Frost Like Night (9 page)

AFTER GISELLE DISEMBARKED
in Putnam, the Yakimians dumped Ceridwen, Jesse, and Lekan where the Southern Eldridge Forest met the Langstone River, leaving them with horses, a day of supplies, and reminders of their queen's wishes—to stop Angra before he could destroy Yakim. No hint as to
how
they might do such a thing. Which was almost preferable—Ceridwen wasn't bound to follow any more of Giselle's orders—but she had no idea how to go about stopping Angra. Wait for Meira to show up and hope she had a plan? Track Angra's location and stage an assassination attempt?

Ceridwen kept Giselle's seal in her pocket and pretended the weight of the impending war was enough to distract her from Jesse's presence.

She knew her time of ignoring him wouldn't last. But,
flame and heat, she would fight to do so until the bitter end.

The refugee camp was only a day's ride from the Langstone, and Ceridwen was grateful that they didn't have to spend a night camping in the forest. Just as the sun and night sky warred on the horizon, they broke out of the trees into the Rania Plains.

Lekan's husband had helped pick this location. They had had a camp deeper in the Eldridge before, but with so many Summerian refugees, the wet, chill climate was less than ideal. Their camp now straddled the edge of the forest, close enough to the trees to allow for resources to be scavenged yet close enough to the plains to give the Summerians needed breaks of heat and dryness. Ceridwen breathed that arid wind, her chest aching at the memories such scents dredged up. Memories of Summer, of her cracked earth baking in the sun.

She squeezed Giselle's seal. The Yakimian queen wasn't the only one with a kingdom to protect from Angra. And now that Simon was dead, and Ceridwen Summer's only living heir . . .

Ceridwen closed her eyes, catching the gasp that rose in her throat. Her brother had
died
, Angra was slowly yet persistently enslaving the world, but some deep, sick place inside her reveled in knowing that one of her longest-kept goals had finally been achieved. For years she had bled to be the sole ruler of Summer.

She was a Summerian, through and through—able to find joy in any situation.

Ceridwen forced her eyes open. Through the dim blueness of night and the pale brown grass a few shapes moved toward them.

“Lekan!”

Kaleo leaped through the tall grass. A few soldiers followed—and Ceridwen sighed in relief to see they were Summerian, not Yakimians posing as refugees,
damn Giselle
—but they turned back to the camp when they heard Kaleo's confirmation of who approached.

Lekan kicked his horse but didn't let it get far before he heaved on the reins. His injured leg had stopped bleeding, but it still had to cause him pain when he dropped to the ground. He didn't hesitate in his mad rush to meet Kaleo in the grass, and the two collided, Kaleo's force sending Lekan toppling backward, their bodies vanishing in the waist-high grass amid a chorus of laughter—which quickly faded to a silence that made Ceridwen cut her eyes to Jesse.

He looked so different without a mask, and among the other things Ceridwen hadn't yet talked to him about was whether or not he wanted a new one. She couldn't deny the part of her that loved being able to see his emotions as he watched Lekan and Kaleo, a smile lifting his lips, consuming his whole face in light.

Then Jesse stiffened in his saddle, the muscles in his neck convulsing as he swallowed and looked at her. He
bowed his head as if she had given him an order and kicked his horse on, fading into camp. She expected to be able to breathe easier with him gone. But nothing changed, not a single spark of relief.

Ceridwen pulled alongside Lekan and Kaleo. When her horse's hooves clomped just next to them, Kaleo whipped upright, straddling Lekan's waist.

“Princess! You brought him back injured. Again.”

Ceridwen shrugged. “Only because I know how much he loves you taking care of him.”

Lekan flopped out, arms splayed. “You'd better restrain me. Bed rest, for my own good, since I can't be trusted to stay safe and uninjured anywhere else.”

Kaleo balled the fabric of Lekan's shirt in his fist, leaning deeper over him with a look that prompted Ceridwen to chuckle.

“I've slept in tents next to you two,” she said. “I'm not sure your idea of
bed rest
is any safer.”

Kaleo roared with laughter and Lekan used the distraction to flip on top of him, but the movement landed him wrong on his wound and he yelped in pain. As Kaleo moved to check Lekan's knee, their words softened, more teasing banter that, had Ceridwen been less used to them, would have made her blush.

She pushed forward, leaving them to their reunion. The camp stretched in a haphazard circle, more tents added whenever new refugees joined their group, creating uneven
roads and paths. A messy, chaotic camp for a messy, chaotic group.

Ceridwen slid off her horse and eased it into a corral at the edge of camp. Everyone had settled in for the night, with only soldiers patrolling, casting nods as they recognized her. She studied each tent. Everything where it should be.

Her fists tightened involuntarily.

Well, everything almost where it should be. Three hundred of the refugees around her were Yakimian soldiers. There were no more than eight hundred people here in all.

Ceridwen growled. That meant there were three hundred places in this camp that could have been taken by slaves who actually needed saving.

Damn Giselle.

How many of the Yakimian spies had posed as soldiers here? How many had stayed hidden in the ranks of families and laborers? In the worst case, if every Yakimian soldier had taken up ranks as one of Ceridwen's fighters, she'd have only about a hundred and fifty non-Yakimian soldiers.
A hundred and fifty.
To make any sort of stand against Angra . . . that amount was laughable. She'd
have
to use the Yakimian soldiers. But for what?

The refugee fighters had been causing mayhem despite their small numbers for years—they could continue the sort of guerilla attacks that had frequently crippled Summer's forces. Surprise assaults from treetops, traps constructed on rough roads.

Ceridwen rubbed her forehead.

Would any of that really make a difference against Angra? Could she unseat whatever hold he had on Summer with guerilla fighters? Because she'd go after Summer first, regardless of Giselle's plea. Let Yakim sweat a little under Angra's threat.

“Wennie!”

Ceridwen grinned. Only one person had ever called her that, and the first time she had heard it, her nose had wrinkled. But that had only encouraged the now eight-year-old Amelie. The Yakimian girl had been just two when she had been sold to Summer, and it hadn't taken long for Kaleo and Lekan to fall in love with her and bring her into their family.

Lekan hadn't uttered a word about Giselle's revelation. Not once had he said, “My daughter's life was the currency that bitch used to finance her planned attack on Summer.”

Though Ceridwen knew Lekan well enough to realize he'd never even think anything like that. Ceridwen would just have to be ragingly furious for him.

She opened her arms to Amelie, who slid into her hug. “Lekan's back,” she said, and Amelie's already large brown eyes widened even more. The scar under her left eye, the branded
S
, wrinkled with her smile, the marking old enough to be smoother and less noticeable than that of those who had been branded as adults. But it was still there, a screaming testament that, if Amelie had returned to Yakim, would
have earned her a quick trip back to Summer. She was Summer's property now—and so she, like all the others Ceridwen and her group had freed, had to remain in this hidden camp, safe from any who would force her into a life of nonexistence.

A mask would hide that brand.
Ceridwen swallowed. Sending her refugees to Ventralli was an option she had once considered—but not for long.

Amelie clapped, her wild black hair bobbing around her shoulders, and she ran off.

“Papa!” she shrieked, and from out in the plains, Lekan's voice echoed back.

“Amy!”

Ceridwen smiled. It was refreshing to see a child still capable of being a
child
, happy and innocent in all the best ways.

A figure shifted on her left, and when Ceridwen turned, Jesse stepped into the light of a nearby lantern. The dark strands of his hair brushed around his shoulders, his collarbone, the dip of skin where he had unbuttoned his shirt. The angle of his jaw caught the light, sharp beneath a layer of beard that had sprouted after days without a proper shave. He had never looked so disheveled, but he wore his unkemptness like an outfit he had purposefully chosen, and Ceridwen's lips threatened a smile at how utterly Ventrallan that was of him. To make something beautiful despite the challenges.

“Are your children here yet?” Ceridwen asked, her voice croaking halfway through her question as she realized . . . she was talking to him.

Jesse seemed just as shocked. His already tense body jolted in surprise, hands in his pockets, shoulders caved in a state of meek surrender. “No—I checked with a few of the soldiers.” Sorrow painted his features, but he shrugged it away, forcing optimism. “They might not have traveled by boat. It could be a few days.”

“We can send someone out to search for them.”

“Yes. Yes, please.” He caught himself, his eagerness, and reined it back. Afraid of pushing too far, of showing too much emotion.

Four years,
her mind argued.
I waited on him for four years.

Four years,
her heart countered.
I've waited
for
him for four years.

“Have you . . .” She cleared her throat. “Have you been given a tent yet?”

He shook his head. “I should have asked when I went looking for my children.” He scratched his neck. “I'm not thinking straight at the moment.”

“Who is?” Ceridwen grumbled, and headed into the camp.

Jesse followed a pace behind. “Have you given any consideration to how you'll use Giselle's soldiers?”

Ceridwen clenched her hands and shot her words over her shoulder. “Really?
You
want to speak of war?”

“Simply because Ventralli hasn't seen war in years doesn't mean I can't be of service. I spent many nights watching you—”

Ceridwen spun on him. They were outside a tent not far from the exterior circle, one of the many reserved for refugees on their first nights before permanent housing could be arranged. Fabric draped from the pointed roof to the ground, overlapping strands nailed in place to allow breezes to enter while keeping prying eyes out.

“No,” she snapped. “You wouldn't expect someone to know how to work with glass simply because he watched a glassblower for a few hours, would you? Whatever happens next won't concern you.” Ceridwen grabbed the tent's flap and pulled it open. “There should be a cot and a bucket with fresh water—”

“That's not what I meant.” Jesse's voice was brittle. “I spent years watching you fight for Summer, so I know what
you
need. And if you need someone to talk to, I can listen.”

“So can Lekan.”

“Fair point.” Jesse bowed his head. “But I'm . . . here, Cerie.”

She pinned her eyes on the road, one hand wound in the tent flap. This road was darker than most, only a single lantern nearby. It made everything indistinct, the trampled grass and the leaning tents and the sweep of star-speckled sky above.

“Soldiers come by every fifteen minutes,” she said. “Any
of them will be able to help you if you need more—”

“Cerie.”

She dropped the tent flap but couldn't make her feet move. There were a dozen different things she had to do—plan how to confront the Yakimian soldiers; send people to find news of Jesse's children, not to mention Meira; figure out what her next step should be. If Meira hadn't made it out of Ventralli, this war would come down to . . . her.

Jesse was right. She did need to talk to someone—but more than that, she just
needed
someone.

And that more than anything kept her rooted to the ground.

“Cerie.” Jesse said her name again, as if it would mend every wound he had created. “I'm sorry. For Raelyn, for Summer, for . . . you. I'm sorry I hurt you, over and over.” He managed a weak, dying chuckle. “I still don't understand why you tolerated me for so long.”

Her breath hitched.
Me neither.

But every reason was just as branded on her heart as all the pain he had caused. Each scar had a contradictory excuse to match, and she had fallen asleep so many nights counting them all.

I love you because you were the only one who heard me out when I came as a Summerian ambassador to Ventralli, and even though your council denied my country aid, you tried so hard for my people. I love you because you showed the kind of devotion I wish my king did. I love you because you love your children. I love you because you love
the tradition of wearing masks and all the things your people create.

I love you for the same reason I loved my brother—because I'm weak, too.

“Stop,” Ceridwen croaked.

“I don't deserve you,” Jesse pressed. “That was why I went along with my mother's plea to marry Raelyn—I knew I didn't deserve you, and I thought it would be better for both of us if I married someone else. But you still loved me, even after, and I wanted to be worthy of you, so I kept you because I hoped that I would become the man I was when I was with you
always
.”

“Stop,” she said again, louder, and she knew he heard her this time.

“And I'm sorry, Ceridwen.” His voice cracked. “When Raelyn broke my conduit, I didn't even care about the magic—all I wanted was you. I should have let that want be my guiding light all these years, but I didn't. I won't just apologize, though—I've said far too much that was empty over the years. The only thing I've ever said that truly mattered was that I love you. So I'll say that every moment of every day as I
do
things, not just
say
things, to prove how much I regret not treating you as you deserve. I love you, Ceridwen.
I love you.
”