Frost Like Night

  Ceridwen lost her grip on her knives, her fingers going numb in the snow’s chill. She scrambled to her feet, shuddering from head to toe, holding her breath against the aching shivers that hammered her from the inside out.

  Raelyn shot upright as well, the half skirt of her riding outfit swirling around her tight black pants. Her mask did little to hide her furious glare.

  “I had no idea you were so anxious to follow in your brother’s path,” Raelyn snapped.

  Ceridwen said nothing, partly because she had to grind her jaw to keep from shaking to pieces, and partly because she hadn’t expected to end up like this, facing Raelyn. The power the Ventrallan queen wielded was too much for her to take in this kind of confrontation—stabbing her quickly had been Ceridwen’s only plan.

  Now Raelyn would kill her.

  Ceridwen darted her eyes around. The Ventrallan soldiers nearby gave them wide berth. Lekan had been drawn away, fighting alongside a group of Winterians who stood back to back, a knot of weapons that, even so, would soon be overwhelmed by the sheer number of Raelyn’s troops. The only thing that Ceridwen and Lekan had had on their side was speed—and now that their momentum had been broken, reality set in.

  They didn’t have enough numbers to fight this battle. Especially when every attacking soldier could move so quickly. As Ceridwen watched, one of the Winterians in Lekan’s group took a sword to the chest, causing another to cry out before Lekan corralled both of them into the middle of their circle, protected as much as they could be on a battlefield.

  “Is my husband here?” Raelyn’s voice scratched at Ceridwen.

  “Your husband?” Ceridwen smiled. If she would die, flame and heat and burn it all, she’d die with a wicked grin on her face. “I’m fairly certain it wasn’t your name he called out on our wedding night a few days back.”

  Raelyn snarled and punched the air, lurching Ceridwen back beneath a force that rammed into her chest, emptying her lungs of breath. She went down in the snow, wheezing as she rolled onto her side in time to see Raelyn stomp forward, punching the air again. Ceridwen’s head crashed back into the ground, her limbs straightened, every muscle pinned as Raelyn stopped over her, one leg on either side of Ceridwen’s chest.

  “Dear girl, you really don’t want to start sharing stories like that.” Raelyn crouched down, her smile sickly sweet. “You’re the one who truly cares, not me. You care so much, about so many things. Like your brother—shall I tell you what it felt like to kill him?”

  Ceridwen jerked against the magic that held her, but nothing relented, and Raelyn leaned closer, stroking her finger across Ceridwen’s cheek.

  “It felt delicious,” Raelyn purred. “To have the power to end a life with your own hands—” Her grip tightened, nails sinking into Ceridwen’s face. “You can’t imagine.”

  Raelyn pushed herself upright, standing directly over her again, and curled her hand into a fist. Raelyn’s magic left Ceridwen’s head free, so she turned to look at the battle around her, the last fleeting moments she would get to see the fate of her friends. Lekan and the Winterians had retreated beneath the swelling flood of Ventrallans. Which left her with Raelyn, alone, separated from any of her allies by lines of deadly soldiers.

  She blinked, brow twitching.

  Not all the soldiers around her wore Ventrallan armor.

  She strained against the magic to look toward the line of Winterian trees. More fighters ran to join the Ventrallans, adding numbers alongside a few great iron contraptions rolling on creaking wheels.

  Angra’s army. And they had brought his cannons—not many, few enough to allow them to travel quickly, but even as Ceridwen analyzed this new addition, one sparked to life and shot a burst of black smoke behind a deadly stone ball that tore into the lines of fighters.

  They had already been outnumbered against the Ventrallans. Now . . .

  Ceridwen’s heart shuddered, and it had nothing to do with the bed of snow cradling her.

  Raelyn too noticed the influx of fighters. She cackled, giddy, and her eyes landed on something just as Ceridwen’s did.

  An impenetrable black cloud polluted the air at the line of trees.

  Angra.

  Ceridwen should have been incapacitated by horror.

  But as she lay on that awful cold ground, pinned by Raelyn’s unbeatable power and watching Angra drop into the valley, she saw a way, the only way, to fight the Ventrallan queen.

  Angra strode forward, his Spring armor gleaming as he moved from shadow to sunlight. A figured dropped out of the blackness behind him, the remnants of smoke wafting up into the trees.

  No.

  Theron caved forward, wailing as though every nerve had been frozen, burned, and frozen again. Angra had brought himself and Theron to this fight—by magic.

  And if he had brought Theron, that meant Angra had first gone to Jannuari to retrieve him.

  Ceridwen gagged. Meira—what had he done to her? How had Angra even used his magic to bring Theron here? She knew Meira could use her magic to transport other Winterians, but Angra shouldn’t be able to affect Theron, a Cordellan, like that. Unless this was a further trick of the Decay? All Ceridwen knew was Theron screaming, rolling in the snow. Whatever Angra had done to get him here, it had worked, but it didn’t seem . . . right.

  Angra paid Theron no heed, simply marched toward the heat of the battle, his posture tall and his face livid.

  That alleviated Ceridwen’s worry. He wouldn’t be this furious if he had succeeded in killing Meira.

  Raelyn applauded his arrival. Clearly she hadn’t yet figured out what Angra would do, but Ceridwen had. They had anticipated that Angra would attempt to infect the opposing army with his Decay, and Ceridwen had been ready to block him.

  But the seed of an idea blossomed in her mind, making her grit her teeth. Angra’s Decay would latch onto everyone in this valley, and though most would fight it, it would eventually worm its way through and infect them with the same mad power that encouraged Raelyn’s evil.

  Please, Meira. Ceridwen sent the thought out into the void of her heart, holding it against the choice she was about to make. Please hurry.

  Angra kept moving, gliding past Raelyn and Ceridwen. As he did, more of his cannons fired behind him and he stretched out his arms as a father would to intercept a child. But his face told a different story—lips curled, teeth bared, eyes ablaze.

  He jerked his arms forward.

  Murky blackness streamed out of him, snaking through the armies. One tendril broke off and barreled straight at Ceridwen, and Raelyn watched, waiting for her to writhe and struggle.

  But she didn’t fight it.

  The magic collided with Ceridwen until she was nothing more than power and strength. Angra pumped as much into her as she wanted, poured it over her like bucket after bucket of water on a dry, dusty ground. She felt his desperation in that offering, how he wasn’t holding back as he had with the small amounts of magic he had given to his soldiers.

  This was the final war for both sides, and he would make the world his.

  Ceridwen met Raelyn’s eyes.

  “When you want to kill someone, kill them, don’t taunt them,” Ceridwen grunted, and jammed her arms up at Raelyn, shattering the magic’s hold with her own influx of Decay.

  Raelyn’s face took on a look of utter shock just before her neck popped. The Ventrallan queen’s body dropped to the snow beside Ceridwen, her eyes frozen in a permanent state of surprise.

  Ceridwen shoved to her feet. The Decay filled every corner of her body so thoroughly, she thought she might burst from the burden of it, full of such endless, glorious strength that the world would stand in awe of her destruction as they would a wildfire desecrating a forest.

  She was a flame, and she was the fuel, and she was the light that would blind every sad, weak creature in Primoria.

  If all of Angra’s allies felt this good, no wonder they’d sided with him.

  Ceridwen shook her head. No; remember all he’s
done. Remember who he is.

  But this is power. THIS is strength. I’ve never had this before.

  Ceridwen found herself running, barreling for the Autumn-Yakim-Summer army ahead. Any retreating had stopped, most soldiers now squirming in war with their minds as Angra’s Decay pummeled for control. He still stood on the battlefield, black snakes of magic streaming out of him, his face swelling with demented joy.

  This is power. This is strength. And these people are fighting it. They deserve to die.

  No!

  But Ceridwen’s protest went unheard by her body, and she felt her legs propel her toward a group of Summerian fighters. They grunted and sweated but held, resisting Angra with more finesse than most, thanks to their years of fighting Simon’s magic.

  They need to die for it.

  NO!

  She leaped at them, and they saw her coming, their eyes registering their leader in a sweep of awareness. But they couldn’t process her attacking them—she, of all of them, should have been the last to fall to Angra, and truly, that was the only reason she had any clarity at all now.

  “Run!” she screamed at them, one garbled plea that shot through the hatred burning in her. Flame and heat, she hadn’t even hated Raelyn with this much passion—but she hated them, these ignorant, righteous idiots who would keep the world weak.

  Ceridwen punched one of the Summerians, who fell to the ground, stunned at her attack. The rest moved to help him, fighting as best they could, but she was augmented like all of Angra’s other puppets now. She was unstoppable, and burn it all, she felt unstoppable.

  Stop! They aren’t your enemy!

  A body slammed into her, tackling her on the Autumn side of the field.

  “Ceridwen!” Lekan shouted and pinned her arms by her head. Others joined him, helped him hold her to the ground. “Cerie, stop!”

  She wailed, thrashing under him. He was weak too. He’d never understand the need she felt, how this power came with the responsibility to use it—and use it she would.

  “Cerie, we need you,” Lekan pleaded. Blood spread across his forehead, mud caked in a tan-black coat down his neck. “This isn’t you, but you’re the strongest person I know. You can fight Angra.”

  That name spoke to the magic in her. Angra deserved this power. Only Angra could wield it.

  “He’s the enemy,” she forced herself to say, out loud. Ceridwen dragged those words into her heart, compelling them to stay just as strong and relentless as the hatred that still urged her to attack Lekan and the Summerians.

  Lekan nodded, but part of him slouched, defeated. “Bind her,” he told one of the men holding her. “We can’t afford to—”

  They lifted Ceridwen, and Lekan continued giving orders, but she bade herself to ignore them. She didn’t want to hear any information that the Decay could make her use against them.

  The battle begged for her attention, anyway. What was left of their army had merged around them into a tight cluster of the most persistent fighters, those who could ward off Angra’s Decay by strength of will. Caspar stood nearby, shouting with some of his remaining generals. Less than half of their original numbers still stood, which went beyond tragic—it was an exercise in suicide.

  Their soldiers fought, but more fell than enemies. Their soldiers resisted, but every few seconds, one turned on their brethren in the same ferocious hatred that had possessed Ceridwen. Cannons tore through their cluster, leveling half a dozen soldiers at a time.

  Angra stood in the center of his army, elevated on a stack of barrels or a crate or maybe the backs of the soldiers he had killed, his arms stretched, the Decay still gushing out of him. His joy had broken, the slightest strain showing, but that didn’t stop him. Nothing would stop him.

  Ceridwen realized that now—nothing could defeat him.

  Not even Meira.

  34

  Meira

  AS THE DOOR appears in the maze wall, I peer through it and search the exterior for another of those plates that will help me on the test. But there’s only that door, white light streaming around me.

  Then I remember what the final test will be.

  Purification of the heart.

  Even though they helped me on the other two tests, the Order would have wanted only those who are truly pure of heart to pass the labyrinth.

  It’s entirely possible they meant for everyone to face this test without help.

  But help won’t be necessary. I’m ready for this; I will pass whatever test gets thrown at me.

  I clear my mind and enter the room.

  And gape at who is inside.

  Hannah.

  I stand there for what feels like lifetimes before Sir’s maze dumps him through a door on my right. He rushes forward, spots her, and stops as if the floor has grabbed onto his feet.

  Seeing Sir and Hannah staring at each other jolts an image through my mind of Rares and Oana. How different they were from these two people before me. And though it has never been real, I can’t help but see two versions of a life: Sir and Hannah, my parents; Rares and Oana, my parents. One pair always harsh and unloving; the other kind and gentle and everything I wanted.

  A door opens on my left and Mather enters, weapons in hand and eyes darting over each of us as he steps closer to me.

  Good—at least one of us is capable of movement.

  “You’ve reached the end of the labyrinth. You’ve come so far,” Hannah finally speaks, her eyes widening in encouragement.

  “How are you here?” I manage.

  I haven’t talked to her since before I left on the tour of the world, before I thought the magic barrier in the chasm entrance had broken my connection to her—before I found out I was keeping her away on my own, because I didn’t need her anymore.

  And I had been fine not seeing her. I was fine when she was gone.

  Seeing her now, smiling at me as if we’re just an innocent mother and daughter, as if I’m not moments away from dying for the mistakes she made, lights frustration that burns out to every limb. Why would she be here?

  Purification of the heart.

  I press a hand to my chest.

  This is a test of heart. Anyone who harbors hatred, or anger, would be deemed unworthy.

  But I thought I’d made my peace with Hannah at Rares and Oana’s home. I let go of my anger at her and at Sir and realized that all the things I wanted from them were ill-placed expectations that could never be.

  Sir lurches toward her, but his feet don’t move, just his shoulders jolting before he straightens.

  He’s afraid.

  Cold sweat washes down my body.

  “I don’t think it’s really her,” I tell him.

  Hannah smiles. “Why would you think that, sweetheart?”

  My hands curl into loose fists. “Because I’ve been blocking the real Hannah for weeks now, and I haven’t stopped. You’re a test. You’re the magic playing tricks on us.”

  Her smile widens. “I’ve been magic all along, haven’t I? Was I ever the real Hannah?”

  I frown. “You—”

  An explanation. Please, let there be an explanation.

  But the longer I stare at her, the longer I realize she might be right.

  I’d assumed the conduit that links us in our bloodline kept her connected to me. Or has it ever really been her?

  I shake my head. “Stop it! You’re just trying to unsettle us.” I turn to Sir so Hannah is almost behind me. “We have to get through this test—it’s a test of heart.”

  Sir still stares at her, his lips in a thin line. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t react at all.

  “You could have imagined me, Meira.” Hannah’s voice is just as soft as I remember, invoking feelings of awe that make me want to listen with rapt attention to her every word.

  “I didn’t imagine you,” I say to her, though I stay facing Sir, while beside me Mather remains poised. “I didn’t even know you when you appeared to me. How could I have made up all those things you told me?” br />
  “How can you be a conduit yourself?” Hannah counters. “How is anything in this labyrinth possible? When you touched the keys, you saw what you needed to see to get here. When you touched the plates in this labyrinth, they showed you pieces of the tests to help you pass them. Maybe the magic took what form it had to in order to help you during those early days as well. It created what you needed—a mother.”

  I spin on her, fingernails biting into my palms. “I made my peace with you in Paisly. I saw what real parents are like—I saw what a true family can be. And I know now that whatever relationship I had with you was wrong. Everything you did was your own doing, and none of it is my burden. But I will fix your mistakes, Hannah. I am better than you.”

  “I know,” she says, and she smiles again. “Your heart isn’t the one that needs peace.”

  My mouth cocks open.

  “Who—”

  Hannah pivots to face Sir. “I gave her to you for protection. She was forced to seek help from the magic because you failed me.”

  Sir.

  Panic cracks through me and I take two reeling steps toward him, but he still won’t look away from Hannah.

  “Sir, don’t listen to her! Look at me—”

  “You failed me, General,” she says, and this time, the bite in her voice is unmistakable. “You failed Winter.”

  “He did not fail Winter!” I whirl on her.

  Mather appears beside me, his hand on my shoulder, trying to tug me away. “He has to pass this test.”

  I step directly in front of Sir, talking only to him. “Hannah caused all of this. She caused this.”

  Sir blinks. Movement that makes me sigh in relief, until he latches onto my face as if seeing me for the first time.

  “I grew up with your mother. Did I ever tell you that?”

  I freeze. Even Mather, still trying to coax me away, stops. We both recognize the melody in Sir’s voice, the tone he’s always taken when reciting history lessons.

  “We were both children in Winter’s court. Much like you two grew up together.” He encompasses Mather with a glance. “I saw her awkwardness in youth. I saw her mistakes, her breakdowns, her faults—which made it harder than I expected to see her as a queen, once she was crowned.”