Snow Like Ashes (10 page)

This is the night of Winter’s fall.

“No,” I breathe. We can’t run. Angra’s herding us. He’ll take us all away, imprison us—

“NO!” I scream it over and over, clawing at the people around me. But they don’t budge, don’t hear me, terror locking them behind impenetrable walls of need.

Then I’m safe.

It happens so fast—the change—that I fall back and smack into the wall of the room I’m in now. A small, cozy study, lit by a warm fire pit on the left. The earthy musk of burning coal instantly relaxes me, the smell of memories that aren’t mine. The window across from me is open to the night, letting in the occasional snowflake.

The people in the room don’t notice me. They’re too focused on a woman standing by the door, a woman who can’t be older than thirty, with flowing waves of white hair and the softest, calmest face I’ve ever seen. Like nothing, not even Angra’s cannons, can shake her.

There’s a locket around her neck. The conduit.

Hannah.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, tears spilling over her cheeks. “I can’t tell you—”

“No!” Sir flies up. Sir. And Alysson’s next to him, and Dendera behind him, and Gregg and Crystalla. Alive. They’re all here, alive—

A scream starts to rip from my throat before a hand clasps firmly over my mouth. In the dimness Sir glares at me, his own mouth pressed into a grimace behind his white stubble. The dream leaves fogginess in its wake, and I blink in confusion, my pulse settling back to a normal beat. I’ve dreamed about Jannuari before. I’ve even dreamed about Hannah before. Everyone has, I’m sure—Winter dominates every moment of our waking lives, so why not our dreams too? This is nothing to be concerned about.

But I can’t get the uneasy feeling to leave me, especially when Sir nods to my right, drawing my attention to hoofbeats.

Horses thunder across the plains, sending vibrations running up my palms as I lie flat on the ground. Sir lowers his hand from my mouth when realization shudders through me.

Spring?
I mouth.

He shakes his head. “Coming from the southwest,” he whispers. “Going northeast.”

I squint. Clearly Sir expects me to know who the galloping army is, but I’m at a loss. The kingdoms southwest of us are Summer and Autumn. Summerians only leave their kingdom to send collectors to fill their brothels, but rarely do they travel so far beyond their corner of the world, especially when Yakim and Ventralli are much closer and just as full of potential slaves. Autumn has its own collapsing-kingdom problems; they had been without a female heir for two generations before their current king bore a daughter, but she’s only one. Due to the nature of conduit magic, bearers aren’t able to fully use it until they are at least teenagers. They need to be able to consciously push magic here and there, and children aren’t able to harness the amount of magic within a Royal Conduit, or control what they’re able to summon.

But Autumn does have one powerful ally—Cordell. King Noam’s sister married the king of Autumn two years ago. It was her marriage to the Autumn king that bore his female-blooded kingdom a daughter in the face of Angra’s attacks—once Winter was assimilated into Spring, Spring turned its greed to the weakened, heirless Autumn. Their attacks increased after the birth of Autumn’s princess in an effort to conquer them before she grows into her power. And with Noam linked through blood and marriage to Autumn, one of the most powerful Rhythms was forced to care about a Season for reasons other than its proximity to the Klaryns.

That’s why Sir wants us to go to Cordell. Noam
has
to help stop Spring now—either has to help or let his sister and niece get slaughtered by Angra. If those hoofbeats are any indication, he’s already helping.

I pound the ground in excitement. “Cordell!” I squeak. “They’re Cordellan? Riding back from Autumn?”

Sir touches his nose in a sly, I-taught-you-well way before he leaps up from the grass and blows out one long, ear-piercing whistle. The sound echoes in the dark and the hoofbeats, dozens of them, stop.

My chest thuds. I really hope they are Cordellan. And that at least a few of them have sympathy for travelers, Season or not. Because if they cling to the Rhythm-Season prejudice or if they’re Spring—

But Sir doesn’t make mistakes like that. I hope.

I stand too. The shadowy mass of the army looms a few paces ahead of us. One shadow, the darkened figure of a mounted rider, pulls out of the mass and canters forward. As he gets closer, his Cordellan gold-and-hunter-green uniform—and the medals that dangle from it, marking him as an officer—become visible. He’s got a sword in one hand, reins in the other, so he can keep riding
and
impale us if needed.

The officer halts far enough back for us to see his face. “Identify yourselves or—” He stops and his eyes open so wide their whites gleam in the darkness. “Golden leaves,” he swears, and I start at the words. It must be a Cordellan reference. “Winterians?”

I run a hand through my white hair, pulling it over one shoulder, and swallow the lump of anticipation that wedges in my throat. This is the moment when either he’ll spit on us and say something derogatory about the barbaric Seasons or he’ll help us.

Sir steps forward. “William Loren, general of Winter. And this is Meira”—he waves at me—“also of Winter. Our camp was attacked by Angra and we are on our way to Cordell.”

The officer lowers his blade and my body relaxes slightly. “Anyone seeking refuge from Angra is most welcome in Cordell. I am Captain Dominick Roe of Cordell’s Fifth Battalion.”

Apparently Dominick lowering his blade signaled an all-is-well to his men, for they instantly put away their own weapons. They’re not going to spit on us—they’re going to help us. I smile.

“You are offering a warm welcome for us in Cordell?” Sir presses.

Dominick points at two of his men and they obediently push through the crowd, both pulling riderless horses beside them. His face flashes with a grimace—though, in the darkness, it might have been just a trick of moonlight. “All I can truly offer is an escort to Bithai.”

Bithai, Cordell’s capital. We can’t ask for better; an entire regiment of soldiers led by a captain who clearly dislikes Angra and doesn’t hold to the Season-Rhythm prejudice. Sir must’ve spent his watch making wishes.

“We accept,” Sir says. “Your generosity will be repaid.”

The two men Dominick pointed to offer us the horses. I settle onto one and catch Sir’s eye as he adjusts himself on his mount. His shoulders unwind and he slumps a little in his saddle, looking relaxed for the first time since I got back from my mission to Lynia. Because since then—

My chest aches and I close my eyes. I can’t afford to think about what has happened. Can’t afford to wonder or worry about who got away, who made it to Cordell. Not until we get somewhere safe—or at least as safe as we’ll ever be.

The waves of creamy prairie grass vanish around midmorning the next day. I pull up straighter in my saddle, eyes wide as I take in the vibrant change of scenery. I’ve never been to Cordell. We’ve had no reason to go to a kingdom Sir hates when there are others who will sell us food and supplies. But now I wish we had come before. It’s beautiful.

The grass beneath the horses’ hooves is such a vibrant green that my eyes hurt. Hills roll around us, gentle and sloping, with perfectly placed maple trees just starting to turn orange and gold. We pass a farm and are engulfed by a flowery, airy scent—lavender, one of Cordell’s most popular and pricey exports. Some soldiers wave to a farmer and his workers, who drop their tools and buckets to wave back.

We continue on, leaving the workers to their effervescent purple fields. The soldiers, drawn by the green and the sun and the aroma of lavender, whoop and holler with the joy that comes from being home.

Sir doesn’t seem invigorated by the men’s excitement. He surveys each farm we pass, each speck of a village, more than likely taking count of how many lavish buildings there are, how many fields seem a tad too plentiful. His face doesn’t change and in that not-changing I see the same anger he gets whenever he rants about Noam.

Just as Winter focused its magic on mining, Cordell focuses its conduit on opportunity—on helping its citizens work a situation in their favor so they get the most out of it. Opportunistic, resourceful, swindlers: whatever they’re called, they can even “make leaves turn to gold”—a Cordellan phrase Sir explained in our many lessons, referring to the fact that they’re so good at turning a profit it’s as if they make leaves on a tree turn into gold coins. That explains Captain Dominick’s curse earlier—
Golden leaves
.

But while Cordell has endless resources, Noam is not known for making political alliances with anyone other than just-as-wealthy Rhythms. His sister’s marriage to the Autumn King was a scandal he eventually condoned when he found ways to make it beneficial to Cordell, but lowering himself to assist Winterian refugees?

After three hours of winding through fields of green and lavender, we see an even more magnificent sight rise before us: Bithai. The city sweeps over a wide plateau surrounded by about twenty different minifarms, all abuzz with midmorning activity. The closer we get, the denser the houses, the people, until the regiment clomps onto a cobblestone road that connects to a drawbridge and the gated city.

As soon as we pass under the gate, the city explodes around us in a ruckus of merchants shouting, carriage wheels clanking down roads, and donkeys braying into the morning wind. Buildings line up in perfect symmetry along gray cobblestone streets, the avenues folding and bending in precise angles through the city. Each structure, whether house or store or inn, is a mix of gray stones stacked beneath curved, brown-tiled roofs. Flags snap in the breeze above us, banners with a lavender stalk in front of a golden maple leaf on a green background. Everything is clean, deliberate—fountains and vines decorating random corners like the entire city is supposed to be part of the palace grounds. Which makes sense—Bithai is Cordell’s entryway, Noam’s best display of power. Of course he’d keep it as perfect as he could.

Citizens wave as we ride through, cheering the soldiers, shouting encouragement to their long-gone men. A few women drop baskets of produce and practically knock horses over in their attempts to kiss their husbands. More often than not, civilians pull back from Sir and me, their mouths twisting in confusion at the sight of two Winterians in Bithai. But the soldiers are too distracted to care about political prejudices, and they fall into the waving and the cheering with enthusiasm, their faces lighting with relief at being home. The sentiment makes me smile.

Loyalty. Pride. I can feel it in the air, in the way the men shout greetings to passersby and ask for news of Cordell. These men love their kingdom. These men have what I see missing every day from Sir’s eyes, from Finn’s set grimace, and Dendera’s distant gaze—a home.

The regiment slows to a gentle trot and turns onto one last wide road, maple branches arching over us. Light filters through the canopy, a few leaves drifting down and dancing around the wrought-iron fence that follows both sides of the gold-brick road.

Sir pulls up alongside me. I try to catch his eye to get some clue about what we’re planning to do next, but he just stares ahead. So I do the same.

Oh, sweet snow. Seriously?

The regiment pulls to a stop, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from asking if Noam is trying to compensate for something. Because I can understand wanting to have a lush kingdom, and wanting to have an impeccably pristine capital . . . but this?

A gate cuts off the main palace grounds from the entry road. This gate is gold, towering at least three times taller than me, and covered in climbing, green metal vines. Scarlet metal roses bloom along the vines, azure birds perch on metal limbs. But, worst of all, a pair of looming maple trees sits, one on each side of the gate. Entirely golden, their leaves clink in the wind with a pretty—and completely excessive—melody.

“Their kingdom’s heart,” Sir whispers. It’s his sudden quietness that makes me realize the men’s enthusiasm has been replaced by a deeper air of solemnity.

“It isn’t”—I catch myself and drop to a whisper—“real gold, is it?”

Sir gives a curt nod. My mouth dangles open. No wonder Sir hates Noam; he used enough gold to run a kingdom to make two
trees
.

The regiment dismounts, leaving Sir and me to follow. When we all stand in front of the gate, the Cordellan men drop into waist-bows and linger for a moment, hair swaying in the breeze, before a gentle murmuring rises from their bent forms.

I ease closer to Sir. “Are they chanting?”

Sir nods. He doesn’t look happy. But it’s not an I’m-going-to-punch-Noam-in-the-throat unhappy—it’s wistful and slightly envious. “It’s the Poem of Bithai.”

The soldiers finish their not-at-all-creepy murmuring to the two gold trees and gather their horses. Captain Dominick moves among his men, all now busy leading their mounts to the right, down a separate road that wraps around the back of the palace grounds.

Dominick motions to the gate. “General William, Lady Meira—”

Lady.
My nose curls, the title rubbing up my spine. That had better not stick—I’m not sure I
want
to be a lady.

“—if you will please follow me, I will take you to our king.”

Sir’s neck is red. This trip is going to destroy him from the inside out. Not that I feel any better about being here—most of the experiences I’ve had with Rhythms left me feeling worthless in a less-than-human way. Jeers as we walked down streets; rotten vegetables hurled at us as we rode out of town. Why should Cordell be any different? But no one has been cruel so far, so I trail behind Sir as Dominick leads us through the gate into a lavish garden.

A fountain spits water into the air in the center of a small stone walkway, the whole thing lined with bright-red azalea shrubs and shoulder-high lavender bushes. Bits of pollen float through the air, darting around like bugs chasing each other through sunbeams. To the right, a stone walkway meanders into a forest of maple trees, a hidden path for midnight trysts or assassination attempts.