Frost Like Night

by Sara Raasch

And next time, the fight will be on my terms.

  I keep my eyes on Mather’s closed lids, watching for any flutter of awareness, squeezing his hand tighter with each jerking thud of my heart.

  He’s always been in my life, and I never asked for more than that. Because our people needed saving; because I thought he was Winter’s king; because of a hundred different reasons that always let me keep him at the edge of my life, constant and unchanged.

  And with the weight of the magic chasm looming over me, I realize what I want now.

  I want him.

  I don’t want him hovering at the edge of my life—I want him at the center, beaming that smile that has always shot through me. I want us to be us again, Meira and Mather.

  I want him to look at me.

  The magic glides forward and I open myself to it, willing every drop to pour out of me. Frigid tendrils snake all over his body. I’m amazed at how well I know every part of him, how easy it is to channel the magic away from minor injuries—that cut will heal on its own; that ache in his knee he got from a swordfight years ago, nothing life-threatening—and force all of it to hover over the wound on his head. I hold it there, staring at the bloody injury, squeezing his hand tighter, tighter, tighter—

  Mather launches upright, sucking in breaths as though he’s been held under water too long.

  And he looks at me, finally looks at me, his sapphire eyes darting over my face in a way that feels like home.

  “Meira,” he breathes, relief draining the stress from his face. His eyes flash behind me, to Rares, and he shifts up a little straighter, wincing. “Where—what happened? Where’s Phil?”

  “He’s fine.” Rares steps forward. “He’ll be patched up soon enough. Angra won’t be able to add your lives to his death toll today.”

  I bite my lips, fighting the urge to delve into that topic. Rares doesn’t give me a chance.

  “I’ll let you two have some privacy. I’m sure there’s . . .” He stops, his gaze falling to where I still hold Mather’s hand. I stiffen, unable to decide whether or not to pull away.

  “We have time,” Rares finishes. Those words leave a weight on my heart as he shuts the door behind him, and when I pivot back to Mather, he’s leaning toward me.

  He hasn’t looked at me this openly in months.

  I swallow and prod gently at his wound, not trusting myself that it’s really healed. He holds under my analysis, eyes dancing over mine, the barest beginnings of a smile on his lips. The musk of sweat radiates off him, but it does nothing to slow the sudden speed of my heart, licking all the way up my throat.

  “You reek,” I cough.

  His smile expands. “I’m glad to see you too.”

  “You need . . . water.” I fumble as I leap up and move to the washbasin. I grab a cloth and plunge it in, holding it there to occupy myself.

  The cot shifts as Mather moves his legs to the floor. “Ice above, what did you do to me?”

  I launch the towel at him. “Saved your life. You’re welcome.”

  He removes the bandage and pats the towel against the caked blood, his eyes lifting to me. His attention holds, the silence weighing as if each second drops stones on my shoulders.

  “Phil told me what happened,” I manage. “Who else did Angra—”

  The cot creaks as Mather rises. “Just us,” he says softly, and I’m able to breathe, albeit only a little. “Dendera’s leading everyone else to safety. Phil and I split off to—” He stops. “To find you. But don’t you dare blame yourself, Meira—I didn’t go after you twice before. No force in this world could have kept me from going after you a third time.”

  I gape at him. Whatever response I expected, this isn’t it—him, blood-splattered, moments out from being close to death, but staring at me as if he’s been beside me all along, just waiting for any word from me.

  Mather swallows, the muscles in his neck convulsing. He takes tentative steps forward and leans next to me, against the washbasin’s table. “Angra . . . he didn’t come with us, when his men brought us here. He didn’t stage a direct attack. Why? Why are you here?”

  I run my fingers around the outside of the washbasin. Discussing magic and Paisly and my plans for Angra—it suddenly feels like the easiest topic of conversation, instead of talking about all the things I want when I look at Mather.

  So I explain it all to him—but I leave out a few details. I tell him what I am now, what happened when Angra broke Winter’s conduit. I tell him what Angra is too, what the Decay is, how it’s spreading. I tell him about Rares and why I followed him—because he is part of the Order, and I couldn’t control my magic, and I needed to know more so I can defeat Angra. I tell him about the labyrinth, about the three tasks and the magic chasm and the keys I need to get from Angra to open it.

  But I don’t tell Mather exactly what I need to do to destroy magic. Or even how the magic would keep me alive indefinitely, if I were to not die in the chasm.

  Still, when I’m done, he stares at me with horror. Then it washes away with a shake of his head, and he turns, crossing his arms as he drops back against the table.

  “We need to get to Winter. To the . . . labyrinth,” he says, dazed. “Before Angra can take full advantage of the uprising Cordell started.”

  “Eventually. But I can’t do this unprepared. Angra won’t give me many chances.” I stifle a sigh. “And he won’t give me much time, either.”

  “Then we’ll force him to give us time. We’ll get an army—we have to have supporters somewhere.” He shifts against the table, his eyes fluttering shut on a wobbling breath. “We’ll attack him, pull his attention, buy as much time as you need.”

  I smile and wrap my hand around his arm. “We’ll plan later—rest now.”

  He smiles. “Is that an order, my queen?”

  I nudge him toward the bed, but his arm hardens under my touch to make himself immovable.

  “Yes, it’s an order,” I say, shoving him futilely. “And might I add, I order you to never get so close to death again.”

  My teasing falls flat under his gaze. I think, at first, it’s from the mention of what Angra did to him, but he lifts his other hand and grabs my fingers.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, his eyes heavy. “I’m sorry this was the only time I came after you.”

  I almost ask what he means, but the explanation hits me so hard I choke.

  “I didn’t go after you twice before,” he said.

  “You always did what was best for Winter,” I say, breathless from the regret that fogs his face. He’s been carrying this guilt around for months? “You couldn’t have done anything to save me when Herod took me to Abril. Angra still thought you were Hannah’s son. If he’d caught you . . . it would have been much worse than what he did now. You helped me by staying away—it would have destroyed me to see you in his hands. And I left Jannuari on political business. How were you to know it would end like it did? Besides, you helped me far more by staying in Winter and training your Thaw.”

  One side of Mather’s mouth cocks up, his eyes racing over my face. “I knew you’d try to convince me I shouldn’t feel bad. But duty aside, I should have done more. Been more. For you. I’m sorry, Meira.”

  I swallow, but the lump in my throat refuses to dissolve. He adjusts his fingers over my hand, and the bundled muscles in his arms coil tighter under my touch, making me all too aware of how tense his body is, and how close I am to him. The softness in his face coaxes a dizzy surge through me as his eyes drop to my mouth, staying there for long enough that I sway.

  “You should rest,” I tell him, but I barely hear myself.

  “Rest,” he echoes, like he only half heard me, like he’s having trouble breathing too.

  Snow, has he ever been this close to me before?

  My lips part.

  Should he be?

  I back up, and it’s enough to break the spell.

  He runs a hand down his face. “Rest. I suppose I should.”

  He finally
lets me help him to the cot, where he collapses on an exhausted groan. I don’t let myself linger, backing up so I’m not tempted.

  “If you need anything . . .” I trail off, because I’m pretty sure we both need something.

  Mather lolls his head on the pillow to throw me a playful grin. “I’ll come to you.”

  I stumble out the door, close it behind me, and collapse against it.

  There is something wrong with me still. I didn’t expect to instantly fix all my issues, but I thought I’d at least progressed enough to let myself love who I want to love. But when we fight this war, when I get to the magic chasm . . .

  I don’t want to hurt him.

  “Maybe he wouldn’t see it like that.”

  I jump, surprise flicking out to every limb. “Really?” I groan to Rares, already feeling heat rise to my cheeks. “You’ve been listening?”

  He pulls away from where he had been leaning against the opposite wall. “Your thoughts are practically at a scream, dear heart.”

  “Liking you is hard sometimes.”

  “You and Oana can swap horrid stories about me later.” He levels a penetrating stare at me. “You deserve happiness, Meira. No matter how brief.”

  I cross my arms. “It’s not just about me.”

  “Ah, and therein lies an interesting development, I feel. I seem to recall a particularly strong emotion of yours. You hated Sir and Hannah for making decisions for you—but it would appear that you are doing the same thing to Mather. Making a decision regarding his future before he’s even aware there’s a decision to be made.”

  “I didn’t . . .”

  But I can’t deny any of it.

  Rares pats my shoulder. “I’m willing to bet that boy of yours thinks you’re worth any sorrow. Because you are.”

  An ache pounds in me, one so deep I don’t know if even Rares’s words can soothe it.

  “How can I love him,” I ask, “when I’m not even sure I love me yet?”

  Rares purses his lips and before I can back away, his knuckle thunks against my forehead. I start, rubbing my skin, a frown working its way onto my face.

  “Stop it,” he chastises. “I told you I wouldn’t stand for such talk about the person who will save us. You act as though love is a goal you only achieve after so long spent working at it. And yes, work is involved, but at the end of it all, love is a choice—the kind you have with a spouse, with your people, with yourself. If you acted on those things only when you felt them, you’d be like most people—eternally waiting for a feeling that may or may not come. But if you choose, every day, to love yourself no matter what—then, dear heart, nothing can stop you.”

  A breathy laugh comes. Everything really is about choice, even beyond the magic’s rules. And I’ve already tried to choose myself, flaws and all.

  I put my hand on Rares’s arm. “You’ll make a fantastic father.”

  He blinks, the faintest sheen of tears streaking across his eyes.

  “I’m fighting for the chance,” he says. “What are you fighting for?”

  The answer doesn’t come right away. I know what I’m fighting to prevent—the destruction of the world. That was the reason I made Rares tell me Angra’s movements during training, using his threat to fuel me on. But that was all based on anger, fear, worry—dark, uncontrollable things.

  When I healed Mather, it was instant and easy. It was . . . peaceful.

  That’s what I should focus on when I use my magic. Joyous, wondrous things, like standing here, talking with Rares, and Oana, who emerges from a room down the hall and puts a finger to her lips, mouthing Phil’s asleep.

  I understood long ago that this type of family was never mine to have. But another type, something odd but whole with Mather—I could have that. And the rest of the world deserves to have that too.

  That’s what I’m fighting for. Possibility.

  Rares smiles. “You’re ready now.”

  I squint. “Ready?”

  But I feel it. An unraveling deep in my gut, the magic a gentle cascade of icy flakes that settles in me, soft and strong.

  “Ready for the final lesson,” he says.

  I’ve been training until now under a blanket of anger, half my mind always focused on worrying for my friends and the rest of Primoria. But as I look at the door to Mather’s room, I feel clearer than I have since I got here.

  Angra wanted to break me.

  But he only made me unbreakable.

  13

  Meira

  I STAND AT the edge of the sparring circle, hands in the pockets of my robe. The overcast sky trickles soft light over Oana, Rares, and me, and as the clouds grumble, my heart joins in.

  I’d assumed the final lesson would be fighting with magic, but the swirling gray storm clouds end at the edge of the compound, a perfect cluster over us and us alone. Another whisper of thunder rolls across the sky, moments away from releasing a deluge over the yard.

  Rares made this storm.

  Across the circle, he takes a relaxed stance, but I stiffen, even more alert.

  “Your magic—it feels cold to you, yes?” he asks.

  “Isn’t it supposed to?”

  Rares starts pacing, shifting around the circumference of the training ring, though I remain just outside. Oana watches from a bench at the edge of the yard. The amused quirk of her lips only makes me more confused, so when Rares stops directly in front of me, I’m practically humming with wonder.

  “To me, magic feels . . . warm,” he says. “Not hot, not cold, but a neutral, tingling sensation. To a Summerian, it feels the opposite of how it feels to you—raging heat. To an Autumnian, encroaching chill; to a Spring, rising warmth. I’ve always wondered why that is—why, through monitoring the monarchs of the world, I’ve sensed such drastic differences in how they perceive the magic. All Rhythms feel the magic as I do—as a neutral tingling. Why are the Seasons more extreme? Why do you find yourself swarmed with ice?”

  I shrug. “I never considered it before.”

  Rares smiles. “I have a theory, dear heart. The Seasons are the only kingdoms that stand directly atop the magic. Their monarchs are the only ones whose blood is saturated with power, so much so that it affects their physical affinity for certain climates. What if the Seasons have more of a connection to magic than any other kingdom? What if they have the potential to be the strongest wielders of the Royal Conduits? For me, there is no natural magic—it takes equal effort to conjure rain as it would snow. But for you, I suspect it would be frighteningly easy to summon a blizzard, yes?”

  I fiddle with the locket at my throat, the cold metal only one more spot of chill on my body. The swirl of iciness in my chest is so constant by now that I almost don’t notice. It makes sense for the Winterian monarch to be more adept at controlling winter weather. Our whole kingdom has a stronger affinity for it, so that talent should bleed over into me.

  “But the Seasons have always been weak. We’re stagnant while the Rhythms evolve.” I quote the stereotype perpetuated by most of the Rhythms.

  Rares’s lips tighten. “That is in our nature, I believe. To recognize a threat and squash it, whether or not we consciously know why it is a threat. I think the Rhythms fear you. Or they would, if all the Seasons truly came into their powers. One already has, and he controls the Decay in a terrifying way—and you, dear heart, will be the next Season to change the world.”

  At that, Rares lifts his hands into the air and rain begins to slosh down onto us in heavy sheets. I’m drenched in seconds, my shoulders hunching against the drops.

  Rares crouches into a stance I’ve seen enough now to know by instinct, and my muscles react by pulling me into a fighting pose too, hands up, legs stiff, shoulders relaxed.

  “This lesson will be a culmination of everything I’ve begun teaching you. But we’ll start first with a simple sparring session,” he says. “You can use magic only as a defense in fighting. Using it to attack, with intent to harm, feeds the Decay. So attack me—witho
ut magic.”

  He waits. I purse my lips at the storage bin and call a sword. Once armed, I swing at him.

  Rares moves, hurling his body toward me. Confusion makes me hesitate—he’s not using a weapon?

  But no—he does have a weapon. And seeing it draws a startled chirp from my lungs.

  A rope of water snaps against my blade, nearly cutting into my cheek. At Rares’s command, the drops from the rain coil into a whip that tears the sword from my grasp and flings it across the yard.

  Keeping magic within an object allows Royal Conduit–wielders to control weather and other elements needed to run their kingdoms; unlimited magic in a person-conduit lets them manipulate these things with greater accuracy. But understanding this doesn’t stop my panic, and as Rares’s whip snaps toward me again, I scramble back, terror shocking a reaction from me.

  I lift my hands. A chill launches out of me and the water droplets of his whip crystallize into shards of ice that fall at our feet.

  Rares’s eyes sparkle. “Very good!”

  My body vibrates with a mix of pride and power. Can I do it again? What else can I do?

  Thunder explodes in an echoing pop and I plunge forward. Rares is right—snow, cold, and ice are my natural state, and I let myself feel all that. Every knot of chill I always kept so tight in my chest, afraid to use it, afraid to lose control. But for the first time since I found out what I am, I succumb to it, welcoming it as part of myself. Because it is part of myself—I am a Winterian. I am ice through every part of me.

  Rares kicks my sword up into his hand and charges at me. Rain drips from each strand of hair, each piece of clothing. His gray robe hangs heavy, wool soaked through with rain, and one jerk of my fingers turns the wet edge into a solid block of ice, adding water in layers that drag him down. He stumbles, flailing for balance, and as I spin to get in one solid kick that will send his blade flying—

  Oana appears between us, a delicate smile on her face as though she doesn’t even realize we’re fighting. Behind her, Rares smirks and brushes a hand over his cloak, freeing the ice, before he levels a stare at me and tosses the sword back into the bin.