by Sara Raasch
A close-range fight. I choke on a sob at the sudden memory of Mather sparring with me, of Sir refusing to let me go on missions until I got better at it, and now here I am—my life, and Theron’s, depends on me killing Herod at close range.
“Drop it,” Herod hisses. His left pupil lies sightlessly in a mess of purple and red, his right eye fierce and fuming.
Theron doesn’t flinch, just keeps his dark eyes fixed on me. His lip curls and his eyes shine with panic, mouth moving in four small words. Don’t listen to him.
I keep my chakram up, my body prepared for attack. The fingers of my other hand grope over Herod’s desktop. Something else, please, something—
At that exact, perfect moment, a siren echoes over Abril, a panicked screech calling all soldiers to their stations and all generals to their posts. Herod’s face spasms at the noise but he doesn’t move. The siren wails again and he growls, a low bubble telling me his focus isn’t entirely here. It’s on his king, who is probably using his dark magic to tell his highest-ranking general to get to his post, to leave his toy for later and obey his ruler.
My fingers close over something. An ink jar. Perfect.
I flick my arm out when Herod’s attention jerks to the door for one perfect, distracted second, the jar twirling through the air like a black shooting star. Ink trails around it, painting the air between us until it pops against Herod’s jaw. He jerks back enough that Theron is able to duck away and rip the knife out of his hand. Herod claws at the air but Theron drops to the ground, darts out of the way, giving me a clear shot at Herod’s neck.
The chakram leaves my hand. As it flies I follow it, closing the space between Herod and me until it licks through Herod’s neck, the force of my throw making it rebound into my hands as I leap off the floor. The chakram hitting Herod shocks him backward and I’m already soaring toward him, weapon rising above my head. Herod’s one good eye blinks up at me, ink dripping down his cheek.
The two of us fall onto the floor, my knees slamming into his stomach. My chakram’s worn wooden handle cradles in my palms like it never left as I slide the blade into Herod’s skull, the vibration ringing up my arm. It rises, blood trailing the metal. And down again, bone rending.
You are weak, Herod. You don’t exist beyond the things you let Angra make you do.
I should be killing Angra, not Herod. Herod is just a pawn. But he doesn’t deserve to live.
You are weak.
Meira, stop!
Hannah. Cold sucks my breath away as hands grab my arms.
“Meira!” Theron pulls me back and we collapse in a tangled ball of limbs and tears and blood. He broke the chains with Herod’s dagger and pulls me into his arms now, cradling me and stroking my hair and whispering my name over and over, the lull of his voice rocking me away from this horror. Like the rush of morning light that floods a dark room after a night of endless, mindless terror, sending reminders that the world is not a completely awful place. That even screaming children awaken from nightmares.
Theron tightens his hold on me and I realize that I am screaming, my voice pinching in strangled sobs. I drop my chakram on the floor and bury my face in Theron’s shirt, wanting to splinter into fragments of myself and disintegrate into him. I don’t think it’s possible for him to hold me any tighter but he does, his arms clasped around me, impenetrable walls that envelope my body as the smell of blood washes over me.
I killed Herod.
“Meira,” Theron says again, just my name, like it’s all he knows how to say. “Meira.”
He kisses my forehead, my hair, my neck, keeping my face pressed into his chest and away from the mangled corpse of Herod at our feet. He’s dead. He’s gone.
Something on the edge of my mind, something distant and numb, urges me to pull back from Theron. I look up at him until he comes into focus, his dark eyes, the bruises on his face, the dried blood on his forehead. The small shadow of a smile on his lips, still trying to offer comfort in a place so horrible.
“We’ll be all right,” he says. Us. Together, we’ll be all right.
Theron pulls me to my feet, keeping my back to Herod’s body. I watch his eyes dart to the bloody corpse behind me. I don’t even know what I did to Herod. I don’t remember anything but the feel of my chakram, slick with blood.
I’m coated in blood—my pathetic cotton shirt, the torn pants I wore under my armor for Bithai’s battle. It’s splattered all over my face, my hair, but I can’t bring myself to touch it to wipe it off.
“What now?” I close my eyes and draw in a calming breath, focusing on how the air flows into my lungs, fills me up. Alive. I’m alive.
And Angra will never be able to use Herod to hurt anyone again.
I don’t think what I saw in Sir when he killed people was ease. What I saw was what I’m feeling now—tired and sad and even more connected to the endless strands of life. But not regret. I don’t regret killing Herod.
I wish I could tell Sir all of this. I wish I could talk to him about everything.
Theron backs up a step, and when I open my eyes he’s surveying Herod’s room. A wardrobe in the corner catches his attention and he marches toward it. The doors swing open, light from the windows spilling over an array of clothes and shoes and weapons.
“What’s next,” Theron says, “is we join my father’s army and free your people.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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29
THERE’S NO TIME to find proper battle gear or steal something from Angra’s armory, so we divide the weapons in Herod’s room between us and I take clothes from the wardrobe. Theron busies himself with strapping knives to his shins while I peel out of my blood-soaked clothes and put on Herod’s too-big shirt and pants. There’s a black leather vest I tighten around the shirt and a thick belt that keeps the pants up. It’s ridiculous for a battle, far too baggy and loose and about as protective as running around stark naked. And it belongs to Herod, which makes my stomach roll with the same nausea I get when I feel his blood drying on my skin.
When my chakram settles in its familiar holster between my shoulder blades, I’m able to breathe for the first time in weeks. Like I’m never truly whole without it. Coupled with the knife and dagger I strap to my waist, I’m as prepared for war as I can be.
Theron hefts a sword in one hand, a dagger in the other. “Ready?”
I nod. He approaches the door to Herod’s chamber and opens it a crack, surveying the hall beyond. I take one determined step after him, keeping my eyes on Theron’s back and the two crisscrossing knives strapped over his spine. Not on the body still in the center of the room, the unmoving mass of darkness and blood that pulls at my mind like an anchor on a boat.
Theron looks back at me. He is an anchor too. Something to hold on to when all other things drag me down.
I nod again. “Let’s go.”
The hall is empty. No soldiers, no frantic, running servants. It’s quiet and desolate, as if we’ve already won and Spring has fled.
Theron creeps ahead of me, his blades ready, while I slide the chakram into my hand. The farther we get from Herod’s room, the more chaos bubbles up. Clumps of outfitted men sprint between rooms, servants bustle down hallways and keep as out of sight as possible. Theron and I duck under wall hangings, hide behind statues and plants, as we weave our way out of the darkness.
After what feels like a lifetime of this hide-and-run through the palace, we reach a narrow servant’s staircase that shoots down, doors open to reveal the entryway to the palace. We slide down the stairs and pause behind the open door, listening for movement in the hall.
Theron’s hand gropes for mine in the dim stairwell, the hilt of his knife pressing into the back of my hand when he squeezes. “We leave the palace,” he whispers. “Wherever my father approaches, we run in the opposite direction. Abril’s wall will be less patrolled there and
we can—”
“Leave Abril,” I finish, my voice trembling.
Theron looks back at me, his face dropping like he knows what I’m going to say next. “We will free your people, I promise you. But you’re no good to them if you’re dead.”
I shake my head and pull my hand out of his, heart pumping ice through my veins. I start to protest, tell him I have to go to the Winterians, have to help them because I’m their conduit and it’s my duty. I start to tell him again. I’m Winter’s queen, all this time. I’m—
But Theron shifts his attention for a beat to the hall, where a stomping group of soldiers files past, into the throne room. The hall quiets in their wake, empty, and he pulls back to me, not seeming to care about anything beyond the way his eyes lock on mine with a gentle intensity.
“I never wanted to be a king.” Theron’s voice is low and quick, cutting through me with urgency. “I wanted to sit in my library and write until the sun fell from the sky. But you—this—the Winterians, your entire kingdom, gone in a heartbeat—it’s made me realize how I would feel if Cordell ever fell like that, if I ever lost something so much a part of me. I don’t want myself anymore. I want to be someone worthy of my kingdom. I want to be someone worthy of you.”
My whole body lights up with a wondrous chill that amplifies when Theron slides his hand around the back of my neck. He draws my face up to his and pauses, some of his certainty fading in the realization of what he’s doing and how close we are to each other. His fingers curl against the back of my neck and I stare up at him, waiting, unable to move or breathe or think beyond the way his lips part in an exhale, so close to mine.
Then he falls into me, his mouth collapsing over my own. A moan eases out of my throat as I grab at the emotions that fly through my body like flurries of snow in the wind. Fear we’ll be caught by Angra’s men; ecstasy at the burst of comfort and need that swirls off his lips; and a steady flicker of shock that this isn’t at all shocking, that I’ve been waiting for this to happen all along—our lips and tongues and his fingers pulling in my hair, desperation exploding out of us in a few too-short seconds of needing each other.
He pulls back, gasping through a rapid array of emotions before he nods firmly, decisively. “Go to them, but don’t die. Primoria needs people like you,” he finishes, and dashes into the empty hallway, leading the way to the two large front doors, blades glinting for hidden enemies. My body follows but my mind is stuck on the feel of his lips on mine. Beautiful and equal, gentle and certain, making me cold and warm all at once.
We ease out the doors and slink down the great obsidian steps, not stopping once our feet hit the rolling expanse of Angra’s lawn. It’s empty here too, all soldiers either guarding Angra inside or busy at the front gate, where the firing of cannons echoes back at us. Theron shoots me a small smile of reassurance before he flies across the lush grass, running and running for cover at the north end of Angra’s palace complex. From there, he’ll go east, opposite his father’s approaching army.
But my path lies southwest.
My feet move before I realize I’m running, the palace complex whooshing past me in a blur of black and green. I leap over the garden Nessa and her brothers have been working in for weeks. The entire area is empty, no soldiers or workers. It’s still the middle of the day, the sun high and bright, with plenty of light left to force out a few more hours of work. But no one is here, so that must mean they’re in the camp, a panicked switch in their daily routine, or—
I won’t think about or.
Anxiety pushes me faster as I twist out a side gate and fly into Abril.
This part of the city is not so empty. Spring’s upper-class citizens prepare their houses, servants and stable hands nailing planks of wood over windows at their masters’ orders. They don’t care when I run by, don’t even flinch in my direction when the whir of white and black flashes past them. I scale the side of a bridge and I’m gone, leaving them to their worries.
The bridge drops me into the lower part of the city. I surge down alleys, leap over piles of trash. The residents of these buildings stay exactly where I’ve always seen them—huddled behind windows, peeking out of doorways, staying out of the way in the hope that life passes them without too much notice. As if they don’t acknowledge the approaching battle, it can’t hurt them.
One last bend up ahead will put me right in front of the entrance to Abril’s work camp. I slow to a walk, holding my breath to keep from gasping for air. It may be empty in this alley, but it’s not quiet—noises filter to me from up ahead. Soldiers shout orders at each other, and beyond their mangled barks lies the hum of people in confusion. My people.
The words feel wrong, like they don’t belong to me, like I’m not worthy of calling them that. But it doesn’t matter what I call them, what they call me. I have the ability to free them, therefore I have the responsibility to free them. That’s all that matters now.
That’s all that has ever mattered.
I stop parallel to the corner. One more step, Meira. Just one more.
I march onto the road, my chakram dangling like a harmless toy from my hands. Five buildings in front of me, the gate is madness. Spring soldiers on the outside throw blades and fists against the bending, creaking metal, punching back the swell of Winterians who push against the other side. The Winterians cry and scream, flinching against the blows. They’re confused, jerked out of their routine of work and forced back into their prison in chaos.
The first soldier drops without a fight. My chakram whizzes across the back of his neck, severing the top of his spine from his skull, and thunks back into my palm as the man collapses on the soldier next to him, pulling attention to me. First the dead man’s neighbor, then the man next to him, then every soldier charged with keeping order in the work camp. All eyes are on me, one lone Winterian girl against a whole battalion.
One soldier steps forward, his thick sword dinged with age and use. “Herod’s toy escaped,” he sneers.
“Herod’s toy killed him,” I respond, and a satisfying flash of shock takes over his face.
Another voice cracks out over the street. “Meira, run!”
My eyes flick behind the line of soldiers to the gate. Conall presses against the iron, the wire leaving streaks of blood on his cheeks and arms. He’s panicked, seeing me on the street. There’s a light in his eyes now, a light so different from his usual hatred that I have to be imagining it.
But no—it’s hope. He wants me to live.
Angra senses it too. He knows somehow, this hope they all have, and the Spring soldiers fly at the gate in one organized mass, raising all their weapons at the same moment. A strangled moan pops out of my lungs. Angra’s dark magic. He’s told them to—
They start striking to kill now. Jabbing their blades through the metal, stabbing chests and necks, no longer mere warning blows. I can feel Angra’s order pulsing out of their driven bodies: slaughter them.
My chest numbs, and for once I know what it is. Cold, icy cold, darting out to my shoulders and rushing down to my fingers. The conduit’s power rushes around me, surging in and out of my body like an uncontrollable snowstorm, churning and dancing and begging to coat the world in glorious white.
Winter has a conduit now too. And we won’t be weak anymore.
I drop my chakram at my feet and shoot my hands out, fingers stretching to the Winterians in front of me. The cold blasts out of me, an eruption of such perfect chill that I wonder if I’m nothing more than a snowstorm now, a great twirling column of snowflakes. The cold rushes around the Spring soldiers and plunges through the gate, flooding every frail, white-haired body, every pair of wide blue eyes, every bleeding, tired soul with strength, power, energy, healing their bruises and soothing their cuts and making them stronger, stronger, stronger—
The magic pours until every free space in every body is filled with strength. Their eyes shine brighter, their bodies stand straighter, their fists clench tighter. Cold and frost, so much beautiful
power that when the icy sensation stops, I’m left gasping in the aftermath of such wonder. Adrenaline courses through me, blissfully combatting the pull of exhaustion that makes me sway forward under all the power I just exerted.
The Winterians scream, something far beyond their cries of pain and anguish, something breaking out of them in a rush of freedom. The Spring soldiers’ attack pauses in the echoing war cry from their prisoners. And the Winterians, their eyes fiery with life, slam forward, tearing through the gate with a frantic determination.
“Attack!” a Spring soldier cries, and charges at me.
I hook my chakram with my boot and kick it into the air, grabbing it and launching it in a great spin of death into the approaching stampede of Spring soldiers. A few fall as my chakram smacks back into my palm, but the soldiers are too close now, a few seconds from colliding with me. I return the chakram to my back and yank out Herod’s stolen sword and dagger, body coiling down. Four seconds. Three …
The farthest soldiers goes down as one, their legs falling out from under them. The next row glances back, panicked, and falls just as easily, pulled to the ground by the mad hatred of sixteen years of oppression. The Winterians rise up and over the Spring battalion in a deadly wave of destruction, tearing weapons out of hands and turning those weapons on the shocked faces of an army who never thought they would lose.
The last row of Spring soldiers reaches me, caught between fear behind them and fear ahead. My dagger goes into one’s stomach, my sword through another’s neck. I twirl through the soldiers, my body a machine of slice and stab and move and duck.
I move around one last dying man, my boots kicking up dust around me, and stop in front of Conall. He’s bloody and wild, his white hair streaked with red, his hands clasped around a pair of short knives. Beside him, Garrigan is just as untamed, a beast inside them unleashed, and behind them are the Winterians.
