Frost Like Night

  I catch Mather’s eye. “Everyone looks happy.”

  He pitches one shoulder up, thinks better of whatever he was about to say, and nods to my saddlebag. “What did the letter say again?”

  Ahead of us, Trace groans. “You don’t have it memorized by now?”

  But Mather holds my gaze. He does have the letter memorized; I do too. It’s the only contact I’ve had with Theron since I sent Greer to check on him a month after . . . everything.

  I’d hoped Greer would return with something more than political reports—something that would let me know how Theron truly was. For the hundredth time, I wonder if I should have gone, or if I should have followed Theron out of that valley after the battle and made sure he was all right.

  My body sways toward Mather instinctively.

  No—I had my own kingdom to repair. Angra’s Decay had infected every Winterian in Jannuari, and when the magic disappeared, they were left hurting and filled with regret over the things they had let Angra make them do. My place after the war was in Winter.

  I draw out the letter, the parchment unrolling in my fingers.

  To the queen of the Kingdom of Winter:

  In the wake of magic’s destruction, our world has returned to a state of normalcy. But it will take many years before all wounds are healed.

  Which is why I call on you now. A similar letter is at this moment being read by every monarch in Primoria. I beseech you all with the same request: to gather in Bithai in three weeks’ time to put into effect the treaty that many of you signed before the war. The principles of that treaty are needed now more than ever—principles that will help us sculpt a Primoria comprised of eight united kingdoms.

  Only together can we rebuild the world.

  Theron’s signature swirls across the bottom, capped with Cordell’s seal.

  I straighten and smile at Mather. “It says that everything will be all right.”

  He gives me an uncertain look but nods. “It already is.”

  Maple branches arch over us as we pull onto a wide road. The canopy above lets golden light filter through, making the last few moments of our trip serene, almost dreamlike.

  We reach the gate leading to the palace and I smile. This used to be the site of two golden trees. Noam’s doing, a display of Cordell’s wealth. But they’re gone, and a chain holds the gate open in a permanent state of welcome.

  Theron has opened the palace to his kingdom.

  This image makes me ride into the courtyard with more confidence. We dismount, and Mather instantly sets to work passing out orders to the guards who came with us. Greer and Conall bear the symbol of Winter, a snowflake, on their chests, while Trace, Hollis, and Feige wear the uniform of the Thaw, a snowflake-wildflower hybrid emblazoned on their shoulders—a mark of my elite personal guard, which the Thaw has become.

  When everyone is sorted, Mather pushes his fists into his pockets, and I can’t help but smile. I still have trouble grasping how easily my Winterians have adapted to normal life.

  Mather’s eye catches on something behind me and he smiles. “Looks like we aren’t the only ones who decided to come.”

  I can’t ask what he means before a body slams me forward.

  “How dare you?” Ceridwen shouts, punching me lightly. “It’s been six weeks since you visited. You abandoned me, you awful girl.”

  I turn and punch her back, but I’m smiling too. “It was your turn to come to Winter!”

  Ceridwen sighs dramatically as another familiar face emerges from the grove. Jesse nods at Mather, sees the fit Ceridwen seems to be having, and shakes his head at me.

  “Getting you two together never ends well for me,” Jesse says.

  Ceridwen ignores him and links her arm through mine. “Regardless of whose turn it was to visit whom, it’s been six weeks since we’ve talked.” She pivots us toward the palace, Jesse and my retinue falling in behind. Her eyes linger on the gray stones and glittering windows that tower in a suddenly intimidating wave. “And apparently a lot has happened.”

  She looks at me, and I wave my hand dismissively.

  “I have no idea what this is about, aside from what the letter said.”

  Ceridwen grunts, unconvinced. “Well. There’s other news to share in the meantime.”

  We enter the palace. The warm polished wood of the walls wraps around us, a cozy contrast to the vibrancy outside. My eyes flit of their own volition to our right, where the paneled walls hide a doorway and an office beyond. Noam’s old office. Did Theron take it as his?

  A servant appears and beckons us to our rooms.

  “We received word from Ventralli,” Ceridwen starts as we trail the servant. “They’ve settled on a system of elections. The whole process is fascinating—they’re to run the kingdom completely under the leadership of someone selected by the people.”

  I pull my voice low. “Jesse doesn’t regret ceding the kingdom to his advisers?”

  She shakes her head. “I’ve never seen him so happy. Knowing Ventralli will progress beyond what he could have done . . . we’re both pleased with what’s developing.”

  “Thinking of instating such elections in Summer?” I tease, only because it does, in fact, sound like something both she and I would wholeheartedly support.

  She grunts. “Maybe, once the kingdom is in a better state of mind. Speaking of—we’ve set up an honest trade with Yakim. It appears Giselle has given up her goal of overtaking Summer now that there’s no magic in the Klaryns. I’ve almost gone from loathing her to only hating her.”

  “That’s wonderful!” My smile softens. “I’m happy for you.”

  She nudges me. “The feeling is mutual, Winter queen.”

  We follow a staircase up and pass into a hallway that looks familiar, crystal chandeliers and plush maroon carpet.

  “I believe you enjoyed this room last time,” the servant says, stopping next to an open door.

  I glance into the room and recognition flares—it’s the room I stayed in when I first came to Bithai, with the canopy bed and lavender rug and heavy white curtains.

  “I’m so blind,” I say. “Mona?”

  The servant who attended me when I was last here. She giggles. “You remember!”

  “Of course!” I look around. “Where is—”

  “Rose got married. Lives on the coast now. But it got me a promotion!” Mona sweeps into a curtsy. “If you need anything, let me know. I’m so happy you’re here, Queen Meira.” She winks, her emphasis on my title bringing up all those Cordellan etiquette classes.

  I smile. “Me too.” And I mean it, more than I realized I would.

  “The rest of your party has been given the rooms around yours,” Mona continues. “You’ve a few hours before the evening meal commences with music in the ballroom. Enjoy your stay.”

  As she leaves, Jesse turns to Ceridwen. “We should let them rest. Tonight will most likely be long.”

  Ceridwen agrees with a halfhearted groan and jabs a finger at me. “Find us when you’re done resting.” Her lips curve into a sly grin as she nods at Mather. “Or whatever you’re planning to do.”

  Mather laughs and dives forward, burying his face in my neck with a bearlike growl as he pushes us through the door. Poor Conall and Greer scramble for their rooms, and the reactions of Mather’s Thaw range from giggling to hiccup laughing.

  Mather kicks the door shut as I manage to disentangle from him.

  He catches my arm. “Wait—Ceridwen had a good idea. . . .”

  I smile. “To rest. We’ll need all the strength we can get for tonight.”

  Mather moves toward me again, but his playfulness is gone. “Are you all right?”

  What a question. “Yes. No.” I wrap my arms around myself. A love of the cold still resonates in all Winterians, but it was a trait that sprouted after years of magical influence. Will it now slowly fade? All I know is that I think I’m uncomfortably chilly. Or maybe just overwhelmed.

  Mather puts his hands on my shoulders
, his forehead to mine. “You’re not alone.”

  I curl in, tucking my arms around Mather’s waist. With my head bent along his chest, my eyes land on a painting beside the wardrobe.

  Morning light catches banks of snow, the bending bows of snow-laden tree branches, the dripping daggers of icicles. This painting is as familiar as the city, as the palace.

  Theron showed me this painting. One of my first glimpses of Winter.

  “I can have it hung in your room if you wish.”

  I nestle my cheek against Mather, breathing in time with him.

  Theron is all right. He has to be.

  Banners drape from the ballroom’s ceiling—eight different colors with eight different symbols. The theme carries throughout the room, from the vases filled with eight flowers, one of each color, to the clusters of food on eight trays, one delicacy from each kingdom.

  I dig my fingers into the indigo sleeve of Mather’s coat as we descend the staircase. Hollis and Trace, a few paces behind us, scan the room with the practiced air of security.

  “It’s beautiful,” I say.

  One corner of Mather’s mouth lifts and he glances at me, his eyes trailing down my pleated ivory dress. He swings in front of me at the bottom of the staircase and loops his fingers through the straps of my chakram’s holster. The leather shows a pattern of snowflakes, a far more ceremonial holster than what I’m used to—but the chakram it holds is worthy of such beauty. Polished wood makes up the curving handle, and the blade itself is etched with the bare branches of Winterian trees. A gift from Caspar and Nikoletta, one I haven’t been able to bring myself to throw. Having it is a reminder of what I am, a warrior queen, just like the locket I still wear.

  But I like not having to use it. I like that my weapon is purely decorative.

  Mather presses his lips to my forehead. “You’re beautiful,” he says into my skin.

  We’re distracted by a high-pitched squeal I know all too well. I turn in time to see a small black-and-scarlet blur tumble out of the crowd.

  “Shazi!” I cry, and bend to intercept her.

  Nikoletta emerges from the crowd and smiles her apology as she disentangles Shazi from me. “She isn’t yet four and I’ve already given up on corralling her.”

  Behind us, Trace leans in to ask Mather a question, which pulls his attention away from the look Nikoletta suddenly gives me.

  “Have you spoken with him?”

  The change in topic lances through me and I involuntarily straighten.

  Nikoletta reads that as my answer and juts her chin toward the glass doors. “He’s in the golden forest. Past the maze.” She reaches out to clasp my hand. “I know he wants to see you.”

  I nod, but one question makes me lean closer to her. “Is he all right?”

  The grief on Nikoletta’s face doesn’t wane. “As much as we all are.”

  She leaves to find Caspar, and I head for the glass doors, linking my arm through Mather’s as I pass. He stumbles alongside me, leaving Trace and Hollis with a confused yelp.

  But he sees the look on my face, notes the approaching doors.

  “Are you sure you’re ready?” In his voice is nothing but warmth and support and everything that I love about him.

  I draw my lips into a smile. “Ready for anything.”

  The golden forest appears, as Nikoletta said, at the end of the hedge maze. Dusk has fallen by this time, coating the area in the hazy gray of night, lit only by lanterns that glow along the path.

  Mather stops next to me. “What is this?” he whispers.

  Ahead of us, golden maple saplings stand in perfect rows over arching grassy mounds. Small gold leaves clink from their thin branches, each tree no taller than I am, dozens of them swaying within a waist-high stone fence that keeps them separated from the rest of the garden.

  I step up to the iron gate, my fingers looping through the sculpted metal. Mather waits beside me, willing to follow me wherever I need him to go.

  I press my hand to his chest. “Wait for me here?”

  He bows his head. “Always, my queen.”

  I kiss him quickly and enter the forest.

  The gate squeals shut behind me, cutting through the melody of the golden leaves hitting their golden branches. Every tree I pass has carvings on the trunk, names and dates and bits of poetry. No—one poem in particular, one I heard long ago, from dying lips that ring through my memory.

  Cordell’s poem. Sir recited it on the battlefield outside Bithai before I thought he died the first time, before I was captured, before my life changed in ways I’m still discovering.

  “Cordell, Cordell, if we must leave

  To battle, travel, or to die,

  Let those who do not come again

  Forever in your presence lie.”

  And beneath those lines of poetry, the phrase Here lies proclaims that Cordell buries its royal dead under golden maple trees. Such a place exists in Jannuari, only with simple markers for the bodies we burn. Sir has a marker there. And Nessa, and Garrigan, so many stones carved with snowflakes.

  So I know where Theron is, whose grave he’s standing over, before I reach him. I know whose grave I’d be standing over, where my heart would go.

  And when I turn down the row of saplings with the freshest mounds of earth, he’s there.

  One arm crosses over his chest, the other cups the back of his neck as he bows his head, his eyes closed where he stands before two golden saplings in dirt mounds. One, older; the other, far too fresh. Lanterns spaced along the pathway shine light onto us, but shadows still seep in, warping details. He doesn’t move at my approach, and it gives me time to study him.

  His once long hair has been cropped short, feeding into a beard that roughens his face. His Cordellan uniform bears more medals than when last I saw it, and the material is finer, a weave of deep-emerald velvet with gold accents.

  All in all, he looks far more like his father, in only the best ways. Noam’s surety and confidence and control, but none of his harshness or pomposity.

  I stop two paces back from Theron, clinging to handfuls of my skirt.

  Breathe, Meira. “Nikoletta said you’d be here.”

  Theron, eyes still closed, smiles, but it doesn’t stay when he looks at me.

  “She’s become far too protective,” he says. “Did she send you to check on me?”

  “It was heavily implied.” I try to smile. “But I’ve been wanting to speak to you anyway.”

  Theron drops his gaze back to one of the trees. Noam’s sapling, his name showing in the hazy light. Theron stays silent, massaging the back of his neck, before he pulls upright and drops his thumbs into the belt that holds a decorative sword at his waist.

  “Well, as I told Nikoletta, and Jesse, and my advisers, I’m fine.” He meets my eyes again. “You owe me nothing, Your Highness. I’m pleased simply that you have come to participate in the world’s unification.”

  “Theron.” The bite in my voice rumbles up from the complicated tangle in my gut. “You don’t have to treat me like that.”

  His laugh is bitter. “I said something similar to you once. Do you remember what you said in return? ‘You are Cordell, just as much as I am Winter. You’ll always have to choose your kingdom over me.’ Well, my lady—you have chosen correctly.”

  I don’t respond, opening the silence like a door flooding light into a dark room.

  Theron keeps his eyes on me, the hard laughter slipping off his face in favor of a broken grunt. He licks his lips, shaking his head at me, at himself, at the graves before us.

  “I remember everything,” he starts, a soft whisper. “And I’m so sorry, Meira. I don’t know where to begin with apologies. That’s part of why I invited everyone here—I helped destroy this world, so I will help rebuild it. But you—golden leaves, I owe you so much more than that.”

  “I didn’t come here for an apology.” My voice breaks. “I came here to . . . well, to apologize to you, for not coming sooner. For not checking o
n you. This war began as Winter’s problem, and I pulled you into it, I put you in Angra’s path, and—”

  “Angra.” Theron practically sobs the name, a violent wince making him fold his chin to his chest. “You may have put me in his path, but I chose to walk down it.”

  My heart sinks into my stomach. I’ve feared that from the start, that the things Theron did were more him than Angra. But the look in his eyes chases away my concern.

  “The Decay made me want things I never dared let myself admit. It was so freeing.” He stops, folds his arms over his chest. “Until Angra . . .”

  His tears break free. He scrubs at them, laughing at himself, eyes on the darkening sky.

  “I killed my father because of him. I did terrible things because of him. And yet I admired him. I worshipped him. He was so strong, and I had felt weak for so long.”

  Theron looks at me.

  “But I will be strong now. On my own.” His words are a promise, the most alive he’s sounded yet.

  I move without thought, putting my hand on his arm. “You have the greatest capacity to love of anyone I’ve ever known. You loved your father despite his flaws; you loved me even when you knew nothing about me, other than that I was just as unseen as you were. You are so much stronger than me. Stronger than Angra too. And with you guiding us, I know Primoria will achieve a state of peace and equality that will honor everyone we lost.”

  Theron doesn’t move, tears still glistening in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be enough for you,” he whispers.

  My fingers tighten against him. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be enough for you either.”

  Theron pulls away to rub the last few tears off his face. “We should gather with the rest,” he says, voice clear now. “There are many important things to discuss.”

  I nod and take one step back, but Theron doesn’t follow me. “Are you coming?” I ask.

  He blinks up at me, his lips quirking. “A few more moments. Go on without me.”