Frost Like Night (5 page)

My eyes widen when I realize what she means. Is this part of lesson three? Her poking into my head?

Snow, I hope not.

Oana opens the door. Gray and cold, the room holds a lumpy bed with a thick violet quilt, a trunk against a wall, and a dented table displaying dishes that make me weak with hunger.

“I assumed you'd prefer a room without a fireplace. The cold might bother others, but for you, it's comforting, yes?” Oana scrunches her nose in a knowing grin. “Eat, please.”

I don't need further prodding. Two chairs sit at the table, and as I drop into one, I fear I may never be able to get up again. My arm shakes as I reach toward the nearest dish, hunger and stress and tiredness all washing over me.

Oana pulls out the other chair but doesn't sit, hovering over it, over me, as I sip brothy stew from a rough wooden cup.

I wipe the back of my hand over my mouth. “So . . . what is this lesson?”

Oana smiles softly, her shoulders folding forward. “You will only succeed in controlling your magic if you first have control of yourself. As I'm sure you've learned, magic is
linked to your emotions; if they are unstable, your magic will be unstable too. I'm going to help you come to a state of acceptance—and readiness for Rares's training.”

That was what I was afraid of,
I think, then wince. She heard that, and gives me that look again, as if I'm a chunk of gold mined from the Klaryns.

“I hope, through this, you come to see how amazing you are,” she whispers.

That look of hers, her words—it all suddenly creates a noose around my neck. I
know
I'm here to save them from their horrible existence of being all-powerful and, apparently, immortal; I
know
I'm here so they can tell me about magic and the chasm and help me die.

Isn't that enough? Does she need to make me feel even more like a sacrifice, untouchable and dehumanized? Do we really have to poke into
me
?

Oana steps forward. “That's not why—”

I drop the cup onto the table and bend forward, hands over my head.
“Stop.”

She doesn't move. “Don't hold back, sweetheart. Why is this something you fear?”

I choke into my hands, half a laugh, half a quiet plea.

I'm afraid of breaking.

I've been keeping every spare twitch of strength against the door in my mind, the one holding back all my crippling emotions. Keeping that door closed has been the only thing between a breakdown and me, but I'm tired, and the door is
getting heavier, and Oana won't leave.

But this lesson is about
me
. We can't move on to the other lessons, the ones that will help me control my magic, until we confront this one. Damn Rares—but I know he's right.

I can't face Angra if half my strength is always spent on containing myself.

So I open the door, and let everything tumble out.

I should never have trusted Noam with my kingdom. I should have seen Theron's fall, but I pushed him out of my life—and as much as I should, I don't regret that. I can't remember what it felt like to love him without complication.

I do remember loving Mather. My memories of him are sharp and clear—I think of how, no matter what happened, who died, what evil we faced, he's always been in the background of my life.

Nessa—she grew up in a cage in Angra's prison camp; how terrified was she to be in a cage under his control again? I had no right leaving her or Conall, especially after . . . Garrigan. He sang Nessa to sleep when she awoke screaming from nightmares. He protected me with the same devotion he showed his sister. He didn't deserve to die.

But nothing in this world plays out as people deserve. Horrible things happen without cause or explanation, leaving slack-jawed horror in their wake. People make decisions without thinking about the results—they just do things, then run off into the dark, never admitting to their
mistakes, never apologizing for
getting me killed
.

Hannah.
Hannah.

Snow above, I hate her so much, and I hate most of all that she made me hate her. She was my mother—she should have loved me. She should have done a hundred other things that she didn't do, and now she's just one of the many pieces of my heart that hurt to touch.

Oana drops to her knees before me. “Meira, sweetheart . . .”

But I'm too lost in it now. I don't think I'm on the chair anymore, but rather curled into myself on the floor with my hands over my head and tears streaming down my face.

And now I know exactly what the world will look like if I fail. I suspected the sort of evil Angra would release, and I remember well the streets of Abril, how utterly empty they were, every person cowering except the soldiers, who wielded power like chained dogs at their master's feet. I have to stop that—but I don't want to do this.
I don't want to do this.
It's supposed to be a willing sacrifice, surrendering my conduit to the source of the magic. But it's all going to be in vain, because the last thought I think as I die will be
No, Hannah chose this.

I want to live. I want to go back to Winter and grow old and—
I don't want to be used.

Oana grabs my chin and eases my head up so she can look into my eyes. She must be blocking me, because she's touching my skin, running her fingers over my cheeks.

“We do not want to use you,” she states, hard, despite the tears in her eyes. “We look at you like that because you are the first child we have had in our home in more than two thousand years. We age, slowly, but our bodies can only host one force—the magic makes it impossible for us to conceive. So we look at you like that both because Rares and I have wanted a child for so long and because it kills us what we have to help you do.”

My heart spasms. The magic ruins that too? Another fate decided for me.

Oana forces a broken smile. “We look at you like this because we are
sorry
, Meira. We are so sorry. You deserve a better life than this.”

Hannah never apologized. I'm not sure she ever saw me as more than a vessel to enact the things she'd put in place. Even now, it's been so long since I've spoken to her. A part of me
chose
not to talk to her, because I know what I am to her. Not a daughter—a conduit.

Sir never apologized. It was my duty and I should do whatever needed to be done, because I'd always wanted to help, so I had no right to complain when I was needed.

A vessel doesn't deserve an apology; a duty-bound soldier doesn't either.

But Oana, someone I barely know, says things that make me feel, for the first time in years, like someone who has a say in the horrible events around me. Like someone who
matters
.

I cling to Oana's heavy wool robes, burying my face in the crook of her arm, pouring out every emotion I've been keeping at bay. All the while, she holds me, and I sense, somewhere deep in my chest, the cracks starting to fill in—the faint, cool tingle of healing.

MATHER, PHIL, AND
the Ventrallan king waited in the shadows of the cramped passage. Beyond the door, chaos filled the hall—orders shouted, soldiers marching.

Mather strained to catch more telltale sounds, shouts of protest or whimpers of victims, but if he hadn't known about the uprising, it would have been frighteningly easy to assume that Rintiero's army was merely practicing military drills. Had any dissenters been subdued already?

“Raelyn will be in the throne room,” the Ventrallan king whispered. “Unless . . .”

His voice faded, but Mather felt his unspoken words.

Unless she's murdering my mother.

“Where would she keep Ceridwen?” Mather asked.

In the light from the cracks around the door, the king stilled. “I'll find out.”

“How?” Phil asked. “Your wife is terrifying. I mean,
she's terrifying,
Your Highness
.”

“You have no idea. And it's Jesse.” His eyes flashed. “I'm not king anymore, am I?”

Mather shrugged. “It's not so bad, being dethroned.”

“Ah, but at least the woman who dethroned you wasn't a possessed murderer.”

Mather laughed, but it only hollowed him even more. He sagged against the wall.

“I have no idea where Meira went,” he admitted. Where would he even start looking for her? This city alone was huge. They could have gone anywhere, whether by boat or horse or on foot—

“Who was the man she left with?” Phil prodded.

“I don't know. I've never seen him before—or anyone like him. He was wearing a . . . robe?” Mather's brow pinched. “I haven't even—”

“A robe?” Jesse interrupted.

“Yes, why?”

“There are tapestries,” Jesse said, his voice uncertain, “in our history hall. They were made centuries ago, ancient depictions of each kingdom's people. Ventrallans in masks and Yakimians with their copper and gadgetry and—”

“Is there a point?” Mather interrupted.

Armor jangled as soldiers passed their hidden door. Mather felt Phil and Jesse tense up.

Jesse exhaled as the footsteps faded. “And Paislians—in
robes. Did the man have a dark complexion, darker than Yakimians?”

Mather nodded, then realized Jesse couldn't see him. “Yes. He was Paislian?”

Jesse made a soft huff. “I have no idea why a Paislian would be in my palace, but it sounds as though one was.”

“Wow.” Phil whistled, soft and low. “Didn't see that one coming.”

Neither had Mather. A Paislian had swept Meira away? Why?

“We can't hide in here forever,” Mather said.

Jesse's ear angled toward the door. “It's clear. Follow me, but stay hidden—I think it best if Raelyn believes I'm alone. And . . . and try, as much as you can, to avoid Angra.”

Mather snorted. “I'd nearly forgotten him.”

“That's what makes him effective,” Phil said. “He creates all these other threats, so many you forget to see the flower for all its bloody petals.”

It was all too true.

Jesse said nothing as he eased open the door. The hall lay empty for a brief moment, and Jesse darted to the right. Mather tucked his weapons under his shirt—a knife in addition to Cordell's conduit, that horrifying reminder hooked in his belt—to make them inconspicuous. He and Phil swept after Jesse, shutting the door behind them and making sure to slip behind statues or other obstacles to be as unobtrusive as possible.

But Jesse went unnoticed. He had put his mask back on in the passage, and since no one expected their king to be anywhere but inside a prison cell, he was just another Ventrallan rushing down the halls.

They passed a number of rooms, many empty, others stuffed with royals. A quick sweep inside told Mather that, sure enough, they were all subdued, cowering in quiet groups as soldiers stood around them.

Had Angra done this to them somehow? Whatever the cause, it made creeping through the palace even easier, as there were few soldiers patrolling—no dissenters meant there was no need for a large guard.

Soon Jesse stopped before doors in an empty white hall lined with gilded mirrors. Mather tucked himself along the wall beside the doors, Phil at his side. Jesse met his eyes and gave a curt nod before he shoved the doors inward. To Mather's confusion, he didn't enter more than a few paces, and Mather peeked around the frame to survey the threat within.

At the end of the green and brown throne room stood a pair of mirrored chairs. One held Raelyn, lounging as she admired something in her hands.

Ventralli's broken conduit, the silver crown.

Jesse froze. “Where is Ceridwen?”

His shout rebounded through the room. Mather winced, certain soldiers would come running. Raelyn no doubt had a contingent waiting close by. He cursed softly, already regretting this decision. They should have
just left, run free of this palace—

But if it had been Meira whom Raelyn had captured, Mather would be standing exactly where Jesse stood, however foolish, however reckless it might be.

Raelyn laughed. “Oh, dear husband—why would you think she's still alive?”

“You wouldn't have killed her so easily.”

Raelyn swung her legs around to sit upright. A smile crept across her face, slow and indulgent, like she meant to savor every lifted muscle. “You know me so well. Let's play a game, then. What would I do if I seized a kingdom from my worthless husband only to have that worthless husband's
mother
attempt to save him?”

Even before a door opened, Mather knew what was happening.

Raelyn's soldiers had discovered that that their imprisoned king had been moved; they had found Brigitte in her empty chambers. And they had brought her here to be killed by Raelyn.

Mather swayed, knees all but giving way beneath him.

Jesse would watch his mother die. And there was no way to save her.

The weight of that pressed on the agony in Mather's chest. He thought of Alysson, a bloody splotch staining her dress as she fell, limp and lifeless, into his arms.

Phil shot an arm across Mather's chest. Mather looked at him, exhaling. Phil knew. He knew, and he stood there,
his eyes pleading yet sad.

“Hold on,” Phil whispered.

Mather whipped his head back around the doorframe. Brigitte stood next to the dais looking no less than the severe opponent she was. All of Raelyn's attention was on Jesse, who shifted toward his mother, his fists trembling.

“What would I do, dear husband, since you know me so well?” Raelyn asked. “How would I reward traitors? Would I reward them like
that
?” Her hand shot out, pointing to something in the front corner of the room, to Jesse's left. Jesse turned, but Mather couldn't see anything from this position. Whatever it was sent a spasm of horror over Jesse's face.

“What did you . . .” Jesse stumbled backward. “
Why
, Raelyn?”

“Trophies of our victory. The old ways are dead—and Spring has come. And now I have one more to add to my collection! Well, four more, actually.”

Soldiers swept into the hall, and before Mather had time to do more than swear at himself, he and Phil had been yanked into the throne room behind Jesse.

Mather could see them now, Raelyn's trophies. The sight made his stomach clench.

Bathed in shadows, three men loomed between the pillars in the back of the room, and at a glance it appeared as though they were merely soldiers hovering out of sight.

But they were far from soldiers. They were far from
alive
.

Spikes propped the bodies upright. The Summerian king's head cocked to the side, congealed blood wrapping around his neck in a thick band. Summer's conduit had been taken off his wrist and sat at the base of the spike, even more prominent a trophy. Beside him, Noam's neck bore a smaller slash, the mark of the chakram Theron had thrown. And next to him—

Mather hardened. Garrigan stood at the end of the row, Meira's chakram still in his chest.

“Aren't they marvelous?” Raelyn sighed. “A bit morbid, yes, but
so
satisfying.”

“Raelyn . . .” Jesse's voice died as he finally realized Mather and Phil had been discovered. Phil kept his eyes fixed on the floor, shoulders pivoted away from the trophies, and though Mather wished he had the good sense to do the same, he couldn't.

He didn't know the Summerian king and cared little for his death. Noam he had hated, and he couldn't deny the gratification he felt at knowing the man was dead. But no one deserved to be paraded like this—no one except maybe Raelyn or Angra.

But especially not Garrigan.

Mather's eyes latched onto the chakram in Garrigan's chest.

“Now, who's first?” Raelyn's shoes clicked on the dais as she walked toward Brigitte. “You will be a wonderful addition to my collection, Duchess.”

Jesse took a threatening step forward, but one of the soldiers met him before he could go far. A fist to the gut, and Jesse crumpled.

Phil hissed in warning, but Mather was already moving, drawing step by step toward the bodies as if they mesmerized him.

“Stop,” one soldier grunted, his fist ramming toward Mather's stomach. Mather sidestepped, acting the part of the dazed prisoner as he stumbled closer to the bodies.

Raelyn's attention moved to them now. She had her arms out, fingers extended. He could practically taste Angra's evil radiating from her.

The soldier stomped toward him. Mather leaped the rest of the way to Garrigan, springing into the shadows between the columns and wrenching the chakram from its bloody holster. He tried not to think about the grating sound and the fleshy resistance that dragged against the blade. Using the same momentum that had flung him toward Garrigan, Mather swung back and sliced through the soldier's cheek, severing half his jaw from his face.

“No—” Raelyn's scream bit off as the old queen slammed into her, sending her toppling off the dais.

Brigitte whirled. “RUN!”

Mather let Meira's chakram soar, nicking the arm and chest of the two soldiers who held Jesse. Phil ducked to grab the now free Ventrallan king and hauled him toward the doors as the chakram returned to Mather. He caught it
and used it at close range now, slicing enemies aside as Phil managed to wrestle a dagger from a soldier and slash back, hand flailing in jabs and frenzied thrusts. Jesse gaped at his mother still.

“Come on!” Mather shouted and gave him a solid shake. Raelyn could regain her composure at any moment—

Before Mather could blink, Jesse peeled the mask off his face, snapped it in half, and dropped those halves on the room's swirling marble floor.

“May this be one of your
trophies
,” Jesse hissed, and swung around, sprinting out of the room. Mather tugged Phil along, both of them taking down the remaining few guards before they launched into the hall and hurled themselves after Jesse.

Not more than half a dozen breaths after they left, a scream pierced the air. Jesse faltered, losing his pace long enough that Mather caught up to him, hooked his arm through his, and hauled him on.

“Don't let her sacrifice be in vain,” Mather said.

Jesse's face paled. “Turn . . . ,” he managed. “There's a servants' entrance. . . .”

Mather pulled him to the left, Phil close behind, and the three of them burst into the chill night air. A narrow path careened around a stone wall that led to the front of the palace. Here the sounds of the coup racking the city were louder—the screams of innocents not yet subdued echoed alongside the shouts of soldiers, the stomping of booted
feet, and the clashing of weapons.

Mather dragged Jesse around the wall before he smashed them back against it, hidden in a patch of shadows. The palace's courtyard fanned out, dim in the night, and five soldiers guarding one lone wagon stood near a cluster of torches. Mather's mind whirled through possible escape plans. They couldn't retreat into the palace—they couldn't cut across the courtyard without being seen—was that another door in the wall up ahead? Where did it lead? It didn't matter; it had to be better than—

Jesse stiffened. “That wagon . . . no. She wouldn't have . . .”

He stumbled forward, nearly into the light of the torches, when Mather grabbed his arm.

“Are you stupid—”

But his words were drowned by the sudden blast that echoed over the area. A warning siren sang out from the roof of the palace, delivering wordless orders to the five soldiers by the wagon. They shifted upright from their posts, revealing the gray Ventrallan crown silhouette on their purple uniforms, their silver masks glinting in the torchlight.

One nodded to two others. “You two, keep guard. We'll find out what's going on.”

Mather pressed himself deeper into shadow as three of the guards broke off. Thankfully they turned toward the main entrance of the palace, jogging for orders from within.

The moment they were gone, Jesse launched forward. “You!”

The two remaining soldiers leaped to attention. When they saw Jesse, their eyes shifted from alert to amused.

Mather groaned and stepped out of the shadows, Phil following.

So much for stealth.

Jesse pointed at the wagon. “Who is in there?”

One of the soldiers smirked. “Queen Raelyn informed us you might—”

“We don't have time for this.” Mather let the chakram fly. It sliced through the soldier's thigh, sending the man to his knees, and ricocheted back to Mather. The other soldier drew a blade in his right hand and Mather let the chakram cut through that shoulder. The soldier screeched, dropping his blade as Mather strode forward, bloody chakram pointed menacingly.

“Who. Is in. The wagon?”

The soldiers cowered, whether from Mather's merciless air or the equally withering glare Jesse threw at them. “The Summerian—”

That was all Jesse needed to hear. He dove forward, tugging at the locked doors. “Ceridwen! Cerie! Are you all right? Answer me!”