Now he looked at Ceridwen.
“I’m not very good at letting my people risk their lives without me,” she said.
Lekan cleared his throat. If Caspar wasn’t intending to fight, she had as good as called him a coward.
But Caspar smiled. “Nor I,” he said. “You’ll be with your fighters, I take it?”
Ceridwen nodded. She and Lekan had worked this out already. “The front lines.”
“And I’ll be with my cavalry.” Caspar rose, waving his hand to beckon someone forward. Winterians moved in, the same group that had escorted Jesse’s children out of Rintiero—the Thaw, Meira had called them.
“But if we’re both in the fray, we’ll need a way to communicate.” Caspar bobbed his head at the Winterians. “They have offered to run information between us during the battle.”
Ceridwen bowed her head in gratitude. Such jobs often brought quicker deaths.
And when she opened her mouth to thank them, any words retreated deep behind her warrior’s instinct, one built up over years of constant fighting and struggle.
A horn sounded. One of the many held by Autumnians posted around the perimeter of the valley, keeping watch for approaching attacks from the forward or rear. This one came blaring out from the Winter side of the valley, a distant blast that made everyone in the tent shift as one.
Caspar spun to face Ceridwen, his brows creasing.
“So soon?” Ceridwen was the one to ask.
But Caspar was already gathering what supplies he’d need from the tent. A few maps, assorted weapons scattered over the table. “Or Angra’s reinforcements, arrived ahead of him,” he said. When he looked back up at her, his eyes softened.
“You’ll be at the front, so I’ll leave the charge to you,” he said. “To war, Princess Ceridwen—Queen Ceridwen.”
That stabbed into her with more force than any physical blow. She was Summer’s queen now, wasn’t she? Or she would be, once Summer was actually hers again. And then there’d be the whole messy business of figuring out how to rule both Summer and Ventralli, now that she was married to Jesse. . . .
But that was a problem she would gladly face, once all this was over.
“To the future, King Caspar,” she returned.
He nodded at her and left as more horns sounded, more scouts seeing the approaching threat and bellowing out warning. Some of the Thaw cut off to trail Caspar while the rest followed her and Lekan, making for a mismatched group that headed out of the tent. No horses now—they would fight on foot alongside the refugee warriors she had stood with for years.
The horns sent shock waves throughout their small camp. Medical tents prepared for the expected influx of wounded; weapons tents clanked with blacksmiths hurrying to sharpen every blade they had. It all bled into one goal—so much so that Ceridwen swore they all breathed on the same beat.
She clung to that as she led her group out of the camp area and into the valley. Bodies pressed side by side, stoic and ready soldiers who parted for her. She wove through them all—Summerians, Yakimians, Autumnians—her pride swelling with each resolute face she saw.
Maybe they could do this. Not only distract Angra long enough for Meira to succeed, but actually defeat his army.
Ceridwen reached the front line and stepped forward, her boots trampling the grass. Trees capped the opposite end, evergreens with bowing branches heavy with snow. Those trees held her attention for the next minutes, the next hours, her eyes snapping back and forth, looking for any sign of soldiers rushing to attack, of Angra thrusting his evil magic at them.
So she saw right away when the first rider emerged.
Caspar had placed Angra’s soldiers a few hours away. It didn’t make sense for them to be here so soon.
Now they were all Ceridwen could see. Her fingers tightened around the hilts of her knives. Caspar was right—these were reinforcements.
“That isn’t Angra’s army,” she growled. “Again.”
Lekan didn’t move. He had come to the same conclusion she had. Just as in the attack a few days ago, Angra had sent others to do his bidding, like deluges of rain wearing away at a mountain, priming the area for a landslide.
The woman who led the army out of Winter’s trees was, to Ceridwen, such a distraction. A deluge of rain and a landslide and a frigid, howling storm all in one.
Raelyn.
She was nothing more than a small form on a horse, but Ceridwen knew that form. She could feel the disdain that emanated from Jesse’s ex-wife the moment she appeared. Ventrallan soldiers materialized from the forest, marching after her with measured steps.
“Run a message to Caspar,” Ceridwen snapped at one of the Thaw near her. “Tell him this isn’t all of it.”
The boy nodded and slipped away.
Who knew how many soldiers Raelyn had brought with her? How many blades she had added to this war? Ventrallan soldiers had been reportedly coming to join Angra’s forces, but they should have been still sailing down the Feni. Clearly, Raelyn had cut off from directly joining Angra and been sent here first.
It didn’t matter. The only thing it changed was that now Ceridwen had a personal goal that sputtered fuel into her heart.
Meira had explained the magic they would face. Raelyn had chosen such magic when Ventralli’s conduit could have kept her safe—everything she had done to Jesse, to her children, to Ceridwen, had been her choice.
And she would die for it.
Ceridwen stepped forward, sucking air deep into her lungs and holding it as the Ventrallan army drew steadily closer, Raelyn at their lead. She wasn’t a fighter—which meant she wanted Ceridwen to see her. She wanted the coming confrontation.
That makes two of us.
The Ventrallans were paces from where the Winter side of the field ended. Nearly halfway across the valley.
The anticipation building in Ceridwen’s chest grew painful, and she could feel the same need rippling through the soldiers.
Fight, fight, FIGHT—
Her fingers clenched around one of her knives. She lifted it, blade pointing at the approaching Ventrallans, arm straight and rigid while heartbeats fluttered through her.
The army behind her drew a collective breath. Weapons shifted into position, feet shuffled to brace against the ground.
Lekan brushed his fingers over her shoulder.
Ceridwen screamed. Attack, go, fight, NOW—some combination of all those words. It bubbled up from the depths of her as she tore out of the ranks of the infantry, the first to barrel headlong toward the Ventrallan army.
30
Meira
“MEIRA,” THERON SAYS, easing forward, his hands extended.
I let the door swing shut behind me, the resounding thud matching the rhythm of my heart thumping against my ribs. He looks so happy.
He looks so eager.
“You’ve been expecting me,” I say, a gentle poke to see how high the flames will go.
Another step closer. “I knew you’d come.”
“You didn’t go out with your men.”
Theron’s lips curve up. “Neither did you.”
He stands there, watching, and the pieces click.
Greer, telling us that soldiers waited above. Theron, remaining in the ballroom. Me, sending my only support out to create a diversion.
It was part of Angra’s trap. Getting me alone.
It really is just Theron and me—and suddenly the thought is terrifying.
Theron continues easing forward, his head tipped to one side so his golden hair makes a curtain across his shoulder. “You don’t know the agony you’ve put me through,” he says, only two arm’s lengths away from me now.
I let him creep closer, my eyes pinned to his as I try to take stock of the situation. He has no weapons, his green and gold Cordellan uniform unadorned. A slight lump sits against his chest, just to the right of his collarbone. The keys?
A bit of my tension ripples away. He has them.
But a new worry quickly ar
ises. Angra gave Theron the keys for the exact reason I knew he would—to get me to stay here. The longer I stay, talking with Theron, the better chance he has of weakening me. If those keys weren’t here, I’d grab Sir, Mather, and Greer and be gone before we could fall into any traps.
Now, though, I’m stuck. Just like Angra wants.
“Likewise,” I reply. But whatever meaning he takes from my words sends relief pooling over his features, beaming as he closes the space between us.
“I knew it,” he declares and grabs my hand.
Touching him sparks the connection I feel whenever I come into skin-to-skin contact with another conduit-bearer. Seeing into their past, their memories, even their emotions at that moment—Theron opens himself to me when his skin touches mine.
I see Theron, waiting for me, pacing the halls of my palace, overseeing my kingdom with the same smugness I attributed to his father.
Theron, talking to Angra in Summer, in Winter; the two of them planning this moment, knowing I would come to him.
Reverence floods Theron with every memory of Angra. Adoration, devotion, so pure it breaks my heart.
I break free of Theron’s touch, everything in me aching. He wants me—but this isn’t human, this need. This is something fostered by the Decay. Even the expression on his face is one he would never wear, were he himself—a dark possession in the way his eyes follow me unblinking as I back away.
I force myself to meet his gaze. Force myself to stay calm, to ignore the hum of warning through my body. My instincts don’t see just Theron—they see danger, a man who looks at me in a way that’s almost familiar.
Herod.
Angra turned him into Herod.
My knees wobble and I buckle forward. Theron slides his arms around my waist, caging me against his body. He doesn’t touch my skin again, but he’s so close, too close—
I can’t speak, can’t move. I knew Angra infected him—ensnared him—but I never allowed myself to imagine that he would go this far. Of course he would—Angra knows my fears. He knows my weaknesses.
And he combined them in Theron.
“Meira,” he says again, and his mouth is on mine before I can move. His arm around my waist is a vise; his lips insistent and hungry and bruising, the opposite of every other kiss I’ve gotten from him.
More emotions, so clear they’re words spoken from his mind into my own.
This will be perfect. This is how it should be. She will love me with all the devotion I have earned from her.
Coldness wraps around me, the frigidity of my kingdom clawing at my rising panic. His touch sears me, his thoughts, the one wish he’s harbored for so long that even in this brief whisper of it, every sensation feels real, too real, branding his body to mine—
A lump presses into my chest from his jacket. The keys.
Focus!
I fumble with my magic to finally block his thoughts—never have I been so happy for Rares’s training—and lay my hand on his jacket. Something hard and iron and distinctly key shaped sits within. The smooth velvet slides between my fingers as I reach into his pocket.
Theron’s hands pinch against my shoulders and he jolts back from me. “You . . .” His eyes go to his pocket, then to my hand, fingers reaching toward it. “You didn’t come for me,” he states. His words echo around me, and the atmosphere of the ballroom goes from quiet and watchful to deadly. His fingers on my shoulders dig deeper. “You didn’t come for me,” he repeats. “You came for the keys. You came to stop Angra.”
“He’s infected you,” I say, holding back my cry of pain as his grip nearly cracks bone. “But I promised I’d save you—”
“Promised.” Theron’s lips curl. “What other promises have you been making?”
He releases me by flinging me into the closed doors. I smack into the wood and use the momentum to dart away from him, not letting him keep me pinned in the corner. My shoulders scream at the new bruises he left as I stumble deeper into the ballroom.
“Angra is making the world sick,” I try, hands out toward Theron in something like submission. But I ready myself as I take long, slow steps to keep him a few paces away from me.
The act of calling an object to me feels familiar now, and I launch my hand at Theron, hurling my magic at the keys to wrench them from his jacket. Theron sees me move and reacts, jolting his shoulder down and throwing up his hand to block me, a haze of Decay engulfing him in a shield.
“You don’t understand his magic,” he says, his eyes in slits. “You haven’t seen how powerful we are now, how uninhibited. But you will understand—because I’ll make you use it.”
“Theron—”
He rears back as if to punch me, but he’s too far away to connect—until I note the shadow still engulfing his hand.
He’s going to fight me with the Decay.
I cross my arms in front of me, flinging my magic out to draw snow from the sky—inside. It’s my magic, my kingdom, and I will not be denied winter in Winter.
Clouds form above me, sheets of ice that respond to my call.
But too late.
Just as the first sheet of snow falls toward us, Theron’s shadow barrels through the air and sends me crashing against the floor. I gag, the breath knocked out of me, but Theron is crossing the room, so I leap to my feet, tugging down a wall of ice as he sends another blast of Decay.
“Attack me!” he screams. “This is how Angra said it opened his mind—he used magic for himself. No one has ever let you do that, have they? Be selfish for once in your life, Meira. Fight me! You’ll feel its power. You’ll see how wrong you were.”
My ice wall reverberates with the force of his blows, forming cracks that I cover with more ice. I can’t stay here forever. I could fight him with magic—it would be defense, so it wouldn’t feed the Decay.
But I don’t want to fight him.
I drop the wall. It sloshes away, coating the floor with water. Theron waits, one hand drawn back in a fist.
I shake my head, letting some of my true exhaustion shine through. “I’m tired of fighting,” I tell him, and it isn’t a lie. “If peace is what you offer, I want it.”
Theron relaxes, lowering his hand. I almost say more, feed into the lie, when he flicks his wrist and every muscle in my body sings out with pain.
He stalks forward, his lips cocked in a half smile.
I can’t move—his magic keeps me pinned upright before him, muscles convulsing so I can’t even wince as he stops, nearly pressed against me. I’ve used my magic only when I have a way to channel it, by pointing or shoving my arm out, and before I can try to use it without moving, Theron tips his head, his smile sending hot panic through me.
“This peace comes with a price—though it isn’t a high price to pay, I assure you.” He leans into me, his lips stopping a finger’s width from mine.
The magic ebbs away from my head, holding the rest of my body firm. He doesn’t kiss me, just stays there, waiting for me to initiate. To accept.
I pull back, just a twitch, enough to put a breath more space between us.
And this one flinch of a response is enough.
Theron knots his fingers around my braid and wrenches my head back so he stares down into my face. “It would be so easy for you,” he spits, half a plea, half a snarl. “Yet you reject me again. Even when peace is so close—when the salvation of the world is within your grasp.” His face darkens and he ducks to hold his lips by my ear, easing closer, the teasing, gentle movements of a lover. His magic holds me still, my body screaming with the need to fight, the same blinding, consuming panic that overtook me in Herod’s room in Abril.
This is Theron, not Herod—this is Theron, not Herod—
But my heart doesn’t believe that, as it thuds painfully against my ribs.
“It’s the former Winter king, isn’t it? Where have you been all this time, I wonder—with him?” Theron inhales along my cheek. “You reek of him. But you’ve always been mine, from the moment I saved you in Ab
ril—you belong to me, and I’ll remind you of that until you forget what it was like to be touched by him.”
He backs up, all hint of joy gone, and in its place, resolve.
“One more chance,” he tells me. “One more chance.”
It’s almost a plea, so close to begging that I wonder who he’s more worried for—himself or me, if I don’t listen to him.
The magic keeping my body motionless releases my right arm.
“Attack me,” he orders. “Embrace this new world, Meira. Please.”
He’s definitely begging me. The strain on his face, the worry.
“All right, Theron.” I lift my hand.
He starts to smile, hoping, wanting, needing.
Until I grab the chakram off my back.
His face falls. “With your magic!”
But I will use my magic—kind of.
The snowstorm still hangs over us, and I call down sheet after sheet of ice to wrap around my chakram’s blade.
I’m so sorry, Theron.
My chakram flies at him as he leaps at me, and the two collide. The ice coating my chakram’s blade turns it into a dense knot that cracks against Theron’s head. He drops to the floor alongside it, falling unconscious at my feet.
His magic releases the moment he goes down, and I stagger toward him, my hand instantly scrambling to his neck. I sigh in relief—a pulse. Faint yet steady.
I reach for his pocket. Cold pieces of metal meet my palm, and I yank them out, staring down at the two keys I spent weeks searching for not so long ago. I wait, expecting relief to flood through me, but all I feel is the gentle nudge of duty.
To the labyrinth, now. This isn’t over yet.
Then I realize—I’m touching the keys but receiving no visions. Nothing about what I need to do to access the magic; nothing to prepare me, as happened the first time I touched these keys. I check them, but they’re definitely the ones I found weeks ago.
I guess that means . . . I must be ready.
I release the ice on my chakram and holster it. Theron doesn’t so much as moan when I start for the doors, and each footstep I take away from him matches how many times I promise silently that I’ll save him.