Frost Like Night (8 page)

I swallow. I can't think about it—can't give myself time to weaken.

“But to successfully complete the labyrinth's tasks, you will need what you came here for: control of your magic.” Rares whips his hand out and a cabinet across the room opens. A dagger whizzes out, the hilt barreling into Rares's palm. He curls his fingers around it, beaming.

The noise I make is absolutely pathetic, somewhere between a squeal and a whimper.

I want to understand the ways in which he can control his magic—not only so I can face Angra and protect those I love, but because I had no idea I could use this infuriating energy so gracefully. Magic has done far more bad than
good—but as Nessa pointed out in Putnam, we need all the weapons we can get. Any tool I can harness is valuable.

“Oh, dear heart,” Rares says, his enthusiasm contagious. “You haven't yet learned the meaning of the word
valuable
.”

AT LONG LAST,
Rares leads me out to the training yard. The late-morning sun shines bright on the stables and the dirt rings worn into the earth. The grass billows in the cool air, infusing me with the smells of hay and crisp old wood—aromas that crafted so much of my childhood. All that's missing is the earthy tang of prairie grass and Sir shouting at me about my stance.

My heart knots and I survey Rares as he stops in the middle of the widest ring. Months ago, I wouldn't have questioned my instinct to want Sir with me in the labyrinth. But uncertainty wears a hole in my belly. So much has changed. My relationship with Sir isn't what it used to be—or what I want it to be. But what is it now?

Rares eyes me, ignoring my thoughts, and folds his hands behind his back.

“There are weapons in that crate.” He bobs his head
toward a wooden box. “Get one.”

I hook the key's chain around my neck and tuck the key itself into my robe, between it and my undershirt to avoid skin contact. When I touched the other keys, I got powerful visions of what I needed to know in order to access the magic chasm. Whatever this key might show me, I don't want it right now—I want to learn how to control my magic, to get one step closer to leaving and helping my friends.

No more distractions, no other lessons, no more emotional breakdowns. Only actions.

I start to walk toward the crate when Rares clucks his tongue.

“No,” he chastises. “Without moving from that spot. You treat your magic with confusion, uncertainty, and fear, and as such it responds with chaos. To use conduit magic, you have to
know
what you want. You have to believe unswervingly that you want a sword from that box—just as, when you face the door to the magic chasm, you must know unswervingly that you are worthy. Confidence is essential to mastering magic, and you've already used your magic in such a way when you saw into Angra's mind. You used your magic to touch him—it was a channeled will. You're capable, dear heart. Trust yourself.”

I roll my eyes. “Trust myself. You
have
met me, haven't you?”

Rares chuckles. “You can do it. And if you lose control,
don't worry—I'm more than capable of reining you in.” He waves around the compound. “This is the one place in Primoria where you don't need to fear using your magic.”

I square myself into a more solid stance and look at the crate, the warped lid that sits cocked open on top. I can do this. Even if I mess it up, Rares is right—this is the one place where I'm free to make mistakes. There aren't any Winterians around I could harm.

Or could I accidentally affect Rares and Oana somehow, since they are conduits too?

“Don't overthink,” comes Rares's sharp reprimand. “Just
want
.”

I exhale, long and slow, and stretch out my hand.

I want to be able to face Angra and get those keys. I want to be able to protect Winter. I want to be able to stop this, all of this—

I want to survive.

In doing this, I'll protect everyone I love. I'll steal back the keys and get through the labyrinth and save the world from becoming a fearful prison ruled by Angra. But Mather will come with me into that labyrinth. He won't hesitate if I ask him, and he'll be there until the end. That is
not
the end I want for us.

I don't want an end with him at all.

I cup my hands over my face.

I want Sir there with me too. But will he come? I honestly don't know anymore. Last I spoke to him, I was so hurt—where do his loyalties lie now? I want—

I want, I want, I want—

With a tight snarl, I snap my hand out straight. The top on the box creaks open. And as my eyes widen, a sword comes hurtling out. The hilt smacks into my hand, but my shock is so consuming that I forget to grab it and the blade clanks against the dirt.

Rares applauds. “Took you a bit to get there, and your finish needs some work, but it's a start.”

I stare at the sword, then at my hand. My fingers prickle, cool and stiff, with the magic that shot down my arm on my unspoken command.

It's a start.

Here I am, flopping swords around a training yard, when out there, beyond Paisly, the world could be burning.

“Not good enough,” I snap and straighten my hand out over the sword. How did I do it? It wasn't even a thought, but it came on the back of emotion like all the other times I used my magic. What emotion?

Mather, Sir, the labyrinth, my fate . . .

I don't look away from the sword. “Have you received any word of Angra? The Order is still monitoring him, right? Have you received word from them about what he's doing?”

Rares realizes what I want and clears his throat. “The Order's barrier has kept him out of Paisly, and it appears he's given up attempting to break through—his magic has stopped prodding at our defenses. Which is good, but also worrisome. He knows you'll reemerge eventually, so for
now he has turned his attention to the rest of the world. In the four days since the takeover, his forces have secured Ventralli, with Raelyn overseeing the kingdom in his stead. She's readying her army, presumably to join him—he's heading toward the Seasons with Theron, most likely to solidify their hold over Summer or—” Rares hesitates. “Or Winter.”

My heart aches. Angra whisked Theron off like an ally, not a prisoner. What else has he made Theron do?

“His takeovers will hopefully be bloodless,” Rares continues, his tone still hard and removed, as though he knows showing no emotion will give me room to foster my own. “His method is to approach a city, much as he did Rintiero, and spread his magic to the residents. Most will be taken willingly and bow to him, either joining his army or giving in to the fear his magic fosters in them—they don't know to resist it. Why would they? It happens so quickly, they don't have time to realize who he is. Those who resist, though . . .”

Those who resist. Mather. Ceridwen and Nessa and Conall . . .

I want to stop this. I WILL stop this. I will make myself even more powerful than he is and I will return every speck of worry he's heaped on me tenfold.

The sword wobbles, launches straight up, hilt-first, and I grab it.

Rares hoots in approval, and through the sweat now
beading down my face, I look over at him, frustration and anger and determination making for a toxic swirl that all but blinds me. I have to be in control of my emotions to best use magic—and these emotions are, right now, the easiest to control.

I do want to survive this. But I want to end this too.

I
need
to end this.

Unfortunately, I have to constantly keep that desire in my mind.

Rares doesn't move directly into fighting—for two days, he has me retrieve every sword from the crate and put them back to make sure I “understand the fundamentals of magic.”

Two days.

Three that I spent sleeping.

Six, total, since Angra took Rintiero.

Each passing minute reminds me of all I'm letting happen in my absence, made more potent when I tell Rares to weave news of Angra into our training.

Rares can only give me updates based on what the Order observes—which means he can't tell me any specifics about my kingdom or my friends. Though this also means Angra hasn't spread his evil to them yet, which is infinitely preferable to having more concrete news of them. They escaped Rintiero. Angra hasn't yet reached Winter. I have to believe they're all okay.

The other news stays much the same—Angra approaches Summer; Ventralli is under his control, Raelyn's troops are readying to move out; Cordell has sent extra soldiers to supplement Angra's army; another force gathers in Spring, presumably to join Angra as well. Yakim remains untouched; Autumn is a mystery. Rares can tell me the state of citizens within each kingdom Angra has overtaken as he spreads his magic to them. It's faint—small currents of connection that only let Rares know they've succumbed to Angra—but it's enough that I become very, very good at retrieving swords.

By the time the last sword clanks against the others under the orange evening sky of the second day, sweat drips down my face despite the coolness of the proper spring air. I slam the lid closed with only the barest thought and throw a glare at Rares.

“How many more times—”

But he isn't looking at me. Through every clumsily lifted sword he watched me, arms folded, eyes bright, but now he stares at the main wall of his compound. For the first time since I met him, he looks worried, and panic flares in my heart.

I'm reaching for the crate to draw a sword back to me when Rares spins around.

“No,” he says. “Alin found . . .”

He says a word that doesn't process, not here, so I shake my head.

“What did you—”

“Winterians,” Rares repeats.

My muscles go slack.

“What?” is all I'm able to say.

“Two,” he tells me. “Alin says one is hurt—he's unconscious.”

All my incapacitating shock breaks away under that, letting turmoil rush in.

Winterians.

He's unconscious.

Mather?

I take off toward the gate, the iron bars already groaning open at my command. Before I make it two paces forward, Rares is there, his hands digging into my shoulders.

“Alin will bring them here,” he assures me. “He's on his way.”

I glare up at him. “But how did they even get here?”

The question hits Rares, making him wince.

“What?” I shake him.
“What?”

“When we first arrived in Paisly,” Rares says, “Angra found you right away. How did he know where to search for you? I simply assumed he'd figured out on his own where we'd be. But what if . . . someone told him?”

I'm numb. A river frozen solid.

I don't know the full story yet—it could be that Mather and one of his Thaw followed me on their own.

It isn't—it
can't be
—that Angra caught them, dug my
location out of them, and planted them here for me.

But my heart whispers the truth, and I look over the wall.

Rares squeezes my shoulders again. “Alin will bring them here,” he promises me again.

I step out of Rares's grip and the gate thuds into the dirt. “Just get them here,” I say before I square myself in front of the gate, arms crossed, chest humming with an emotion I know all too well—terror.

And this time, it isn't something I can let go, because the thought of Mather, unconscious, grows more unbearable with each heartbeat.

WHEN MATHER WAS
a child, he could train every day in weaponry; he could listen with undivided attention to William's lessons on war strategy, economy, and history; he could be kind and fair and just. But not a single one of those things made him the female heir Winter needed, and through every lesson, he always felt that nagging pull in the back of his mind that whispered of his true worth—which was, at the time, merely to someday carry on the female lineage of his kingdom.

And in the dark, quiet nights, when the whole camp slept in their haphazard tents in whatever location William had selected, Mather would find himself wishing an impossible wish. One he didn't dare voice aloud, not when his kingdom's salvation depended on it:

He wished for magic to disappear. He wished for a world
free of it, where worth was based on a leader's true self, not on gender.

Mather had harbored this wish until Angra was overthrown and Meira revealed as the true heir. Then, it seemed almost as if magic might be good after all—it had saved their kingdom. So he'd pushed that wish aside, and tried to accept the world as it was.

But when Phil's screams turned to wails that weren't so much heard as felt, Mather wished more than he ever had that magic didn't exist.

Mather was held on the ground through every tortured wail, unable to even see what they were doing to his friend. And when silence finally came, a bag was tugged over his head, his wrists shackled, his legs bound, everything tight and suffocating and
pain
.

He was thrown alone inside something wooden, the air tainted with the smell of mildew, telling him that either they were on the Langstone River or he was in some kind of box that had been on a ship. The rocking, reeling motion of his crate was too haphazard to guess whether he was being tugged along by wagon or boat. But they traveled, and traveled, and traveled some more, and just when Mather thought he might pass out from the improperly ventilated box, they stopped.

The heave of his crate sent him tumbling into one of the walls. His shoulder only connected with the wood for half a breath before the wall vanished, a door that opened
and sent him plummeting out. Though Theron had shoved Cordell's conduit back into Mather's belt, he'd been unable to bend at the necessary angle to reach it, and therefore had been unable to get the manacles off during the trip. He had nothing to break his fall as he slammed into the ground.

Rocks. Gravel, mostly. No grass.

Where were they?

Hands lifted him by his upper arms, and after so long being bound, he hissed in pain at the further contortion. It would take weeks for his muscles to forgive him.

Such thoughts were all he'd let himself think during the journey. Anything else . . .

Mather squared his jaw.

His captors tore the bag off his head, cut the binding on his legs, even unlocked his manacles. The freedom died even before it had time to blossom—if they felt comfortable undoing his bonds, he had to be seriously outnumbered.

“Ice above,”
he cursed, and bowed his head to his chest, his eyes watering at the stabbing intrusion of light. But he blinked, clearing his vision, and snapped his head up to take in his surroundings.

He had been in a wagon, for this part of the journey, at least. Cliffs loomed all around, and a bright-blue sky contrasted against the grim gray stones. If he hadn't known any better, he'd have said they were in the Klaryns, but they hadn't been traveling that long.

A
thump
pulled Mather's attention back to the wagon.
Some of the soldiers—ten in total, and neither Angra nor Theron among them, which was both a relief and horrifically unnerving—had opened another compartment near the back, out of which they dragged Phil.

Shockingly, no one stopped Mather as he scrambled to his feet, then dropped, knees folding with disuse. But determination won out, letting him half drag, half throw himself at Phil, who buckled on the stony ground without so much as a moan.

Mather held Phil upright, hands digging into his shoulders. One of Phil's eyes was swollen shut; the other blinked away blood that trickled from a cut over his brow.

But that was it. There were no other wounds that Mather could see, and Phil didn't favor any limbs or hold his hands over any gashes.

“What did they do to you?” Mather demanded.

Phil looked at him, tears welling. “I . . . told them . . . where she went. . . .”

Phil's face flashed with dread as the soldiers grabbed Mather and heaved him back, tossing him against one of the many boulders that lined the clearing. His hands were coated with the chalky grime of stones, and as he spun, he clenched his fists, legs in the best defensive stance his still-unsteady body could muster.

Phil only had three soldiers standing over him—the final seven had gathered around Mather.

One of the soldiers tossed something at Phil's feet.
Mather blinked. Was that . . .

Phil frowned at it, looked up at the soldiers, then at Mather.

It was Meira's chakram.

The soldier closest to Mather sneered. “Angra wants her to have it—consider it a gift, a mark of his leniency. He wants her to have
you
, too, so you can tell her something for him.”

Exhaustion and hunger and a myriad of worries made Mather's brain slog through details like a horse in a muddy field. One soldier swung a fist, and Mather ducked, but another soldier met his movement with a punch to the gut. The air shot out of his lungs and he wheezed, doubling over.

The soldier bent over Mather as he slumped to his knees.

“If you live through this, tell her that this is what will happen to everyone who sides against Angra. And even if you don't survive—well, I suppose that will warn her all the same.”

With that, he landed an elbow on the back of Mather's spine and dropped him to his stomach, where he landed with a broken grunt.

Phil sobbed, limp in the arms of the soldiers.

The others descended. Seven against him—Mather tried to fight back, but even as he did, he felt the hopelessness in every fist to his body.

Angra knew where Meira was. And Mather would lose this fight.

He wouldn't be there to help her.

Mather leaped up and dove at the closest man. A bright flash cut through his vision, a jolt of white that shocked every nerve into deadened silence.

He collapsed as a soldier swung another rock, but nothing else came—only pain.