by Sara Raasch
The Thaw is silent as I close my eyes, arms knotted across my chest. I let tendrils of magic snake over the ground and up to the palace, splitting apart and spreading out like frost crawling over a window. I should be able to sense Sir—his Winterian blood is connected to the magic within me, and he should be close enough to feel, the same way I pushed magic into the workers deep in the Tadil while I stood atop the mine.
“What is she doing?” Phil hisses.
“Searching for Mather’s father, I’d imagine,” Trace answers quietly.
“I don’t know about you all,” Feige starts, “but I’m ready for an enemy I can see. No more of this . . .”
My eyes are closed, but I take it she waves at what I’m doing. A few of the Thaw shift, their clothes rustling, and that’s answer enough. They’re uncomfortable with magic use, as I knew they would be—the bulk of their magic experience was Angra’s control of Spring. The few months we were back in Winter, with me using magic sporadically to help crops along, did nothing to alter their already fearful view of it.
I almost tell them not to worry. It’ll all be gone soon.
Mather shushes them, a sharp hiss between his teeth, and I bow my head to my chest.
Find him, I will my magic. I don’t realize until I think those words how desperately I need it to work. Because if I can’t sense Sir here . . . Angra might have already killed him.
A sharp jolt of connection makes me straighten.
“What?” Mather’s hands go to my arm.
My eyes fly open.
“Sir,” I pant, relief cooling my limbs. I look at Mather. “I know where he is.”
I take off, led purely by the need in my heart. My magic doesn’t sense any Decay in Sir—his strength of will must be enough to resist, for now at least.
Of course it is. Of course he’d hold out against Angra.
We slip into the palace through the servants’ entrance, keeping our heads bowed, our features as obscured by scarves as possible. Luckily, every servant we pass keeps their shoulders hunched and faces to the ground as they rush to complete their tasks. I lead the Thaw through halls that once dripped with vibrant pink flowers and braids of silk—now the walls are bare, darkness serving almost as the only decoration. And, more than that, there’s a heaviness to these halls, one that feels so reminiscent of Angra’s palace in Abril that my heart can’t stop galloping. Pain—that’s what my body remembers most about Angra’s home. Excruciating, shattering pain.
I stop before each corner, glancing down it to make sure Angra isn’t lying in wait. I can’t feel him anywhere around, which means he either isn’t here—unlikely—or he’s shielding himself as much as I am from him. He could be one wall away, and I wouldn’t know.
Finally, I duck up one last staircase and come to a balcony overlooking the celebration hall. Four stories of arching sandstone balconies spiral around, the ceiling nothing but a great sweep of the night sky. Fire pits line the room, all burning low and casting just enough light to highlight the people below.
The gathering is a stark contrast to the last celebration I saw here. There is no music, no color—people stand in tight groups, talking in quiet, low voices, every so often casting wary glances at a balcony directly across from me.
We’re on one of the second-floor balconies, the walkway empty of any other souls. Still we press to the wall, slinking through the shadows. My magic hums, compelling me forward—Sir should be here.
My breath hitches. Trap, I think. It’s a trap. Angra knew we’d come.
But then I turn.
Sir crouches behind the railing, his body squished against a pillar. His attention is pinned on the balcony, centered across from him. No doubt Angra will appear there, and Ceridwen’s planned assassination attempt will occur.
At the sight of Sir, images break apart in my mind, thoughts of him dead at Angra’s hands, his body broken and bleeding on a battlefield. But he’s all right—he’s alive.
I hadn’t realized how terrified I’d been until now.
The Thaw stops, hidden behind one of the larger pillars. I slide forward one step.
“Sir,” I whisper.
He jolts and flies to his feet, utter shock scrawled across his usually stoic face, before he falls back to hide behind the pillar next to him.
His attention shifts to a movement at my left.
Mather steps away from the shadows and everything about Sir’s demeanor softens. Where he had looked at me with shock, Sir looks at Mather as if he’s staring at the most precious thing in the world.
Sir’s arms drop limp. “You’re all right,” he mouths.
Mather hesitates, shrugs. But Sir doesn’t give him a chance to respond—he stumbles into the space behind our pillar, and everything I ever thought I knew about Sir is proved wrong.
He hooks his arms around Mather’s neck and hauls him forward, head bowing to tuck against his son.
Mather goes stiff.
Sir is hugging him—desperately, pleadingly.
Mather’s eyes close and he dissolves, his fingers digging into Sir’s back. A sob shakes through Mather’s body, sorrow unleashed from his mother’s recent death, from his tortured relationship with his parents, from the way I know he’s always wanted this as much as I have. And while I am gloriously happy for him, a sharp flutter takes my breath away.
I’ve resigned myself to my relationship with Sir. I am his queen; that’s all I’ll ever be.
I clear my throat. “Where is Ceridwen?” I whisper.
Sir pulls away from Mather. When he faces me again, every bit of softness is gone.
He nods to the floor below us.
I press back against the pillar but angle forward so I can see the floor. My gut aches when my eyes land on Ceridwen, hidden in an alcove by a fire pit, her eyes cutting every so often to the same second-floor balcony across from us.
“We have archers,” Sir whispers, nodding to the balconies above. “And swordsmen.” He points at his own weapon, then to two more bodies hidden on this same level, on balconies closer to the one that holds all attention. One of the swordsmen is Henn.
I pause. They haven’t yet been caught. They haven’t yet been consumed with Decay.
This . . . might actually work.
“What can we do?” I ask, a breath against the music below.
But Sir can’t answer—the moment I ask, a door opens on the main balcony. We all drop, crouching behind the thick sandstone railings and pillars.
The crowd pivots toward the open door. Their quiet whispering ceases, dead silence making the low-burning fire pits roar.
From the shadows of the opened door, Angra emerges.
Mather puts his hand on my knee. I grab his fingers, squeezing once, but the rest of my body has gone numb. I keep from looking at Ceridwen, knowing the pain that must be racking her. Angra is here, lording his power over her kingdom.
Summer is his.
Firelight cuts through the shadows around him, dancing off his black tunic and pale hair as he steps to the railing.
“Summer!” Angra bellows. The crowd shifts closer to him, drawn as flowers to the sun. “The world has transformed. I bring to each kingdom a chance at unity—a chance Summer has welcomed with great reception. . . .”
He drones on, a speech about unity and peace and things that set my insides on fire, so I ignore him in favor of studying him. Does he have the keys? They’re more a threat to him than the locket ever was, and he kept that around his neck. There’s no way he’d let those keys leave his person. So how do we get close enough to him without getting ourselves killed? Maybe, if Ceridwen’s archers get a good shot, it will stun him enough for us to make a move. Or—could an arrow really assassinate him? Surely his magic wouldn’t let him die so easily. But it could definitely distract him.
“. . . will shift our world into a state of equality, where prejudices will die and new life will grow. Further”—Angra leans forward—“the Seasons and Rhythms will no longer hold to biased, chil
dlike opinions. We are all equal, and as such, I, a Season king, present to Theron Haskar, a Rhythm king, a token of my trust and bond.”
Every bit of blood in my body rushes for my head, wrapping me in a dizzy fog.
I knew he’d be here, but I hadn’t let myself dwell on it, the same way I keep from looking at Ceridwen—I can’t think about him now.
Movement from two places in the room cuts my attention.
One comes from below, where two men start walking across the back of the room. They’re Yakimians, and I almost dismiss them as slaves—but they’re armed, and they walk with a sudden purpose that stands out in the quiet crowd. Slowly at first, their footsteps gain traction with each step, and it isn’t until they’re halfway across the room that Sir, on the other side of Mather, grunts low in his throat.
This isn’t part of the plan.
Another movement comes from the door behind Angra, the darkness unfurling around the figure of a man. He isn’t injured, not a bruise or a scratch or anything to indicate he’s been ill-treated—which is almost more horrible. He’s whole and clean, dressed in a Cordellan military uniform, looking so normal that I have to squeeze my nails into my palms, the pain reminding me that this is real, not a nightmare.
Mather sucks in a ragged breath, his hand on my knee clenching tighter, grounding me.
Theron steps up to the railing. Angra reaches into a pocket on his black tunic to withdraw a chain from which two thick black keys hang.
I teeter forward, catching myself on the stone.
“These keys represent both our past mistakes and our future freedom,” Angra continues, and holds them out.
Below, the two Yakimians reach Ceridwen’s hiding place. She frowns at them.
I feel everything that happens next before it occurs, like the anticipation of watching a storm cloud roll in over the plains.
Theron takes the keys, opens his mouth to say something no doubt grand and rehearsed in response to Angra’s display.
But the Yakimian men start shouting.
“You are unfit to lead us!” one cries. “We never should have trusted you!”
“You deserve death!” the other adds, and they draw their weapons and dive at Ceridwen.
The crowd dissolves into panic, their silence broken now by horrified shrieking. They rush for the doors as soldiers advance from the side halls, Angra’s men, their uniforms a mix of Cordell and Spring, their faces set with . . . amusement.
I send one more blast of protection to my Winterians, keeping them clear of Angra’s Decay, and launch to my feet. No hesitation—the open-air room means dirt coats every tile of the floor, making it easy to lift the particles and create a haphazard version of a sandstorm. The air fills with blinding dirt as the crowd’s chaos rears into terrified screams and the jostle of weapons.
Sir and Mather react without needing instruction, sprinting after me down the balcony. The Thaw trails behind us, their weapons drawn. The sand starts to settle, so I whip it up again, but another force snatches it away from me. The unexpected loss of control sends me stumbling into the railing.
The sand clears, controlled by Angra’s outstretched hand.
I’m leaning over the room, so close to his balcony now that I could reach out and touch him. Henn stands next to me, having joined us as we raced past his hiding place.
Angra grins. Beside him, Theron smiles, just as pleased as Angra, albeit with more relief than satisfaction.
I push myself back from the railing and rip my chakram free, but the pillars make throwing it impossible. Soldiers appear behind us on the balcony, their booted feet shaking the walkway, and the Thaw turns to intercept them amid a chorus of shouts and clashing weapons. I send them bursts of strength and swing around the corner to come face-to-face with Angra. The keys are in his hand.
Angra doesn’t bother with a weapon—a shadow engulfs his fist and his grin turns sickening. Below us, chaos still bubbles over, but the crowd has mostly departed—the only shouting comes from one source, a voice that triggers awareness.
Ceridwen.
She cries out, and I whip around to look for her.
Distracted, distracted—
That word consumes me as I blink and Angra punches the air, his shadow pummeling into my chest. I heave backward, hurtling into Sir and Henn, who jog up behind me.
Theron swings forward, catching Angra’s arm. “She could be here to surrender!”
Angra holds and I fly to my feet, chakram still raised.
“Have you come to surrender, Winter queen?” Angra asks, but his voice says he knows I haven’t. Another shadow gathers around his fist—
Before he can throw it, Mather climbs onto the railing and leaps to their balcony, careening into Angra, who slams back into Theron. The three of them drop to the floor in a collision of thuds and shouts.
I hesitate, eyes scrambling over the mess of bodies for the keys—did they get jostled loose? Does Theron still have them? Why did Angra give them to Theron at all?
But I know why.
Because I’d have no problem killing Angra to get the keys, but if I have to get them from Theron . . .
Angra is on his feet now, Mather between him and me with a dagger drawn. Angra doesn’t toy with me this time—he jerks his hand to his chest, pulling the dagger from Mather’s grip. Mather staggers forward with a cry of alarm, but Angra is already flinging his hand back out, hurling the dagger at me.
Theron flips onto his knees and reaches for Angra.
“No—she’s mine!” he roars, and pulls Angra’s aim off, the dagger plunging to the right to graze Mather’s shoulder before it clatters into the room below.
Mather spins with the force of the blade. Behind me, Phil wails, and any last knot of concentration I had utterly unravels at the sight of blood spraying out of Mather’s arm.
Go, I beg myself. Get out of here, get out of here—
Panic drives me, such fuel that I don’t even need to touch the Winterians. Mather, Sir, Henn, the Thaw—I grab onto their bodies with the same snaking tendrils that let me find Sir, and on a pull that tears at my stomach, I use my magic to remove us from the balcony.
18
Ceridwen
TONIGHT THEY WOULD assassinate the king of Spring and end his magic-fueled reign of terror.
Ceridwen had felt Angra’s Decay picking away at her mind the moment they set foot in Juli, but now, as he stood over her on the balcony, his magic pummeled her like raindrops beating against a parched ground.
But she had been parched for years—she had learned to live without rain.
She kept her place on the main floor, tucked on the outskirts of the quiet, waiting crowd. There was no denying Angra’s influence in Summer as she watched the normally vivacious upper class stand in solemn, whispering groups. The trip through Juli had been just as wrong, the streets silent, even the brothels still. Everything about her kingdom was wrong, like a fire Angra had doused with water—no more light, no more passion, no more life.
Ceridwen shook her head and glared up at Angra. The archers above him were so well hidden that Ceridwen herself almost couldn’t spot them—but she knew they were there, waiting for her signal.
Angra droned on, but still Ceridwen couldn’t bring her hand to rise. He presented as good a shot as any.
Ceridwen clenched her fist.
Signal, she willed herself. Give the signal—
Her throat all but closed, her eyes glazing over in a sudden burst of dizziness. She staggered, tripping into a servant who held a tray of goblets for the crowd that hadn’t drunk a single drop of wine all night. Once, that would have made her rejoice, that her court could be sober at an event—but now she found herself wishing for them to indulge as they used to.
The servant scurried away, outfit soaked with spilled wine. The scent flooded Ceridwen’s mind with images of this room, memories of parties where wine had flowed and the courtiers had laughed, and drunk, and succumbed to Simon’s magic.
Ceridwen r
ighted herself, dazed. She needed to signal . . . something. Feasting to start, maybe—but no, that had always been Simon’s duty. He loved announcing new festivities to the crowd.
Ceridwen shifted, turning to the tent he always erected in the middle of the room—
It wasn’t there.
On the balcony, Angra beckoned to someone behind him, and Theron stepped forward.
Angra—kill him. Focus, Ceridwen!
She scrambled forward, her mind clouded, the crowd so close that she could feel each heartbeat egging her on, united in this one clarifying goal: to kill Simon.
A cry fought for life in her chest. She planned to kill her brother? Why would she do such a thing?
Her mind burned, magic prickling across her scalp with dozens of tiny, determined fingers. Simon’s magic had never been this persistent—once she pushed it from her mind, it had seemed to sulk away as though even it was too drunk to press her more.
But Angra’s magic was determined, and heavy, and warm. It cocooned around her body, waiting for one small window of weakness through which it could climb. It whispered in her ear, words dripping honey, What do you want, Cerie?
No one had ever asked her that before.
Do you want to join the courtiers? You’ve always wanted to be like them—so easily able to forget their worries and give themselves over to stronger powers, powers that know better. . . .
Ceridwen turned, bumping into someone else—one of the Yakimians who had come with her, the leader Jesse had had to subdue. One of his soldiers flanked him, their brows furrowed.
“You haven’t given the signal,” the leader growled.
Ceridwen swayed toward him. “Signal?” she asked, her voice soft in the general silence of the room—only one voice rang out, giving some kind of speech. “Where is Simon?”
“I was right from the beginning.” The Yakimian shook his head, lips peeling back as he bared his teeth. “You’re weak, and I should have killed you long ago—this mission should have been mine. This victory will go to Yakim! You are unfit to lead us! We never should have trusted you!”
