Frost Like Night (30 page)

THE DOOR CLOSES
the moment Mather and I are both through. It whooshes into place a hand's width from my face as I stand there, blinking away the debris, my chest heaving under labored breaths that might be sobs.

“Meira,” Mather groans.

The sound of my name hauls me out of the protective shield I wore to get us out of there. I lift my hands to my face, shaking my head in a repetitive
No
because I can't make any words come out.

“Meira,”
Mather repeats, tugging at my arm. I whirl, flinging myself on him, and he holds me as he says all the words I can't find. “No—maybe he survived—we can go back—”

His possibilities shatter before he even finishes saying them. I close my eyes, forcing each breath to counter the cries that rumble up my throat like waves in a storm.

Light beats against my eyelids, and I almost whimper with gratitude for the distraction.

But when I open my eyes, I only feel emptier.

We're in a long, narrow hall. The walls are lumpy black rock, the floor is uneven—and at the far end, a halo of light gleams orange and yellow and purple and blue in shifting hues.

“Mather,” I whisper as I step away from him.

He pulls back, his head snapping to follow mine.

“The magic chasm,” he says.

I nod.

He shakes his head in a long, slow rebuttal. “No.”

“Mather—”

“It's too soon. My father—and now—” His voice cracks and he scrubs a palm over his forehead. I say nothing, motionless with my hands on his chest.

“I can't think of any way to save you,” he finally says, all the pain in his life in those few small words.

I lift my hand to his cheek. “Once we get into that chamber, an exit will open—part of the labyrinth's magic. Run for it as fast as you can—when it opens, it means people can access it from the outside for a short time too. And I don't want to give Angra a chance to—”

“Meira,
no
.”

But I keep talking, unable to let myself stop. “—I don't want to give Angra a chance to get down here. So run, don't stop running, and I'll run too.”

“Meira.”

“Ceridwen and Caspar will need you. The world will need you to help pick up the pieces—”

He silences me by laying his lips over mine. I didn't think there was anything left in me to unravel, but his kiss dissolves my strength.

This moment—this is our last.

So I hold on to it for as long as I can, memorizing the rough edges of his lips and the way he tastes like salt and musk and joy, and the muscles that flex when I glide my fingers along his jaw.

We didn't have enough time. But the rest of the world will. Jesse and Ceridwen, Caspar and Nikoletta—even Theron, someday. And Mather. Snow above, Mather—he'll have this someday too. With someone better than me.

With someone who won't break his heart.

I pull back from him, tears rushing down my cheeks. He looks at me, those jewel-blue eyes so familiar and perfect in the way they feel like home.

He entwines his fingers with mine and smiles. The smile that defined so much of my life, melting me and filling me top to bottom with resilience. That he can smile here, now, chases away my last bits of fear and worry.

He's lost everything. His parents, and now me, too. And yet he's here with me, beside me, offering support and a hand to hold.

I turn with him to face the light at the end of the hall. It
pulses and ebbs, gleams bright and fades, an endless kaleidoscope of colors.

If I had to pick a way to die, it would be this—to go out in a rainbow of life and energy. To know that my life was valued by others.

I glance at the solid wall behind us.

To know that I was loved.

One step, then another, Mather and I walk side by side down the jagged stone corridor.

Our steps accelerate the closer we get, until we're sprinting.

As fast as I can.
As fast as I can.
This will all be over soon, before Angra can even find the exit that appears, before the battle above has to go on too long.

The hall ends, dumping us into a wide cavern that stretches in rocky sweeps in every direction. A ceiling soars untouchably high above; stalactites drip downward in gruesome teeth. The floor evens out into a solid cliff that ends after a few paces in a wide, fathomless pit.

And in that pit, hanging down from the edge, waits the source of magic.

I saw it once before, in one of the many visions Hannah showed—or whatever it was that showed me. The magic looks just as it did then, a brilliant ball of energy that snaps and sizzles as it hangs by sheer will in the pit.
Larger than the palace, larger than all of Jannuari itself, the magic seems to be a living, breathing creature bobbing just beyond the cliff, its fingers of energy snaking out to strike rocks and imbue them with the power that made the conduits so many thousands of years ago.

The product of that magic shines from every corner, rocks in orange, gold, purple, red tones, soft glows in every color. Just like at the entrance, the air hangs heavy and humid, each particle sizzling with magic. Conduits, magic, everywhere, a field of power ripe for harvest.

A field of power that will end soon.

The cliff loops around one side of the pit, and the moment our feet touch it, the familiar vibrations tell us a door opens where the cliff slopes toward the ceiling far on our left.

This is it.

I loosen my fingers and shake Mather free, unable to let myself do anything but angle for the cliff, plunging around stalagmites and leaping over piles of glowing debris.

I'll never see him again.

But I don't cry, or even falter in running. I press on, because I have to, because—

His hand slides back into mine.

I frown at him, but he pushes faster, matching my pace.

He didn't run for the exit.

Mather . . .

But I can't argue with him. No time, no words, nothing but my heart throbbing and a sob working through my pinched lips.

I could use the magic to transport him out of here, to safety. But he's
choosing
to be here with me—making him leave would be forcing him into something he doesn't want.

He wants this. And I'm helpless but to let him stay.

I think a part of me always knew he wouldn't leave me again.

Two paces to the edge of the cliff.

The magic sparks, crackling on the air, fizzling into my body with each breath I take.

One pace to the edge of the cliff.

Mather's fingers tighten on mine.

I return his squeeze as we both land on the cliff's edge. Rocks tumble off, normal, magic-free rocks that plummet into the source. They disintegrate in roaring bursts of consuming energy.

We will, too.

The magic intensifies, a wave of crystalizing heat reaching up for me, for us.

I'm ready,
I think, building a shelter around myself with those words.
End this.

All air leaves my lungs and I jump. The chasm below me shifts, drawing me in.

Then I'm flying backward.

Rock grates against my shoulder. Glowing pebbles scatter
around me, new bruises rupture in my skin as I'm slammed onto the ground near the hall we just ran through. My grip on Mather pulls him back to land on me, and he grunts as his shoulders connect with the rock wall.

I heave onto my elbows, disoriented.

Because when I look, the world is shifting.

The world is
screaming
.

Angra stands just inside the newly appeared exit, taking agonizing steps toward me. One of his hands stretches out, the shadow of his magic retracting around his arm in a black cloud.

He pulled us back.

He's here. He found the chasm.

And I'm still alive.

CERIDWEN KNEW SOMETHING
had changed only because Angra's manic glee lurched through his connection to the magic in her like a rider yanking back on his horse's reins.

Something had happened.

There was nothing controlled about his power now—it flowed from him in desperate surges of strength and magic and hatred, every need multiplied by a sudden pulsing thought.

No one will take this from me.

As Ceridwen thrashed against the Summerians holding her, fighting to keep from killing them and fighting
to
kill them—flame, she wanted nothing more than to scratch every piece of flesh from their bones, to sink her fingers into their hearts and
obliterate them
—she watched Angra, standing high over his army.

He lowered his arms, the tendrils of black magic ceasing.
Angra swayed but caught himself.

No one will take this from me.

He might have stopped pumping out magic, but that did not mean his hold had been broken. Like seeds buried warm and deep in the earth, the darkness would continue to grow in everyone he had infected, even after the sun set.

And set it did.

Angra grabbed someone next to him—Theron, whose gaze reflected the furious, livid hatred that Ceridwen felt burning in her own eyes—and together, they vanished without a final glance at the doomed battle. Theron cried out as the magic latched onto him in ways it wasn't meant for.

Few others noticed Angra's disappearance. Soldiers shouted, charging against Caspar's remaining infantry, swords trailing blood through the air. Their frenzy drove them to fight as they never had before, not just Spring and Ventrallans now but Autumnians and Yakimians too. Most Summerians had managed to resist Angra's magic and attempted to form lines of defense.

But they were so outnumbered, victory was impossible now. People they knew, former allies, now tore at them with desperation, eyes narrowed in tortured hatred. All around were nothing but enemies, weapons, death—from where Ceridwen stood, bound in the middle of Caspar's group, she couldn't find even one speck of hope in the carnage.

If Angra had left, it had to be to go after Meira.

If he found her, they had failed.

But the darkness in Ceridwen spiked with joy.
She will not take away this power. No one will take this from me.

“Lekan,” Ceridwen croaked, her body going limp against the soldiers who held her.

Lekan and Caspar conferred mere paces away, both streaked with blood and gashes and the telltale signs of men beaten by war. But Lekan swung to her. His eyes brightened, the light he reserved for Amelie when she asked if they would ever have a permanent home outside the refugee camp. The light of lying.

He knelt before her as the soldiers let her sink to the ground.

“Cerie—”

“I'm sorry,” she panted. “I'm sorry . . . I let him in . . . I'm sorry . . . I—”

There was a wail from nearby as the lines of Angra's soldiers pressed closer, tearing down their defenses with the magic he had given them.

Kaleo would never forgive her if she let Lekan die.

And Jesse . . .

This was why she had married him. Because she knew her life would be too short.

Lekan put his hand on her shoulder. One squeeze, a wordless offering of comfort.

I'm here. I'm with you.

She met his eyes. It was all she could do.

An explosion punctuated the war cries in a sharp burst—cannons, all firing in rapid, deliberate succession from the Winter side of the valley. Dozens, at least. Had Angra's soldiers brought that many? Ceridwen moaned, braced for a cannon to come tearing through their group at any moment.

Lekan frowned, confused, and sprang to his feet to join Caspar, who stood on an overturned crate and peered down into the valley.

The explosions continued, eliciting mangled bellows of pain. Still Ceridwen waited. This many cannons meant one would surely rip through their ranks. . . .

The darkness in her roiled with fury.
I will not end this way. I have strength now.

But beyond that, the small, clear part of her shrank, silent and tired and . . . ready.

“Soldiers,” Caspar told Lekan, but his words carried all around, to every waiting, exhausted fighter hiding in this cluster. “Under Yakim's banner.”

Only a handful of Yakimians remained with them, but they instantly cheered, waving their fists and hooting into the sky.

“They're firing weapons,” Caspar continued. “Like Angra's cannons, only smaller.”

“Angra's cannons?” Lekan's face contorted. “Are they fighting alongside his soldiers?”

But Caspar smiled. “No. Leave it to the Yakimians to
figure out a way to re-create Angra's own weapon and use it against him.”

The area this group occupied was cramped with soldiers, but space had been made around Caspar, enough to allow movement to see the field. In this clearing a great ripple of maroon light fractured the empty air, bending and contracting until a man appeared.

A man
appeared
.

Even the magic in Ceridwen didn't react to it, her shock too potent.

It wasn't Angra. Soldiers instantly whirled on him, weapons upright, but the man didn't seem the least bit concerned. His dark skin stretched as he smiled, a scar through the right side of his face coaxing a memory into Ceridwen's beaten mind.

She had seen this man before, in Putnam. He was the servant who had escorted them to the university and showed her and Meira around the library.

Rares.

He looked straight at her. “You did a brave thing,” he said, and encompassed the soldiers. “You all have. But the Winter queen has reached the chasm. The end is drawing near, and we have come to help usher it onward.”

We?

Ceridwen stood again, her bound arms against her spine. As she rose, she saw more of that refracted maroon light throughout the battlefield. Nearby, within their soldiers;
far off, near the approaching army, who marched into the battle alongside small wheeled cannons. Everything Meira had told Ceridwen filtered through her mind like sunlight through a dirty window.

Paisly. The Order of the Lustrate.

Rares drew a blade from his belt, the long, heavy sleeves of his robe swaying as he lifted it into the air. “Those who still wish to fight, do so knowing this war will soon end,” he shouted.

At Ceridwen, Rares leveled a single determined look.

“Hold on,” he said before he dove away, toward Angra's soldiers. He met them with even greater speed than they showed, blocking their attacks with invisible bursts that sent them flying through the air. From somewhere down the valley, a crack of thunder erupted over the continuing explosions of the Yakimian weapons, and lightning plummeted out of the sky in a sizzling bolt that shattered one of the cannons.

The Paislians were fighting Angra's soldiers with magic. The Yakimians had come to help too—Giselle must have had a change of heart.

Ceridwen wavered as the voices around her rose from the murmurings of soldiers in the throes of defeat to the cheers of people given hope. This was what they needed—something to even the battle. An advantage to keep the fight going long enough to help Meira.

But Angra had gone after her.

Ceridwen took Rares's words, repeating them over and over to combat the tide of hatred and need that still filled her.

“Hold on,” she said, a plea that rose until she was screaming, begging Meira to hear it and keep fighting. It was all she could do now. They had all come together to fight for this world, to fight for
Meira
, and, burn it all,
she would succeed
.

“Hold on,” Ceridwen begged.
“Hold on.”