Frost Like Night

  “We were escorting the refugees back,” Trace says. “Three nights ago, we realized Phil had gone missing—”

  “What?” I shake my head. “Missing? How?”

  “Henn sent Phil to scout ahead—and he never came back. Hollis went out to search for him, but he was just gone.” Trace gulps in a breath, steadying himself more. “We think Angra’s soldiers got him, because—”

  “Where?” My voice is shockingly level despite the panic that itches at the back of my throat. If they were too close to Oktuber, the Cordellan soldiers stationed there under Angra’s command could have—

  But Trace cuts off my analysis. “There’s more, my queen,” he says. “Hollis saw something when he went out searching. He came back with news of an army marching from Oktuber. Marching here.”

  I jolt back from him. “What?”

  “We still haven’t found Phil,” Trace continues. “If the Oktuber soldiers got him—we don’t know. We don’t know, but they’re coming. Now.”

  Conall is already moving, loading up the weapons scattered around his tent. Nessa stays beside me, steady and quiet.

  If soldiers are marching from Oktuber, they aren’t Angra’s full forces. They’ll be Cordellan, mostly, but still heavily armed. How do they even know where we are, though? This camp should be hidden—

  Memories of Paisly nearly send me to my knees. Of Phil, broken, frantic, apologizing for what he told Angra.

  And now, if he’s been taken again . . . it won’t be hard at all for Angra’s men to break him even more.

  My heart turns to lead and drops into my stomach, gagging me with the force. But no, no, I won’t piece together any theories, not until I know for sure.

  “How long until they arrive?” I ask Trace.

  He shakes his head. “They should already be here.”

  My body goes cold. I take off running, Conall, Nessa, and Trace falling in behind me.

  Screaming pulls at my awareness from the northeastern corner of camp. It’s muffled at first, startled yelps that speak to the confusion in my own body—too fast, this shouldn’t be happening, how did this even happen?

  The northeastern corner of camp is already a battlefield. Conall, a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other, plasters himself on one side of me, Trace on the other, Nessa panting behind us.

  Soldiers stream in from the forest beyond, pouring between tents, slicing through fabric, attempting to form battle lines in the camp’s haphazard streets. They take advantage of the element of surprise by hurling themselves into each skirmish faster than our soldiers can keep up. Autumnians race around me where I stand, stricken, in the middle of the dusty road not five paces from the edge of the battle.

  The battle, the fight we needed as the distraction, it’s happening now, right now, in the middle of a camp filled with innocents.

  I grab my chakram and hurl it into the fray, the magic in my chest leaping after it. That push encourages the blade faster, harder, slicing through enemies in a swift arc of defense. The first line of soldiers falls, their armor clanging as they drop, and my chakram returns.

  More soldiers come, more and more.

  I grab Conall and Trace. “We need help!”

  They nod over the cacophony. Nessa, her face blank, squares herself alongside me, and I hate the irony of this situation—we had just resolved to be apart for the final battle, and now here we are, she at my side. I expect her to run off to be with the children in the other part of camp, but she stays, rushing alongside me as I holster my chakram and push on.

  The main tent isn’t far—so close to the fight, too close—and I angle inside just as Caspar and Sir fly out, fury in Caspar’s black eyes, severity in Sir’s.

  “Queen Meira,” Caspar says. “Angra’s soldiers have—”

  “I know,” I cut him off. “But they aren’t Angra’s.”

  Sir jerks to me, but one of Caspar’s generals flies out of the tent and Caspar turns to him.

  “What?” Sir presses me, his brow creasing.

  “They aren’t Angra’s soldiers,” I say. “They’re Cordell’s. From Oktuber.”

  Sir’s face unravels and he whirls to grab Caspar’s arm. Caspar turns with a startled frown, and when Sir repeats what I said, Caspar blinks at me, awareness registering on his face. He ducks back into his tent, shouting at more of his commanders that it isn’t Angra’s full army.

  Sir’s eyes sweep up and down my body, the familiar examination for injuries, before he does the same to each member of my group. When he gets to Trace, he pauses.

  But Trace sags against one of the tent posts, his face ashen. “I didn’t get here in time,” he says to no one in particular.

  We have scouts stationed all around camp who should have warned us of this attack long before Trace showed up. Someone would have seen such a large army coming.

  This isn’t right.

  “Meira! Trace?”

  Mather slides to a stop beside us. My eyes latch onto the bloody sword in his hand and all my instincts scream.

  “The attackers,” he says, his confusion at Trace’s presence retreating in favor of the threat of bloodshed. He nods at Sir, grim. “They’re coming this way.”

  This isn’t right, this isn’t right—

  Sir already has a sword out by the time I feebly ask, “Here?”

  My eyes go to the main tent, the clearing before it, filled with tables that will easily be overturned and wedding decorations that will easily be shredded. Of all the places in this camp, this offers the best chance at success—freedom to attack in larger groups, with the added benefit of being our command center.

  How would the Cordellans even know this is here? This camp is a maze of meandering streets and lopsided tents.

  But it’s too late for answers, too late to fix this, too late to do anything but gape at the soldiers who march down a street leading from the northeastern corner of camp, their Cordellan armor matted with signs of battle.

  And at their lead stands someone the sight of whom makes Mather and Trace jolt forward.

  “Phil!” they shout, warning him to get out of the way—but alarm flares so strongly in my heart that I all but gag.

  Sir meets my eyes, and he knows too, and we stand there, sharing a look like we can both see an avalanche coming.

  One who knew the exact location if this camp.

  One who could have figured out the rotation of our scouts to let an attacking army avoid detection.

  Phil stops, all the way across the square.

  “Phil!” Mather screams again, less sure.

  Trace comes to, and the look of rage on his face stabs grief through my stomach.

  He grabs Mather’s arm. “He did this.”

  Mather shakes his head. But the proof solidifies as Phil raises his hand and points.

  At me.

  The Cordellan soldiers behind him need no further instruction. They tear into the clearing, weapons ready. The scream of their attack draws our own fighters to the area, rushing in from side streets and spilling in a wall of defense against the dozens of Cordellans.

  Sir, Mather, and Trace crash into the fight. Mather and Trace are driven by a warped mix of determination and agony that makes their movements toxic. I remain in a state of shock near the main tent with Conall and Nessa.

  This wasn’t the first time Phil told Angra of my location—according to Mather, that was how they ended up in Paisly at all. But then, Phil had been terrified and mournful.

  Now—now he is beaming, pride practically leaking out of him.

  Familiarity crashes into me and I stumble back, Conall catching me under the elbows.

  I’ve seen this before—Angra torturing someone, only to have that torture plant the seed of betrayal. Theron.

  I whirl on Nessa. “Get to safety!” I shout as I shove into the battle, Conall plummeting after me in a whirl of blades. Chakram in one hand, I slice my way through, sending spurts of magic where I can. Bursts of strength to the Winterians who fight; a pe
rfect angle on my chakram to protect a Summerian. The Cordellan soldiers move quickly, slashing and stabbing as if each move brings air and they’re suffocating. But we have greater numbers than them, a slight advantage. How long it will hold, though, I don’t know.

  I couldn’t save Theron from Angra—but I can purge Phil of the Decay. The attacking army will no doubt keep on with the battle, but I can save him at least. I have to.

  Phil stands at the entrance to the road the Cordellans came down, watching the frenzy with delight. Before he even sees that I’ve drawn closer to him, I sheathe my chakram and use both hands to channel magic at him, a spiral of ice that flies from my body. I can practically taste the darkness in him.

  But I’ve constantly purified my Winterians any time we were exposed to the Decay.

  Except for when Phil and Mather were captured.

  Except for whatever Phil underwent at Angra’s hand.

  I’m hit with the memory of Theron in Angra’s cell, the mental torture he inflicted on Theron until, on the floor of Rintiero’s dungeon, Theron told me that he wanted this.

  Angra’s doing it all over again.

  No, no . . .

  Phil howls as my magic pummels him. I break free of the fight, a handful of paces from him with Conall beside me.

  Phil looks at me, his gaze fuming. “I don’t want your help!”

  Again I fling my magic and he slides back, howling through clenched teeth.

  “I’ve seen what your magic can do,” Phil barks. “It hurts everyone. You just keep fighting when it’s been your fault all along—if you’d just surrender, we’d be free. You are the reason we were in those camps. You are the reason we all get hurt. I refuse to let you hurt us anymore.”

  “I’m not hurting you, Phil,” I try, hands spread, my magic quiet. “I’m protecting you from Angra—he’s the reason you’re doing this! You’re the one hurting people right now!”

  I wave at the battle. As I do, Sir and Mather stumble out, their faces streaked with dirt and blood. Mather’s weapons hang limp at his sides and he faces Phil, posture defeated.

  “Phil,” Mather tries, his voice coming like a gust of air from a punch. “Why?”

  Behind him, a Cordellan turns from the fight and dives at us, but Sir intercepts, gliding back into the fray. His eyes cut to us when they can, a pinch in his expression I’ve only seen a handful of times: worry.

  Sir is worried. For us.

  I hold the tremor in my gut until it subsides.

  Phil’s fury boils over. “For you! For all of us! You got hurt, and she didn’t care. You got hurt again, and she kept pushing on—she doesn’t care about us. She doesn’t care about anything but her stupid revenge! I won’t let her hurt us anymore!”

  He’s screaming now, eyes bloodshot and crazed, skin stretched taut as though it can’t contain the madness underneath.

  My eyes flit to a movement behind Phil.

  And my whole world dissolves.

  Panic jerks me forward, one foolish burst of instinct, but that’s all it takes to draw Phil’s attention away from us to the figure who slips out from between two tents behind him. She raises a knife in her hand as though she intends to stab him in the back.

  “Nessa!” I scream now, because Phil sees her—there’s no point hiding. “RUN!”

  She doesn’t move when Phil turns, both of them freezing solid to the road. I realize then—Phil’s a Winterian. I should be able to stop him. But I’d be forcing something on him, bending him to my will. It would be a negative use of magic.

  Mather, Conall, and I take off toward them, but Phil is too close to Nessa, both of them standing in the road leading away from the clearing, free of the battle. The clearing around us holds the worst threats, blades puncturing the air, dying screams rippling through the breeze. All attention is here, so as we sprint forward, we fumble through parlaying enemies and have to duck weapons, while Phil and Nessa have only each other to worry about.

  I hear a shout. “Meira!”

  But I don’t turn. I feel Sir’s panic from where he’s locked in battle, unable to break free and help us—but I can’t think about it. Not the way he’s worried, and showing it—not the way his voice splits in my ears, ragged and harsh, and makes me swallow a cry.

  I fumble with my magic. I used it to relocate the Winterians in Juli without touching them, but I was driven by pure instinct, and before I can let myself go enough to try with Nessa, a Cordellan howls and dives for me. Conall twists, blade clashing with the Cordellan’s.

  I break free again, but Phil hears us running, or feels the ground shake, or senses my panic drawing near.

  He has no problem using magic against us—which merely confirms that the Decay is in him. He launches his hand back at me. A knot of inky shadow barrels out of his fingers, polluting the air until it slams into me. I rear back into Conall just as he dispatches the Cordellan. Both of us go down, and Mather pauses, growls, and pushes himself forward.

  A horn sounds, and shouts fill the air, feet stomping in a thunderous wave. But it’s the Autumnians fighting who scream in recognition as their countrymen pour into the area, more of our soldiers finally organized and called in. It won’t be long now—our numbers will overwhelm the Cordellans. Even behind Phil and Nessa, Autumnians appear, running toward them with weapons poised. They’ll save her—they’ll stop this.

  I scramble against the ground to get to my feet. Magic swells out of me when my eyes find Nessa again, a command that burrows into her heart.

  Go, GO! RUN!

  Phil sees the Autumnians coming and rips a hatchet from a holster on his thigh. The weapon glints in his fist, and Nessa’s eyes widen.

  She turns, intending to run toward the Autumnians.

  But Phil launches forward, one step, just one, and reaches her first.

  She isn’t a fighter. She’s my Nessa, she’s mine, and Phil’s hatchet hooks into her neck before I can even start running again. But no, I don’t run—I wrap the magic around me and fling myself beside Phil, who grins wickedly, and Nessa just gapes. She’s confused, and shocked, and—

  Her dagger clatters to her feet.

  I slam my shoulder into Phil and send him thudding to the ground. His hatchet breaks free, trailing blood with it, and Nessa drops. I catch her, both of us falling.

  The Autumnians surge around us, most barreling into the fight in the clearing, some pausing to survey that the enemy near us is down. But they keep going, even though I’m holding my whole world in my arms, watching it bleed out.

  “Nessa!” I cry, magic gushing out of my body and into her, such waves of coldness that I know the ground around us has to be a swirl of frost and ice. “NESSA!”

  Her head lolls against me. So much blood, not enough magic, so I pour more, but the magic just sloshes into her as blood flows out. I drive every speck of any power I have into her, to be hers, please, please Nessa just take it, take anything you need, please Nessa—

  I couldn’t save Garrigan, but I have to save you. Please, Nessa, let me save you.

  Something moves. Phil.

  He stands, snarling, but Mather, who stumbles up to him, saves me from having to kill him. No—Mather shouldn’t have to do this, he shouldn’t have this on his hands—

  Conall heaves into Mather, who drops without a fight, eyes unblinking on Phil, lips parted as though he’s begging Phil to stop. But Phil doesn’t stop, can’t stop, so frenzied that he roars at me like a beast.

  It’s Conall who pierces a blade into Phil’s chest, plunging it in to the hilt.

  Mather’s hands go into his hair, a sob tearing from his throat that drowns my own.

  Arms pull me back to Nessa. Arms that clamp around both of us, holding on so fiercely I think, almost, that we’ll be all right. We’re safe, safe in Conall’s arms, and she’ll be all right.

  Conall’s tears drip onto my face but he just holds me tighter as I scream his sister’s name.

  24

  Ceridwen

  CERIDWEN O
NLY SAW the end of the battle.

  After the final meeting, she had gone to split her fighters into those who would leave and those who would stay behind. So she was with Lekan when the first shouts went up. Running across the camp when the horn blew out. Gasping at the edge of the clearing when the Autumnian reinforcements reached it, their support bringing the fight to a decisive end.

  And then she was running again, to the main tent, leaping over fallen victims and dodging the last desperate attempts of dying Cordellans to strike her down. She flew into the tent, only to see it empty, the table where they had made their battle plans still littered with maps.

  Ceridwen whirled and ran again, the rank air that always came with a fight scraping down her throat.

  Jesse hadn’t left with her. He’d stayed to help Caspar—he’d stayed here, in this tent, on the edge of a clearing that had all too recently been filled with joy and music.

  Ceridwen raced for Jesse’s tent. He slept with his children every night in the area given to the Winterians. Well, he’d slept there every night but one—last night, the one after their . . .

  It was appropriate, too appropriate, for that clearing to be a battleground now. Perhaps it was punishment, on some level. As Ceridwen slid to a halt outside Jesse’s tent, she felt that realization shatter the thin structure of happiness she’d built.

  This was punishment, for believing in joy during a war.

  This was punishment, for being happy when she had no right to be.

  Ceridwen grabbed the flaps of his tent, drew in a breath, and ripped them open.

  Let him be here, let him be here . . .

  She saw Melania first. Then Geneva, and Cornelius, huddled together on the floor, wrapped in a single long wool blanket. They blinked up at her, their eyes wide behind their small, tattered masks, the only ones they’d been able to bring from Rintiero.

  Melania put a finger to her lips.

  “Shh, Cerie! You’re interrupting.”

  And she settled back against her siblings, looking up at Jesse, who paused over a book open in his lap. His eyes caught Ceridwen’s, wide at first in a smile, then narrowing when he saw her tension.