Frost Like Night

  After a moment, Lekan caught up with her, his gaze shooting across the tents around them. They were drastically different than the ones in the Summerian section of camp—heavier, perfectly defined angles with square frames. The Yakimian area.

  “I just want you to be happy,” Lekan whispered.

  Ceridwen’s grip on the seal was so tight that her arm all but went numb. “I know.”

  Lekan fell silent, waiting, perhaps, for her to open up to him, but what could she say?

  I haven’t really spoken with Jesse since the night we arrived.

  I want a life with him. But I’ve taken no action toward that, because I’m afraid that his strength isn’t permanent. That this will all get taken away from me again.

  I’ve trusted weak men before.

  That wasn’t a fair comparison. Simon had never even been aware of how he “betrayed” her—he’d simply lived his life, ruining their kingdom, while she waited in the shadows for him to realize his folly.

  But Jesse had realized his.

  He looked back at her again, as if her thoughts spiced the air around them. One small smile, and he turned a corner, leading them on.

  No—she didn’t have room for such weaknesses. That was part of the reason she had been endlessly glad when Jesse’s children had shown up with their Winterian escorts, a distraction that had taken all his time. She had her own distractions—planning their attack on Angra; Meira’s fate to hope for; and she had spread word for the leaders of the Yakimian soldiers to meet them outside of camp.

  She, Lekan, and Jesse emerged from the Yakimian area into the thigh-high golden stalks of the prairie. She almost expected to find it as empty as always—why would the soldiers listen to her?

  So when she stopped on the border of the prairie and the handful of Yakimians waiting there turned with looks of hatred, she almost laughed. They had come—but come to murder her, it looked like. If they were surprised to see the deposed Rhythm king, they didn’t show it.

  One soldier stepped forward. “We’ve spent the past two days cleaning up a mess you made. You owe us an explanation.”

  Oh, yes, murder was what they’d come for. A few had weapons on their belts, their hands taut around the hilts of swords. But under each of their left eyes a brand sat, their flesh burned into the grotesque S that proclaimed what they were. Summer’s property.

  Ceridwen frowned. “The mess I made? Wasn’t it your queen who sold you into slavery in the first place?”

  The lead man’s expression darkened. “Do not pretend to understand why a Rhythm queen would—”

  Ceridwen lifted the seal to silence him. “I know the reason Giselle did what she did. She was the one who revealed your existence to me. She gave me her seal as confirmation of her new order—that you are to serve under me as we fight Angra.”

  The soldier narrowed his eyes. No retort yet.

  “We don’t have the numbers to stage an outright battle,” she continued, and motioned to Lekan. “But my leaders and I have begun altering the tactics we used to rescue slave caravans. We’re planning a small, direct attack while Angra is in Juli—”

  The soldier laughed. “Juli? You expect us to risk our lives to reclaim Summer—for whom, exactly? Your brother is dead. Our queen revealed her plan to you, so you must know of her intentions, and if you expect us to retake Summer for you, a Season royal—and one of the wrong gender, at that—you’re sadly mistaken.”

  Jesse stayed quiet beside her, true to his word, but she felt him tense, and she couldn’t help but glance over at him. She wasn’t used to him in these situations—it had always been Raelyn or his mother who had overseen similar meetings in the past. But now he stood here, arms crossed, eyes spitting daggers in her defense.

  Was she dreaming?

  The Yakimian soldiers grunted in agreement with their leader, a few fists thrown in the air.

  “Steady, Cerie,” Lekan murmured on her other side.

  Ceridwen bit down on her tongue. Lekan was right—screaming at these men would do nothing. They were Yakimian; they would respond to reason and logic. Calm reason and logic.

  Flame and heat, that went against everything her Summerian blood begged her to do.

  “The Spring king has risen up as a threat not only to Winter this time—he threatens the world,” she started, her tone surprisingly level. “He has already taken Ventralli and Cordell, not to mention Winter and Summer. Summer is the closest and newest of his acquisitions, and the one that gives us the best chance of taking him down. My fighters know that kingdom better than Angra does. With your help, we can defeat Angra while he is there and, ultimately, keep him from adding Yakim to the list of kingdoms he’s subdued.”

  The soldier took two quick steps forward and snatched the seal from Ceridwen’s hand. He looked at it for a moment and then turned to his men. “The seal is Yakim’s,” he announced, as if Ceridwen might have forged it. He swung back to her. “And we will defeat Angra—but not for you. This war will only be won if those skilled in warfare lead. You will let my men and me take charge, and when Angra is killed, it will be done by Yakim’s hand.”

  Ceridwen’s calmness slipped away, a raging current sucking a boat downstream. “Absolutely not. My fighters and I are the ones who know Juli best, and I have far more experience in warfare than you.”

  “And how was anything you did warfare?” the soldier returned. “The only thing you did was the usual Season barbarism. You know nothing of strategy or else you would have realized my queen’s plot long ago. Now the threat facing us comes from another Season, and you expect me to let you lead the fight? That is the definition of pointless.”

  Not even Lekan’s stern hiss could stop her. She lunged at the man, a hand’s width from his face, so incensed she thought smoke should be billowing out of her mouth.

  “You will not conquer Summer. I promise you, Giselle’s plan will fail. I will never yield to that Rhythm bitch.”

  The soldier reared back, fist wound, and would’ve blackened her eye—

  If not for the hand that stopped him, grabbing the soldier’s wrist.

  “You will not raise your hand to her.”

  The confrontation with the Yakimians had drawn attention. Heads poked out of tents, people lingered on the streets that led from the perimeter. But Jesse ignored them, his assertiveness making Ceridwen’s mouth drop open.

  Not a single speck of doubt emanated from anywhere in his posture. Even his mask did nothing to lessen the intensity of his glare.

  He released the man. “I have seen the evil that started this war,” Jesse told the soldier. “I watched Angra tear Ventralli apart. I know what it will take to defeat him—it will take leaders like Ceridwen, who have proven their resilience against oppression. She will stop at nothing to make the world a safe place for everyone, and someone like that is exactly who you want leading us. This war will not care if we are Rhythm or Season. It will affect us all, and so we must face it with a mind to save and protect equally.”

  Jesse shifted to Ceridwen and smiled at her.

  “The world is changing.” Jesse still spoke to the soldier, but his eyes remained on hers. “We cannot deal with problems as we have in the past, or we will always end up where we started.”

  The soldier shook his head. “Never thought I’d see the day when a Rhythm king would defend a Season royal.”

  Me neither, thought Ceridwen.

  Jesse nodded. “That’s only the first of the wonders that will come.”

  “Only after we defeat Angra,” Ceridwen cut in, finding her voice again. “And we will need your help for that. We will need soldiers to sneak into Juli, but we will also need some to stay behind and guard the camp.”

  Her levelheadedness made the soldier cock a surprised look at her. Finally he lifted his queen’s seal and pointed it at her. “I command my soldiers, but . . .” He gulped in a breath and blew it out with a quick shake of his head. “I will follow your lead.”

  “I—” Ceridwen stammered,
blinked. “Thank you. My leaders and I will be meeting shortly, to discuss our strategy. In the Summerian section of camp.” She hesitated, not able to believe she was actually saying this. “Join us.”

  The soldier touched his fist to his forehead in a show of acknowledgment before turning back to his men, who gathered around him with whispered questions.

  This was not at all how she had expected this meeting to go—she’d thought it would take days to convince them. Not minutes.

  But they had the Yakimians’ support. They would finalize their attack, and then they’d go to Juli.

  Home, a small place inside Ceridwen whispered.

  She stepped closer to Jesse.

  He instantly stiffened. “I know I promised I wouldn’t speak—”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Jesse smiled, puncturing dimples into his cheeks. “I told you”—he put his hand on her arm—“I owe you this. You deserve someone who will fight for you.” He hung there, his thumb rubbing circles on her bare shoulder. “I . . . ,” he started again, seemed to think better of it, and straightened. “I should check on my children now.”

  He bowed his head but kept his eyes heavily, intently on hers.

  She managed a feeble nod in return before he eased away, down one of the many roads that snaked through the camp.

  “Well, damn.” Lekan bumped her with his shoulder. “Was he always that sexy?”

  Ceridwen smiled but knew he’d catch the rise of scarlet creeping up her cheeks. “Come on. We have soldiers to assemble.”

  Lekan smirked. “There’s time. You know. If you need some time.”

  “Lekan.”

  “I’m just saying, I’d certainly want some time if Kaleo had just swept in and prevented a coup on my behalf.”

  “Lekan.”

  “All right.” His smirk wilted as Ceridwen headed into camp and he kept pace alongside her. “But we do have time now, Cerie. And we might not always have time.”

  She had told herself that already, but fear had kept her from acting. Fear always kept her from acting. Jesse’s performance, though, had somehow thoroughly dissolved her fear, in ways that made her feel like a silly little girl. One act of bravery, and she was ready to throw herself at him?

  But she could only afford to live in a world of wants, not needs.

  For the first time in she couldn’t remember how long, she hooked her arm through Lekan’s as they walked through camp and smiled. Really smiled.

  Until Kaleo came racing up the road, his face red with exertion.

  Ceridwen’s chest pulsed with a mix of panic and readiness. An attack? Angra?

  Lekan intercepted him. “What happened?”

  “There’s something you need to see,” Kaleo panted, hands on his knees. He peeked up at Ceridwen, mouth agape. “Or, well, people.”

  Ceridwen’s panic receded into hope. “Meira?”

  “Almost.” Kaleo straightened. “Winterians. Lots of Winterians.”

  15

  Meira

  THE NEXT DAY brings more sparring, with Oana and Rares trading off who attacks physically and who attacks mentally. The initial few rounds begin the same as the first one—it takes a few attacks before I open fully to my magic. But by the end of the day, the sparring sessions start with me already blocking Rares from my mind as I counter Oana’s sword, and it takes only a few short minutes to end each fight.

  I have control of my magic. At least, the beginning of control.

  As soon as I think that, I realize what it means. I could stay in Paisly, shielded from Angra, and train until I’m perfect—or I could latch onto the early blossoming of readiness and leave.

  The decision feels like it’s been in my heart all along. I knew what I’d do the moment I got here.

  A war awaits.

  I kneel over the trunk in my room, hands on the edges, staring into the clothing. I know I need supplies—blankets, extra clothing, food—but I can’t make myself move.

  “We’ve almost got dinner—” Rares’s voice cuts off when he enters my room, but I know he can’t read my thoughts anymore. Maybe he just senses the change in me, sees the way I bite the inside of my cheek.

  “I know what you’re going to say,” I whisper to the trunk. “That a few victories in a training ring don’t mean I’m ready. But . . . this isn’t normal training.” I look up at him. “I know I’ve barely begun to understand all this, but I have what I came here for, and I don’t have time to perfect it. This isn’t in preparation for a war—the war has already begun. I—”

  “I’m not going to stop you, dear heart.” Rares leans against the doorframe, his eyes soft. “Where will you start?”

  I stand. “I’ll need support. Mather said everyone from Ventralli was planning to gather in a Summerian camp east of the Southern Eldridge Forest. They’re removed enough from the world that the Decay might not have affected them yet.”

  “And then?”

  “I’ll use the support to help me get close to Angra. Get the keys from him. And . . .”

  Rares studies me, and I watch him in turn, struck yet again by how different he is from Sir. I wouldn’t be able to see a single emotion on Sir’s face—just the stoic countenance of a general, immovable and solid.

  Part of me wishes for Sir’s emotionlessness, if only to avoid the pang of grief when Rares sniffs and rubs his eyes.

  “Oana and I will do what we can here. The Order has already been at work readying our army—we’ll join you as soon as we can.” He steps forward, mouth open to say more, but whatever he’s about to say is forgotten when he notices my empty hands. “You’ll need supplies! Food, at least, and—oh, Oana’s better at this than I am. Take what you need from the kitchen. I’ll go get what supplies she thinks you should have.”

  He leaves, rushing out the door, and I don’t breathe until he’s gone.

  Actions are always far easier than words.

  I gather a nice assortment of food in the kitchen, but, unable to find a sack big enough to transport it in, I duck out in search of a storage closet.

  A closed door sits just next to the kitchen. The knob sticks under my hand, but a firm bump from my shoulder sends the door groaning open. A window shines hazy evening light into the room, and that coupled with the light from behind lets me see enough that I freeze, hand on the knob.

  This definitely isn’t a closet.

  A rocking chair wavers in the center of the room, its curved legs moaning at the air from the open door. Beside it, a wooden bassinet sits beneath a thick layer of cobwebs and dust. A moth-eaten quilt hangs limp over the chair, the colors faded from years of sitting in the sunlight through the window.

  My heart convulses as I take cautious steps into the room. The last time I saw a bassinet—one made of fabric and covered in silk, not wood and delicate carvings—was in the dream Hannah showed me. Her memory of the night Winter fell.

  My bassinet.

  “They have a child?”

  I spin to the door, where Mather stands, one shoulder slumped against the frame. The hazy light from the window casts him in grayness.

  “No,” I say. “But they want one.”

  Mather nods. His head hangs low against his chest. “I’ve been thinking about it lately more than I ever did before.”

  “About what?”

  His head lifts. “Family.” He waves at the room. “Parents. Everything we didn’t get.”

  I’d forgotten how recently Alysson died, how fresh her absence still is. So many deaths crowd my heart, all overlapping each other with grief. But as I watch Mather now, he pivots to lean his back on the doorframe, the hall’s light illuminating his face. He always looked more like Sir, but I can see Alysson’s softness in the curve of his nose, the way he purses his lips.

  “I never understood it,” Mather starts. “That love, I mean. It was always so far removed from what we had. I saw families when we went out on missions, but I never—” His breath catches. “I didn’t realize until too late how much I
wanted it.”

  When Mather looks past me to the nursery again, there’s no mistaking the tears in his eyes. He holds them back, jaw tight, arms digging mercilessly into his chest.

  “What do you think it’s like?” he whispers. “To love someone like that? Even the hope of someone? To keep a room locked away on the wish that someday they’ll come? I can’t fathom it.”

  “Alysson knew you loved her,” I breathe, unable to make my voice any louder.

  His smile is sad. “I know.”

  The memory of Oana’s words, how being a conduit as we are makes us barren, shoots remorse through me that I didn’t even know I’d had. I never thought about this—having children, a nursery—but Mather and I were forced to live a life without parents as much as Oana and Rares were forced to live a life without a child. Not that I can understand their pain, but I imagine it aches in a similar way. This is yet another area we’re forced into without a choice.

  If Mather could talk to his mother the way I used to talk to mine, he wouldn’t hesitate. If Rares and Oana could talk to their child like Hannah could to me, they’d fight to reach me.

  It’s those two realizations that remind me just how fractured my relationship with Hannah was. Because I should want to talk to her, and she should be desperate to talk to me. But I haven’t felt anything from her since I shut her out, no battering against my defenses when I weaken, no constant attempts to slip past the magic.

  “I think I understand that love,” I say. “At least, I’m beginning to. Family isn’t always who you’re born to. It’s who you’re with, who you love. Those families can be even stronger.”

  Mather exhales a laugh. “Like a chosen family?”

  There it is again. Choice. The word that haunts my every action. “Yes.”

  “I’d still have chosen Alysson,” Mather whispers.

  I close my eyes, his words cocooned inside more emotion and more want than I’ve ever heard from him. My chest itches, already responding to my unconscious will, and as I open my eyes, I turn to face the room.

  Dust lifts off the furniture. Cobwebs peel off the walls. The window pops open and all the grime and dirt undulates out on my command, leaving every surface gleaming like new. The quilt stretched over the chair remains ragged, but the filth is easy to remove, and the pillows and blankets in the bassinet sit fluffed and clean and ready to be used.