Frost Like Night (23 page)

I scramble against the ground to get to my feet. Magic swells out of me when my eyes find Nessa again, a command that burrows into her heart.

Go, GO! RUN!

Phil sees the Autumnians coming and rips a hatchet from a holster on his thigh. The weapon glints in his fist, and Nessa's eyes widen.

She turns, intending to run toward the Autumnians.

But Phil launches forward, one step, just one, and reaches her first.

She isn't a fighter. She's my Nessa, she's
mine
, and Phil's hatchet hooks into her neck before I can even start running again. But no, I don't run—I wrap the magic around me and fling myself beside Phil, who grins wickedly, and Nessa just gapes. She's confused, and shocked, and—

Her dagger clatters to her feet.

I slam my shoulder into Phil and send him thudding to the ground. His hatchet breaks free, trailing blood with it, and Nessa drops. I catch her, both of us falling.

The Autumnians surge around us, most barreling into the fight in the clearing, some pausing to survey that the enemy near us is down. But they keep going, even though I'm holding my whole world in my arms, watching it bleed out.

“Nessa!” I cry, magic gushing out of my body and into her, such waves of coldness that I know the ground around us has to be a swirl of frost and ice. “NESSA!”

Her head lolls against me. So much blood, not enough magic, so I pour more, but the magic just sloshes into her as blood flows out. I drive every speck of any power I have into
her
, to be hers, please,
please Nessa just take it, take anything you need, please Nessa—

I couldn't save Garrigan, but I have to save you. Please, Nessa, let me save you.

Something moves. Phil.

He stands, snarling, but Mather, who stumbles up to him, saves me from having to kill him. No—Mather
shouldn't have to do this, he shouldn't have this on his hands—

Conall heaves into Mather, who drops without a fight, eyes unblinking on Phil, lips parted as though he's begging Phil to stop. But Phil doesn't stop,
can't
stop, so frenzied that he roars at me like a beast.

It's Conall who pierces a blade into Phil's chest, plunging it in to the hilt.

Mather's hands go into his hair, a sob tearing from his throat that drowns my own.

Arms pull me back to Nessa. Arms that clamp around both of us, holding on so fiercely I think, almost, that we'll be all right. We're safe, safe in Conall's arms, and she'll be all right.

Conall's tears drip onto my face but he just holds me tighter as I scream his sister's name.

CERIDWEN ONLY SAW
the end of the battle.

After the final meeting, she had gone to split her fighters into those who would leave and those who would stay behind. So she was with Lekan when the first shouts went up. Running across the camp when the horn blew out. Gasping at the edge of the clearing when the Autumnian reinforcements reached it, their support bringing the fight to a decisive end.

And then she was running again, to the main tent, leaping over fallen victims and dodging the last desperate attempts of dying Cordellans to strike her down. She flew into the tent, only to see it empty, the table where they had made their battle plans still littered with maps.

Ceridwen whirled and ran again, the rank air that always came with a fight scraping down her throat.

Jesse hadn't left with her. He'd stayed to help
Caspar—he'd stayed
here
, in this tent, on the edge of a clearing that had all too recently been filled with joy and music.

Ceridwen raced for Jesse's tent. He slept with his children every night in the area given to the Winterians. Well, he'd slept there every night but one—last night, the one after their . . .

It was appropriate, too appropriate, for that clearing to be a battleground now. Perhaps it was punishment, on some level. As Ceridwen slid to a halt outside Jesse's tent, she felt that realization shatter the thin structure of happiness she'd built.

This was punishment, for believing in joy during a war.

This was punishment, for being happy when she had no right to be.

Ceridwen grabbed the flaps of his tent, drew in a breath, and ripped them open.

Let him be here, let him be here . . .

She saw Melania first. Then Geneva, and Cornelius, huddled together on the floor, wrapped in a single long wool blanket. They blinked up at her, their eyes wide behind their small, tattered masks, the only ones they'd been able to bring from Rintiero.

Melania put a finger to her lips.

“Shh, Cerie! You're interrupting.”

And she settled back against her siblings, looking up
at Jesse, who paused over a book open in his lap. His eyes caught Ceridwen's, wide at first in a smile, then narrowing when he saw her tension.

He set the book aside and rose from his cot. Melania groaned.

“No, you have to finish it!” she begged. “Nessa didn't finish it either.”

Jesse batted a hand at her and looked up at Ceridwen. “What's wrong?”

He didn't know. He didn't know about the battle. He was here, reading to his children.

A single laugh slipped free of Ceridwen's throat, but it dissolved on her tongue, and tears came with it, spilling down her face. Jesse rushed to her, and she knotted around his neck, heaving against him as she tried to keep from sobbing too loudly, if only so his children didn't worry.

“It's started,” Ceridwen whispered to him. She felt him coil under her touch, his grip on her spasming. He hesitated, pressed a kiss to her cheek, and turned back to Melania, Geneva, and Cornelius.

“I need you to go play with Amelie,” he told them. He looked at Ceridwen for confirmation that this was safe, and she nodded. From here, the Summerian section of the camp wasn't in the path of the battle, which had ended by now anyway.

Then Jesse turned to Ceridwen, and she put out her
hand, needing to hold on to him. A part of her ached as though she were still outside this tent, waiting to separate the flaps, unsure of what lay within.

That was how every moment would be from now on, she realized.

Uncertain.

“THE CORDELLANS WERE
defeated by our forces.”

“. . . only half a battalion. Phil led a small group from those stationed in Oktuber.”

“They were unprepared, as though they came in a hurry.”

“Thankfully we only had minor losses—”

Minor losses.

My fingers tighten in the sleeve of Nessa's dress, her dried blood breaking across my skin. The voices around me stop, halted by my sharp twinge where I haven't moved in hours. Days, maybe, just here on the ground with her body in my arms.

“Meira.”

I peel my eyes away from the gore-covered clearing that once hosted Ceridwen and Jesse's wedding celebration. Is that stain there blood, or wine someone spilled?

“Meira,” Sir says again, crouching before me. He reaches
for Nessa. “We have to—”

“No!” I snarl. Sir flinches.

I can't blame him. I want to cower from myself, too.

Ceridwen is standing behind Sir. And beyond him, Autumnians, Summerians, and Yakimians alike work to clean up the carnage of the area. Caspar watches me, and Nikoletta, and Dendera—they all stand nearby with looks of sympathy.

A few steps away, Mather crouches over a body on the ground. The Thaw, Henn, and the remaining refugees got here sometime during the fight, so Hollis, Kiefer, Eli, Feige, and Trace surround Mather now. Some of them weep, some of them sit silent and ashen-faced around Phil's body.

My grip on Nessa tightens.

Someone else drops to his knees next to me. Conall. When did he leave?

He bends over Nessa, and I don't fight him off when he runs a hand down her gray face. His fingers shift over her arm, and he lifts it, slides something between it and her chest.

A book.

“I've been . . .” His voice cracks. “I've been writing down the engravings from the memory cave.” He closes his eyes, and when he opens them, his gaze shifts to me. “It was supposed to be a gift for her. So she could carry Winter with her wherever she went. I wanted her to have a piece of our kingdom with her. I wanted her to . . .”

But he doesn't finish the thought. His blue eyes, mottled with tears, dart over my face, and the unhidden grief he shows destroys me.

“I'm so sorry, Conall,” I hear myself say. It sounds weak, the blubbering apology of someone who failed. “I should have used my magic sooner. I should have stopped Phil, whatever the cost. I should have—I'm so sorry—”

Conall wobbles forward and yanks me to him, his forehead to mine. “Meira, don't.”

That shocks me into silence more than anything he could have said.

He didn't call me
my queen
.

“They'll burn her,” I whisper.

He swallows, nodding. “I know.”

But it will be an Autumnian ceremony. For Nessa, the girl with the book of Winterian memories in her arms, the girl who should have gone on adventures all over the world and gathered pieces of herself from every kingdom in Primoria . . . it's fitting.

Conall eases his hands down, rocking his sister's body from my arms to his, and I let him take her. He stands, careful to keep the book on her chest. His eyes hook onto mine in one last look of understanding. Of pain—aching, disintegrating pain.

The moment he steps away, Sir pulls me to my feet. My legs crack from being huddled on the ground for so long, but he keeps me up, supporting me under one arm.

Weakly, I try to pull away. “You should be with your son.”

He says nothing, just holds me up as I stare at Mather, kneeling over the body of one of his best friends.

The hand I used to push away Sir sits on his chest, and my fingers bend, clawing into his shirt. I push him again, or maybe hold him here, my throat so swollen with grief that I gag and sway, pushing and pulling Sir. He catches my other arm, pinning me to the ground, and I am pushing him now, beating on his chest.

“Let me go,” I say, but it doesn't match the ferocity with which I hit him.

I still, open hands settling on his arms.

“Let me go,” I repeat, a broken plea that I send to the dirt. “We could. We could go. We could leave, right now, before we lose anyone else. . . .”

The words bubble out of me, jagged wishes that shred my heart even as I utter them.

Sir's fingers tighten on my elbows. He'll yell at me now. He'll reprimand me for this kind of talk.

I clamp my eyes shut, bracing for the onslaught of guilt from him. A queen should be strong and resilient. A queen should face tragedy with hope.

But I have Nessa's blood on my body. I have the image of her death in my head. I have Mather's scream in my ears, when he saw Phil die. And we haven't even gotten close to defeating Angra yet.

How much worse will it get?

“You could leave,” Sir says, his low voice rumbling up my arms. I flinch, then hear him. What? “But you won't, because you're stronger than even the worst thing that could happen, and that makes you undefeatable.”

Panting, I look up at him, my eyes shifting over his features like I haven't seen him in months. Maybe I haven't—all the time I spent being angry with him never let me see how much this has changed him, too. Impossibly, the Sir I see now looks . . . soft. Comforting. And his words soothe the fire in my heart, one cold burst of air in the inferno of my grief.

He releases his hold on my arms as if to prove his point, that I can stand on my own. He steps to the side, clearing the way to Mather.

I swallow a shuddering breath. Nikoletta is helping Conall place Nessa's body with the others who died, while some of the Thaw now lift and carry Phil's body there too. Mather stays on the ground, hands over his face, back hunched. The whole area hums with sorrow, shock that can't be soothed.

Before today, this war was in our control. Some small part of it, at least. Now the looks on everyone's faces—they're afraid.

Angra found us. Whatever safety we thought we had is a lie.

I drop to my knees beside Mather and curl around him,
my face in his neck, my arms pulling him into me. He surrenders willingly. I think he apologizes, but I don't say anything.

This is the future I will have, if I keep moving forward. Nothing but tears and blood and pain, with the eventual hope of happiness—for everyone else.
Is it worth it?

The question is covered in the blood I've seen, broken beneath the pain I feel. But I ask it nonetheless, my eyes squishing shut on fresh tears as Mather adjusts his arms on me.

My magic responds.

Yes.

In Autumn, the kingdom of endless trees and dry leaves, they have to take the bodies to a clearing wide and empty enough so as not to spread the flames beyond the dead. Which means properly burning all the bodies would take at least a day of travel that the army doesn't have.

So we leave Nessa's body with the eight others who fell during the attack. Nikoletta promises me she will be given an honorable funeral, one fit for Autumnian royalty.

And I will give her an honorable future,
I think.
Her memory will live on in a world free from Angra.

Hours later, we leave.

Those who won't join us at the final battle site gather on the eastern edge of camp to see us off. Nikoletta and Shazi; Jesse and his children; Kaleo and Amelie; all the
Autumnians, Winterians, Summerians, and Yakimians who can't fight along with a small cluster of soldiers who will remain to protect them.

But since Phil revealed this location to the Cordellans stationed in Oktuber, the camp will move too, for a new, safer location—only after we have gone. We've seen now, more than ever, the ruthlessness of Angra's magic. Should any of us fall to the Decay and have knowledge of the camp's new position . . . It's better we don't know where they are. We'll find them when it's over.

I wince at my own thought.

Caspar
will find them when it's over. And Ceridwen. And Mather, and Sir, and everyone else who will survive this.

That's the only part of our plan that has changed now. The rest—march to the valley, reveal our location to Angra, and wait for the final battle to begin—stays the same.

It doesn't feel like it should, though. Nessa's death, Phil's betrayal, the shattering of our sense of security—it all feels like our lives should be irrevocably rocked by this.

I turn in my horse's saddle where I sit at the edge of camp. The space before me can't exactly be called a clearing, but the trees are thin enough to allow our army to gather in a mostly cohesive formation. The edge of the camp is lined with those bidding farewell, weeping families who cling to soldiers and whisper words of encouragement.

Conall stands in that group not far from me, his hands folded behind his back. He's still staying here, whether to
fulfill my final order or because, unlike me, he cannot bear to not say farewell to his sister. He didn't get to mourn Garrigan either.

He's the only one left.

He meets my eyes as if he can sense what I'm thinking, or maybe he's thinking the same thing—
it shouldn't be me.

I pull away from him, unable to hold his gaze without tears rushing back in. But when I look ahead, at the departing soldiers who fan out into the forest as they say their good-byes, I see the same emotion. Regret capped by mourning for the fate we're marching toward.

My eyes flit of their own volition to Sir. He sits on a horse beside Henn and Dendera, embodying the presence I knew so well growing up—a general marching to war.

Fear is a seed that, once planted, never stops growing.

Before, we knew the danger Angra presented to the world, but we still thought, foolishly, that we would be safe until we chose to march into it. Now I see, we all see, the truth of this war, how it will find us no matter where we hide or how safe we think we are.

And that is how Nessa's death and Phil's betrayal have changed our lives, I realize: we're afraid now. If we go into battle with such emotions that the Decay can latch onto . . .

We've already lost.

I kick my horse forward, pressing for the best vantage point between the departing soldiers and the remaining camp. Eyes shift to me as I slow my horse to a steady walk,
pushing down the line of faces that hold the same fear that chokes the strength from me.

They don't expect to survive this. One of my own soldiers led Angra's men right to us—what other betrayals await us still? Who will be infected? Will they die not by an enemy blade, but at the hands of their own brothers or sisters?

I lift my hands over my head, mouth open to call for attention. But how do I address them? It isn't one kingdom I can call for.

That's just it, though.

“Angra seeks to unite the world,” I start, my voice ringing out over the murmured farewells. Attention turns to me in a steady wave as I rise tall in my saddle, heart hammering. “We have seen the lengths he will go to in order to spread his control. But I see before me something much greater:
true
unity. I see an army of Autumn, Summer, Yakim, Ventralli, and Winter. I see Rhythm and Season side by side, marching together in defense of a collective dream. A world we have never known, but wish to build—one without threat of magic. One where each of us is free to live and love and
be
on our own.

“We have all lost something. Homes, loved ones,
freedom
—and that is why we march into battle at all. But today we suffered an equally great loss—a loss of innocence. You understand how the fight will go, that Angra will attack not only with weapons and soldiers, but with
memories and regrets. The moment we meet him in battle, every pain you harbor, every fear that camps within you, will be used against you. And it would be easy to give in to his attacks.”

My voice catches.

“But we are not here because we seek what is easy. We are here because we know we will achieve victory when we march to that battlefield. Angra wants to darken our world.” I shake my head, grinning so wide that I begin to think I've gone insane. “But we cannot be extinguished, and our light will blind him.”

The moment I finish, the crowd roars.

Fists rise into the air. Heads tip back. Shouts and cheers and whoops explode around me, each soldier casting off their fear in favor of this protective coat of belief. They feel it as much as I do—how much better it is to cling to words of hope than tremors of fear.

Not far from where I sit, Mather applauds alongside his Thaw, the smile on his face one of healing, one of hope. All I need is this. Mather, smiling. The soldiers, their mourning forgotten for a moment.

Everyone ready for war. Everyone ready for
victory
.

I pull my horse around, plunging into the gathered ranks of our armies to find Caspar and Ceridwen at the front lines. I pass by Dendera and Henn, who applaud with the crowd, Dendera's eyes glassy and her lips lifted in a proud smile. I tip my head at her, and my eyes flick
to the side, pinning on Sir.

He sits straight up in his saddle, nearly a perfect mimic of Dendera, down to the glassy eyes and the quirk to his lips. That he's applauding would have been enough—but he's actually showing emotion.
To me.
Smiling.
At me.

I exhale a shuddering breath, refusing to cry again.

I will face this war, we will
all
face this war, with the only weapons that truly matter: us, our strengths and weaknesses. Good or bad, awful or wonderful, these things have sculpted me, and I will use them to be the person the world needs me to be. The person Rares and Oana need me to be; the person Conall, Mather, Sir, and all the Winterians need me to be.

The person Nessa made me.

I will be Meira.