Snow Like Ashes

by Sara Raasch

  Theron pivots to face him. “I must respectfully decline, General Loren.”

  Mather makes a huffing sound from behind Sir. My eyes dart to him, and we’re stuck now staring at each other while I do absolutely nothing to distance myself from Theron. Mather looks at our hands and back up at me, his face constricting into anger, regret, anger, anger, anger—

  “Is something wrong, King Mather?” Theron asks around Sir.

  Mather starts forward but Sir snaps out an arm and slams it into his chest. Mather stops, panting like he did in the sword ring. I expect some kind of guilt to sweep over me, or at the very least a rising wave of discomfort at seeing Mather. But all I feel is tired—tired of getting nothing but unreadable emotions from him. Tired of waiting on him. Tired of him.

  We don’t need another encounter like the one in the sword ring, though. I can handle this on my own. I always have.

  I pull Theron’s hand until he looks down at me. “I’ll be fine,” I promise, though it sounds strange in my own ears. I’ve never had someone worry about me during Sir’s interrogations. It makes me feel both strong and weak at the same time, like I could lean too much on him, on the support he’s offering, and lose myself behind him.

  After a moment of considering, Theron nods. He squeezes my hand once and backs away, making for the door while politely acknowledging everyone he passes.

  The door closes behind him and I have barely two seconds to inhale before someone rushes up on me. I blink, trying to focus on Sir’s face, but it isn’t Sir.

  “It’s one thing to be alone with the prince in the library,” Dendera spits. “I can almost overlook that. But his bedroom? Do you have any idea the kinds of rumors that have been circulating about you? Then you avoid us for a week after—thank the snow above that you’ve been attending those lessons, but that isn’t enough!”

  Dendera’s face is flushed, her hair sticking out in frazzled pieces like she hasn’t slept in days. Has she been worrying for this long? Both times I evaded her, she did look flustered, but I assumed it was from my avoidance of her, not from my being in Theron’s bedroom. I can see why it would be improper for normal courtly ladies, but for me it seems a tad silly. I’m still in training anyway, aren’t I? A short while ago I was covered in Lynia’s sewer gunk as I barely evaded capture—I’m lucky I’m alive to even be improper.

  “You’re joking, right?” I ask, though I have a feeling it’ll just anger her more.

  It does. She scoffs, spit flying from her mouth. “You think I’m joking?”

  Sir steps in, putting a hand on her arm to pull her attention elsewhere. “Dendera—”

  “Talk to her, William! She can’t keep doing these things! She has responsibilities now. I never see her long enough to talk to her about colors or food or decorations—”

  I shoot a glance at Sir. “What is she talking about?”

  Dendera quiets when Sir looks at me. Everyone seems to take one giant step back, like they know that whatever Sir is about to tell me isn’t going to be received well.

  Sir’s face is impassive. “That’s what we came to talk to you about, Meira,” he starts. A part of me relaxes when he doesn’t use my title, just my name. Just Meira. “The wedding is scheduled for the end of the month, and Dendera is on the committee in charge of the celebration, so she needs your cooperation—”

  “The what?” I screech. “Wait, wait, stop. The wedding? At the end of—that’s in two weeks! I’m doing the training, these stupid lessons—”

  Sir keeps going, ignoring my outburst. “She needs you to cooperate. There’s still a lot to be done if we’re to cement this alliance.”

  I stare at him. At all of them. Everyone watching me and backing him up and—

  Mather won’t look at me now. His back is to me as he clutches the piano, head down, the muscles in his shoulders moving under his shirt as his grip tightens on the polished black lid.

  “So that’s it?” I whisper. It catches on tears in my throat, tears that come when I realize this is how my life will be now, and I should have expected the wedding to happen quickly, what with how close we are to getting our conduit back. But I can’t even present some great revelation about magic and how it works and what they need to do with the conduit and how Hannah’s been talking to me because Hannah hasn’t been talking to me and I can’t even read a stupid book and I’ve been spending all my time learning how to use fancy forks.

  There’s nothing else. This is really all I can do. I can’t think of anything else.

  Sir’s face finally breaks a little. His lips twitch, his eyes redden.

  But I shake my head before he can say anything. “Fine. That’s fine. I assume plans are all set? Noam’s ready to send men down with you to Spring to get the other locket half?”

  No one says anything, and their not saying anything pushes me to talk faster, harder, more certain, grabbing on to the hole in their otherwise solid wall of superiority.

  “That has to be it, right? Because I can’t imagine you’d be in such a rush to get me into this if Noam wasn’t also keeping up his end of the deal? If preparations weren’t being made on both ends?”

  Dendera flinches. Her eyes dart to Sir, and Finn looks at Sir, and everyone looks at Sir because he’s the one who’s supposed to lead us through this.

  His jaw tightens. “Noam will uphold his end of the bargain when we have fulfilled ours.”

  I run Sir’s words through my head. Noam isn’t doing anything to help us. He’s just letting us pretend that he’s going to fulfill his end while Dendera and Alysson and Finn and everyone stares at me like I’m some doll they’re playing with.

  I snarl at Sir. “No.”

  Sir reaches for me but I shove through his grip, pushing by everyone—Dendera, who shouts something about floral arrangements, and Alysson, who says something about calming down, and Mather, who says nothing because that’s what he does, he just stands there while I’m supposed to close my eyes and obey.

  If I have to close my eyes and obey, Noam does too.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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

  16

  AS I FLY out of the library and down the hall, Theron unfolds himself from the wall beside the door and falls into step beside me.

  “You didn’t tell me they were already planning our wedding,” I snarl as I march, working my way to the ballroom and from there, to Noam’s study. “I guess I should have realized we wouldn’t have a lot of time to get to know each other.”

  Theron keeps pace with me. He throws a glance behind us and I follow his gaze, my eyes locking on the herd of Winterian refugees behind us. Sir is at the lead, and when I look back at him his face darkens.

  “Meira, stop. You are better than this!” Sir shouts. Mather grabs his arm and says something that stops the procession from following me any farther. A wave of gratitude flies through me for half a breath before I shoot around a corner and lose them.

  “I’m sorry,” Theron says when it’s just us hurrying down the hall. “I didn’t want to tell you until I had a chance to talk my father into delaying it.” He spins around a corner after me and nearly smashes into a servant carrying a tray of vases. The servant cries out, both of them fly in opposite directions, and miraculously nothing falls as Theron continues down the hall beside me.

  “Why does he think he can pull strings and make us dance around like this?” I growl.

  Theron doesn’t say anything.

  When we get to the ballroom I soar down the stairs. Halfway across the floor Theron realizes where I’m going and flings himself in front of me, walking backward because I don’t stop.

  “Meira, this isn’t going to fix anything—”

  “Don’t care.”

  “I’ve talked to him every day since he announced the engagement; if I can’t change his mind—”

  I grit my teeth. “I. Don’t. Care.”

>   Theron stops walking and I dart around him. I don’t think; I don’t do anything as Noam’s study looms in front of me. All I know when I pound my fist on the closed door is that I am so, so tired of this. So tired of Noam and Herod and Sir and Angra and all these arrogant, puppet-master men who hold all the strings and refuse to give them up. Life could be so easy if they would just let it go, if they would just let me go, because I am so tired of this….

  I slam my fist on the door again. “Noam!” I shout.

  No answer.

  I try the handle. Unlocked. Stupid king.

  “Meira, wait—”

  Sir has finally caught up to me, as has everyone behind him, all staring like I’m an escaped animal from Bithai’s menagerie. Sir takes a step forward and I snarl. Maybe I am an escaped animal, and maybe they should look at me with that little flicker of fear. This is who I am, isn’t it? The untamed, unpredictable, useless orphan girl. I don’t want to hate them this much. I don’t want to blame them for this. But I do, and that hating and blaming makes my chest burn until I think I might incinerate from the inside out.

  “Congratulations, everyone,” I announce as I open the door to Noam’s study. “You’ve finally broken Meira, the crazy, orphaned soldier-girl. She’s snapped, all thanks to the mention of floral arrangements.”

  Dendera whimpers but I put her behind me as I step into the study. Noam isn’t in here. No one is. A desk sits directly in front of the door with tall auburn bookcases all around, mimicking the dark and cozy aura of the entryway just behind me. Papers and quills and ink jars clutter the top of the desk, books sit on stacks of other books and a ledger leans open on a stand.

  “He’s not here, Meira,” Sir says behind me. “Leave this—”

  He puts a hand on my arm, reaching over the threshold to me.

  Don’t you dare touch me.

  I snarl at him. “You can’t order me around. You aren’t my father, Sir.”

  I slam the door on him before he responds. Before anyone responds. Before they realize I’ve locked the door and barricaded myself in Noam’s study and my little tantrum just went from little to really, really big.

  “Meira!” Sir shouts from the other side of the door. He slams his fist against it and jiggles the knob and slams again. “Open this door right now! Do you have any idea of the consequences of breaking into the Cordellan king’s study—”

  Alysson and Dendera start shouting too. I swear I hear Finn, Henn, and Greer chuckle, but I could just be imagining it in my delirious tantrum state.

  I drop into Noam’s chair. What am I doing? I do know the consequences of breaking into the Cordellan king’s study and locking myself in here, because if he finds out—when he finds out—I’m pretty sure my time in Cordell will be spent in prison, if anything. Not that Noam’s helping us now.

  Or is he?

  I grab the ledger off the stand and flip through it, looking for some clue that he might actually be helping us, but the only entries are calculations for crops and trade amounts. I drop it back on the stand and look over the nearest stack of papers. Correspondences with a duke in Ventralli, complaints from a farm on the outskirts of Bithai that got flooded. I shove it all aside and start pulling open drawers. Extra quills and blank papers and—

  The top left drawer is locked.

  I pull again. It holds tight. I grab a letter opener off the table and break the lock just as a new voice joins the fray outside.

  Noam.

  “She what?” he bellows. “She’s your charge, William; your responsibility. I give you shelter and aid and allow you free rein of my palace, and this is how Winter repays me? By Cordell’s golden leaves, I swear I will—”

  I rip open the drawer to papers, lots of papers, and grab the first one. Calculations for iron? The next looks similar but shows estimates for precious gems. Another is a map of—mines? Winter’s mines, dozens of lines swirling through an aerial view of the Klaryns. And then …

  A letter.

  Every bit of frustration, the tantrum I just had, floats up out of me. All that’s left is the steady pulse of realization, the dull, empty thud that echoes through my chest with each word on each page of this letter.

  Copy. Original Sent the First Month of Proper Autumn.

  To the King of the Spring Kingdom,

  Cordell is now joined with Winter on the promise of engagement. My son and heir, Prince Theron Haskar, will take as his wife a surviving female refugee of Winter. I hereby enforce Cordell’s ownership of Winter and all its holdings as now owned by Spring through a binding and unbreakable contract of proprietorship through marriage.

  Due to Cordell’s newfound authority in Winter, I am also prepared to offer Spring the trade of the heir of Winter, Mather Dynam, as a show of good faith.

  I’m shaking so hard I can’t see the words on the letter anymore.

  Noam betrayed us. He’s going to sell us—no, not us. Mather. He’s going to sell Mather to Angra so that Angra will let Noam take control of our … holdings. So Noam can take the riches out of our mines and gut our kingdom until all the magic comes pouring out. So Noam can get what he wants because he always gets what he wants—he isn’t helping us, he’s just using our connection to start ripping through the Klaryns.

  I knew he was using us … but not this ruthlessly.

  The door to the study whooshes open, slamming into the wall and knocking books off shelves. Noam glares at me, his face so red it’s purple, one hand on the door and the other on the frame.

  “This is beyond unacceptable—” he starts, then his eyes drop to the open drawer, the letter in my hand, the others in my lap. His face gets even darker and he clears the space between the door and the desk in one giant step.

  I can’t form words through my shock as Noam’s hand winds back. His fingers curl into a fist, everything in his body morphing into muscle and strength and the dagger at his belt pulses purple, glowing as Noam’s fist barrels through the air toward me—

  “Stop!” Theron shouts.

  Color whirls, limbs flail. Noam’s pressed against a bookcase, Mather holding him there by his collar, Theron standing just behind Mather. Both of them glare up at the Cordellan king like neither would have any objections to the other maiming him.

  “To arms!” a soldier outside the study shouts and the ring of metal fills the air, swords drawn and knives unsheathed. The rest of the Winterians and five Cordellan soldiers press into the room with drawn blades.

  Theron spins on his men. “Stand down!”

  Noam grunts against Mather’s fists pressing into his neck. “Ungrateful boy! I am your father!”

  “You are a coward,” Theron hisses, so low and so soft I barely hear him above the ringing in my ears. He turns to me, his eyebrows tight above his face. “Meira, why—” but he doesn’t finish, just stares at me, calm and scared and waiting.

  Noam betrayed us.

  “Meira,” Sir growls. He pushes around the Cordellan soldiers to stand before me, his arms trembling, his eyes straining to keep his anger tucked carefully inside.

  “What have you done?” he whispers.

  I wheeze, hearing his words. “What have I done?” I pant. “What I did was ignore your obnoxious, arrogant, controlling actions for one blissful moment, and uncovered Noam’s plot against us.”

  My body goes cold as I grab onto the realization that if Sir had his way, I’d be looking at dress patterns or sitting in another etiquette lesson, not holding an incriminating letter. Not a moment away from putting an end to this charade.

  I’d be who he wants me to be, but that weak, innocent girl would never have found this.

  I shove up from Noam’s chair and thrust the letter at Sir. “I’m not sorry.”

  Mather looks back at me, then at the letter. His anger fades to confusion and he loosens his hold on Noam’s collar. Noam eases away, smoothing out his shirt, but doesn’t fight back, a satisfied smirk falling over his face as Mather joins Sir in reading the letter. Everyone else holds, the Co
rdellan soldiers still armed and ready to kill us should Noam give the word.

  I watch Sir realize it. I watch his frustration at me disappear beneath the sharp stab of knowing he failed, we failed, Noam failed us. Cordell was our only hope, and here is proof that we are, always will be, slaves upon whom other kingdoms prey.

  Sir hands the letter to Mather and turns to Noam. He doesn’t say anything, just stares at this great king who was supposed to help us. The silence in the room is oppressive as Mather hands the letter off to Finn, and soon everyone is huddled over it, reading and gasping, muscles tightening in rage.

  Noam pulls his shoulders back. “A year after Winter fell, Yakim sent a regiment of men to your kingdom. Tried to take it from the Shadow of the Seasons by force, and Ventralli tried the same thing. Did you know that? Neither let it go public. They were embarrassed, because both had identical failures—Angra slaughtered them. Every single man. The Winterian climate was too harsh, and because Ventralli and Yakim had their conduits so far away, in their respective countries, Angra had the advantage, what with his kingdom adjacent to Winter and his conduit so close. After watching my Rhythm brethren die so spectacularly, I decided on a less aggressive approach.”

  Mather’s shoulders rise and fall with each breath, his hands in fists. But his eyes are defeated, vacant, as are Sir’s and Alysson’s and everyone’s, broken and lost and unable to speak around the distress of it all.

  And Theron stands before his father. The letter is in his hands now, his face gray as his gaze swings from the words to Noam. Like he can’t decipher the meaning, or doesn’t want to.

  “I would forge an undeniable connection to Winter,” Noam continues. “One Spring could not ignore. One the other kingdoms of Primoria would not be able to argue. I’ve waited fourteen years for you to come crawling back to Bithai and accept my offer, William. The moment that boy-king of yours appeared on my doorstep, I sent the letter to Angra to smooth over any bumps Cordell might face on our way to owning Winter—and to begin building a bridge between Spring and Cordell, so that if it turns out that neither Autumn nor Winter yields an entrance into the magic chasm, Spring will let us into their kingdom too.” Noam smiles, so completely powerful. “You’d think slaughtering Hannah would have satisfied Angra’s bloodlust, but the Seasons have never been anything but barbaric. And barbarism is far too easy to predict.”