by Sara Raasch
Mather swayed, knees all but giving way beneath him.
Jesse would watch his mother die. And there was no way to save her.
The weight of that pressed on the agony in Mather’s chest. He thought of Alysson, a bloody splotch staining her dress as she fell, limp and lifeless, into his arms.
Phil shot an arm across Mather’s chest. Mather looked at him, exhaling. Phil knew. He knew, and he stood there, his eyes pleading yet sad.
“Hold on,” Phil whispered.
Mather whipped his head back around the doorframe. Brigitte stood next to the dais looking no less than the severe opponent she was. All of Raelyn’s attention was on Jesse, who shifted toward his mother, his fists trembling.
“What would I do, dear husband, since you know me so well?” Raelyn asked. “How would I reward traitors? Would I reward them like that?” Her hand shot out, pointing to something in the front corner of the room, to Jesse’s left. Jesse turned, but Mather couldn’t see anything from this position. Whatever it was sent a spasm of horror over Jesse’s face.
“What did you . . .” Jesse stumbled backward. “Why, Raelyn?”
“Trophies of our victory. The old ways are dead—and Spring has come. And now I have one more to add to my collection! Well, four more, actually.”
Soldiers swept into the hall, and before Mather had time to do more than swear at himself, he and Phil had been yanked into the throne room behind Jesse.
Mather could see them now, Raelyn’s trophies. The sight made his stomach clench.
Bathed in shadows, three men loomed between the pillars in the back of the room, and at a glance it appeared as though they were merely soldiers hovering out of sight.
But they were far from soldiers. They were far from alive.
Spikes propped the bodies upright. The Summerian king’s head cocked to the side, congealed blood wrapping around his neck in a thick band. Summer’s conduit had been taken off his wrist and sat at the base of the spike, even more prominent a trophy. Beside him, Noam’s neck bore a smaller slash, the mark of the chakram Theron had thrown. And next to him—
Mather hardened. Garrigan stood at the end of the row, Meira’s chakram still in his chest.
“Aren’t they marvelous?” Raelyn sighed. “A bit morbid, yes, but so satisfying.”
“Raelyn . . .” Jesse’s voice died as he finally realized Mather and Phil had been discovered. Phil kept his eyes fixed on the floor, shoulders pivoted away from the trophies, and though Mather wished he had the good sense to do the same, he couldn’t.
He didn’t know the Summerian king and cared little for his death. Noam he had hated, and he couldn’t deny the gratification he felt at knowing the man was dead. But no one deserved to be paraded like this—no one except maybe Raelyn or Angra.
But especially not Garrigan.
Mather’s eyes latched onto the chakram in Garrigan’s chest.
“Now, who’s first?” Raelyn’s shoes clicked on the dais as she walked toward Brigitte. “You will be a wonderful addition to my collection, Duchess.”
Jesse took a threatening step forward, but one of the soldiers met him before he could go far. A fist to the gut, and Jesse crumpled.
Phil hissed in warning, but Mather was already moving, drawing step by step toward the bodies as if they mesmerized him.
“Stop,” one soldier grunted, his fist ramming toward Mather’s stomach. Mather sidestepped, acting the part of the dazed prisoner as he stumbled closer to the bodies.
Raelyn’s attention moved to them now. She had her arms out, fingers extended. He could practically taste Angra’s evil radiating from her.
The soldier stomped toward him. Mather leaped the rest of the way to Garrigan, springing into the shadows between the columns and wrenching the chakram from its bloody holster. He tried not to think about the grating sound and the fleshy resistance that dragged against the blade. Using the same momentum that had flung him toward Garrigan, Mather swung back and sliced through the soldier’s cheek, severing half his jaw from his face.
“No—” Raelyn’s scream bit off as the old queen slammed into her, sending her toppling off the dais.
Brigitte whirled. “RUN!”
Mather let Meira’s chakram soar, nicking the arm and chest of the two soldiers who held Jesse. Phil ducked to grab the now free Ventrallan king and hauled him toward the doors as the chakram returned to Mather. He caught it and used it at close range now, slicing enemies aside as Phil managed to wrestle a dagger from a soldier and slash back, hand flailing in jabs and frenzied thrusts. Jesse gaped at his mother still.
“Come on!” Mather shouted and gave him a solid shake. Raelyn could regain her composure at any moment—
Before Mather could blink, Jesse peeled the mask off his face, snapped it in half, and dropped those halves on the room’s swirling marble floor.
“May this be one of your trophies,” Jesse hissed, and swung around, sprinting out of the room. Mather tugged Phil along, both of them taking down the remaining few guards before they launched into the hall and hurled themselves after Jesse.
Not more than half a dozen breaths after they left, a scream pierced the air. Jesse faltered, losing his pace long enough that Mather caught up to him, hooked his arm through his, and hauled him on.
“Don’t let her sacrifice be in vain,” Mather said.
Jesse’s face paled. “Turn . . . ,” he managed. “There’s a servants’ entrance. . . .”
Mather pulled him to the left, Phil close behind, and the three of them burst into the chill night air. A narrow path careened around a stone wall that led to the front of the palace. Here the sounds of the coup racking the city were louder—the screams of innocents not yet subdued echoed alongside the shouts of soldiers, the stomping of booted feet, and the clashing of weapons.
Mather dragged Jesse around the wall before he smashed them back against it, hidden in a patch of shadows. The palace’s courtyard fanned out, dim in the night, and five soldiers guarding one lone wagon stood near a cluster of torches. Mather’s mind whirled through possible escape plans. They couldn’t retreat into the palace—they couldn’t cut across the courtyard without being seen—was that another door in the wall up ahead? Where did it lead? It didn’t matter; it had to be better than—
Jesse stiffened. “That wagon . . . no. She wouldn’t have . . .”
He stumbled forward, nearly into the light of the torches, when Mather grabbed his arm.
“Are you stupid—”
But his words were drowned by the sudden blast that echoed over the area. A warning siren sang out from the roof of the palace, delivering wordless orders to the five soldiers by the wagon. They shifted upright from their posts, revealing the gray Ventrallan crown silhouette on their purple uniforms, their silver masks glinting in the torchlight.
One nodded to two others. “You two, keep guard. We’ll find out what’s going on.”
Mather pressed himself deeper into shadow as three of the guards broke off. Thankfully they turned toward the main entrance of the palace, jogging for orders from within.
The moment they were gone, Jesse launched forward. “You!”
The two remaining soldiers leaped to attention. When they saw Jesse, their eyes shifted from alert to amused.
Mather groaned and stepped out of the shadows, Phil following.
So much for stealth.
Jesse pointed at the wagon. “Who is in there?”
One of the soldiers smirked. “Queen Raelyn informed us you might—”
“We don’t have time for this.” Mather let the chakram fly. It sliced through the soldier’s thigh, sending the man to his knees, and ricocheted back to Mather. The other soldier drew a blade in his right hand and Mather let the chakram cut through that shoulder. The soldier screeched, dropping his blade as Mather strode forward, bloody chakram pointed menacingly.
“Who. Is in. The wagon?”
The soldiers cowered, whether from Mather’s merciless air or the equally withe
ring glare Jesse threw at them. “The Summerian—”
That was all Jesse needed to hear. He dove forward, tugging at the locked doors. “Ceridwen! Cerie! Are you all right? Answer me!”
It took another slice of the chakram to get the soldiers to hand over the keys, and with the horn still crying over them, Jesse fumbled to unlock the wagon. The doors flew open.
But when light from the torches flickered inside, it revealed only walls stained the same wine color as the outside, and a few pillows and quilts on the floor.
Jesse whirled, grabbed the nearest soldier, and slammed him against the floor of the empty wagon. “Where is she?” he bellowed.
“Yakim!” the soldier cried. “A Yakimian paid us for her. Paid us to take the wagon back so Queen Raelyn wouldn’t know—”
Jesse’s mouth fell slack. “Yakim?” He looked to the wall of trees that formed the southern edge of the palace complex, as if he could see that kingdom from here.
“What?” Mather swung forward. “Why would Yakim take her?”
The soldier waved his hands again. “I swear it! They took her!”
When Jesse turned around, Mather expected him to be livid. These men were either lying or had sold Ceridwen to Yakim for no reason he could fathom—but Jesse’s face was light, almost smiling, and he released the soldier to grab Mather’s arm.
“I think I know where they would have taken her.”
The soldier, still on the floor of the wagon, shot upright. “I can’t let you—”
But Jesse spun, his fist slamming into the soldier’s jaw. The man’s head snapped backward, the jarring pop of his skull on the wood floor sending him into unconsciousness.
Jesse turned to the other soldier and chucked him inside the wagon. He relieved the man of his weapon—a bow and a quiver of arrows—before slamming the doors and throwing the lock. The wagon rocked, the one conscious soldier’s shouts muffled by the wood.
Jesse looked back at Mather as he fastened the quiver to his back. “Yakim is an ally of Summer. In trade, at least—perhaps they heard of the takeover and sought to intercede.”
“But intercede for which side?”
Jesse’s fingers hung loose around the bow. The hope in his eyes guttered with doubt. “The river. Yakim is a short boat ride from here, and there’s one dock reserved specifically for the queen’s use. They’re there.” He paused. “They have to be.”
“All right.” Mather didn’t need further explanation. This was Jesse’s mission, and the sooner they completed it, the sooner Mather could listen to the tension in his muscles that compelled him to get to Paisly.
But Jesse blew out a steady breath. “No. You’ve done enough. Your queen needs you.”
Though he felt a rush of relief at that release of duty, Mather didn’t move. “Are you sure?”
Jesse nodded. “Yes. I’ll see you at the camp.” He flashed a smile. “Thank you.”
He sprinted toward the southern wall of trees, vanishing into the shadows. Mather watched him go, waiting for shouts of alarm from any soldiers who might have been waiting, but none came.
He turned to Phil. “Now we—”
Every muscle in Mather’s body sprang to readiness and he lifted Meira’s chakram.
Phil, body rigid, stood with a blade making a threatening indentation across his neck. The hand that gripped the blade belonged to Theron.
All sensation drained out of Mather as soldiers rushed around them, filing out of the servants’ entrance. But he didn’t really see any of them, too consumed by the malice radiating from the new Cordellan king.
For once, Mather was grateful that Meira was far away from all of this.
The soldiers formed a ring, closing him alongside the wagon while more men worked to free their comrades imprisoned within. And when something moved on Mather’s right, realization rushed back to him, letting him feel every stupid thing he’d done.
They’d been caught. They were surrounded. And it wouldn’t be the dungeon for them this time, not with the madness in Theron’s eyes—and especially not with the cloying smile Angra threw at him.
Angra stopped, studying Mather first, then Phil. Theron kept the blade to Phil’s throat as if there was still a chance Mather might fight back, but they all knew who had won.
“Just the two of you?” Angra noted, one brow lifting.
Mather ground his jaw and lowered Meira’s chakram. “You expected more?”
Angra’s other brow lifted to match the first. He shook his head and a spark lit the air. As soldiers moved forward, Mather realized what it was.
Angra’s magic. He’d sent a command to his men much as normal Royal Conduits sent commands to soldiers during battle—but Mather could feel this too. He imagined it snaking around each person in the area, diving into those who had already given themselves over to Angra—and coiling across Mather’s skin when the magic recognized someone it had not yet possessed.
It slithered over his body, sending up images of power, strength, and unbreakable resolve. The magic whispered to him, a soft caress he fought to scrub off—fought more the urge to soak it in. If this was how Angra swayed people to his side, Mather almost couldn’t blame them for surrendering.
Two of Angra’s soldiers grabbed Mather and kicked him to his knees while the other two rid him of weapons. Meira’s chakram—damn it, damn it—the Ventrallan knife, and—
“Now this is a surprise.” Angra took Cordell’s conduit from the soldier who found it. He glanced at Theron. “Yours, I believe.”
Theron released Phil, shoving him to the ground. He took the conduit from Angra, the purple jewel on the hilt hazy in his palm. Mather, still held like a man bowing to his king, twitched in defiance when Theron bent to his level.
“I think this will be far more useful in your hands. I no longer have need of it.” Theron pressed the tip of the blade to Mather’s cheek, though not forcefully enough to break skin.
Mather jerked again, but the soldiers kept him pinned. Theron’s threat didn’t make sense—he’d let Mather keep the conduit, the dagger?
Theron twisted the blade. Blood trickled in a warm bead down Mather’s face, and he imagined it draining the hatred out of him, releasing it to pool at Theron’s feet.
A smile, and Theron pulled the blade away to lean still closer, angling his mouth to Mather’s ear.
“And every time you see it, I want you to think of her with me. I want you to know that when I win this war, I will do so without this weak magic. And when this ends, and Meira is mine, there won’t have been a damn thing you could have done to stop me.”
Mather snapped his head into Theron’s temple. The Cordellan king bellowed, but when he regained himself, he made to lunge again, the conduit’s blade raised high.
Angra interceded with a touch on his arm. “That’s enough. We can use him.”
Mather snarled. Theron looked just as infuriated, but he pulled back, watching Angra.
“That was my mistake last time,” Angra told Theron, but the pitch of his voice made it clear that his words were meant to be as much a dagger in Mather’s flesh as Theron’s conduit. “I let weak rulers live even though I had the key to power greater than anything they could fathom. This time, I will strike until only those are left who will bring about a new, awakened world. And these boys will help me force the Winter queen to pick a side—especially him.”
Mather panted. “There’s nothing you can do that will make me help you.”
Angra, still facing Theron, smiled. Then he looked down at Mather.
“And what makes you think I was talking about you?”
Understanding shattered what restraint Mather had left.
His eyes moved to Phil.
“No,” Mather wheezed, then a shout, “Don’t touch him!”
Phil’s face broke. He scrambled back, trying to stand, but Angra’s men descended on him first.
Mather wrenched against the soldiers, managing to get onto one foot so he propelled forward. But the men tackl
ed him flat on the ground, and the wagon’s wheels were all he could see, his arms bent against his spine.
He couldn’t do anything when Phil started screaming.
7
Ceridwen
THE QUEEN OF Yakim had bought them from Raelyn’s men.
The Ventrallan soldiers left them in a rush, and though Giselle had given her and Lekan a way out of Raelyn’s clutches, the Yakimian queen never did anything without a calculated reason. As Ceridwen planted herself on the darkening street in Rintiero’s south quarter, she folded her arms and glared at Giselle, who silently mounted her horse and arranged her heavy wool skirts around the saddle.
A distant yet powerful wail echoed down the street. Panic flared in Ceridwen’s muscles. A warning siren? A call to arms?
She was intimately familiar with the everyday sounds of Rintiero, music and laughter and happy conversation so different from Juli’s raucous bellowing. The siren called her attention to the way the noises of the city sounded suddenly . . . different. It was night, yes, but even at the latest hours, songs played from the music guild. The only things she could hear now were distant shouting, metal rattling—the noises of war.
A cold wave washed from her head to her toes.
Raelyn’s coup had spread. Was finding Meira and stopping Angra even feasible anymore? She needed to get to the palace. Now.
Lekan, mounted with one of Giselle’s soldiers, pressed his lips into a thin line and nodded. He understood. Whatever Giselle had in store, he could handle, and he was far safer with Yakim’s uncertainty than Raelyn’s guaranteed torture. Ceridwen could leave him here and—
A cold hand grasped her shoulder—Giselle, leaning down from her saddle. “Do not do anything foolish, Princess. Likely they’re dead already.”
She snarled. “Then I will obliterate Raelyn.”
Giselle rolled her eyes skyward before kicking her horse. “Are you not exhausted by all this passion?”
Before Ceridwen could respond, Yakimian soldiers moved in. A few quick jerks, and they had her arms knotted in front of her, a rope tugging her wrists high where it connected to one soldier’s saddle. Lekan snapped forward, but the soldier on his horse simply butted his wounded knee with the hilt of a sword, which made Lekan cry out.
