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.”
Ceridwen wanted to race to her tent and leave him here with his apologies. She wanted to shout at him to stop throwing emotions at her. She wanted far
too much, teetered on the edge of a bottomless abyss, one that was black and putrid with the events of the past few days, and every word Jesse said nudged her closer and closer to falling.
Her brother had died before she’d gotten to say anything real to him. She’d wanted to scream at him about all the horrible things he’d done, about how he was the one who had forced her into a life of being alone. It was his fault—he chose to be her enemy.
She glared at Jesse. “You say this now. You needed the end of the world to figure out that I’m worth fighting for.”
“I always knew you were worth fighting for,” Jesse moaned. “I was just never worthy of fighting for you.”
“I always knew you weren’t worthy of me. I always knew you were weak, Jesse, and I don’t want to have to put you together.” The accusation cut into her own insecurities. “You are weak, and broken, and you are alone. Why did you ever think anyone would help you? You are nothing, and that’s why you’re alone, that’s why you’ve failed so many times—because there was never anything in you to begin with.”
The ground caught her as she dropped to her knees.
She was alone, in ways she couldn’t entirely fathom. Her mother probably still lived, but what use had she ever been? Simon was dead, and honestly . . . what had she expected him to become? For him to wake up one day and realize how dangerous he was? No, there never would have been a happy resolution for her brother. Not for Summer, not for herself.
Arms stretched across her back. Tentative, shaking arms that eased her forward, rocking her into Jesse’s chest. She knew this chest so well, every tense line of muscle, every expanse of skin. And he knew her body, too. He knew where to clasp his fingers around her arm, past the point on her left shoulder where a long-ago injury still ached if touched. He knew to stroke his thumb across the base of her jaw, just under her ear, steady, rhythmic caresses that rippled across her whole body.
She knew him, and he knew her, and he was here.
Ceridwen’s body went limp.
“I don’t trust you,” she whispered.
“Don’t,” he said. “Let me prove myself. I owe you a lifetime of penance, Cerie.”
A lifetime of penance could have meant any number of things. But what Ceridwen saw was her brother’s head snapping on his neck. His lifetime had ended, so quickly, before she’d gotten a chance to tell him that she loved him, despite everything he had done, because he was hers, part of her kingdom, part of her family, and she couldn’t help herself.
If she knew she would live a safe, long life, Ceridwen would be able to rationalize and convince herself that she needed better than Jesse. But now, this life she led—she knew how fragile it was, how she would most likely die too young in battle. In this kind of life, there was only time for wants, not needs. And she wanted Jesse.
She wanted him because she didn’t want to wake up alone every morning. She didn’t want to know he was out there and not hers when she could have him now. That was greedy, yes—it was also dangerous and careless and stupid.
But that was what war did. It made people realize the importance of stupid things.
A cot groaned under her. Jesse’s lips brushed her forehead, his hands smoothed back her hair, and before she could piece together any words, she was gone.
12
Meira
THE TENSION IN the compound makes breathing impossible. All I can do is stand and stare at the wall, as Oana rushes out and threads an arm around my shoulders. Rares remains poised next to me, head tipped as if he’s listening.
Rares can communicate with Alin—so should I be able to communicate with Mather and whoever came with him? They’re not conduits, but rulers can use their magic to channel will and strength into their people, so maybe I could . . . what? Channel a random burst of strength into them? Or I could travel there and use my magic to bring them back to the compound instantly—but adding dizziness and vomiting to their injuries won’t help anything.
I stagger closer to Rares. “Where are they? Did something happen?”
Rares opens his mouth and lifts a finger simultaneously. After a beat, he points at the gate. “Now.”
I send it slamming into the wall above as I sprint forward, eyes trained on Alin, who perches on the driver’s seat of a wagon. By the time Rares and Oana guide the cart all the way into their compound and drop the gate, I’m already swinging around the cart.
Blue eyes blink up at me, one buried in a swelling mound of purple and red, the other under a cut that runs across his brow. He’s one of Mather’s Thaw, his white hair dangling around his face in matted clumps.
“Phil?” I guess.
He nods, trembling like a dog cowering from his master.
“My . . . my queen . . . ,” he mumbles, and saying that breaks him. He flies out of the wagon, hands over his head and knees trembling until he drops, huddling in a ball on the ground.
“I’m sorry . . . I didn’t want to . . . I tried so hard. . . .”
I watch him, unable to breathe.
What happened?
At the edge of my mind I hear Oana’s soothing voice, the donkey bleating into the air, the wind hissing in my ears. It all fades to a muted hum when my eyes pin on Mather.
He lies in the bed of the cart, curled on his side as if they hauled his body in and drove off as fast as possible. Blood cakes the whole right side of his head, darkest near a wound on his temple. A saturated bandage hangs around his forehead and his chest rises in clipped breaths.
I’ve seen him injured before, after missions in our refugee camp; after particularly brutal sparring sessions. But through all those injuries, he winced and cried out in pain, but he was never unconscious. He was always able to look at me, and I never realized until now how necessary that was for my heartbeat to remain steady.
Oana touches my shoulder. “We need to get him inside, sweetheart,” she pleads, and I realize I’m blocking Rares and Alin from lifting Mather out of the cart.
I leap back near Phil, who sobs, and when I turn, he’s standing. His arms wrap so tightly around his torso that I fear he may snap himself in half.
“What happened?” My question slams into Phil, making him stagger.
“No . . .” He covers his eyes, the heels of his palms pressing deep. Each moment he doesn’t speak lets possibilities thud in me. Images of Mather climbing the mountains in pursuit of me and falling; images of him trying to escape Rintiero and getting attacked by Angra’s men—
Phil mumbles something into his wrists.
“What?”
He drops his hands. Looks at me. Then at Mather, now hanging limp between Alin and Rares as they haul him toward the castle.
“I had to make the voices stop,” Phil whispers.
My body goes hot. “Angra?” I guess.
Phil moans softly and nods.
“I told them—where we were going,” he says, gagging between words. “I told them—where you were—and they took us to the mountains—and Angra, he didn’t come. He said—he said we’d be enough to make you come back. He had his men beat Mather to show you what Angra will do to everyone who stands against him.” Phil doubles over, hands on his knees. “I told them where you were to make the voices stop, but they beat him in front of me, and I’d . . . I’d rather have the voices. . . .”
The door to the castle opens and Rares backs in, Mather’s head lolling against his stomach.
I swallow Phil’s words, my own agony, anything that makes me teeter on the edge of falling apart.
Through all I have to do, the sacrifice I have to make, my life is the only one that will be taken. I refuse to lose more people to this.
I throw that need deep into the magic, let it spread through the void.
Mather will live. Do you hear me?
He will live.
Rares and Alin put him on a cot in a narrow room with tables, a washbasin, blankets, and candles. Alin murmurs his apologies as he leaves, returning to his post, and Rares and I hover in the doorway, quiet en
ough that we can hear the muffled words of Oana caring for Phil a few rooms down.
Rares crosses his arms over his chest, and for the first time since I met him, I can’t find a hint of levity anywhere in his demeanor.
I talk before he can. “Angra didn’t come to Paisly.”
Rares pulls his eyes away from Mather. “He knows he can’t survive a direct attack—at least, not without the rest of Primoria’s armies on his side. Which he’s well on his way to having.”
I look back at Mather. The blood on his head, pulsing fresh and bright.
“He won’t heal without your help,” Rares says.
“No.” I shake my head. “I can’t—I will not risk his life by hurting him more than he—”
Rares grabs my arms and the sorrow in his eyes undoes me. “The best I can do is make him comfortable while he slowly passes on. He’s lost too much blood, the wound is too deep—the only way he will survive this is with Winterian magic.”
One breath is all the time it takes—less than that, actually. One glimpse of Mather, broken, bleeding, out of the corner of my eye.
“I’ll keep you from losing control,” Rares assures me, but I’m already nodding. “It’s the same as drawing objects to you. Relax your mind and let your choice echo out.”
I push into the room until I slam to a halt just beside the cot. Mather’s skin tone is gray instead of the vibrant, healthy gleam it should be. His chest moves almost imperceptibly, and my own aches in tandem with his tremulous breaths.
The cot squeals as I sit on it and take Mather’s hand. Clammy sweat beads on his palm, but I weave my fingers with his, unrelenting against his limp grasp.
Rares was wrong, though. This use of magic is far different from drawing swords to me in the training yard. Then it was simply to understand how magic works.
Now it’s war.
Angra brought the fight to me. He dragged me into it, whether or not I was ready.
But he will not win.