Ice Like Fire

  When I started speaking, Sir’s demeanor had been hard, defensive, but now he slumps against the door frame, his eyes glazed with an emotion I’ve never seen from him: pride.

  He’s proud of me.

  The little girl inside me, the one always so desperate for Sir’s approval, dissolves. But would he still be proud if he knew how hard I’m fighting to stay this calm? If he knew the raging battle in my mind, the fight between Meira the orphaned soldier and Queen Meira?

  He’s proud of someone who doesn’t exist.

  “All right,” he says. “But Henn will go with you. And Conall and Garrigan, obviously.”

  “And me,” Nessa adds, holding a lit candle. “And Dendera will want to go with Henn.”

  I nod. “Fine, but no more—I want people to stay in Winter in case Noam tries anything. I do plan on finding allies for us, regardless of the fact that he knows, but we need a firm presence here while I’m gone.”

  “We won’t let my father get away with this.”

  The voice shoots into the room along with a sudden “Halt!” from Conall.

  I fly to my feet as Theron darts in, his hair waving loose from its knot. Sir jerks up, as ready to yank him out of the room as Conall and Garrigan.

  But I throw my hands out. “No, it’s fine.” I eye everyone else. “Can you excuse us?”

  Sir pauses, his glare swinging from Theron to me. I prepare to argue with him, to plead my reasons, when he nods.

  “Conall and Garrigan will be right outside,” he says, more to Theron than me. “I should return to the celebration.”

  My shoulders cave forward. It still seems wrong when he doesn’t fight me.

  But he leaves, Nessa following him, and Conall shuts the door with one last cursory frown at Theron. When the door clicks, Theron relaxes, the strain in his shoulders giving way.

  “I knew you were planning something,” Theron starts. “But I never thought it’d be that.”

  All the hurt I’ve been keeping in check strains to flood the air between us, but I keep my face stoic. “How did you know?”

  “Because when you stepped into the ballroom”—he smiles—“you had the same look on your face that you had right before you locked yourself in my father’s study in Bithai.”

  I can’t return his smile, though I feel how desperately he wants me to.

  “I was wrong,” I say. “I shouldn’t have withheld what is owed to your kingdom. We will repay our debt to Cordell.” Eventually.

  Theron steps forward, close enough that I can feel the heat off his body. “You don’t have to talk to me like that. I’m on your side.”

  “No, you aren’t,” I snap, jaw tight. “You are Cordell, just as much as I am Winter. You’ll always have to choose your kingdom over me.”

  “It won’t come to that.” The force of his words silences me. “I know you’re angry with me for telling my father about the magic chasm, but I stand by what I did. Do you know why he let me stay here for this long? Because he expects me to report on your progress every time he returns, like you’re property of his that I’m supposed to supervise. I will not continue living this way when an answer lies so close. We need that magic, Meira, and we need Cordell’s support to search the world. Once we have the keys, we will be able to control opening that chasm. Not my father. We’ll be able to give magic to everyone.”

  He’s so determined, his confidence unwavering and blind. I trap a breath in my throat, biting my tongue as I war with telling him the truth. But if this is his goal . . . he needs to know what could happen.

  “If everyone in the world has magic, they’ll use it for negative things too,” I start. “That fueled Angra—the Decay was created by the negative use of magic. It’ll return, and it’ll darken the world. I can’t let that happen.”

  “What?” Theron teeters. “How do you know that?”

  How, indeed? My dead mother told me through our connection to conduit magic because, by the way, Theron, I’m Winter’s conduit. All of me.

  “While I was in Abril, I . . . he told me. Tried to break me. It worked.”

  Lies, lies, lies.

  Theron squints. At first it seems like disbelief, but the longer the silence lasts, the more I realize he’s analyzing me.

  “Why don’t you believe we’re strong enough?” he asks. “Angra may have been fed by this negative use of magic—but what about the goodness in Primoria? Don’t the good people deserve to be powerful?”

  “It isn’t about who deserves what—someone will use magic negatively. Surely you can’t believe everyone in the world is trustworthy?”

  “No—but I have to believe we’re strong enough as a collective whole to withstand any evil that might arise. And if we’re aware of what will happen and we all have magic to fight that evil, we can overcome anything.”

  The ferocity of his belief in the goodness of the world breaks my heart. Nessa has the same innocence, seeing only the good, ignoring the bad.

  Recognizing that in him throws sand over the fire of my certainty. I want him to believe in the goodness of the world. I need him to believe in it, for the terrified boy who cowered in Angra’s cell and represses such memories. Like Nessa, like Conall and Garrigan and everyone else, Theron’s happiness feels like a fistful of snow nestled in the cage of my hands. Only instead of being somewhere cold and wonderful where it can thrive, I’m somewhere hot and choking, heat licking my fingers and trying with all of its might to melt the snow within.

  I’ll find a way to keep the world safe from negative magic use. I don’t need Theron’s help to do so—I need him to stay him.

  “Goodness does need to be preserved,” I say, an agreement that isn’t exactly an agreement. “But I’m going to find allies to stand with me against your father, if the time comes. This could lead to war with Cordell, and I won’t ask you to—”

  Theron lurches forward. One of his hands cups my cheek, the other lands on my shoulder, catching me in a soft caress. But the distance created when he told his father about the chasm yawns between us, and I don’t lean into him like I used to.

  “You don’t have to ask me to support you,” he says. “I know the risks and they are, will always be, worth the repercussions. We’ll set out to find the keys. We’ll search each kingdom’s monuments and archives and, golden leaves, even their vaults if we have to—but magic will only heal so much. This world has been divided for too long.”

  I frown. “What are you saying?”

  Theron slides his hand behind my head, holding me here. “What if this trip wasn’t merely a cover to introduce Winter to the world? What if it really is what you plan for it—a way to link allies, only more? We can go with an intention beyond finding the keys: to unite the kingdoms of Primoria in perpetual and lasting peace. If I draw up a treaty, Cordell would sign it. Winter and Autumn would sign it. We could take it to Summer, Yakim, Ventralli—and eventually, to Spring and Paisly. For the first time in centuries, there is no war between any kingdoms in Primoria. We can seize this opportunity—and when the chasm is open, we’ll bring magic into a world already well on its way to healing.”

  I’ve heard a speech like this before, only spoken from very different lips.

  Mather dreamed of such things, when he was king and I was just a soldier. Only his wishes were for peace and equality to come through judging people based on their character instead of things like gender and bloodline. Back then, I was inexperienced enough to believe that we could achieve such balance—but I’ve seen too much now. Permanent peace and balance is an impossible goal. Far better would be to strive for a general state of equality, so that no matter what evils one kingdom might conjure, they would never be undefeatable.

  And if magic is spread to everyone, evils like that will fill the world.

  My body tenses in Theron’s hands. “We’ve only been without war for three months, and already Winter borders on conflict with Cordell. Peace is . . . impractical.”

  Theron shakes his head. “Not if the world
signs a treaty that binds them to one another. When issues arise, we intercede; when evils appear, we unite. And when we bring this to them, Rhythm and Season together, we will show them what that future can look like.”

  He curves his neck down and lays his lips across mine in a hungry, powerful kiss, like he’s trying to impart his certainty into me. I can’t process what’s happening fast enough to decide whether or not I should pull away, and my body droops into him.

  He wants to use this trip to search for a way to open the magic chasm under the guise-that-isn’t-a-guise of uniting the world. Which sounds like a beautiful, admirable goal—if not for the sheer impossibility of it. I’m barely certain I’ll find allies by bribing them, let alone getting Rhythms to agree to a state of peace and unification with all the Seasons.

  A realization punches through me.

  Theron found a legitimate reason to go to Summer, Yakim, and Ventralli. One that doesn’t involve Winter—or at least, Noam would be able to argue that it doesn’t.

  Cordell doesn’t need me on this trip. And we found the magic chasm—Cordell doesn’t need Winter anymore either.

  I pull back, pressing my forehead to Theron’s. “Have you told your father about this?”

  Theron closes his eyes, his arms dropping to encircle my waist. “No. It might be best to wait until after Yakim and Ventralli sign it. I can sign it for Cordell in his stead.”

  I exhale. Noam doesn’t know.

  Theron moves to kiss me again, and I find myself wobbling on a precipice I never imagined: if I disagree with Theron’s plan for peace, will he run to his father for support like he did with the magic chasm, regardless of his own reasoning?

  Theron’s lips move to my jaw, creep down my neck in slow flutters. He moans, a soft sound that days ago would have melted every nerve in my body. But now I can’t feel anything past the thoughts clogging my head.

  This is politics. This is the life of a queen—hiding things, making sacrifices, keeping secrets, all for the betterment of my kingdom. It’s what Dendera and Sir and everyone else seem to be shoving me into, at least—a life of pretending and hiding the truth.

  Theron slides his hand up my spine, his lips hovering over my ear in a pause that beats awareness into me.

  We’ve been whatever we are since our first kiss in Abril, but it hasn’t gone beyond that. Him touching my hip or holding my hand or stealing a kiss after a meeting—nothing like the way we lean into each other now, him driven by passion, me driven by distraction.

  I launch away from him. “We should . . . we should get some sleep. It’s been a long day.”

  Theron pauses. Realization dawns on his face and he shakes his head, his skin deepening to a heavy scarlet hue.

  “Yes. We shouldn’t . . .” He regains himself a little and puts an arm’s length of space between us. “I won’t push you to do anything you aren’t ready to do.”

  My own blush heats every bare surface of skin. I haven’t really thought about that at all. But as I look at Theron now, I realize I probably should have, if only to decide what I want our relationship to be.

  “I know,” I say. “I just . . . I don’t want us to be together because we want comfort to chase away our nightmares or because I feel—” Indebted to you.

  Theron saves me from having to explain by taking my hand. He’s shaking, a tremor that catches in my own muscles and ricochets up through me.

  “You don’t have to explain,” he whispers, his voice low and heady. “I know things have been chaotic, but I truly believe this trip will be the beginning of an end to that chaos. Soon all we’ll have to think about is us.”

  Part of me wants to laugh at that, the idea of being so carefree that my only thought is of a boy. I can’t foresee that ever happening.

  Theron squeezes my hand and steps back, the moment gone. “We’ll leave in a few days,” he tells me, tugging on his frontage of the proper prince. He bows at the waist, never taking his eyes off mine. “Lady Meira.”

  I drudge up a weak smile. “Prince Theron.”

  He offers one last grin and leaves.

  This day has done its best to pick me apart, one emotional event after another. And as Theron shuts the door to my room behind him, the one leading to my balcony groans, and I’m hit with the numb thought that it isn’t over.

  A figure staggers in, swaying like he’s caught in a gale.

  No, no, no.

  Just one glance at Mather, and it’s enough to undo the control I’d built up this night. All I am now is the truth underneath: trembling and aching and frantically terrified. Was it only a few hours ago that I was glad for the way his presence unraveled me?

  “What are you doing here?” I growl, but I frown when his bloodshot eyes have trouble locking on me. “Are you drunk?”

  Mather pinches the skin above his nose and chuckles like he’s shocked he made it. “Wait, wait—” He moves two fingers up to me. It takes me a moment to realize he’s mimicking what he used to do when he snuck up on me as a child, two fingers on my neck in place of a weapon. “You’re dead,” he declares, sure enough. “And I’m allowed to drink.”

  I wipe away the nostalgia. “You climbed up my balcony while drunk?”

  “I was perfectly steady,” he slurs, and stumbles forward a step, bumping into the foot of my bed. The laughter on his face sloshes away as he remembers something serious, dark. “But why should you worry? I’m just one of your supplicants, humbly basking in your presence.”

  “Mather—stop it! Why are you here?” How long have you been here? What did you see?

  A chill rushes through me, and my body feels light and heavy, tied down and floating.

  He waves his arm out in a bow. “I’m sorry, my queen. My lady fair. My serene ruler. I’m sorry if I’ve caused you pain. It’s nothing you haven’t done to me, if it’s any comfort.”

  “What are you talking about? I haven’t—”

  “Oh, you haven’t?” Mather pitches toward me, a fierce anger dancing with his drunkenness to create this wounded, vicious animal before me. “Philip—Phil—and those Bikendi camp boys, they’re all ignoring their pasts, and I don’t want to do that anymore. I thought I wanted to forget, to just numb it all, but I don’t want that, Meira—I want you. And I thought you did too—damn it all, today I thought we . . .” He stops, laughs brokenly. “Ice, I’m an idiot, because I come here, and even after what Theron did, you still want him.”

  I strangle the moan that eats at my throat, barely keeping myself together as splintering fragments dig deep. “I don’t know what you saw with Theron, but that wasn’t—”

  “I messed up,” Mather cuts me off, his face severe. “I know I messed up. I missed my chance, and damn it, Meira, I was fine to sulk off and lick my wounds and forget you. But Noam—the magic chasm—all these threats, they should be my problems. I hate that they’re yours now, but I can’t take it all back so you’re safe. I can’t do anything, Meira. There’s a reason it’s been three months since we’ve talked, and I need to force myself to see that reason. I’ll still do what I can for Winter, but I can’t live like this. I need you to know that I’m done. I’m not waiting for you to come back into my life.”

  All the pain and surprise of him being here explodes in me, sending shards darting out to every limb. But not shards of sorrow or grief—shards of anger.

  He has no idea what is going on. And the worst part is—I might have told him, if he hadn’t come here yelling at me, drunk, ripping holes in my already fragile shell of composure.

  “I’m sorry you’re miserable,” I snap. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I thought I could talk to you because I needed to talk to you, and I didn’t think about it more than that. But that’s what got us into this mess, me not thinking things through, and I should have known better. So don’t—”

  His brow furrows. “What do you mean you got us into this mess?”

  My head hums, body quivering in uncontrollable waves. “No, you don’t get to sneak into my bedroom and yel
l at me and deserve any explanation at all.”

  I turn to the door, ready to shout for Garrigan and Conall to yank Mather out of my life. I shouldn’t have talked to him earlier. Despite all he’s undergone, all the things he’s suffered, he’s the only person I know who is still himself, who hasn’t let our past change him. He’s the Mather I grew up with, the Mather I fell in love with, and that makes me forget my own masks and want to stop trying so hard to contain myself.

  The world blurs, warps, and I’m falling forward, bracing myself on the door.

  I can’t be around Mather. I can’t afford to be around anyone who makes me feel like Meira the orphaned soldier-girl—which is why it’s better for me to be around people like Theron and Sir. Who they are makes it easier for me to be queen.

  Everything I’d been holding on to so tightly rushes free and I turn back to Mather, searching for his eyes through my haze of tears. He hunches forward like he expects an argument. Why wouldn’t he? We’re always wrong, him in one place and me in another and both of us screaming because we would only work if we went back to how things were.

  Things didn’t even work then, though, did they? He was the king and I was a peasant. Now I’m the queen and he’s a lord, but he’s still . . .

  Completely, annoyingly, magnificently uncomplicated.

  I pinch back a gasp. “I’d choose you if it wouldn’t unravel who I need to be.”

  Mather’s body loosens. All the fight drains out of him and he gawks at me, staring for a few beats of complete motionlessness before he jerks his head to the side, the muscles in his face tightening. The hole he’s rending in me deepens as I notice he’s holding back tears, that maybe the smallest part of him wanted me to fight for him and how it should have been. Meira and Mather, no titles or responsibilities.

  His chest caves, a breath that deflates him. “I think if we wanted to . . . I think we could have survived being unraveled.”

  I gasp, my own tears burning my cheeks.

  His alcohol-reddened eyes meet mine long enough that I see the sorrow there, the reality dropping onto him.