Snow Like Ashes

by Sara Raasch

  “Lots of people coming in for work at this hour. Odd, isn’t it?” One of the guards cocks his head, his Spring-blond hair shorn against his scalp, his green eyes translucent in the combination of firelight and darkness. Exactly what I was counting on.

  I finally tip my head back, the hood of my cloak sliding just enough for the firelight to touch my face. The flames will wash out my blue eyes just as it does his, making me look, enough for the guards at least, like a green-eyed Spring citizen. Spring has skin a few shades darker than Winterians, but pale nonetheless, and the yellow light should make me look enough like one of them that they’ll let me pass. I hope. No amount of tricks of the light or playing with shadows could make my white hair look anything but white, so it remains tucked safely under a black cap, which will also make me look more like a boy than a girl. I hope. So many I hopes, and I bite my tongue, keeping my eyes on the guard.

  His eyes flash over me, one brow lifting in an expression that makes my blood freeze solid in my veins. “And what kind of work are you meeting this man for, girl?” he sneers.

  His comrades perk up. The fact that they know I’m a girl isn’t ideal, but that’s the part of my disguise I’m least worried about—if they knew I’m a Winterian, it would be a hundred kinds of bad.

  I draw in a calming breath and pull up the coyest smile I can manage, angling my body slightly toward him. “Work you can’t afford,” I reply, throwing him a wink and strutting past them into the city. I hold my breath, waiting for them to shout at me to stop, waiting for one of them to run after me and try to convince me that actually he can afford it. But all I hear is a roar of laughter, and one of the guards applauds.

  “Make our king proud!” he shouts, and I hurry into the city, leaving the jeering soldiers far behind before disgust or fear can creep up on me at what I just did.

  I yank my focus back to the task at hand. The port on the northeastern coastal tip of Spring, Lynia is sleepy and calm and lacking any hint of Spring’s usual brutality, mainly because the closest Winterian work camp is a day’s ride inland. Angra can’t have damaged, hollow Winterian slaves sullying Spring’s image when trading ships from other kingdoms dock here. Lynia’s peace is only a mask painted on so the rest of the world can pretend that cracked and withered hands didn’t make the goods they buy.

  The streets around the gate aren’t exactly busy, but they aren’t empty either. A few taverns stand in halos of firelight, the ruckus of laughter and music emanating in muffled bursts from within. A handful of drunkards stumbles from tavern to tavern, but that’s it. As if the rest of Lynia would rather stay tucked in their beds than partake in nighttime frivolities.

  I’ve been in enough of Primoria’s cities to know this isn’t normal—most cities stay loud and bright even after the sun sets, and sneaking through them is all too easy. But in Spring, everything is quieter and more tense. If I stand still and hold my breath, I can practically feel Angra’s evil. The way he uses his conduit’s magic to pour devotion into his people, so that every Spring citizen responds to every situation like the guard: “Make our king proud.”

  Other kingdoms use their conduits as they should be used—to enhance the already existing strengths of their lands and people. To make fields yield a plethora of fruit, to make soldiers strong, to make sick people healthy. But Angra uses his conduit to enhance the bad—to snuff out anything good unless it benefits him. To make every soul in his kingdom an empty shell of servitude.

  I duck down a deserted alley, heart pumping adrenaline in thick rivers through my body, but I don’t slow my pace, even as I reach the stack of crates against a wall at the end. In a burst of movement I’m up the crates, scaling the wall, and rolling onto the tiles of the roof next to me, a handful of stories in the air. Spring soldiers may find Lynia’s deserted streets easier to patrol, but spotting enemy soldiers on rooftops is a slightly more difficult task.

  Chunks of tile crumble under my boots as I push into a sprint, a breath away from the edge of the roof and three stories of night air. I launch into the void, black cloak fluttering behind me through a smokestack’s bitter cloud. The next roof slides under me like a field beneath a horse’s hooves, nothing but speed and the jolt of running feet meeting solid ground. I drop-roll into the shadow of a chimney and wait a moment, holding my breath. No shouts of alarm. No clanking of armor moving closer.

  Towering over the city, I have an unobstructed view of the land beyond Lynia’s walls. The silhouette of the Klaryns paints jagged black teeth across the southern horizon, a quiet, sleeping beast that watches over all the Seasons—the Summer Kingdom farthest west, Autumn next, then Winter, and finally the Spring Kingdom on the Destas Sea. I wish we could see each other as the mountains see us—resting side by side in the arms of a watchful giant instead of separated, divided, enemies. If we did, maybe together we could find the way back into the chasm of magic.

  My fingers run over my pocket, Mather’s lapis lazuli ball tucked against my thigh, and I growl at myself. Sir would have slapped me across the back of my head by now to get me to refocus on what I’m doing, instead of what might be done.

  I clear the next rooftops without a problem, angling my progress toward the Keep under the blue-black sky. The only thing that concerns me now is the shadow scaling the western wall of the tower. Finn should be a horrible soldier, but for whatever reason his short, stubby blob of Winterian girth has outdone my only slightly taller stick figure of Winterian agility on every mission we’ve worked together.

  Without hesitation I fling myself from the last roof to a horizontal pole protruding from the side of the tower, Spring’s flag rippling below me, a black sun against a yellow background. Random things, these flagpoles—almost as though the architects included them in the design should enemy soldiers need a quick way to get inside. When we rebuild Winter, there won’t be flagpoles on buildings. Anywhere. Period.

  Windowsill, balcony, windowsill, pole—I leap in this pattern until I reach the highest balcony. The warm, orange glow of firelight pours through a gap in the center of thick curtains, and Finn is already there, perched on the balcony ledge, grinning at me.

  I swing up across from him and mouth, I hate you.

  He grins more widely.

  We hold for a moment, listening for any signs of life within the room. According to Sir, this room is the city master’s office. No noise echoes back to us except for the steady crackle of a fire and the gentle whooshing of the curtains dusting the stone floor in the breeze. I glance over my shoulder, surveying the night below us. From the balcony, it’s a straight drop to the street with a few windowsills along the way. Another escape route to keep in mind—from the Keep, at least.

  We ease onto the balcony floor and inch toward the curtains. Finn peeks through a gap, his eyes flickering in the golden glow, before he nods to me. The room is empty.

  Adrenaline makes me twitchy with excitement as I grab one of the curtains, pull it back, and slip inside the office.

  The fireplace in the back corner roars, stoked high with logs—the city master must plan on returning soon. High-backed chairs stand in a circle on a lush scarlet rug before the fire, and a desk leans against one wall. Above the desk hangs an old yellowed map that shows the kingdoms of Primoria surrounded by the Destas Sea to the east, the endless Rania Plains sweeping between the kingdoms and out to the west, and impassable mountains to the north and south. A few sconces hang on the walls, but that’s it—simple and straightforward. I make for the desk while Finn, still on the balcony, keeps an eye on the closed office door.

  Most of the drawers are unlocked, cluttered with quills and ink jars and blank pieces of parchment. My fingers fly through the odds and ends, sorting and searching as noiselessly as I can. The information Sir gave us just before we left flies across my mind and helps calm my racing heart: We were able to steal a map of the Keep; we think they’re hiding it somewhere underneath it, in a cellar, maybe. Wherever it is, it’ll be locked, so find the key first, most likely in
the city master’s office.

  I repeat those words in my head as I fly through drawers, look under papers, shuffle ink jars. Nothing.

  Finn hisses just as voices waft toward me from beyond the door—someone’s coming.

  Panic leaps through me, dizzying surges of adrenaline that make it difficult to sort through everything carefully. I slide the last drawer closed, the voices outside close enough that I can make out a few words—“So honored to have you”; “Welcome, Herod.”

  I stumble into the desk, body convulsing with dread as I meet Finn’s eyes across the room. My mouth forms the question Herod?

  Finn beckons me to hurry. Nothing about his demeanor changes, his forty-two years making him slightly more adept than I am at controlling emotions. But it isn’t just emotions that swell inside of me at the name. Memories slam through my head, one after another, gore and horror and fear all stemming from General Herod Montego.

  I push away the images of our soldiers stumbling back into camp with bones protruding from their chest, delirious with pain, and I grab onto Sir’s advice: Focus on the goal. Don’t get sidetracked. Don’t let fear take hold of you—fear is a seed that, once planted, never stops growing.

  No fear—not now, not here. I scan the desktop once more in desperation, the sound of laughter coming from just beyond the door. They’re right outside—

  A letter, tucked under a heavy iron paperweight in the shape of a wildflower. I grab the letter without pausing to consider what it is and dive for the balcony, boots swishing across the stone floor. One breath after I’m outside, after the curtain flutters back into place, one breath after they would’ve seen my shadow flicker on the stone, the door opens, and voices barrel toward us.

  Finn peers through the slit between the curtains, holding up his hand, flashing fingers to tell me how many he sees. Five soldiers. Two servants. Four nobles.

  He drops his eyes to the paper in my hand and nods me along, half his focus on the conversation behind the curtain.

  I shift in my crouch across from him and take deep, calming breaths before staring at the paper. My hands stop shaking enough that I can hold it in the slit of firelight.

  Report: To all Spring Officials

  Work Camp Population Statistics

  Abril Camp: 469

  Bikendi Camp: 141

  Zoreon Camp: 564

  Edurne Camp: 476

  The document goes on to describe how many deaths, how many births, what things were built by what camps. But my hands are shaking again, and I can’t focus on the words.

  These are the Winterian statistics in Spring’s work camps. The numbers are … people.

  I touch the numbers, my fingers trembling. Such small amounts. Did we know it was this bad? I suspected it was—Sir’s lessons on the fall of Winter are graphic. The way he described how Angra planned the attack, as if he knew Winter would fall on that day, how he stationed every soldier he had throughout Winter, moving them in secret until everything exploded in one unavoidable sweep of destruction. There was nowhere to run—Angra blocked off any retreat into Autumn, or the Klaryns, or the northern Feni River. He barricaded us in our own kingdom, and when he broke the locket, when our soldiers had no magic-given strength to help them stand against Angra, we fell. Only twenty-five of us managed to escape.

  I feel the weight of that now. Seeing the statistics proved what Sir has been saying for years—every day, we’re teetering on the edge of Winterians being nothing more than memories.

  “I trust my king, I do,” a voice booms within the room. I snap my head up, all the adrenaline and fear warping into anger. Finn tightens his lips in warning, and I thrust the paper at him in response.

  “And I know it was scheduled to be here longer,” the voice continues. “But I want it out of my city. Tonight. Before any more Winterian scum descends upon us.”

  The city master. I exhale. The locket half is still here—we haven’t lost it yet. My relief is short lived when Finn scans the paper, looks back up at me, and the expression he gives isn’t fear or shock—it’s just pain. Regret.

  My eyes widen. Did you know how bad it is? I mouth.

  He tucks the paper into his belt and bobs his head once. Yes, he knew. Everyone in camp probably knows. It’s just one of the things they don’t talk about, one of the too painful parts of our past. And I knew too—I just didn’t have exact numbers in my head to fuel my rage.

  Herod laughs, and my nerves flare higher. Killing him is going to feel so good.

  “Calm yourself. It will be gone within the hour.”

  “It’s safe here.” A different voice. Probably one of Lynia’s councilmen. “I don’t care if the Winterians know it’s here. Lynia can keep it protected far better than any other city—”

  “Silence!” the city master shouts.

  But Herod chuckles. “Ambitious, your man.”

  “Not ambitious,” the councilman corrects. I hear a rustling as someone walks across the room. My heart ricochets around my ribs—they’re going to the desk. Will they notice that the paper is gone? “Certain. The safe we built for it—it’s perfect. The Keep above—”

  Perfect: the exact location of the locket half. Sir was right—it’s under the Keep.

  A harsh movement from within is followed by the crack of the councilman’s face meeting Herod’s fist. Bodies move, chairs fall, and amidst the ruckus Herod’s voice rises.

  “Do not speak of its location! That was our arrangement—you hide it and never breathe a word of the location. It isn’t safe so long as that boy breathes.”

  I bristle. Mather will keep breathing so long as I am breathing, you murderer.

  But the councilman doesn’t react. Something shuffles, and I realizes it’s papers on the desktop, the thunk of a paperweight. I widen my eyes at Finn, who grimaces before the councilman even speaks.

  “The—” he starts, clearly confused. “Something’s missing.”

  A pause, then a growl resonates in the stillness. I can taste Herod’s fury on the air as his growl morphs into three words that make my heart plummet through the balcony.

  “We aren’t alone.”

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  4

  BOOTS POUND ACROSS the room. The curtain flashes open as Finn and I leap, dropping face-first off the balcony and into the cool night.

  “Winterians!” Herod screams. “Lock it down now!”

  In the seconds of free falling before I hit the ground, I find myself faced with two options. Continue my fall, drop into a roll on the street, and make all haste out of Lynia on the hope that we can get back in later, or cling to the building and find a way inside. Key or not, we’re still so close to the locket half that something as small as a jagged piece of metal shouldn’t stop us. But the plan was that if either of us ran into trouble, Finn and I were to regroup outside of the city. If we leave now though, getting back in will be impossible. They’ll move the locket half without hesitation, and we’ll be back where we started.

  My body makes the decision before I do. The rock wall shreds my fingers as I scramble against it, and two windowsills fly past before I find purchase on one, body jerking to a halt, wrists screaming at having to support my weight so abruptly. I flail, arrows barely grazing my kicking legs and straining arms as I scramble against the rock, searching for footholds, and use a few chipped pieces of mortar to pull myself up and over the windowsill.

  The window pops inward and I tumble inside, blinking in the darkness until my vision adjusts. Please don’t let this room be anything with soldiers inside. Maybe a kitchen, or a nice cozy bedchamber, or—I look around wildly—a storage room. It’s a storage room, empty but for stacks of shadowed crates in the narrow, lightless space. Perfect.

  Outside, Herod’s voice carries, screaming about Lynia’s failures. I peek over the windowsill and spot Finn’s plump shadow skirting into an
alley. He pauses, face caught in a ray of moonlight as he scans the area. He doesn’t see me, and I don’t want to draw any Spring attention by waving. He’ll go back to camp now, I know—another of our protocols. If one of us goes missing, the other is to leave immediately.

  Before I realize the full extent of what I’ve done, how alone I am now, Finn’s gone. He’ll get back to camp and tell Sir I vanished in the chaos, and Sir will growl something about how he never should have let me go in the first place.

  I have to prove him wrong.

  My arms are too rubbery from my windowsill catch to throw my chakram, so I settle for the curved knives hidden in my boots. One in each hand, I creep across the narrow storage room. The door pops open easily enough and I fly out, knives ready, heart racing.

  But the hall is empty, lit only by a few widely spaced sconces on the walls. The floor slopes up to the right and down to the left. I run to the left, the sounds of chaotic anger closing in on me from above. No doubt Herod’s rushing down the Keep, shouting to the men below that I’m coming. Too bad I’ll beat him there.

  A few stories later, I stumble out of the wrapping hall into the center receiving room, a grand affair draped in gray stone and heavy green curtains. The late night works in my favor—there are no men here. They’re all with the city master.

  Herod’s shouts echo from up the hall, closer and closer. I scan the room, my pounding pulse choking any air from getting into my lungs, leaving me gasping as I survey each corner. A door nearly three stories tall shoots into the air on my left—the exit, most likely. I do a quick count—four other doors branch off of the room, two closed, two open. The two open ones show a long dining room and a small, dark kitchen. That leaves the two closed doors.

  I slide one of my knives into my sleeve and attack the first door. It pops open without a fight and I stumble into … somewhere really, really bad.

  To my left and right stretch two long rows of cots, most filled with the lumpy bulks of sleeping soldiers. A barracks for the Keep’s guards. Terror makes sweat slick down my back, candlelight pouring in behind me from the chandelier that hangs over the center receiving room, and I chirp in surprise, then immediately smack my hand over my mouth. No one moves for a moment, and just when I think I might get by, Herod’s shout barrels into me, only a story or two above.