Snow Like Ashes (2 page)

And no matter how long Sir restricts me to lesser missions, no matter how often I wonder if getting the locket pieces will be enough to win allies and free our kingdom, I’ll be ready to help. I know Sir is aware of the dedication pulsing inside me; I know he understands that I share his desire to get Winter back. And someday, he won’t be able to ignore me anymore.

On one trip to Yakim, one of the Rhythm Kingdoms, when I was twelve, a group of men cornered Sir and me in an alley, raving about the barbaric, warmongering Seasons. How they’d rather we kill each other off so their queen could swoop in and pick through the rubble of our kingdom to find what they blame the Seasons for losing: Primoria’s source of magic, the chasm atop which our four kingdoms sit.

“They really want us to kill each other?” I asked Sir after we managed to escape. I had fought one of them off myself, but as we scaled an alley wall to get away from them, my pride ebbed into confused shame.

Somewhere beneath the Season Kingdoms lies a giant, pulsing ball of magic; and somewhere in our Klaryn Mountains there was once an entrance to it. Only the four Season Kingdoms’ lands are affected by the chasm—in the extremity and consistency of their environments—but every king and queen in Primoria, Rhythm
and
Season, possesses a portion of that magic in their conduits and can use it to help their kingdoms. The four Rhythm Kingdoms hate us for the fact that
this
is all they have, magic in objects like a dagger, a necklace, a ring. They hate us for letting the entrance get lost to age and avalanches and memory, for living directly atop the magic and not tearing our kingdoms apart to dig down and get more of it.

Sir stopped and crouched to my level, then scooped up a handful of melting snow from the side of the road. “The Rhythm Kingdoms envy us,” he said to the slush. “Our kingdom stays in winter all year, in glorious snow and ice, while their kingdoms cycle through all four seasons. They have to tolerate melting snow and suffocating heat.” He winked at me and pulled up his best smile, a rare treat that made my chest cold with happiness. “We should feel bad for them.”

I crinkled my nose at the brown sludge, but I couldn’t stop myself from sharing his smile, basking in the camaraderie between us. In that moment, I felt more like a Winterian, more a part of this crusade to save our kingdom, than I ever had before.

“I’d rather have winter all the time,” I told him.

His smile faded. “Me too.”

That was only the first time I felt—
knew
—that Sir saw the willingness in me. But no matter how often I prove myself, I can never push beyond his restrictions—though that won’t stop me from trying. That’s what all of us do: keep trying to live, to survive, to get our kingdom back no matter what.

I find my practice sword resting in a patch of trampled grass. Muscles spasming with the effort, I pick it up and frown at Mather, who stares past me into the plains. His face is blank, his expression hidden by the veil that makes him both a perfect monarch and an infuriating friend.

“What is it?” I follow his gaze. Four shapes wobble toward us, heat shaking their silhouettes in illusions of waves. But they’re unmistakable even at this distance, and my breath catches in relief.

One, two, three, four.

They’re back. All of them. They survived.

CHAPTER 2

MATHER BLOWS PAST
me through the grass. “They’re here!”

From camp, Sir’s wife, Alysson, gathers her skirts into a knot and hurries away from the food she’s been fixing, and Finn sprints out of a tent with a medical bag.

I drop the sword and follow Mather, focused on the shapes before us. Is that one Sir? Is he leaning too far forward in his saddle? Did he get hurt? Of course he did. Two of them went to the outskirts of Abril, the capital of Spring, and the other two infiltrated one of Spring’s seaside ports, Lynia. Neither is terribly deep inside Spring’s borders, but they’re still within Angra’s domain, and any mission there ends in at least some bloodshed.

Mather and I reach them first. Finn’s girth doesn’t stop him from beating Alysson, and he stumbles to a halt seconds behind us, tearing bandages and creams out of the bag.

Dendera collapses off her horse, panting on the ground. She’s in her late forties, Alysson’s age, and her white Winterian hair hangs over a face creased with the slightest wrinkles around her eyes and mouth.

She wraps one arm across her waist and turns to Greer as he climbs off his horse. “His leg,” she murmurs, pointing Finn toward the gash in Greer’s thigh.

Greer waves him back to Dendera. “She’s worse,” he says, resting his forehead against his saddle as he takes deep, even breaths. His short, ivory hair clings to his head, matted with sweat and blood. Most days it’s easy to forget he’s the oldest of our group, hiding his age behind his unwavering determination to take on any task, any mission.

Henn slides off his horse next to Dendera, wrapping one of her arms around his shoulders to keep her up. The way he cradles her makes me want to look away, like I’m watching something intimate. It shouldn’t feel any different than the way we all treat each other—a haphazard army with Sir as our commander rather than a family. But I can’t help wonder whether, if our situation was better, Dendera and Henn would want to be a true family.

All four of them bleed from various spots on their bodies, torn shirts and makeshift bandages stained brown-red with a mix of dried and fresh blood. Sir is the only one who eases off his horse and stands straight, towering and immovable and watching us detachedly. With all the time I spend with Mather, I should be better at decoding emotionless looks. But I just hover there, my body frozen with anxiety, unable to move to help Finn and Mather pass out bandages.

My eyes travel up and down each horse, each bag. Did they get the locket half?

“William!” Alysson’s shriek precedes her by a few heartbeats as she hurls herself at her husband, injuries be damned. Seeing Sir wrap his arms around her, hold her tiny body off the ground, is like watching a bear clutch a rag doll—power and might alongside fragility and meekness. They fold into each other in a rare moment of vulnerability.

Sir sets down his wife. “It’s in Lynia. Got there the day we left.”

Finn lowers the handful of bandages he pressed against Greer’s leg. Mather looks up from where he holds a small water sack for Dendera as she drinks. I suck in mouthfuls of the hot, heavy air, my mind whirling.

We’ve been searching for the locket throughout Primoria since Winter fell, but only a handful of times have we gotten leads on where one of the halves would be. Angra keeps half of it moving, bouncing from cities in Spring to remote settlements in the unclaimed areas of Primoria—the foothills of the Paisel Mountains, ports on the sea—to make it harder for us to get both halves back.

Now we’re close. My chest swells with the same excitement that I know everyone is feeling, or felt before they ended up here, broken and bleeding. Sir will send someone back for it. Fresh and rested people make for the best soldiers, so he won’t send anyone who just returned. Which means—

I rush toward Sir as he looks Mather up and down, then does the same to Finn. “You two, leave now,” he says. “They’ll move it again soon, since they know we escaped.”

I stop. “They’ll need everyone. I’ll go too.”

Sir looks at me like he forgot I’d be here. He frowns, shakes his head. “Not now. Mather, Finn, I want you ready to leave in fifteen minutes. Go.”

Finn scurries off, his bulk swaying around him as he hurries back to camp. Obedient without thought, like everyone always is.

I stare up at Sir with my jaw clenched. “I can do this. I’m going.”

Sir grabs his horse’s reins and starts walking it toward camp. Everyone falls in behind him—except Mather, who hangs back farther, watching us, his eyes calm.

“I don’t have time to argue this,” Sir snaps. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Too dangerous for me but not for our future king?”

Sir looks at me as I walk alongside him. “Did you beat Mather in sparring?”

I grimace. Sir reads that as my answer.

“That’s why it’s too dangerous for you. We’re too close to take any chances.”

Prairie grass pushes against my hips, my boots tearing into the dirt with every step. “You’re wrong,” I growl. “I can help. I can be—”

“You do help.”

“Oh yes, that bag of rice I bought in Autumn last month saved our kingdom.”

“You’re most helpful where you are,” he amends.

I grab his arm to make him stop. He turns to me, his face streaked with dirt and blood through his white beard, frizzled strands of ivory hair sticking out around his face. He looks tired, hovering between taking one more step and collapsing.

“I can do more than this,” I breathe. “I’m ready, William.”

I called him Father once. In the wake of his stories about my real parents dying in the streets of Winter’s capital, Jannuari, as Spring overtook it, and how he scooped baby-me up and rescued me, it seemed logical to an eight-year-old that the man raising her should be called Father. But he turned such a shade of red that I feared he’d start spitting blood, and he growled at me like he’d never done before. He was
not
my father and I was never,
ever
to call him that again. I was only ever to call him by his name, or a title, or something to show respect. But not Father. Never Father.

So from then on, I called him Sir.
Yes, Sir. No, Sir. You are not my father and I will never be your daughter and I hate that you’re all I have, Sir.

Now he ignores me, pulling his horse onward. His decisions are final, and no amount of arguing will change his mind.

Like that’s ever stopped me. “This isn’t enough! And while I can’t fault you for caring about the most efficient ways to save our kingdom, I know
I
can do things for Winter too.”

A few paces behind me, Dendera moans, still hanging off Henn’s neck. “Meira,” she says, her voice worn. “Please, dear, you should be grateful you
aren’t
needed.”

I whip to her. “Just because you’d rather be patching dresses doesn’t mean all women should want that.”

Her mouth drops open and I pinch my eyes closed. “I didn’t mean it like that,” I sigh, forcing myself to look at her. She leans more heavily on Henn now, her eyes glistening. “I just meant that you shouldn’t be forced to fight when you don’t want to, and I shouldn’t be forced to
not
fight when I
want
to. If Sir let me go, maybe you wouldn’t have to go on missions. Everyone would win.”

Dendera doesn’t look any less hurt, but she glances at Sir, a quiver of hope hidden behind her pain. She used to be like Alysson, tending to camp, until Sir got desperate—he started needing her for missions just as he started letting me help with food scouting. She’s never argued with him, not when he makes her train or when he sends her out on missions like these. But one look in her eyes and I can see how much this life terrifies her, how badly she’d rather be back at camp. She’s as uncomfortable with weapons as I’d be in a gown.

Mather strides over to me through the grass, and I think he might try to offer words to break the tension. But after a few paces, he crumples to the ground like the earth sucked him down and refuses to release him. I frown as he grips his ankle.

“Oooww,” he howls.

Sir bends down in a quick rush of panic. “What happened?”

Mather rocks back and forth and winces as everyone else moves closer. “Meira beat me in that last fight, didn’t she tell you? Knocked me flat out. I don’t think I can go to Lynia.”

The wrinkles in Sir’s face relax. “Didn’t I see you run out to meet us?”

Mather doesn’t miss a beat, still rocking and wincing. “I ran through the pain.”

I suck in a breath until Sir looks up at me, and Mather winks discreetly above a wide grin.

“You beat him?” Sir asks, disbelieving.

I shrug. I’m a horrible liar so I just leave it at that.
Mather is helping me.
A blush warms my cheeks.

Sir has to know we’re lying, but he won’t risk sending Mather on the chance that he really did sustain an injury. He does trust him, more than anyone here. A moment passes before Sir rubs his temples and shoots a sharp breath out of his nose. “Help Mather into camp, then get your chakram.”

I bite back my squeal of triumph but it comes anyway, a weird blubbery noise that catches in my throat and bursts out of my still-frowning mouth. Sir stands, takes his horse, and marches into camp with renewed determination, like he doesn’t want to face me now that he’s given in. Everyone trails after him, leaving me to help Mather the invalid.

When the others are out of earshot, I fall to the ground and throw my arms around him. “You’re my favorite monarch in the history of monarchs,” I babble into his shoulder.

His arms come around me, squeeze once, shooting rays of chill through my body as I realize . . . we’re hugging.

I fly to my feet and extend my hand to him, certain my face will be permanently stained red. “We should get back.”

Mather takes my hand but pulls down as I pull up, keeping me from leaving. “Wait.”

He turns to fish for something in his pocket and I lower to my knees beside him, my eyebrows pinching slightly. When he pivots back, his face is solemn, and the ball of nervousness in my stomach expands. In the center of his palm sits a round piece of lapis lazuli, one of the rarer stones Winter used to mine from the Klaryns long ago.

“I found it when we were staying in Autumn a few years back,” Mather starts, his eyes soft. “After the lesson William gave us on Winter’s economy. Our mines in the Klaryns, digging up coal and minerals and stones.” He pauses, and I can see the child he was then. We moved to Autumn eight years ago, a boy-prince pretending to be a soldier and a girl-orphan who wanted nothing more than to pretend right alongside him.

“I liked to think it was magic,” he continues, his face severe. “After our lessons about the Seasons sitting on a chasm of magic, and our lands being directly affected by the power, and Angra breaking Winter’s conduit and taking our power in one swift crush of his fist, I wanted—needed—to believe that we could get magic somewhere else. Our world may seem balanced—four kingdoms of eternal seasons, four kingdoms that cycle through all seasons; four kingdoms with female-blooded conduits, four with male-blooded. But it’s
not
balanced—it will always be tipped in favor of monarchs who have magic versus people who don’t, like their citizens and . . . other monarchs whose conduits break. And I hated being so . . .” His voice trails off. “Helpless,” he finishes.