by Sara Raasch
Sir’s face doesn’t reveal anything he might be thinking. “You and I will be needed for whatever decisions must be made. I was thinking of sending Henn, along with—”
“We could go,” Hollis offers. “A few of the Thaw, at least—if it’s of importance to our queen, we should be involved.”
Sir considers, then nods. Spots of pink stain Mather’s cheeks, a rise of pride as he squares his shoulders.
“I’ll send them out as soon as we’re done here,” Mather says.
As if on cue, the flaps part again and Caspar and Nikoletta file in. Moments later, we’re joined by Ceridwen and Jesse, Dendera, Henn—representatives of four kingdoms; leaders of the armies of two. And a half. If our few hundred Winterian, Yakimian, and Summerian soldiers can even be counted as an army.
Caspar surveys the room, eyes moving from Mather to Sir, Dendera to Henn, like he can see each of their strengths and weaknesses written in vibrant ink across their foreheads. When he gets to me, I stiffen my spine to keep from withering.
“What was the last you heard of Angra’s conquests?” he asks, straight to the point.
“In addition to Spring, he now has Ventralli, Summer, Winter, and Cordell.” I separate my emotions from my words, talking low and hard. Because I don’t stop there—I’ve already gone too long without telling everyone the truth behind our war.
I explain what Angra is now, a host for the Royal Conduit’s magic as well as the Decay, and how that magic will spread out from Angra and infect every living soul in Primoria until everyone is a slave to fear and their darkest desires. How I am a host for Winter’s magic too; how Winter and Cordell discovered the entrance to the magic chasm. Nikoletta seems shocked to learn that we actually found the entrance, but Caspar doesn’t even flinch, either because he doesn’t care or because he already suspected it. I tell them about the keys we need to open it, about the labyrinth of three tasks built by Paislians.
And then I take a deep breath.
“Once I get through the labyrinth and reach the magic chasm, I can defeat Angra,” I say. “But doing so won’t just rid Angra of the Decay—it will rid the world of all magic.”
Caspar is the first to understand, and he blinks slowly at me.
“We have to destroy all magic?” he asks. “Why? Couldn’t we simply kill Angra?”
I shrug halfheartedly. “I would be the only person who could even get close enough to do that—but it wouldn’t be guaranteed that the Decay would end with his death, and how many lives would be lost in the attempt? This way, though, is definite. It will end his reign.”
“How is this definite?” Caspar asks. He isn’t defensive; his tone is simply curious, though the expression on Nikoletta’s face is more like horror.
“I . . . ,” I start, then realize how absolutely insane this will sound. “My magic . . . showed me, in a way. Conduit magic’s purpose is to protect its land—and I sought such help from mine. I asked it how to save everyone. Not even the Paislians knew of another way, and they’ve been searching for ways to undo magic far longer than we have.”
“Those are our two options, then?” Nikoletta now. “Either we fight Angra as he is, and hope to defeat him by strength of arms—or your conduit told you we should destroy all magic?”
I wince and nod. The overall mood in the room is one of apprehension. The idea of a world without magic is one not many have considered, let alone the idea of asking conduits for help. There are only three other monarchs here besides me—Ceridwen, the Autumnian king, and Jesse. Ceridwen is the wrong gender to use Summer’s conduit; Jesse’s conduit is useless now, after Raelyn broke it in Rintiero and Jesse, in essence, let her; and in Autumn, they’ve lived without being able to use their conduit for generations. It wouldn’t be such a far leap for them, for the world to be empty of magic. And they’ve all now experienced how expansive Angra’s threat is—asking the conduit magic for help might not seem like such a farfetched thing.
In fact, Caspar looks almost like he’ll agree with me. But he isn’t the one who speaks up.
“We’ve all seen magic do far more mysterious things than give help when it was needed,” Sir says. He crosses his arms, his stance telling the room that he expects his words to be heeded. “It doesn’t appear we have a very difficult choice to make. We all have fallen victim to Angra’s destruction—the Autumnians were ousted from their own city; the refugees around us were displaced from their homes; friends and family have been lost. Angra must be stopped. No matter the cost.”
A pause, then slow murmurs of agreement pepper the room, coming first from Caspar, Ceridwen, and Jesse.
I glance quickly at Sir, who stares straight at me. He bows his head.
My heart squeezes, trampled beneath Sir’s devotion and his last few words.
No matter the cost.
I didn’t tell them what exactly I have to do to destroy magic. And I won’t, for as long as I can avoid it.
“We know now who has the keys,” I say, not lingering on the issue. “Angra presented them to Theron when we were in Juli. Which poses a number of problems, namely that he wants us to know that Theron has the keys—he’s hoping we’ll try to get them. Which we have to do. We have to figure out some way to get close to Theron.”
When I finish, Caspar has a hand on his chin, his mouth pursed in thought.
“All right. We can work with that.”
“What are you thinking?” I ask.
It’s Nikoletta who answers. “According to our spies, Angra has split the armies stationed in Winter—half he sent to fortify Jannuari and half to increase protection over the Tadil Mine. Which makes sense now—he’s making sure you won’t be able to easily access the entrance. Spring’s army is at this moment marching toward Winter; the Ventrallans are boarding ships, and every missive we’ve intercepted in Summer has mentioned their own armies readying to leave. We suspect, then, that he is sending them all to focus his power in Winter.”
My mouth drops open. When Angra took Winter last time, he at least left our land empty. Now, though, he has endless resources, and he knows that the only way to stop him lies under my kingdom.
Of course the final battle against Angra would take place in Winter.
“So we turn our focus to Winter too,” I say. “But surely you can’t mean to attack him, not directly?”
Caspar meets my gaze. “Perhaps not.”
Nikoletta spins on him. “So we should let Angra gather his full strength?”
With a cocked brow, Caspar smiles. “Yes.”
“What?” I frown at him.
“We have to assume that Angra will anticipate whatever we plan—but if we expect him to get the advantage, we may be able to manipulate the outcome. Once Angra’s armies are united, if we show our position, he’ll know we’re trying to draw him out on our terms. It’s a risk, but I believe Angra will come after us himself and leave Theron to deal with you, thinking you will use the battle as cover to get the labyrinth’s keys. It’ll be a trap, but we can still control when and how it happens.”
I mull over his plan long enough that the silence in the tent tells me everyone else is too. So when I speak, I know I’m throwing yet another twist into their swirling worries. “And if I present myself as leading the army, Angra will definitely come after us himself.”
Nikoletta frowns. “Who would we send to retrieve the keys?”
“If Angra is occupied by the battle, I can use my magic to get myself and a few Winterians to wherever Theron is and then to the mine in minutes.” I find Mather on the edge of the tent. “Mather and General William will accompany me—we’ll get the keys from Theron, then instantly go to the Tadil. With a smaller group, we might even get the keys and get out before any traps can take hold.”
“Where do you think Theron will be?” Mather asks, his face blank.
Caspar answers. “We’ll have our scouts locate him for this. Though I suspect—”
“Jannuari,” I say, as if from a distance, my voice low. “Angra
will put him in Jannuari.”
If Angra truly does mean to use Theron against me, he’d put him in the one place that would most thoroughly unravel me: the heart of my kingdom.
My eyes stay on Mather. This isn’t just a simple mission. This is everything I’ve been working toward from the first moment I heard of the war between our kingdoms: Angra’s defeat.
For a moment, Rares and Oana flash through my mind, and I almost ask Caspar to send a scout to Paisly. But by the time anyone could travel there and back, the war would be long over, in whatever outcome.
I shiver. It’s all happening too fast, yet too slowly.
I pivot back to Caspar and Nikoletta before glancing at Ceridwen. Their people are the ones who will suffer most in this, and though I don’t know how many warriors Autumn has in this camp, I know it isn’t nearly enough to actually win against Angra.
“As soon as the magic is destroyed, Angra will be powerless,” I assure them, unable to keep the plea out of my voice. “I’ll find the keys, then get to the chasm as quickly as I can. You won’t have to hold him off for long. I promise, I’ll make this battle as short as possible.”
With as few deaths as possible.
The thought batters at me. People will die for this. For me.
Caspar puts his hand on my shoulder. “This war belongs to all of us. We are all well aware of what will happen if we don’t stand against Angra. You bear too much of the weight.”
I almost dissolve under his comfort. But I nod, step back, and fumble with the hem of my shirt. The threads are entirely held together by dirt now, and the distraction gives me something easy to think about.
“We’ll wait for Angra’s forces to gather in Winter,” I confirm. “In the meantime, can we borrow supplies?”
“Oh! Of course.” Nikoletta signals to a few of the servants at the edge of the room, and as they duck outside, I follow. I don’t think anyone expected me to leave the tent, but the orders have been given, decisions made, and I cannot stand around rehashing old news or picking apart our strategies.
“I’m coming with you to Winter, idiot. Not only do I have to redeem myself, but I’m not letting the three of you go alone.”
Ceridwen keeps pace beside me as the servants weave into a tent across the clearing. While they shuffle through supplies inside, I face her.
“I’d take you if I could, believe me, but for this mission, I need to be able to use my magic on everyone. Besides, we’ll need leaders like you in the battle.”
“I won’t sit here while you’re off actually defeating Angra. He overtook my kingdom too.”
Ceridwen’s voice breaks. Her agony is a hot, sparking wave that palpitates off her body.
“I know,” I say. This isn’t about packing down my weak feelings—this is about choosing what will strengthen me over what will break me, and right now, at this moment, I desperately need to be strong. “Please, don’t argue this.” My throat shrivels. “Go—spend time with Jesse. This war isn’t done taking people from us.”
Ceridwen pushes closer to me. “Get that look off your face right now.”
I pull back. “What?”
“The look that says you don’t expect to survive this. Because if you don’t expect to survive this war, you won’t. Death has a way of finding those who welcome it.”
Her words heave at the balled knot in my chest. I turn from her, reaching for the tent.
“The servants should be—”
Ceridwen grabs my arm, holding me in place. “I’m not saying that that feeling isn’t natural. Any fighter worries about it constantly. But don’t let it consume you.”
“I don’t let it consume me,” I snap. “You have no idea what it will take to end this. I do. I know exactly what has to happen, so don’t lecture me on how to handle it. I’m doing the best I can, Ceridwen. I’m barely holding myself together.”
Her grip on me loosens. I run a hand over my face, and when I look back at her, her anger has returned, a flash of hurt that makes me all too aware of how I yelled at her.
I slacken. The main tent’s flaps part, and out come Sir, Dendera . . . Mather.
My chest deflates. “You’ve worried about not making it through battles before.”
Ceridwen nods, sharp and short.
“Did you ever fear . . .” The question sticks in my mouth. “Did you ever fear what that would do to the people you love? Did you ever try to, I don’t know . . . distance yourself, so it wouldn’t hurt as much?”
Ceridwen doesn’t respond right away, and when I look at her, her lips part.
“I got too good at distancing myself,” she says. “Mostly it was because I was afraid. But I’ve come to understand things differently, after all this. And . . .” Her eyes stray to the camp around us. “And it’s so ridiculous, these barriers we put up. We aren’t hurting anyone but ourselves. Everyone involved in this knows that at any moment Angra could come sweeping in and obliterate everything. You think the people we love would be happier if we pushed them away? Flame and heat, no. Every moment we have is one more moment that can’t be taken from us.”
I look to Mather again—he’s talking with his Thaw just outside the main tent, no doubt telling some of them to go with Henn to escort the last refugee group. His eyes jump to mine when he feels me looking at him, and even from paces away, his smile sends a tingling storm through my body.
Ceridwen follows my line of sight and looks back at me with a knowing grin. It softens into something serious, an absent longing dredged up from her own life.
“You’ll only regret the time it took you to make the decision,” she says.
That makes me shift a questioning smile to her. “And have you? Made a decision?”
Because the last time I saw her, she was distraught over ending things with Jesse. But they spent time together in her refugee camp—have they mended things since then?
By the slow, startled smile on her face, I know the answer.
She laughs at herself, palms going to her suddenly sheened eyes. “I don’t know! I don’t know. I just know that I—” Ceridwen shrugs, laughing again. “I love him. And that’s all.”
“Ventralli and Summer.” I echo her smile. “It could work.”
She rolls her eyes. “Believe me, this is not how I foresaw joining our two kingdoms—when neither of us really has a kingdom anymore. But . . .”
My eyes widen. “You really mean to join your kingdoms? You want to marry him?”
Ceridwen’s cheeks tinge with spots of red, but I wave it off.
“I’m sorry—it’s wonderful, Cerie. Really.”
“Thank you.” She recovers. “I’m glad my failed love life can be of some use to others.”
“I wouldn’t say it’s failed.” I motion toward the main tent. “Jesse’s here. He chose you. That’s certainly worth celebrating.”
Ceridwen considers for a moment before she scrunches her nose and grins. “I guess I should take my own advice, shouldn’t I? It is worth celebrating.”
I cock my head, my sly smile returning. “What do you mean?”
But she shakes her head as the servants return, arms loaded with supplies.
“This way, Your Highness,” they say and start down the nearest row of tents.
Ceridwen sprints back toward the main structure. I follow the servants, walking backward, half watching her go and half watching Mather move toward the western edge of camp with his Thaw. He doesn’t notice me staring now, and my eyes slide over him, memorizing the dozens of details I’ve noticed for years. The way his shoulders cave when he’s in a serious discussion; how the space over his nose creases on the left side when he frowns; the nervous twitch he gets when he’s thinking, a shuddering shift in his jaw.
“You’ll only regret the time it took you to make the decision.”
Just before he turns down a row of tents, Mather looks at me over his shoulder. I smile at him.
Mather hesitates. Something catches in his eyes, loosening my feelings even more, a
s though he sees the difference in the way I smile at him. Phil says something to him, and it seems to take physical effort for Mather to break his curious eyes away from me.
This war will end with my death, but for now, I am alive. And Mather is alive. And we are here, somewhere safe for once, and if I’m to venture into the Klaryns and willingly sacrifice myself for this world, I will do so with no regrets. I will know what it is like to love, and love fully, with no reluctance or remorse or overthinking.
Just like I did with my conduit magic—I will harness all my life has to offer.
20
Meira
EVERY MINUTE OF every hour of the next three days is packed with readying the armies, settling the refugees, sending out scouts to watch Angra’s movements, and discussing war strategies until everyone practically topples over from exhaustion. What moments I can steal, I spend pacing the perimeter of camp, straining my magic to double check that I’m shielding everyone as best as I can. What sleep I manage is light and fleeting, giving me just enough rest to get through the next day.
No one asks why I do what I do or says anything about how I stare off into the trees with my jaw clenched. I wonder about this for half a heartbeat one afternoon, long enough to realize that everyone is as stressed as I am. Everyone knows we have a few weeks at most before Angra’s troops are fully gathered—which means we only have that much time to become a cohesive fighting unit.
And the more work we pack into each day, the fewer lives will be lost in the coming battle.
These thoughts fuel me when fatigue hits, and I need only glance at Nessa singing soft lullabies to the camp’s children to force myself awake. When we break for the night and my legs ache from pacing, I need only spot Ceridwen running through drills with her refugee fighters to find the energy to take one more step, then another.
These tasks are infinitely preferable to what awaits us.
“Meira!”
I bolt upright, chakram in one hand, magic surging down my other arm in a bundled ball of defense. But it’s only Nessa, bouncing in the middle of my tent.
