Frost Like Night

  He looks past me, at Hannah. “I made the mistake of not treating her with the respect owed to her position. And when she grew more solemn and distant as the war intensified, I comforted her as a friend would help a friend, not as a soldier would help his queen. I should have been only her general, and I wasn’t. I should have guided Winter away from the path she was taking us down, and I didn’t.”

  I grab Sir’s arms. “You didn’t know she had made a deal with Angra. You can’t expect to—”

  His eyes drop back to me and he lifts his hands to my arms. He’s never touched me like this before—in a desperate way that feels all too much like he’s begging. Delirium beats in his eyes the more he talks, awakened by Hannah, by this labyrinth, by everything we’ve endured for the past few decades, and as I watch him, the terror that shoots through me is unlike any I’ve ever experienced.

  I’m afraid for him. I’m afraid for Sir.

  “I swore to myself I wouldn’t make that mistake again,” he tells me, his fingers clamping around me. “I told myself I would see you as a queen, every moment of your life, so I would never lose focus. But I still failed.”

  Tears. On Sir’s face.

  “William.” My voice cracks. “William, stop—”

  “Angra took my kingdom,” he continues. “I wasn’t allowed to raise my son as my own. I did everything I could, but it wasn’t enough, and the only reason I could ever find was . . . you.”

  “Me?” Were Sir not holding on to my arms, I’d collapse at his feet.

  “It was so foolish of me.” Sir’s grip spasms. “I realize that now, Meira. I blamed you for years. But you never accepted that blame, did you? Snow above, you fought it, fought me, every chance you got. And I think, somewhere in all that fighting, I realized my blame was misplaced. You weren’t the reason for our past failure—you were the reason for our hope for the future. I may not have gotten to raise Mather as my son, but I got to raise both of you.”

  My heart surges against my ribs, full to the point of bursting.

  “But you’re right,” he says, a laugh. “You’re right. All this, everything that happened, was Hannah’s doing. And Angra’s doing. And I let them take even more of our lives by misplacing my blame for so long.” His eyes cut to Mather. “I’m sorry I wasn’t a better father.”

  He shifts back to me.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t a better father to both of you,” he tells me, his apology falling directly into my ear as he pulls me forward.

  Sir is hugging me.

  I made my peace with him too, in Paisly. I resigned myself to the roles he’d chosen for us, and I was fine.

  But I wasn’t fine.

  Because wrapped in Sir’s arms, I come undone.

  I’m sixteen years old, hugging him in the vision Angra dredged up in Abril.

  I’m ten years old, sobbing against him in the wake of Gregg’s and Crystalla’s deaths.

  I’m six years old, rocking back and forth in his arms after a nightmare, the one time he ever willingly hugged me, the episode branded on my heart and held as a beacon for everything I wanted out of our lives.

  I fling my arms around his waist now, bury my face into him. Dust from the labyrinth sticks to his shirt, the forms of small knives in sheaths across his chest press into my face. His heart thumps against my ear, his lungs fill with raspy breaths that match my own.

  This is better than all those moments. This erases them and starts fresh.

  I rise up to look at him and stretch one hand out to Mather, beckoning him in. “We’ll fix this, together, and the world will be healed.”

  The tears that fall down Sir’s face glisten on his cheeks, fold into the wrinkles that line his eyes. He lifts his head to look at Hannah again. Is she still there? It doesn’t matter. We passed this test, all of us. We’re healed now, and we can move forward. Together.

  A crack forms in my joy.

  No, it won’t be together. But I will die knowing Sir loves me. I will die knowing everything I wanted for us wasn’t a hapless wish—it came true.

  The crack splits so loudly that it rings in my ears when the look on Sir’s face shifts from bittersweet happiness to nothing but sorrow.

  Unrepentant, screaming sorrow.

  “A test of heart,” he whispers. “We’re supposed to forgive her.”

  “We did,” I tell him, but the look on his face . . . “We can go—”

  The ground rumbles as the wall to my left grates, something black and tall forming in my peripheral vision.

  “A door!” Mather cries. “Come on, we can—”

  But the ground doesn’t stop rumbling. And Sir won’t move.

  I heave on his arms, and Mather dives in to help, both of us pulling and shouting as the ground shakes. The pillars around the room react to the vibrations, chunks of rock chipping off and shattering in small explosions around us.

  Sir grabs my shoulders, his eyes too calm, too knowing. “Run.”

  “You have to run too!” I shout over the building roar of the room quivering apart.

  But Sir shakes his head. He motions to his legs, bends his knees in a jerk to demonstrate.

  He stopped walking on his way into the room, as if the floor grabbed his feet. And it did.

  He hasn’t forgiven Hannah. The room won’t let him leave until he does.

  “You have to let her go!” My voice screeches in desperation, my fingers knotted in his shirt. Mather hangs on to Sir’s arm, his eyes cutting between us and the door, the rubble gathering in collapsing bursts, the floor tiles breaking and—

  Snow above—the floor is starting to disintegrate, like the other times it swallowed us. But these holes aren’t tunnels to drop us into the next test or even ringed with flame like in the first room—they’re just empty. Just blackness.

  “No, Meira.” Sir loosens my fingers from his shirt, still so calm. “I had to let you go. But I can’t forgive Hannah, especially for the fate she made for you. For all of us.” He shakes his head. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  Mather balks. “You aren’t . . . no. You have to come with us!”

  Sir looks at him.

  Puts a hand on his son’s shoulder.

  And pushes him toward the door.

  Then he meets my eyes. Go, he mouths.

  I slam my body into Mather, pinning my arms around him and propelling us toward the door. Gaping holes bar our path, making me tug him back and forth as we stumble in a flailing mess for the exit. Mather staggers along beside me and releases a raw scream that hammers into my heart.

  We reach the door and I push Mather through, pausing just once.

  The scene behind me is a mess of stones and tiles and yawning holes. In the midst of it all, Sir and Hannah stand, motionless, staring at each other.

  A pillar falls, slamming down two paces from me, and I leap through the exit just as the whole floor drops into nothingness.

  35

  Meira

  THE DOOR CLOSES the moment Mather and I are both through. It whooshes into place a hand’s width from my face as I stand there, blinking away the debris, my chest heaving under labored breaths that might be sobs.

  “Meira,” Mather groans.

  The sound of my name hauls me out of the protective shield I wore to get us out of there. I lift my hands to my face, shaking my head in a repetitive No because I can’t make any words come out.

  “Meira,” Mather repeats, tugging at my arm. I whirl, flinging myself on him, and he holds me as he says all the words I can’t find. “No—maybe he survived—we can go back—”

  His possibilities shatter before he even finishes saying them. I close my eyes, forcing each breath to counter the cries that rumble up my throat like waves in a storm.

  Light beats against my eyelids, and I almost whimper with gratitude for the distraction.

  But when I open my eyes, I only feel emptier.

  We’re in a long, narrow hall. The walls are lumpy black rock, the floor is uneven—and at the far end, a halo of l
ight gleams orange and yellow and purple and blue in shifting hues.

  “Mather,” I whisper as I step away from him.

  He pulls back, his head snapping to follow mine.

  “The magic chasm,” he says.

  I nod.

  He shakes his head in a long, slow rebuttal. “No.”

  “Mather—”

  “It’s too soon. My father—and now—” His voice cracks and he scrubs a palm over his forehead. I say nothing, motionless with my hands on his chest.

  “I can’t think of any way to save you,” he finally says, all the pain in his life in those few small words.

  I lift my hand to his cheek. “Once we get into that chamber, an exit will open—part of the labyrinth’s magic. Run for it as fast as you can—when it opens, it means people can access it from the outside for a short time too. And I don’t want to give Angra a chance to—”

  “Meira, no.”

  But I keep talking, unable to let myself stop. “—I don’t want to give Angra a chance to get down here. So run, don’t stop running, and I’ll run too.”

  “Meira.”

  “Ceridwen and Caspar will need you. The world will need you to help pick up the pieces—”

  He silences me by laying his lips over mine. I didn’t think there was anything left in me to unravel, but his kiss dissolves my strength.

  This moment—this is our last.

  So I hold on to it for as long as I can, memorizing the rough edges of his lips and the way he tastes like salt and musk and joy, and the muscles that flex when I glide my fingers along his jaw.

  We didn’t have enough time. But the rest of the world will. Jesse and Ceridwen, Caspar and Nikoletta—even Theron, someday. And Mather. Snow above, Mather—he’ll have this someday too. With someone better than me.

  With someone who won’t break his heart.

  I pull back from him, tears rushing down my cheeks. He looks at me, those jewel-blue eyes so familiar and perfect in the way they feel like home.

  He entwines his fingers with mine and smiles. The smile that defined so much of my life, melting me and filling me top to bottom with resilience. That he can smile here, now, chases away my last bits of fear and worry.

  He’s lost everything. His parents, and now me, too. And yet he’s here with me, beside me, offering support and a hand to hold.

  I turn with him to face the light at the end of the hall. It pulses and ebbs, gleams bright and fades, an endless kaleidoscope of colors.

  If I had to pick a way to die, it would be this—to go out in a rainbow of life and energy. To know that my life was valued by others.

  I glance at the solid wall behind us.

  To know that I was loved.

  One step, then another, Mather and I walk side by side down the jagged stone corridor.

  Our steps accelerate the closer we get, until we’re sprinting.

  As fast as I can. As fast as I can. This will all be over soon, before Angra can even find the exit that appears, before the battle above has to go on too long.

  The hall ends, dumping us into a wide cavern that stretches in rocky sweeps in every direction. A ceiling soars untouchably high above; stalactites drip downward in gruesome teeth. The floor evens out into a solid cliff that ends after a few paces in a wide, fathomless pit.

  And in that pit, hanging down from the edge, waits the source of magic.

  I saw it once before, in one of the many visions Hannah showed—or whatever it was that showed me. The magic looks just as it did then, a brilliant ball of energy that snaps and sizzles as it hangs by sheer will in the pit. Larger than the palace, larger than all of Jannuari itself, the magic seems to be a living, breathing creature bobbing just beyond the cliff, its fingers of energy snaking out to strike rocks and imbue them with the power that made the conduits so many thousands of years ago.

  The product of that magic shines from every corner, rocks in orange, gold, purple, red tones, soft glows in every color. Just like at the entrance, the air hangs heavy and humid, each particle sizzling with magic. Conduits, magic, everywhere, a field of power ripe for harvest.

  A field of power that will end soon.

  The cliff loops around one side of the pit, and the moment our feet touch it, the familiar vibrations tell us a door opens where the cliff slopes toward the ceiling far on our left.

  This is it.

  I loosen my fingers and shake Mather free, unable to let myself do anything but angle for the cliff, plunging around stalagmites and leaping over piles of glowing debris.

  I’ll never see him again.

  But I don’t cry, or even falter in running. I press on, because I have to, because—

  His hand slides back into mine.

  I frown at him, but he pushes faster, matching my pace.

  He didn’t run for the exit.

  Mather . . .

  But I can’t argue with him. No time, no words, nothing but my heart throbbing and a sob working through my pinched lips.

  I could use the magic to transport him out of here, to safety. But he’s choosing to be here with me—making him leave would be forcing him into something he doesn’t want.

  He wants this. And I’m helpless but to let him stay.

  I think a part of me always knew he wouldn’t leave me again.

  Two paces to the edge of the cliff.

  The magic sparks, crackling on the air, fizzling into my body with each breath I take.

  One pace to the edge of the cliff.

  Mather’s fingers tighten on mine.

  I return his squeeze as we both land on the cliff’s edge. Rocks tumble off, normal, magic-free rocks that plummet into the source. They disintegrate in roaring bursts of consuming energy.

  We will, too.

  The magic intensifies, a wave of crystalizing heat reaching up for me, for us.

  I’m ready, I think, building a shelter around myself with those words. End this.

  All air leaves my lungs and I jump. The chasm below me shifts, drawing me in.

  Then I’m flying backward.

  Rock grates against my shoulder. Glowing pebbles scatter around me, new bruises rupture in my skin as I’m slammed onto the ground near the hall we just ran through. My grip on Mather pulls him back to land on me, and he grunts as his shoulders connect with the rock wall.

  I heave onto my elbows, disoriented.

  Because when I look, the world is shifting.

  The world is screaming.

  Angra stands just inside the newly appeared exit, taking agonizing steps toward me. One of his hands stretches out, the shadow of his magic retracting around his arm in a black cloud.

  He pulled us back.

  He’s here. He found the chasm.

  And I’m still alive.

  36

  Ceridwen

  CERIDWEN KNEW SOMETHING had changed only because Angra’s manic glee lurched through his connection to the magic in her like a rider yanking back on his horse’s reins.

  Something had happened.

  There was nothing controlled about his power now—it flowed from him in desperate surges of strength and magic and hatred, every need multiplied by a sudden pulsing thought.

  No one will take this from me.

  As Ceridwen thrashed against the Summerians holding her, fighting to keep from killing them and fighting to kill them—flame, she wanted nothing more than to scratch every piece of flesh from their bones, to sink her fingers into their hearts and obliterate them—she watched Angra, standing high over his army.

  He lowered his arms, the tendrils of black magic ceasing. Angra swayed but caught himself.

  No one will take this from me.

  He might have stopped pumping out magic, but that did not mean his hold had been broken. Like seeds buried warm and deep in the earth, the darkness would continue to grow in everyone he had infected, even after the sun set.

  And set it did.

  Angra grabbed someone next to him—Theron, whose gaze reflected the furious,
livid hatred that Ceridwen felt burning in her own eyes—and together, they vanished without a final glance at the doomed battle. Theron cried out as the magic latched onto him in ways it wasn’t meant for.

  Few others noticed Angra’s disappearance. Soldiers shouted, charging against Caspar’s remaining infantry, swords trailing blood through the air. Their frenzy drove them to fight as they never had before, not just Spring and Ventrallans now but Autumnians and Yakimians too. Most Summerians had managed to resist Angra’s magic and attempted to form lines of defense.

  But they were so outnumbered, victory was impossible now. People they knew, former allies, now tore at them with desperation, eyes narrowed in tortured hatred. All around were nothing but enemies, weapons, death—from where Ceridwen stood, bound in the middle of Caspar’s group, she couldn’t find even one speck of hope in the carnage.

  If Angra had left, it had to be to go after Meira.

  If he found her, they had failed.

  But the darkness in Ceridwen spiked with joy. She will not take away this power. No one will take this from me.

  “Lekan,” Ceridwen croaked, her body going limp against the soldiers who held her.

  Lekan and Caspar conferred mere paces away, both streaked with blood and gashes and the telltale signs of men beaten by war. But Lekan swung to her. His eyes brightened, the light he reserved for Amelie when she asked if they would ever have a permanent home outside the refugee camp. The light of lying.

  He knelt before her as the soldiers let her sink to the ground.

  “Cerie—”

  “I’m sorry,” she panted. “I’m sorry . . . I let him in . . . I’m sorry . . . I—”

  There was a wail from nearby as the lines of Angra’s soldiers pressed closer, tearing down their defenses with the magic he had given them.

  Kaleo would never forgive her if she let Lekan die.

  And Jesse . . .

  This was why she had married him. Because she knew her life would be too short.

  Lekan put his hand on her shoulder. One squeeze, a wordless offering of comfort.