by Sara Raasch
I nod, the hollow core of the helmet clanking back and forth. It smells like sweat and old iron in here. Iron that was probably mined out of the Klaryns, that makes me feel ever so slightly more at home.
Mather vanishes into the tower without another word. I hope my disguise is convincing enough, Spring’s approaching threat distracting enough, that Sir doesn’t notice the slightly skinny soldier-boy in the room. I’m not sure what I fear more: Sir’s wrath or Angra’s.
I squint through the narrow eye slits and trail Mather up the stairs.
Seven stories later, Noam’s screaming flies at us through an open door. The great circular room is the highest in the tower, surrounded by views of the southern land beyond Bithai. High-ranking generals scatter throughout, leaning over maps or trying unsuccessfully to avert their eyes from their wailing king.
Spit flies from Noam’s mouth, his arms wave, armored body pacing nervously. His conduit sits in a metal belt at his hip, its usual place of honor.
“Damn you, William! Damn you and every single one of your white-haired nuisances. I knew I should never have let you cross my borders, let alone sacrificed my son in all of this. Damned Seasons. Good-for-nothing barbarians who refuse to surrender to stronger forces—”
I file along the wall next to two other guards. They nod at me like I’m supposed to be there. So far, so good.
“Your kind is too beyond reason to negotiate,” Noam continues. “I should have seen it before. But no, I tried to give you mercy, debased my kingdom by joining with a Season, and this is how I am repaid? Now Angra marches on me! Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t hand all of you over to Spring right now?”
The tantrum I threw hours ago seems like nothing compared to the way he stumbles around, back talking and fumbling his reasoning. Noam truly believes he was doing us a favor? He thinks we should be grateful to him. That nothing he did brought this upon us, as though he wasn’t the one who tried to negotiate with the Shadow of the Seasons.
Sir doesn’t react to any of this, leaning against the far wall and massaging the skin just above his nose. He’s never lowered himself to respond to screaming or threats—not that I have firsthand experience with that or anything.
Theron trudges into the middle of it, already tired though the true battle is hours away. “Father, stop—”
Noam whips toward him like he forgot his son would be here. “Yes! Of course, son. Break it off. Break it off now. We’re done with Winter. The engagement is dissolved.”
“No,” Theron growls, a low noise that shakes awareness into everyone in the room.
Noam frowns at him. “What?”
“No,” Theron repeats. “I meant stop making yourself look like an ass, Father.”
Sir flips his head up, hand still held absently before him, eyes wide in a shocked amusement.
Noam rears back. “Don’t tell me you—Spring is coming—they did this, they brought them here—”
“No, you brought them here. When you wrote that letter, you told Angra exactly where they were. What did you think would happen?” As Theron shouts, madness flickers in his eyes, something waking up after years of watching his father in silence. The men around him stare in wonder, clearly shocked at seeing their prince yell at their king. “That Angra would bow down to you? That he would negotiate and trade and act fairly? Angra wants to kill them. He will stop at nothing to get what he wants, and negotiating has never worked with him. You think Winter didn’t try to negotiate before it fell? You think Autumn hasn’t tried to strike a deal with him since Spring turned on them? You’d know how truly vengeful he is if you ever bothered to go to Autumn.”
I frown. Noam has never even been to Autumn, the home of his sister and niece, the place where he sends thousands of his men to fight?
“You cannot speak to me like that.” Noam throws a hand up to silence him, but Theron shoves it away.
“I can. You’ve wasted too much time already. Our men need a leader right now, someone to tell them how to survive the approaching army, not a blabbering idiot. Your great plan failed, Father. Own up to it.”
Noam’s mouth drops open. As does mine. As does every single mouth in the room.
From the trembling light in Theron’s eyes to the way his hands quake ever so slightly at his sides, he seems to be realizing how far over the edge he’s gone. “You have to do this.” His voice drops to a hiss. “I’d take that dagger from you right now if I could, but you’re still the oldest living male heir of Cordell. So act like it.”
Noam looks every bit the cornered dog, stray and wild, desperate for an escape. After a few long minutes, he relaxes, pulls his shoulders back, and looks his son in the eye.
“You’ll make a fine king. Someday.” He adds the last word like a threat.
Theron bows his head.
Noam turns to the nearest general and puts a hand on his dagger. “Your regiment will be our left flank. Have them ready. And you—right flank.”
He spouts commands like nothing happened. Like he purposefully staged his little outburst as some odd pre-battle ritual.
Theron’s shoulders slump when his father turns away, but Sir steps up beside him and murmurs something that makes Theron beam.
Mather steps up too. “That was brave.”
Theron wipes a hand down his face. He looks drained, as if he might fall over and sleep for a week. But there’s something else in his eyes now, something roaring beneath the surface.
“And should have been unnecessary.” Theron turns to Sir. “I’m sorry. For everything. Cordell is far better than—” His eyes flick to Noam. “I apologize, King Mather. General Loren.”
Sir waves him off. Behind them, Noam points at the field beyond and orders something at one of his generals.
“I agree with one thing he said,” Sir offers. “You will make a fine king, Prince Theron.”
Compliments from Sir and Mather in the span of five minutes. If it were me, I’d pass out with gratitude, but Theron just stares at the stone floor.
Sir plows right on past it too. I’ll never understand men. “For now, Mather and I are needed with our people.”
Theron nods. “Of course.”
Sir jogs down the staircase, Mather a beat behind him. As Mather passes me, he meets my eyes, and mouths, Try to stay here.
It is one of the safest places to be. Unless Angra’s cannons rip through the tower, in which case it’s a long, slow tumble to the ground.
I swallow and stand a little straighter. Noam is busy channeling power into various regiments by willing the conduit’s magic to pour into men here, officers there. The hum of the tower has switched drastically, no longer buzzing with concern or anxiety. Amazing what a calm leader can do to a group of men.
But it isn’t only Noam’s magic that’s calming them. Theron moves around the room, talking with each general, sending some off to prepare their soldiers. His serenity eases them into submission whereas his father uses brute force. Theron’s steadiness, his certainty, reminds me of someone.
He reminds me of Sir. They have the same solemn surety when faced with life-or-death situations. The same boulder-in-the-ocean stance.
Halfway across the room, Theron glances at me. Does he recognize the overstuffed armor he helped force me into?
A moment passes and a small smile uncurls his lips—not gleaming enough to arouse suspicion, just a small token that says, I’m watching out for you too.
I smile back even though he can’t see.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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18
AS THE SUN hovers a few hours past noon, I find myself with my back to Bithai’s most outlying buildings. The ones the citizens were all frantically running away from, seeking shelter within the city’s high stone walls while soldiers took up their stations on the sweeping fields of green.
Noam, Theron, and a few high-ranking generals
stayed in the tower by the gate while the rest of the men, myself included, were pulled down to add numbers to the field. The sea of soldiers stretches so far around me that I can’t see the green of Bithai’s grass, just silver armor and dark weapons and ready, waiting bodies. Cavalry take up the outer flanks, rows and rows of infantry fill the center, and two long lines of archers stand at the back on the sloping edge of Bithai’s plateau. Which is where I am, the metal crossbow loaded in my grip.
The past few hours have been filled with preparations, getting lined up and making sure everyone had proper gear. Now that everything is set, it all has time to catch up to me. I inhale, exhale, my breath heating up the helmet, my pulse hammering in my ears and echoing around the metal that encases my head. The waiting is the worst part—with food-scouting missions, I never had time to get nervous. They were so fleeting that by the time they were over, I hadn’t even realized I was supposed to feel more than a rush of adrenaline. But now, listening to my heartbeat and watching the horizon and waiting, waiting, waiting for battle—it’s horrible.
The rest of the Winterians stand behind the archers in their own group. Noam can’t help us with his conduit, can’t pour strength or will into us because we aren’t Cordellan and, therefore, remain unaffected by his magic—the same way we couldn’t affect any of his people if our conduit was whole. And we’re the reason why Spring is attacking—if we all die, it becomes a bit of a lost cause, regardless of Noam’s empty threat to hand us over to Angra.
Mather made sure to position himself a few paces behind and to my right, mounted on a horse should he need to swoop in. He hasn’t moved to make good on his own threat either, and I breathe a little easier every time I see that he hasn’t vanished to surrender to Angra. I look back at him, desperately wanting to rip off my accursed helmet. Iron smell or no iron smell, this thing’s nothing but an airless metal oven, and no Winterian likes heat.
Mather shifts on his horse, eyebrows coming together in a question. You all right?
I nod. He shifts again, says something to Sir, who shakes his head fiercely.
My body thuds with longing. I should be there, back with them, not hiding among Noam’s archers. Come battle time, when Noam wills his regiments to move one way or another, I’ll be at a loss as to which way to go. If Noam wills his archers to shoot left and I let one fly right, it’ll give me away.
I shake off my worries, refocusing on the weight of the metal crossbow in my hands and the energy surging around me. Captain Dominick sits three rows ahead in the infantry, overseeing his men on horseback. No one says a word, no one shouts orders, no one even breathes too loudly. We’re all just waiting in the heart-shattering anticipation of death marching toward us.
The sun drops lower. Lower still. It’s at this moment, when the late afternoon’s heat is barely playing with us, that a ripple runs through the men. They stand straighter, all eyes sweeping south. Spring’s army has been spotted.
I’ve never seen a Royal Conduit–led battle before. Sir told me about them, of course, reiterated Spring-versus-Winter battles in such epic detail that I could almost smell the cannon fire on the air. Through the conduit, rulers can will entire regiments to move as one, shift people around like they’re arranging items on a tabletop. It’s not a forceful push; more like a subconscious suggestion—soldiers can choose not to follow their leader’s conduit-channeled instructions. But it’s usually in the soldiers’ best interest to follow their leader’s will.
Sir’s history lessons roll through my head alongside what I read in the magic book. Each Royal Conduit is like a horse; use it too much or too quickly and it tires out, and leaders have to wait for it to rest before they can use it again. Use it too often, too aggressively and, well, we don’t know what could happen—no one has ever been stupid enough to let it dry up completely, if it even could. The monarchs can feel when the magic gets low, a tug at their instincts like that uncomfortable feeling of something wrong. And it’s a passive magic—only when the bearer consciously chooses to draw it out does it work.
If Noam uses his conduit steadily, it could give Cordell a huge advantage. Angra never leaves his palace in Spring, so Herod won’t have the same control over his men. Angra’s magic may make their minds numb with a devotion to Spring that lasts beyond Spring’s borders, but he won’t be able to tell them how to move, where to attack, when to pull back. For all our sakes, I hope that advantage is enough.
When the Cordellan soldiers perk up, we do too. I risk one more glance behind me, noting who’s here and who’s not. Alysson’s the only one missing. Which leaves seven of us. Seven. Next to Angra’s approaching army, our odds are pathetic.
The archers raise their crossbows and I fumble to match their rhythm. The crossbow is so much heavier than my chakram, bulky and dense, but I can do this. I’ve done this before. I’ve just never done this as part of an army, wearing a constricting helmet.
I keep my finger on the trigger, my breaths coming slower and slower. No one fires yet, we just keep our crossbows aimed at the sky.
“Come on,” the man next to me hisses.
His anxiety pushes at me, a flame that catches and spreads like wildfire through the group. Soon everyone is twitching for the battle to start.
Then the one sound everyone was waiting for, the one ricocheting vibration that sends everyone’s anxiety rearing higher.
Cannon fire.
A single shot comes from somewhere distant, too far away to hit anyone. A warning meant to announce Spring’s arrival. The shot fades to an echo and Spring’s army rises up over the horizon in the fading sun of the late afternoon, their soldiers nothing but a black mass that sweeps down over Cordell’s distant hills like a plague. Another cannon fires, then two more, closer and closer—
Thwack.
The archers let loose the first round. I snap to fire with them, launching my arrow in an arch over the infantry. Are they within range already? Are they close enough to—
Yes, they are. Spring’s so close, in fact, that before our arrows even complete their arches, three cannonballs rip holes in the first lines of Noam’s infantry. The black mass of Spring soldiers is close enough now that I can see them running toward us, weapons raised, a shrill war cry tearing out of their throats.
Five seconds. Four seconds. Three.
Two.
One.
The force of the two armies colliding sends a shockwave through the men. They return Spring’s war cry with screams of their own, howling into the air as the familiar numbing focus of the fight sweeps over me. I fire three more rounds along with the archers before I realize the group has split in two, half running one way and half running the other, fanning out to spread Cordell’s force.
I step to my right, second guess, then step to my left as a line of infantrymen heaves backward, slamming into me and throwing me to the ground. I roll to the side, flip around, narrowly avoiding stomping boots and clomping horse hooves as Dominick’s men move in one giant mass to the back left. Noam’s pulling them around—why?
A hand grabs my arm and before I can process who it is, I’m clinging to a saddle and hefting my leg up to straddle the rider.
“I trained you to blend in better than that,” the rider throws back at me.
I freeze, arms around Sir’s waist, cheeks warm in shame and frustration at being caught. On the bright side, I can take off the helmet now.
As I yank the metal oven off my head and toss it to the ground, Sir urges his horse to a trot behind Dominick’s regiment. They continue to pull behind the rest of the infantry, moving to the left and back. The rest of the infantry closes in to fill their gap.
“Are you going to take me back to the palace?”
Dominick’s men swing to the right, aligning themselves behind the leftmost cavalry.
“You’re going to stay with me,” Sir hisses. He motions to my crossbow. “Cut down the closest ones first. Whatever you do, whatever happens, do not stop firing.”
I yank an arrow in
to my crossbow as Sir kicks his horse into a gallop. We shoot past Dominick’s soldiers, bearing wide around the cavalrymen until we line up with the first row of riders.
“Three counts,” the cavalry captain tells Sir.
“Your mark.”
The captain raises his sword into the air. I lean around Sir, scanning the horizon for what we’re going to be fighting. And there, from Bithai’s lush green hills, a wave of nightmares rises.
Angra’s cavalry crests a hill in front of us, horses coated in armor, soldiers raising crossbows or swords or axes. More infantrymen in black sun armor run between the pounding hooves.
That’s why Noam pulled Dominick’s regiment here. On the far left, if that cavalry breaks through, they’ll be able to work their way between the rest of Noam’s army and Bithai’s gate.
Another rider gallops up beside us. Mather. He meets my eyes, steady and sure, as Spring’s riders draw nearer. Just one more hill, and they’ll be within arrow range.
“One,” the captain shouts, breaking me away from Mather’s eyes. “Two.”
I lift my crossbow into the air. This is it. I’ve been in hand-to-hand combat with small groups of Spring soldiers, but never a war. A strange calm settles over everyone, something not urged from Noam’s conduit. A deeper instinct that blocks everything else.
“Three!”
Sir and I heave forward with Noam’s cavalry. The world slows until there’s nothing more than the pounding of our horses’ hooves, the screaming of the soldiers, the wave of arrows that rises up from Spring’s archers and paints the sky with violent streaks of black.
I fire my crossbow, fire again, slowly lowering my arch as we draw closer and closer to Spring’s riders. In those final seconds before we collide, Sir reaches down and touches my leg. Mather turns to look at me, his eyes wide in the calm before the storm. I feel everything happening around me as if watching from a dream.
Years of training take over. Our horses merge seamlessly into Spring’s cavalry and arrows fly, swords slice through the air and into throats, knives lodge in chests. My crossbow sings out the hum of arrows flying, a symphony that ends in satisfying thwacks into shoulders and knees and other weak points in Spring’s armor. My crossbow isn’t a weapon I’m holding—it is me, and I am it, and the two of us bring down soldier after soldier like we were made to do nothing else.
