Frost Like Night

His comrade ripped his blade from its sheath. “You deserve death!”

  They leaped for her, all biting iron weapons and rock-hard fists. She dodged their blows thanks only to the vacancy of shock.

  The Yakimians are attacking me. Who armed the slaves? Where is Simon?

  The crowd broke apart into terror, shoving this way and that as they dove for exits and soldiers moved in. Angra’s magic seemed to dissipate from Ceridwen’s mind in the sudden chaos.

  Angra—she hadn’t given the signal to attack. He was still alive, waiting for someone to kill him, just like when she had tried to kill Simon in Rintiero.

  But no one else would come in and right Ceridwen’s wrongs this time.

  She had failed. Again.

  Ceridwen screamed, but not from the threat of the attacking Yakimians.

  There was no forgiveness to be had. Simon was dead.

  A thought hit her, then. Some faint recollection of a time without pain, one of her only happy memories: Jesse, in the refugee camp, talking of fresh starts.

  The Yakimians’ own hatred compelled them to attack her, Angra’s magic blinding them to any threat but the Summerian princess, so they didn’t flinch as Cordellan soldiers swarmed the room and blades pierced their spines. Ceridwen dove for the first Cordellan, but he hurled her to the ground. She slid across the floor and slammed into a table overturned in the crowd’s departure, her body rebounding limply.

  She’d come back to Juli to stop Angra—and all she’d done was open more wounds.

  A blast of ice cooled the scorching air of the celebration hall. All Ceridwen managed was a feeble acknowledgment—Coldness in Summer? Meira?—before hands heaved her upright.

  “Ceridwen—” Meira started, but her voice cut off at the way Ceridwen could only stare at the floor. One of the Winterians who had come with her from the camp held her up, taking her weight. “Get her out of here,” Meira told him, and they started moving, hobbling for the door as more blasts of ice warred with the hall’s heat.

  “Do you think Angra’s magic got to her?”

  “She’d be . . . doing something, then, wouldn’t she?”

  “Is she hurt? They hit her in the head?”

  Meira knelt before her. Dirt streaked her face, sweat making a paste of the sand and grime from this hidden passage. Ceridwen hadn’t been surprised at all when her group had found this former sewage tunnel still boarded up—it had made an easy, hidden entrance into the palace by way of the underground wine cellar.

  She glanced around, taking quick stock of who was here and who was not. Meira, a new group of Winterians, General William, and Henn; none of the Yakimians; two of her Summerians. Lekan was one of them, and Ceridwen pinched her eyes shut against the burning tears of relief that he had made it out.

  Flame and heat, what would she have done if he had died because of her?

  “Ceridwen,” Meira tried. “What happened?”

  She didn’t sound angry.

  She should.

  Five deaths had come because of this failed plan. A few of Meira’s Winterians had been hurt too—one had a deep gash across his arm; another had a cut along his forehead; Henn had taken a sword to the ribs as he helped Ceridwen limp out of the hall. A single lantern cast shadows on their dirty faces, each of them straining for any sound of approach.

  And all because Ceridwen had let guilt blind her.

  She slammed her head back against the wall, the rough stone threatening to puncture her skull.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  Meira slumped to her knees. “It’s all right.”

  “It is?” choked one of the Winterians—a boy, who was even now tying a bandage around the one with a cut arm.

  “Phil,” the injured one chastised him, and Phil dropped his head, scowling still.

  Meira kept her eyes on Ceridwen, as if the mission hadn’t been a disaster, as if there wasn’t a barrage of injuries around them. “What happened?”

  Even just hearing that question made the tears in Ceridwen’s eyes overflow, and she pinched the skin above her nose, face contorting to push back a scream.

  “Angra’s magic,” she started. “It got to me—”

  “How?” Meira pressed.

  She should have expected that. She owed them all the truth, why she, who should have been the most able to resist magic, fell at all. Was it because of her own weaknesses, or Angra’s strength?

  “It should have been Simon,” she whimpered, “here tonight. And I hate that I think that, but I’d rather he be alive for me to keep fighting him than—”

  She couldn’t speak for the sob that gripped her throat. When it passed, she lowered her hand, sight blurring.

  “I don’t know how to move on,” she said. “I don’t know how to forgive him when he isn’t here. I hate him—”

  Meira just sat there, listening, while everyone else waited. Their silence made Ceridwen laugh, of all things, and she chuckled heartlessly through her tears.

  “And I ruined everything,” she finished, palms up, because what more could she say?

  “You did not ruin everything,” Meira said, but it was as empty as her smile. “Angra gave Theron something I’m searching for—those keys. If I can get them, I can defeat Angra, and we know who has them now.”

  “Angra gave the keys to Theron before we revealed ourselves.” William leaned forward. “That was part of his plan. To make sure word spread that Theron has them.”

  Everyone heard the words he didn’t say. It’s another trap.

  Meira’s expression stayed the same.

  Ceridwen locked eyes with her. “We’ll be more prepared. I won’t . . . fall apart next time.”

  Meira shook her head. “We should do our best to make sure none of us falls apart next time.”

  Midnight had long since passed by the time they left the hidden passage. It released them just outside the palace’s walls, in an alley more akin to a garbage dump. That felt appropriate as they spilled into the night, covered in filth and blood and failure.

  Juli had changed. The overhanging tension that had kept the city silent and nearly empty when they first arrived seemed enhanced. Fights broke out in taverns; warring groups tumbled through the streets; cries pierced the air from every direction, calling for help in an echoing rebound that made it impossible to track. Farther down the street, soldiers patrolled, barging into houses and demanding any residents turn over the Winter queen.

  Ceridwen kept her head down, her muscles taut, and led the battered group out of Juli. They could stay and try to help where they could, but Angra’s Decay would no doubt foster two more problems for every one they solved.

  Ceridwen bit her lips together, inhaling the smells of the city one last time. Heat-soaked wood; bitter sweat; tangy wine; the grittiness of sand with every breath.

  She was leaving. But she would return, and she would fix Summer—and maybe, through that, she would find a way to fix her relationship with Simon, too.

  19

  Meira

  IT ISN’T UNTIL we leave Juli that the full weight of what happened settles over me.

  Ceridwen’s group stashed their horses in an abandoned barn south of the city. Now there are five riderless mounts, providing transport for the Thaw and me, who partner up to take them because we don’t have our own. Mather eases up onto the saddle behind me and settles in, his arms loose around my waist. No one mentions how the former riders of these horses were left behind, bodies now at Angra’s disposal. But I see Ceridwen stare at the horses as we ride out, her eyes tear glazed in the shadows.

  As grim as a funeral procession, we head east, to the only Season that Angra hasn’t had a chance to infiltrate yet: Autumn.

  Angra was counting on us being in Juli. If he laid a trap for us there, did he know we’d try to go to Autumn too?

  I swallow the question. It doesn’t matter. I’ll do what needs to be done.

  I will find a way to get those keys without having to kill Theron.

  O
ne afternoon later, the sun casts light over a long swath of something on the horizon—trees. And not Summer’s dead, spindly trees, but plump ones bursting with red and yellow leaves. Beneath them lies crisp green grass and tangled brown undergrowth—such a welcome array of colors that I actually whimper.

  As our horses burst into the Autumn forest, the air sweeps over me in a rush of coolness that, compared to Summer, feels like getting plunged into an ice bath.

  Ceridwen pulls her horse to a stop in a small clearing.

  I nod into the forest. “We should find water,” I say. “Replenish our supplies before—”

  But Ceridwen isn’t looking at me. Her eyes narrow into slits looking over my shoulder, a frown wrinkling her brow before she pulls a dagger from her belt.

  That’s all the explanation we need—Mather draws a sword, the Thaw arm themselves, Sir and Henn and Ceridwen’s remaining Summerians spin in their saddles, trying to find the source of the attack.

  But it isn’t an attack—at least, not immediately.

  I guide my horse to face what Ceridwen sees, Mather pressing his body flat against my back, his sword held before me in defense. I’d thought all my adrenaline had been sucked dry by Summer’s heat, but fresh energy surges, my muscles coiling for a fight.

  A man moves out from the trees. He’s Autumnian, his dark eyes wide against the smooth brown of his skin, his night-black hair tied away from his face in a frizzy knot. His armor is the heavy leather plating and his weapons the simple mix of wood and metal that Autumn is so known for—nature in its purest, deadliest forms. More warriors follow his lead, materializing from the trees around us, some on horseback, others, like the man, on foot.

  He looks at me and flexes his hand against the hilt of a spear. “Queen Meira?”

  I keep my jaw clamped shut. My horse paws at the grass under the tension.

  If the Autumnians are on Angra’s side, anything I say could feed back to him.

  Sir pushes forward in my stead. “What do you want?”

  “A darkness has fallen over Primoria,” the man says. “My king wishes to know if it has affected the Winterian queen.”

  Sir’s expression doesn’t change, but I feel my own face flash with confusion.

  “Your king?” Sir presses, just as I would have.

  I stare at the side of his head. Sir, acting as my general. This is how we’re supposed to be, and it feels familiar—yet uncomfortable even so.

  The warrior nods. “Caspar Abu Shazi Akbari.”

  Relief lets my muscles relax and I sag in my saddle. Mather twitches against me, and when I turn to him, he gives me a look like I’ve lost what’s left of my mind. But Sir relaxes too, and he meets my eyes with a nod.

  “Angra’s Decay hasn’t taken him,” I explain to everyone else. “If it had, he wouldn’t recognize Caspar as his king. He’d say Angra.”

  “Then why are we surrounded by armed soldiers?” Mather asks.

  I turn back to the Autumnian. “We’re also free of the Decay. Angra isn’t our king either.”

  The warrior steps back, letting his spear drop against his shoulder as he puts his hands up in surrender. The others sheathe their weapons.

  “We had to make sure you could be trusted. King Caspar has tasked us with watching the border. We received word to look out for you, but that you had gone to Juli—such a trip, so close to Angra, could have resulted in your being poisoned with his magic.”

  That grabs me. “You knew we were coming? How?”

  The warrior smiles. “Caspar received word of you from several hundred refugees.”

  “What?” I ask. “Are they all right? Where are they?”

  The warrior smiles again. “My king will be able to answer those questions. He wishes to speak to you immediately.” He bows his head. “If you please, Queen Meira, I’ll take you to the Autumn court.”

  As we head into Autumn, the warrior explains that the Cordellans stationed in Oktuber turned on the Akbaris shortly after they received word of Theron’s betrayal. The court managed to escape and regroup with half of their forces in the southern part of the kingdom, nestled against the Klaryns’ foothills, stretching our trip to a day and half.

  When I finally push my horse around one last aspen tree and catch a whiff of campfire smoke on the air, I sigh in relief. A few paces later, a group of Autumnian warriors stands on a narrow path, spears in their hands, swords at their waists, leather armor covering their chests and hanging in pleated skirts to their knees. They turn, alert.

  “More refugees?” one of the warriors on guard calls. He motions to his right. “They’ve started a camp off in the—”

  He pauses, his eyes catching on me again. My chakram, my locket.

  He stiffens. “Queen Meira.”

  I smile, the last of my worry vanishing.

  They’ve opened their kingdom to our refugees, who are no doubt still trickling in just as we are, creating a tight pocket of people who oppose Angra, tucked away in Autumn’s forest. Even Sir’s stoic face ripples slightly, and I catch him studying me, a slight tilt to his mouth. In that moment I can almost see our past in his face—the last time we were in Autumn was years ago, when we were scraping by in our nomadic existence to hide from Angra. Now we’re here, riding into Autumn as welcome allies.

  Lifetimes have changed in what feels like heartbeats.

  I tip my head at Sir and he straightens, pressing forward without a word.

  The full bulk of Autumn’s camp begins as a few orange and brown tents that camouflage into the earthy tones of the forest. The longer we ride, the more frequent the tents grow until blocks appear, carefully arranged streets, tents pressed into market areas and barracks and narrow houses. We see more people too, warriors mostly, men and women sharpening weapons or standing guard or eating at short tables along the road.

  We slow to a stop just outside a large ruby-red tent. I slide off my horse, my eyes on the elaborate designs stitched into the fabric, leaves fluttering off trees and bonfires raging.

  As the warrior who led us here approaches the tent, noises swarm out.

  “Shazi, wait—”

  A crash, the squeal of a child.

  I laugh. At least this war hasn’t dampened the Autumnian princess’s spirits.

  The tent flaps part, held by tiny fists.

  “MEE-WAH!” Shazi screams, and I can’t tell if she’s pleased or in dire pain. She launches at me and hooks her arms around my waist. I can only clutch her and laugh again.

  Nikoletta flies out of the tent as if prepared to sprint after her daughter for what could have been the tenth time today. The moment she sees me, her brown eyes light up, drifting to Mather, Ceridwen, Sir, and the beaten group around us.

  Shazi pulls back. “Mama! Mee-wah!”

  Nikoletta stumbles forward. She says nothing at first, simply folds her arms around me, pressing me into the purple velvet of her outfit, the cozy aroma of wood fire lifting up off her.

  “We heard terrible things,” she whispers. “My brother . . . and Theron . . . and they said you’d gone to Juli. . . .”

  Her voice fades, and I can’t help but think she’s embracing me now because she needs it, not simply because she’s glad I’m alive. I hug her back.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, and I hate how many times I’ve had to say that.

  Nikoletta pulls away. Tears rim her eyes, and as more people exit the tent behind her, her features stand out. Gold hair and pale skin against the darkness of Autumn, marking her even more as Cordellan, as Noam’s sister, as the aunt of Angra’s latest puppet.

  She lifts Shazi, who clutches the ring that hangs from the chain around her neck.

  “Stwong, Mee-wah!” Shazi cheers. “Stwong!”

  I smile. “Strong, Shazi.”

  She gurgles deep in her throat and buries her face in Nikoletta’s shoulder.

  Caspar emerges from courtiers and stops beside his wife, his eyes filled with a severity that sends a tremor through me.

  ?
??Your warrior told me you haven’t sided with Angra,” I start, and I feel my group move closer as I ask the one question that has been spinning around my mind since we entered Autumn. “But what are you planning?”

  Caspar inclines his head. “Now that you’re here,” he says, “we’re planning to beat him.”

  Checking for approaching enemies and throwing up a barrier has become instinctual now, and after sweeping the perimeter of the camp, I’m able to focus on the meeting awaiting me.

  The main room of the tent is a large rectangle, lined with clusters of fabric and piles of pillows and dusty rugs unrolled over the floor. Incense releases rivulets of smoke that swirl around the ceiling. The air is cool, letting me breathe easy.

  I hold that breath, reveling in it. We have allies; we’re tucked away in one of the few kingdoms that Angra hasn’t yet completely overtaken. We even know where the keys are, for the next step in this war.

  We might just be all right.

  Mather and Hollis stand in the corner; the rest of their group was sent away to assist our refugees. Apparently the Thaw designated themselves something of my own personal guard, taking up shifts watching me—and when Mather smiles at me from where he talks with Hollis, I find I don’t mind.

  Both Mather and Hollis shift when one of the tent’s flaps rustles and Sir ducks inside. Mather instantly spins toward him, and I don’t realize until I see his eagerness that I’m reacting the same way.

  “No problems getting here,” Sir says. “The refugees split into three groups. The farthest one has not yet arrived—should be a few days.”

  I swallow. The memory of Ceridwen’s pain is vibrant: how she never had the chance to repair her relationship with Simon.

  We should do our best to make sure none of us falls apart, I said.

  I rub at my chest absently, lips pinched together.

  “We can go after them,” Mather offers. “Escort them safely in.”

  Sir nods. “I was going to suggest the same thing.” His attention flicks to me, hesitation clear on his face. “If my queen wishes it.”

  I almost laugh. This is how we’ve been acting? Has it always sounded so absurd?

  I smile at Sir. A real, normal smile, like the old me. “Of course. Who should go?”