'm shielding everyone as best as I can. What sleep I manage is light and fleeting, giving me just enough rest to get through the next day.

No one asks why I do what I do or says anything about how I stare off into the trees with my jaw clenched. I wonder about this for half a heartbeat one afternoon, long enough to realize that
everyone
is as stressed as I am. Everyone knows we have a few weeks at most before Angra's troops are fully gathered—which means we only have that much time to become a cohesive fighting unit.

And the more work we pack into each day, the fewer lives will be lost in the coming battle.

These thoughts fuel me when fatigue hits, and I need only glance at Nessa singing soft lullabies to the camp's children to force myself awake. When we break for the night and my legs ache from pacing, I need only spot Ceridwen running through drills with her refugee fighters to find the energy to take one more step, then another.

These tasks are infinitely preferable to what awaits us.

“Meira!”

I bolt upright, chakram in one hand, magic surging down my other arm in a bundled ball of defense. But it's only Nessa, bouncing in the middle of my tent.

“You're never going to believe what's happening!” she squeals.

I lower my chakram with a groan and scrub sleep from my eyes. “What's happening? How long have I been asleep?”

But even as I ask that, I think,
Not long enough.

“Since . . .” Nessa's eyes drift upward as she thinks. “After midnight. It's just past noon now, and everyone wanted to let you rest, but I knew you wouldn't want to miss this!”

I twitch and lower my hands. It's past
noon
?

Nessa's face comes into focus, but my groggy confusion only intensifies when I see her outfit. Deep purple satin lined with gold trim curves around her body.

“I know we have to borrow things from Autumn, but
this is a bit fancy, isn't it?” I say.

Nessa spins to fluff the floor-length skirt around her sandals. “Isn't it lovely? You should see Ceridwen! She looks like a sunset.”

I raise my brows. Nessa waves her hands.

“Oh, right, sorry!” She grabs my arm and yanks me out of bed, my chakram clanking to the floor, my tunic batting loosely at my knees. Only Nessa's giddy smile stops me from protesting as she hauls me outside.

Conall peels away from the threshold of my tent and drops in behind us, having taken up his task of guarding me again since most of Mather's Thaw left to escort our final refugee group. Where Nessa leads me isn't very far down the road, and considering the number of people we pass, I'm grateful. The Winterian queen should be a bit more dignified than to traipse around in little more than a nightgown.

A burgundy tent stands unadorned but for thin stripes of navy that run vertically down its fabric. Conall posts himself outside along with two Autumnian guards, and when Nessa tugs me in, a cloud of rose water and incense greets us. The narrow room houses a few dressing screens, open trunks overflowing with jewel-toned satin and silk, and pillows on which lounge Dendera, Nikoletta, Shazi, Kaleo, and his daughter, Amelie.

When Nessa and I stumble in, Shazi screeches and Dendera leaps up.

“She's here!”

That elicits a chirp from behind one of the dressing screens, and Ceridwen's head shoots out so quickly I catch only a flash of gold and a few bouncing red curls. “Finally! Flame, I was beginning to think you'd sleep through it.”

“Through what?” I ask. Dendera holds a swath of blue satin up to my face just as a shoe flies out from behind Ceridwen's dressing screen, and I start to think I must still be asleep. “You all realize we have a war to prepare for? Unless you think we can settle our differences by throwing Angra a ball—”

Dendera squeezes my shoulder. “We
do
realize we have a war to prepare for, which is exactly why this needs to happen.”

“
What
needs to happen?”

Ceridwen's head reappears for longer this time. Her curls are pinned in a gold headdress with dangling leaves glinting near her cheeks, accenting the gold and brown paint that forms curlicues across her dark skin.

“A wedding,” she says, and the way the words come out on a giggle makes me smile. I don't think I've ever heard her
giggle
. “My wedding. To Jesse.”

She ducks back behind the screen as Shazi tosses a length of orange silk into the air and squeals when it flows over her head.

“Your wedding?” I echo.

Dendera nods happily. “The latest reports put Angra's
forces five days out from being fully gathered. This”—she waves at the tent—“is necessary.”

But I know what she means. We need this. We need it as much as every blade we will sharpen, every ration we will pack, every breastplate we will strap on.

Every moment of peace we gather here will help us stay sane later on.

I take the satin from Dendera. “I guess I should dress up too?”

She smiles and waves me behind another screen. “I'll help. Nessa?”

Nessa rushes to join us. The moment we're behind the screen, they both tug off my gray tunic and start wrapping blue satin in a pattern they must have learned from Nikoletta.

This is what Ceridwen meant a few days ago when she said she needed to follow her own advice. I know very little about her relationship with Jesse, beyond its scandalous beginning, but I do know she's loved him for a long time. And though a lot of horrible things have come from this war, if it forced them to move beyond their issues and reconcile their love . . . well.

I can think of no better counter to war than a wedding.

Dendera and Nessa finish with me in about half an hour, and when I shuffle out, Nikoletta and Shazi are gone,
leaving only Kaleo, stretched out on a pillow, smiling lazily at Ceridwen's screen.

“Are you ready yet?” he calls.

“Art can't be rushed, Papa,” comes Amelie's reprimand from behind the screen.

“You aren't the one marrying a Ventrallan—you don't have to talk like that.”

Which comes just as Lekan ducks into the tent. He eyes Kaleo, then Amelie, who pops her head out and blows him a kiss. Lekan gives Kaleo a grin as he drops beside his husband.

“Already talking of marrying her off?” Lekan jokes.

Amelie giggles. “To a Ventrallan!”

She makes a gagging noise behind the screen, and Ceridwen laughs.

“Thank you for your support, Amelie. I must say, though—this
is
art, no matter what kingdom you're from.”

The screen shifts, one panel folding back under Amelie's hand, and she bounces out, the smile in her eyes overshadowing the branded
S
on her left cheekbone.

“May I present—Princess Ceridwen!” She swings her hand out in an elaborate bow, her black hair dipping around her face as she pivots to make a small presentation area.

Ceridwen pops her hands onto her hips, the smile on her face causing ripples in the gold paint that swirls all the way down to her collarbone. Every strand of her hair shines
scarlet, and Nessa is right—she does look like a sunset, her dark skin the hue of tan-brown hills in encroaching night, her hair the final trails of bleeding sunrays.

But her outfit completes the vision. Interlacing sections of scarlet silk fold over a sleeveless bodice and hem that glitter with gold beads.

“What do you think?” Ceridwen runs her hand across the beads. “Art, right?”

She sounds uncertain, as if she's afraid maybe it isn't enough to marry the monarch of the kingdom known for art.

I step forward as Nessa and Dendera whisper soft assurances, and when I take Ceridwen's hands, I see the same swirling gold designs fluttering down her arms.

“You're perfect,” I tell her.

“Perfect,”
she echoes with a roll of her eyes. “Far from it. Dead sexy, though, yes.”

Amelie giggles, rocking back. And, as if sensing Ceridwen's finishing touches, the tent flaps part to reveal Nikoletta again, now in her own properly fancy outfit—layers of orange and teal overlapping in a weave of brightness.

She grins. “We're ready to start if you are.”

Ceridwen pulls out of my hands and sucks in a breath. But when I look at her, she doesn't appear nervous or hesitant or anything but deliriously happy.

The suddenness of the ceremony means most of the camp is still busy with war preparations. As Nikoletta leads us
through the dim streets, soldiers trot past, and people pound out weapons on anvils. And here we are, a cluster of royals dressed in glittering Autumnian finery, strolling through a war camp. Where did they even get these outfits? I can't imagine anyone thought to grab them in their rush to leave Oktuber. Could they be from Nikoletta's own wardrobe? I lift the hem higher off the dusty road regardless.

Nikoletta leads us deeper into the forest camp, snaking through patches of trees and wider blocks of tents. The Klaryns' foothills loom even higher, their sharp, spindly blackness stretching over us all.

At an intersection, Nikoletta turns to us.

“We've set up the ceremony site just beyond there.” She nods around the corner. “Jesse is waiting in the middle of the group with Caspar. It's tradition in Autumn for the bride to weave her way through the crowd, emulating the path a leaf takes in its descent to the earth—your path to the one who is your true home.”

Ceridwen shakes her hands in front of her face. “Stop! Burn it all, I'm crying already.”

Nikoletta turns to the rest of us. “Follow me, please. We have a wedding to witness.”

As everyone trails Nikoletta around the corner, I linger, my eyes on Ceridwen. She notices me next to her, and when her brow lifts, I put my hand on her arm.

“I'm glad you're happy, Cerie.”

She laughs. “Me too. You have no idea how glad I am to be happy.”

I squeeze her arm and back up a step.

“But . . . thank you,” she adds.

The tears in her eyes are far too contagious. “Just don't trip,” I call as I jog away.

“You're evil!”

But she's out of sight, and the only thing I see now is the ceremony set up at the end of this road, the rising foothills of the Klaryns capping the scene not far off. The tents stop after only a few paces, the path becoming a tunnel of lush green grass and rows of trees. Leaves flutter in slow spirals of orange and red and brown, and at the end, a small clearing opens. The ground is carpeted by still more leaves, an aromatic blanket that makes the area smell of long-asleep plants. People stand in a loose cluster, all facing the opposite direction from us, and Jesse's and Caspar's heads peek over the crowd. Musicians wait in a silent group on the edge, instruments poised to start playing at Ceridwen's arrival.

Leaves crunch under my slippers as I enter the clearing, and a few heads pivot to see who it is. But the musicians remain silent, so most people stay facing ahead. Ceridwen's friends Lekan, Kaleo, and Amelie stand with Jesse's children; an Autumnian maid holds a rare quiet Shazi; and my Winterians stand off to the right, each dressed in borrowed Autumnian finery, some as small as a satin sash over their
regular clothes, others as elaborate as the head-to-toe outfit I'm in.

Nessa waves to me from where she stands with Dendera and Conall, and I go to her, drawn more by the person beside her, the one whose eyes widen at the sight of me. Mather wears a tunic so dark blue that it's nearly black. Gold thread creates elaborate patterns around the high collar and wrists, and the tight cut of it hugs close to his arms and chest. A few strands of hair hang around his face, the rest knotted in a ribbon.

I stop next to him. “Hi,” I whisper.

His lips part. “Hi,” he whispers back. His eyes sweep over my outfit, and he fingers the silver beads woven into fabric that drapes over my arms, a sort of shawl, the swift gust of movement toward me enough to send my heart launching up into my throat.

“You're beautiful,” he adds.

My head goes dizzy. This is what I get, though, for letting myself admit to my feelings for him—incapacitating giddiness that makes me sure I'm smiling just as dreamily as Ceridwen was moments ago.

I want to pull some sense of control over myself, compose my features so I'm not quite so . . . off-balance? I can't think of the right word. I can't think of anything, actually, as Mather's eyes stay on mine. Suddenly he seems just as off-balance as I am.

When the musicians start to play, what was already a
perfect moment becomes even more idyllic. The clearing fills with a violin's rising hum, and as one the crowd turns.

I don't look over my shoulder, though. My eyes go to Jesse and Caspar, standing with arms clasped behind their backs at the head of the group, their eyes, like everyone else's, on Ceridwen. Jesse's tunic is sleeveless, the same deep red as Ceridwen's outfit. He wears a mask, this one crafted from red fabric, simple and unadorned.

But not even a full mask could hide the awe that soars across his face when he sees her.

His shoulders droop. His hands fall limp against his sides. The tense lines around his eyes smooth away. His dazed amazement is full of such pure love that I smile, because there's no other possible response.

Mather links one of his fingers with mine.

I can't draw a full breath, not as the instruments weave their bittersweet song, not as I look up at Mather and see the exact same look on his face. Dazed, with maybe just the slightest bit of fear. Seeing that flash of fear speaks to my own, and I think one unbearable thought.