by Sara Raasch
“The coming trials will test you in other ways too,” Rares calls over the roar and pulsing chaos of the storm, which grows in intensity with each passing breath. “Angra will throw everything he has at you as you try to retrieve the chasm keys. The labyrinth also. Physical challenges will be the least of your worries. Attack her, dear heart.” He waves at his wife.
I hesitate but coil my fist for a jab. Before I get halfway to her, Oana moves.
Instead of calling a sword or water coils, Oana spins, arms tight to her body until she drops to her knees and slams her hands to the ground. With that comes—
Lightning.
I stumble backward, the blinding flash sizzling into the ground paces from me. Oana looks up at me, her delicate grin now just as wild as her husband’s, and before I can get to my feet, she leaps up and jerks her arms down again, sending another blast into the ground between us. The air heats up in a burst of static and flame, my skin prickling with its energy. I pull myself to my feet and take off running, trying to put distance between the crazy, lightning-wielding Paislian and myself.
Oana prefers lightning. It’s not as easy for her to call on as ice is for you, but what can I say? She loves her fire.
I stumble on the rain-soaked grass and go down in a puddle behind the barn, muddy water sloshing over me. Oana didn’t follow me back here—yet—but when I look around, Rares isn’t here either. It takes me a beat to realize he’s in my head, and I leap to my feet.
Stop! I shout at him. What are you doing? You can’t—
I can’t? he says. You have no defense for your mind, dear heart. There are only two defenses against the Decay—the protection of pure magic and strength of will—and strength of will can be broken down unless you build it up. You have pure magic to keep the Decay from infecting you, but Angra is still a conduit himself—you’ll have to learn how to block him. The labyrinth is crafted of pure magic, and so will demand a higher strength of will as well. Oh, Oana’s coming.
A horse whinnies. I dig my fingers into the earth on either side of me until I connect with something—a stone.
Oana saunters into view and I let the stone whirl toward her. While she’s distracted, I grab the barn’s wall and use it to steady myself as I make my way through the mud, boots sliding until I connect with the only slightly less slippery grass. Lightning sizzles and cracks into the ground behind me and I fling myself around the next structure—the storage bins. From there, the castle is only a few paces away, and I can duck down its side to gain some ground on her.
But you can’t hide from me, dear heart. Not until you block me.
I don’t know how! How do I block this?
The same way you’ve done everything else. You blocked your mother, didn’t you? How did you do that? Oh, this looks like an interesting memory—
Autumn. The little camp we had in the south for a short while, just before two more of our refugees, Crystalla and Gregg, set out on the disastrous mission to Spring that would enslave them both and ultimately kill them. I’m sitting in front of a campfire with Crystalla while she braids my hair, and Sir talks at the edge, some lesson on Winter’s economy. It’s too hard to pay attention because Crystalla’s fingers are gentle on my scalp, and the smoky aroma of the campfire mixed with the coziness of being here urges my eyelids to sink down, down, down . . .
“Little sacrifice,” she hums in my ear. “My little sacrifice.”
She’s not Crystalla anymore.
I whip around to see Hannah, covered in blood, gaping wounds cleaved through her chest and up her face, thick patches of maroon-black gore. She writhes and slides back, her hands going up to her head, where Herod grips her bloody white hair in a tight fist, dragging her away from me, and all I can do is scream and scream.
STOP! I topple forward, mud sucking around my knees as the images fade. That’s not what happened! GET OUT OF MY HEAD!
Make me, dear heart, Rares coos. Hmm, what about this?
Before he can use more memories against me, I launch out from behind the storage bins, eyes snapping over the yard to find him. He does not get to use my memories like that. Hannah was never gentle or caring or motherly at all.
My emotions toward Hannah come so easily. Not anger, exactly—something unnamable and resolute, a dark, cold mix of truth and realization. That was why I blocked her, however inadvertently. She was my mother, but she never tried to be anything but my queen.
Let’s see if we can talk to her, yes?
I snarl and scan the yard again, still not finding Rares, but so ready to fight him. I have nothing to say to her.
And not because I still harbor anger; not because I’m still hopeful she’ll change. Because I’m done with her, I don’t need her, and if Rares brings her back into this mess she caused, only more problems will arise.
Intention coils in deadly springs in my chest, the air around me freezing with each breath. I realize my mistake too late—I’m on the offensive, planning an attack on Rares, which leaves me open to Oana’s defense.
A sizzle, a snap, and I dive just as lightning incinerates the ground behind me. Oana runs out around the barn, her braids whipping.
I roll and fling my arms over my head, morphing all the raindrops around me into layer after layer of thick, hard ice. It curves over me, a convex barrier that flashes up half a heartbeat before Oana’s lightning snaps out of the sky and hisses against it. The barrier explodes, the lightning continuing down to erupt into the ground at my feet. I’m launched backward, slamming onto my elbows as shards of ice cut across my face.
Block me, dear heart!
The Rania Plains. Sir standing over me in the meeting tent, his disappointment a palpable tang on the air. He holds the locket box in his hands.
“I never should have trusted you with that mission. Because of you, Angra found our camp. Because of you, we had to resort to an alliance with Cordell, and it is that alliance that led them to overtake our kingdom.” He sighs. “I always knew you were a failure.”
NO! I scream at Sir before the image vanishes, and that scream warps into a frantic plea to Rares. No, stop!
I can’t breathe. Sir’s image hangs all too real in my head, unraveling me as I roll to my feet. Oana closes in, but I can’t draw a breath to fuel myself on, choking under the words I’ve feared for so long.
Block me! Rares shouts.
I launch at Oana. The training ring is a swamp by now, the deluge continuing to flood the area, so when I reach her, I slide to a stop by falling onto my backside. I catch her legs and she goes down too, mud splashing when she drops.
“I always knew you were a failure.”
But it’s just me. It isn’t Sir saying that—Sir has never said that. I’m the one who says it, who keeps that phrase pressed to my heart even as it undoes every seam in my body.
I’m keeping myself restrained. It’s only ever been me. And I know that—I’ve known that I’m the one to blame for months. But something about recognizing it now fills me with clarity.
If I’m the only one to blame, nothing else has power over me. Not memories of Sir; not memories of Hannah; not memories of anyone. It’s all part of me—mistakes and horror and regrets, but also beauty and peace and love. Like the memory of sitting at the fire with Crystalla and Sir—that was glorious and calm. I can’t pick or choose which to keep and which to ignore—it’s all of them or none of them, and I will not give up my happiness.
I wobble to my feet, legs trembling, arms aching, face stinging with rain and gashes from the ice shards. Oana looks up at me, her smile no less dim though she remains in a helpless, defenseless position. But this isn’t truly a fight—she wants me to win.
One last chance, Rares’s voice comes again. This next memory will not be so pleasant.
No, it won’t be. It will probably be crippling, dredging up every last one of my insecurities.
But I don’t care. It’s all a part of me, every horrific, squirming shadow—it’s all me, and I will not hide from it anymore. I
do not deserve to be crippled by it; I do not deserve to harbor this guilt, because yes, I messed up, but I learned from every mistake.
That was how I blocked Hannah. I outgrew her, because I am all of this. I am mistakes and victories and death and life. I am competent and powerful and strong, and whatever this war brings my way—even death—I will face it like the queen I am.
I shout at Rares. I DON’T CARE.
My magic beats with each breath, but I don’t fear losing control. I am my magic, and it is me, and it will obey me as much as snow and ice.
I flick my wrist and a blade snaps into my hand from the storage bin, glinting as rain bounces off it. Oana’s serenity drops into an amused glower and she rises to her feet.
When I fling my body at Oana, sword slashing, I let my body move, years of Sir’s training rising from my memory; I let my magic flow, years of stifling it broken.
Oana pulls down small crackling bolts that dance between us as I stab at her, forcing her back. I’m too close to her for another large lightning strike, unless she wants to be fried herself. As I dance around each bolt, her smile widens, true effort showing in the way her eyes tighten and her breath comes in gasps.
She backs into the storage bins and teeters off-balance for one beat, two—then her hands go up. Not a call for another lightning bolt.
Surrender.
Because my blade is pressed to her throat.
Oana smiles, and in that smile, I feel what I did.
I didn’t lose control of my magic. I didn’t need to fuel myself with anger or negativity. I let everything happen, trusting in myself—and I won.
My arms fall limp and the sword thumps into the mud. At that moment the sky responds. The rain abates, the thunder stills, and all threat of lightning disappears as the clouds roll back on themselves in a ripple of blinding blue sky.
A slow, heavy applause starts off to my left, and I turn. Every muscle aches, stiffness spiraling through me in pain I’ll feel for days. But it was worth it. Every bruise and cut—I’d take them a hundred times over to feel how I feel right now. And it didn’t come through seeking gratification from Sir or Hannah or even Rares.
I made me whole. I am enough for me.
I face Rares on the stairs in front of the castle’s main door, my grin relentless. Mather and Phil stand next to him, Phil looking completely horrified yet amazed, and Mather . . .
Awed, stunned, bewildered—there is no word to describe how he looks at me. His eyes dart over me, from my soaked hair to my mud-stained robe, absorbing me in jerky motions as if he can’t catch all of me at once. When he meets my gaze, his shock ebbs away in favor of a look I’ve never seen on him. One I always dreamed of seeing.
He’s looking at me now like he loves me, and he doesn’t care who sees.
Mather hobbles down the steps, his movements still a little delayed. As he starts toward me across the yard, my eyes catch on something in his hands.
I jog to meet him halfway, a new disbelief rushing through me.
“This was given to Phil,” he says, lifting my chakram. “It was meant to be another threat, I think. But I’m not even sure you need a weapon anymore—that was amazing.”
I reach out, fingers hesitating over the worn wood handle curling through the circular blade. With this much power, I don’t need anything—and I could let that consume me.
But I want to need things, and people, and that choice feels far more powerful somehow. Choosing something regardless of what it can do for me. Regardless of who it can make me.
Choosing it because I want it.
I take the chakram, my eyes on Mather. “I’m not me without it, am I?”
A smile flips across his face before he shakes his head. “You’re perfect the way you are.”
And it thrills me to the Klaryns and back that I couldn’t agree more.
14
Ceridwen
DESPITE THEIR INTERACTION the night of their arrival at the Summerian refugee camp, Ceridwen had found dozens of things to keep her distracted from Jesse. The largest of which was the one she had expected—and feared—the most: the news that Angra had seized Summer.
It had taken all of Ceridwen’s not considerable store of patience to keep from screaming at the messenger who had shown up explaining that Angra was setting up a strong presence in her kingdom—mainly because she knew how receptive Summer would be to his magic. Every upper-class Summerian was so used to a constant influx of magic that Angra’s would be no different—until their eternal joy was traded for the mindless terror and compliance Angra had unleashed in Rintiero.
But this gave her an advantage. Blindfolded, she could find any building in Juli. And if Angra was there, it would be easy—no, enjoyable—to sneak in with a small contingent of soldiers and end his reign of terror.
So that was exactly what they’d do: sneak into Juli and assassinate Angra.
They all knew—some had even seen firsthand—how Angra’s magic spread. It didn’t matter what kingdom anyone was from—it could affect people without limitation. But Ceridwen had been in Rintiero, and had left unscathed; Jesse and Lekan had done the same. So it was possible to resist Angra’s magic. And of anyone in the world, Ceridwen’s Summerian refugees had the most experience resisting magic. They had trained themselves to break free of Simon’s stifling joy.
It was mad, to be sure, but possible—as long as they could use every tool at their disposal.
“What are you going to say to them?” Lekan asked, dust kicking up under their feet as they walked toward the Yakimian quarter of the camp.
Ceridwen’s fingers tightened around the seal in her palm. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to reveal it to the Yakimians when she’d confronted them; she wasn’t Giselle’s lackey, and any good that came from this would be her doing. But it was all she could think of to convince them to fight with her now.
“They’re Yakimians. I’m sure standing against Angra will speak to their rational side as much as it did Giselle’s.”
Lekan grunted. “But will they agree that their first move against him should be to help you reclaim Summer?”
“No—of course they won’t. They’re Rhythms. They’ll laugh in my face, and I’ll probably end up punching one of them.”
The three hundred Yakimian soldiers had only revealed themselves once Ceridwen had stood on a platform and shouted Giselle’s plan at her entire camp. As she had expected, not every Yakimian was aware of their queen’s intent, so before an uprising could occur, the soldiers had stepped forward and spent the past two days trying to make their countrymen understand. This was an issue among the Yakimians, so Ceridwen had allowed them that time.
She came to a dead stop. The intensity of the plains’ sun beat down, but the heat didn’t have its usual comforting effect on her. Burn it all, what would she say to them now?
“Then you shouldn’t present it like that,” came a voice that did even less to comfort her.
Ceridwen spun around to find Jesse on the road behind them.
“Shouldn’t you be with your children?” She squinted to hide her surprise.
Jesse’s smile might have been hurt, but most of his face was covered with a mask crafted from burlap, the best he could do to hang on to Ventrallan tradition here. “They’re asleep, and well watched over by the Winterians who brought them here,” he said. “Which is why I thought I would join you. I heard you’re off to confront the Yakimian soldiers? A Rhythm monarch’s presence could be useful to—”
“I can handle a few angry Rhythms,” Ceridwen snapped.
“Handle them, yes. But convince them to fight for you?” Jesse pursed his lips. “I’m merely offering my presence as support. Nothing more. I won’t say a word.”
Lekan cleared his throat and didn’t exactly whisper, “Having him there isn’t a bad idea.”
Jesse tipped his head. “Thank you, Lekan.”
And that seemed to be all the permission he needed. Jesse walked around them, heading down the roa
d toward their Yakimian meeting.
Ceridwen swung on Lekan when Jesse was out of earshot. “Isn’t a bad idea?”
But Lekan didn’t look the least bit apologetic. “We don’t have time for your stubbornness. Who knows how long Angra will even be in Juli? This plan has to go into action now, and we need them on our side, Cerie. You know that.”
“I’m sure they’ll see our logic,” Ceridwen countered as they continued walking, Jesse still a few good paces ahead. “Assassinating Angra will end all this.”
Lekan gave her an exasperated look. “You expect a Yakimian to see Season logic? You’re more stubborn than I thought.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He cut his eyes toward Jesse’s back, then raised his brows. When she shrugged in confusion, Lekan snorted. “You were willing to risk winning over the necessary support all because you don’t want to have to deal with Jesse yet.”
Her lips parted in an instinctual hiss. But Jesse didn’t so much as turn to look back at them, and only the many people who clogged the area saved her from yelling at Lekan. Refugees moving about their day, scurrying to one of the market tents or carrying buckets for chores.
Ceridwen kept her voice low. “You want to talk about this now?”
Lekan angled closer to her. “Would you rather we talk about it while his children are around? Or Kaleo—I know he has opinions on your relationship too, but since this is the first time you and I have been alone since we got back, yes, I figured we should talk about this now. Because like it or not, Cerie, I love you, and I’ve watched you suffer far too long to let this go unaddressed. What exactly have you planned to do about Jesse?”
“Just because I wanted to handle this meeting without him doesn’t mean I’m avoiding him,” she spit. “My stubbornness has never been an issue before. I run this camp—”
“Kaleo runs this camp,” Lekan cut in. “You won’t get out of talking about Jesse this easily.”
Ceridwen quickened her pace before he could dive back into that subject. Now Jesse did glance over his shoulder. She swallowed, then dropped back a beat, sweat breaking out across her spine.
