Frost Like Night

by Sara Raasch

  Rares hooks his arm around her neck. “What an impression, darling.”

  “Oh! I didn’t frighten you, did I?” she asks me, eyes beseeching.

  I shake my head. “You are by far the least threatening thing I’ve encountered in a while.”

  She laughs and plants a kiss on Rares. After a rather long, awkward moment of wondering if I should excuse myself while they reunite, Rares turns to me.

  “Sorry, dear heart—Meira, this is my wife, Oana.”

  Oana sweeps up the bell sleeve of her robe so it wraps around her hand before she extends it to me. I stare at it, the fabric covering her skin.

  She starts. “A formality in Paisly, you see. Can be rather intrusive, if either party is unable to block their mind. If you like, we don’t have to—”

  “No, it’s fine.” I put my hand in hers. “Perfect, actually.”

  She lets the shake go far longer than is customary, her eyes sweeping over every part of my face. “You are lovely, sweetheart.”

  I pull out of her grip. “Um . . . thank you.”

  “Now you’re scaring her,” Rares chuckles.

  Oana bats at her husband. “Nonsense—every woman likes to be told how lovely she is. You’d think after centuries of being married, you’d know that.”

  I gape. I had to have heard her wrong.

  “You didn’t think Angra was the only one gifted with long life?” Rares asks.

  I study his face, then Oana’s. “You can’t be more than fifty.”

  Rares smirks. “I have a grueling beauty regimen.”

  When I don’t respond, he sighs. “Magic, in any of its most powerful forms—the Decay, or being a conduit—preserves its host. Death can still find the particularly reckless, and we age, but slowly—imperceptibly slowly. Which was right good fun for the first few centuries, but . . .”

  “But I age normally,” I interject.

  “You didn’t access your power until recently—your magic was dormant until you consciously knew about it.”

  I marvel again at the ease with which Rares offers all this. Sir would have made me fight him for months to get this kind of information.

  But I’m struck mute. Rares is like Angra. And this will be my fate too, now that I’ve awakened my magic from the dormant state it was in throughout my childhood. While the thought of never dying might be a glorious relief, the consequences hit me too.

  I could watch everyone I love die. I could fall into Angra’s hands and he could torture me forever with whatever horrible fate he wishes.

  Rares bobs his head, his eyes on me. “This is why, before we continue with any training, I insist you speak to Oana. Not even the best teacher in the world can get a lesson to stick if you’re not ready for it. Go with her. She’ll help you. Consider it lesson three—and, truthfully, think of it as one of the most important lessons of all.”

  Wariness hums in my chest. “What are we going to talk about? Magic?”

  Oana shakes her head. “No, sweetheart. You.”

  Me. We’re going to waste time talking about me when . . .

  I clench my jaw to fight from glancing toward the wall and, beyond it, the waiting war. There are so many questions, so much to learn—what did I expect, though? To spend a few hours chatting with Rares and walk out of here a whole, strong queen capable of leading a victorious charge against Angra? That would be too easy.

  And I know what happens when Winterian queens rush into things.

  I take a deep breath and nod. I have to do this. Mather will keep everyone safe and my allies will keep Angra at bay while I myself become more capable, more skilled at controlling my magic so when I face Angra, I can get the final two keys from him with as little bloodshed as possible, and stop his war before it has a chance to take any more lives.

  Oana offers me her arm, and I take it. She makes sure to wrap her hand in her sleeve before giving my fingers a tight squeeze and leads me up the path toward the castle.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Meira,” she says. “We don’t get many visitors.”

  It feels like she’s grateful for more than my impending destruction of magic. The way she looks at me makes me feel . . . treasured. Valued.

  I want to press her for more, but she flips her hand at the doors and the castle opens to us.

  Inside, the iciness of the stones loosens some of the tension in my muscles. Chandeliers hang every few steps, casting yellow-white light on a décor just as warm and wild as Oana’s style—maroon accents and comfortable wooden furniture. Rooms open off this hall, and Oana stops before one, the clacking of our shoes halting in abrupt silence.

  I realize then—there are no other sounds here. No servants bustling through chores; no soldiers marching in drills.

  Oana smiles at me. “We don’t have much use for servants in Paisly.” She nods toward the nearest chandelier, and as I watch, she uses magic to make the candles fade before raging to life.

  My shock isn’t as strong as it was before. But it spikes when I meet Oana’s eyes.

  I never asked about their lack of servants.

  Her hand hesitates over the knob as she looks up through thick black lashes. “Rares can only block your thoughts when he’s with you, sweetheart. No one can intrude on you through Paisly’s barrier from a distance, but up close . . .”

  My eyes widen when I realize what she means. Is this part of lesson three? Her poking into my head?

  Snow, I hope not.

  Oana opens the door. Gray and cold, the room holds a lumpy bed with a thick violet quilt, a trunk against a wall, and a dented table displaying dishes that make me weak with hunger.

  “I assumed you’d prefer a room without a fireplace. The cold might bother others, but for you, it’s comforting, yes?” Oana scrunches her nose in a knowing grin. “Eat, please.”

  I don’t need further prodding. Two chairs sit at the table, and as I drop into one, I fear I may never be able to get up again. My arm shakes as I reach toward the nearest dish, hunger and stress and tiredness all washing over me.

  Oana pulls out the other chair but doesn’t sit, hovering over it, over me, as I sip brothy stew from a rough wooden cup.

  I wipe the back of my hand over my mouth. “So . . . what is this lesson?”

  Oana smiles softly, her shoulders folding forward. “You will only succeed in controlling your magic if you first have control of yourself. As I’m sure you’ve learned, magic is linked to your emotions; if they are unstable, your magic will be unstable too. I’m going to help you come to a state of acceptance—and readiness for Rares’s training.”

  That was what I was afraid of, I think, then wince. She heard that, and gives me that look again, as if I’m a chunk of gold mined from the Klaryns.

  “I hope, through this, you come to see how amazing you are,” she whispers.

  That look of hers, her words—it all suddenly creates a noose around my neck. I know I’m here to save them from their horrible existence of being all-powerful and, apparently, immortal; I know I’m here so they can tell me about magic and the chasm and help me die.

  Isn’t that enough? Does she need to make me feel even more like a sacrifice, untouchable and dehumanized? Do we really have to poke into me?

  Oana steps forward. “That’s not why—”

  I drop the cup onto the table and bend forward, hands over my head. “Stop.”

  She doesn’t move. “Don’t hold back, sweetheart. Why is this something you fear?”

  I choke into my hands, half a laugh, half a quiet plea.

  I’m afraid of breaking.

  I’ve been keeping every spare twitch of strength against the door in my mind, the one holding back all my crippling emotions. Keeping that door closed has been the only thing between a breakdown and me, but I’m tired, and the door is getting heavier, and Oana won’t leave.

  But this lesson is about me. We can’t move on to the other lessons, the ones that will help me control my magic, until we confront this one. Damn Rares—but I kno
w he’s right.

  I can’t face Angra if half my strength is always spent on containing myself.

  So I open the door, and let everything tumble out.

  I should never have trusted Noam with my kingdom. I should have seen Theron’s fall, but I pushed him out of my life—and as much as I should, I don’t regret that. I can’t remember what it felt like to love him without complication.

  I do remember loving Mather. My memories of him are sharp and clear—I think of how, no matter what happened, who died, what evil we faced, he’s always been in the background of my life.

  Nessa—she grew up in a cage in Angra’s prison camp; how terrified was she to be in a cage under his control again? I had no right leaving her or Conall, especially after . . . Garrigan. He sang Nessa to sleep when she awoke screaming from nightmares. He protected me with the same devotion he showed his sister. He didn’t deserve to die.

  But nothing in this world plays out as people deserve. Horrible things happen without cause or explanation, leaving slack-jawed horror in their wake. People make decisions without thinking about the results—they just do things, then run off into the dark, never admitting to their mistakes, never apologizing for getting me killed.

  Hannah. Hannah.

  Snow above, I hate her so much, and I hate most of all that she made me hate her. She was my mother—she should have loved me. She should have done a hundred other things that she didn’t do, and now she’s just one of the many pieces of my heart that hurt to touch.

  Oana drops to her knees before me. “Meira, sweetheart . . .”

  But I’m too lost in it now. I don’t think I’m on the chair anymore, but rather curled into myself on the floor with my hands over my head and tears streaming down my face.

  And now I know exactly what the world will look like if I fail. I suspected the sort of evil Angra would release, and I remember well the streets of Abril, how utterly empty they were, every person cowering except the soldiers, who wielded power like chained dogs at their master’s feet. I have to stop that—but I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to do this. It’s supposed to be a willing sacrifice, surrendering my conduit to the source of the magic. But it’s all going to be in vain, because the last thought I think as I die will be No, Hannah chose this.

  I want to live. I want to go back to Winter and grow old and—I don’t want to be used.

  Oana grabs my chin and eases my head up so she can look into my eyes. She must be blocking me, because she’s touching my skin, running her fingers over my cheeks.

  “We do not want to use you,” she states, hard, despite the tears in her eyes. “We look at you like that because you are the first child we have had in our home in more than two thousand years. We age, slowly, but our bodies can only host one force—the magic makes it impossible for us to conceive. So we look at you like that both because Rares and I have wanted a child for so long and because it kills us what we have to help you do.”

  My heart spasms. The magic ruins that too? Another fate decided for me.

  Oana forces a broken smile. “We look at you like this because we are sorry, Meira. We are so sorry. You deserve a better life than this.”

  Hannah never apologized. I’m not sure she ever saw me as more than a vessel to enact the things she’d put in place. Even now, it’s been so long since I’ve spoken to her. A part of me chose not to talk to her, because I know what I am to her. Not a daughter—a conduit.

  Sir never apologized. It was my duty and I should do whatever needed to be done, because I’d always wanted to help, so I had no right to complain when I was needed.

  A vessel doesn’t deserve an apology; a duty-bound soldier doesn’t either.

  But Oana, someone I barely know, says things that make me feel, for the first time in years, like someone who has a say in the horrible events around me. Like someone who matters.

  I cling to Oana’s heavy wool robes, burying my face in the crook of her arm, pouring out every emotion I’ve been keeping at bay. All the while, she holds me, and I sense, somewhere deep in my chest, the cracks starting to fill in—the faint, cool tingle of healing.

  6

  Mather

  MATHER, PHIL, AND the Ventrallan king waited in the shadows of the cramped passage. Beyond the door, chaos filled the hall—orders shouted, soldiers marching.

  Mather strained to catch more telltale sounds, shouts of protest or whimpers of victims, but if he hadn’t known about the uprising, it would have been frighteningly easy to assume that Rintiero’s army was merely practicing military drills. Had any dissenters been subdued already?

  “Raelyn will be in the throne room,” the Ventrallan king whispered. “Unless . . .”

  His voice faded, but Mather felt his unspoken words.

  Unless she’s murdering my mother.

  “Where would she keep Ceridwen?” Mather asked.

  In the light from the cracks around the door, the king stilled. “I’ll find out.”

  “How?” Phil asked. “Your wife is terrifying. I mean, she’s terrifying, Your Highness.”

  “You have no idea. And it’s Jesse.” His eyes flashed. “I’m not king anymore, am I?”

  Mather shrugged. “It’s not so bad, being dethroned.”

  “Ah, but at least the woman who dethroned you wasn’t a possessed murderer.”

  Mather laughed, but it only hollowed him even more. He sagged against the wall.

  “I have no idea where Meira went,” he admitted. Where would he even start looking for her? This city alone was huge. They could have gone anywhere, whether by boat or horse or on foot—

  “Who was the man she left with?” Phil prodded.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never seen him before—or anyone like him. He was wearing a . . . robe?” Mather’s brow pinched. “I haven’t even—”

  “A robe?” Jesse interrupted.

  “Yes, why?”

  “There are tapestries,” Jesse said, his voice uncertain, “in our history hall. They were made centuries ago, ancient depictions of each kingdom’s people. Ventrallans in masks and Yakimians with their copper and gadgetry and—”

  “Is there a point?” Mather interrupted.

  Armor jangled as soldiers passed their hidden door. Mather felt Phil and Jesse tense up.

  Jesse exhaled as the footsteps faded. “And Paislians—in robes. Did the man have a dark complexion, darker than Yakimians?”

  Mather nodded, then realized Jesse couldn’t see him. “Yes. He was Paislian?”

  Jesse made a soft huff. “I have no idea why a Paislian would be in my palace, but it sounds as though one was.”

  “Wow.” Phil whistled, soft and low. “Didn’t see that one coming.”

  Neither had Mather. A Paislian had swept Meira away? Why?

  “We can’t hide in here forever,” Mather said.

  Jesse’s ear angled toward the door. “It’s clear. Follow me, but stay hidden—I think it best if Raelyn believes I’m alone. And . . . and try, as much as you can, to avoid Angra.”

  Mather snorted. “I’d nearly forgotten him.”

  “That’s what makes him effective,” Phil said. “He creates all these other threats, so many you forget to see the flower for all its bloody petals.”

  It was all too true.

  Jesse said nothing as he eased open the door. The hall lay empty for a brief moment, and Jesse darted to the right. Mather tucked his weapons under his shirt—a knife in addition to Cordell’s conduit, that horrifying reminder hooked in his belt—to make them inconspicuous. He and Phil swept after Jesse, shutting the door behind them and making sure to slip behind statues or other obstacles to be as unobtrusive as possible.

  But Jesse went unnoticed. He had put his mask back on in the passage, and since no one expected their king to be anywhere but inside a prison cell, he was just another Ventrallan rushing down the halls.

  They passed a number of rooms, many empty, others stuffed with royals. A quick sweep inside told Mather that, sure enough,
they were all subdued, cowering in quiet groups as soldiers stood around them.

  Had Angra done this to them somehow? Whatever the cause, it made creeping through the palace even easier, as there were few soldiers patrolling—no dissenters meant there was no need for a large guard.

  Soon Jesse stopped before doors in an empty white hall lined with gilded mirrors. Mather tucked himself along the wall beside the doors, Phil at his side. Jesse met his eyes and gave a curt nod before he shoved the doors inward. To Mather’s confusion, he didn’t enter more than a few paces, and Mather peeked around the frame to survey the threat within.

  At the end of the green and brown throne room stood a pair of mirrored chairs. One held Raelyn, lounging as she admired something in her hands.

  Ventralli’s broken conduit, the silver crown.

  Jesse froze. “Where is Ceridwen?”

  His shout rebounded through the room. Mather winced, certain soldiers would come running. Raelyn no doubt had a contingent waiting close by. He cursed softly, already regretting this decision. They should have just left, run free of this palace—

  But if it had been Meira whom Raelyn had captured, Mather would be standing exactly where Jesse stood, however foolish, however reckless it might be.

  Raelyn laughed. “Oh, dear husband—why would you think she’s still alive?”

  “You wouldn’t have killed her so easily.”

  Raelyn swung her legs around to sit upright. A smile crept across her face, slow and indulgent, like she meant to savor every lifted muscle. “You know me so well. Let’s play a game, then. What would I do if I seized a kingdom from my worthless husband only to have that worthless husband’s mother attempt to save him?”

  Even before a door opened, Mather knew what was happening.

  Raelyn’s soldiers had discovered that that their imprisoned king had been moved; they had found Brigitte in her empty chambers. And they had brought her here to be killed by Raelyn.