Frost Like Night

by Sara Raasch

  I pause. “Snow above. We are seventeen.”

  Mather laughs. “Afraid so.”

  “Alysson and Dendera always warned me to wait until I was older.” I sigh. “So that makes me feel a little better about what happened.”

  “Better?” He tucks a hand around my waist, his fingers drawing absurdly distracting patterns on my hip through the blanket. “Why would you feel at all bad?”

  His hand stops abruptly as his eyes snap open so wide I see my reflection.

  “Ice above,” he curses. “We . . . and I didn’t . . . damn it.” He rocks back, hands over his face.

  “What are you talking about?”

  He peeks through his fingers, eyes still wide, and his attention drops to my stomach.

  My own eyes stretch all the way open. “Oh. Oh. No. I can’t—”

  My mouth falls slack.

  I can’t . . . have children.

  On that thought, Oana’s sadness rises above my hazy delight. The dusty nursery she and Rares kept locked away, waiting for the day it would be used.

  I sit up, curling my arms around my knees. And just like that, last night really is over.

  Mather slides upright. “You can’t?”

  I force a smile. “Being a conduit makes certain things impossible.”

  Mather drops a hand around my bent legs. “I’m sorry I—”

  “No.” I push back, angling enough to stay in his arms but look into his eyes. “Don’t apologize, for anything. I wanted this. Want this.”

  He smiles, but his eyes say he’s slowly coming to terms with the night being over too. “You say that like it’ll never happen again.”

  I droop against him. But I can’t make myself repeat all the things I said last night, how this won’t last, how it’ll hurt, how in a few days, he’ll be alone.

  He shakes his head and tightens his hold on me. “We’ll figure out something, and we’ll both come out of that labyrinth alive, and we’ll have many, many more nights like this one.” After a breath, he smiles. “Besides, I need time to actually get good at it.”

  I snort, gripping his arm. I know he sees the tears rimming my eyes—but I cling desperately to his joke. Maybe because I’m weak and can’t bear the thought of . . . everything. Maybe because I’m strong enough to push past what scares me.

  Either way, I bump him with my shoulder. “I thought you were pretty good already.”

  He presses his forehead to my temple. “But who wouldn’t want to improve?”

  “What a goal to have.”

  “I know it’ll keep me inspired.”

  I swing one leg out from under the blanket. “Well, we should get dressed at some point.”

  Mather grumbles against my skin as he brushes my hair over my shoulder. “Clothes,” he mocks and lays kisses down the back of my neck. “That sounds like a bad idea.”

  Shivers prickle down my spine. And though the rest of me would gladly melt back into bed for the foreseeable future, I stand.

  Mather’s hands drop against the blankets. I grab the nearest article of clothing—a white tunic from the stack of clothes the servants gave me—and tug it over my head. By the time I’m dressed, a belt cinching the tunic to my waist, the boots from Paisly tight over my knees, my chakram in place, Mather is up too, the blanket tangled around his hips.

  He steps forward, one hand holding the ivory and green wool at his waist. A gust of wind flutters the tent flaps, a gentle whoosh against their ties, and the motion sends a sliver of light across his face, curving down his neck, heaving over his chest.

  I lower my gaze. “I’m going to check on everyone else. You can—”

  “I’ll be right behind you,” he assures me. The tremble in his voice sounds like he’s fighting to keep his tone level, and that undoes me even more, so much so that I undo the ties on the tent and get halfway out before I find myself looking back at him.

  He’s sitting on the bed now, hands in his hair and elbows on his knees.

  This is breaking him, just like I knew it would, but I did it anyway.

  The tent flaps tremble shut behind me. “I’m so—”

  Mather stands, the blanket falling away as his hands dive to cradle my face. He slams his mouth against mine in a kiss that swallows my apology.

  “You don’t get to apologize either,” he tells me. “No apologies. No matter what happens, I will never, not in a thousand tragic outcomes, ever regret loving you.”

  I loop my arms around his neck.

  “I love you,” I tell him for what must be the millionth time since the ridge.

  He pushes his face into my hair. “I love you too.”

  The words press like brands into my neck, and I close my eyes, memorizing each letter as it lies along my body.

  No matter what happens when I step out of this tent, when I go to Jannuari, when we reach the labyrinth, I have this.

  I have him.

  The area in front of the main tent still wears most of its decorations from last night. Unlit lanterns hang from the braided fabric, the fire pit sits black and charred. The food tables have been moved into the center of the ring, a few chairs gathered, and around the tables crowd most of the people from the celebration, all looking rather groggy.

  Sir and Dendera chat at a table across the square, picking at plates of bread and fruit. At the table closest to me, Nessa slumps against Conall, yawning after every bite of food, and Ceridwen and Jesse shock me by being both here and awake. They’re still wearing their celebration outfits, only drastically more rumpled, and as I slide into a chair across from them, I breathe a sigh of relief that I thought to grab new clothes this morning.

  Ceridwen pops a blackberry into her mouth. “You certainly slept in,” she notes.

  I take the nearest bowl of fruit. “And why didn’t you, newlyweds?”

  “Who says we slept at all?”

  Jesse chokes on a grape. “Cerie!”

  She bats her eyes. “Oh, everyone knows what we spent the night doing.”

  Nessa straightens. “Why? What’d you do?”

  It’s Conall’s turn to choke now. Jesse seems just as humiliated, but Ceridwen clucks her tongue at Conall in mock disapproval. Her eyes go to me and her brow lifts.

  My lips tighten.

  “Meira.” Ceridwen tips forward, and I think I’m about to be glad that Sir and everyone else chose to sit at a table farther away. “Tell me you know what I’m talking about.”

  But even as she says that, her amusement recedes into shock.

  “Do you? With your kingdom’s fall, I guess you wouldn’t have had time to—”

  I clench my jaw, fiddling with an apple slice. “I . . . know,” I squeak. And I do—well, especially now, but before last night too. The memory of Alysson and Dendera explaining certain things is one I try not to relive. Mostly because Dendera’s face was flame-red through it all, and Alysson kept saying It’s perfectly normal over and over.

  I manage a coy smile. “I know,” I repeat. “And I’m glad your wedding night was satisfying.”

  Jesse clunks his forehead into his palm. “This is what will kill me. Not the war. This.”

  “Ohhhh,” Nessa breathes, understanding turning her word into a song. She giggles, and Conall makes a sort of closemouthed screaming noise to his food.

  “Good morning.” Mather drops into the chair on my other side. Though it’s only been a few moments since we saw each other, the giddiness in my chest feels like it’s been lifetimes, and I bite my lip to stop from smiling too obviously. Mather smiles back, holding my gaze.

  For too long.

  Ceridwen chirps. “Oh my. Was our wedding night satisfying for someone else?”

  My face catches fire.

  “What?” Nessa leans around Conall. “For who?”

  Conall leaps up. “We have to go. Swords. Or something. Weapons. Nessa, come.”

  “Wait!” she protests as he lifts her to her feet. “What? Why?”

  They get a few paces away and I cave fo
rward. “I feel the sudden urge to bury my face in the fruit bowl.”

  Jesse lifts a goblet of water and tips it at me. “Try being married to her.”

  “Look at you, Winter queen,” Ceridwen giggles. “You don’t waste any time.”

  “Okay, I think we’re done.” I pivot toward Mather, expecting him to be as mortified as I am, but he’s grinning. And not just an amused grin—a grin that screams confirmation as loudly as if he had stood on the table and shouted it into the air.

  He reaches over to squeeze my fingers. “What?”

  I fall back in my chair. “You want to talk about this, don’t you? Snow above. Are you the Ceridwen in this relationship?”

  Jesse laughs middrink and water sloshes down the front of his tunic.

  Ceridwen angles toward Mather. “Yes, you are, because I need details. I remember seeing you for the dancing, but only through the first few songs. When did you sneak off?”

  “After that one song,” Mather says. “When everyone danced the same movements.”

  “Ah, yes.” Ceridwen sits back. “But they played that at the beginning of the evening. And it’s two or so hours until noon now? That means you’ve been gone for twelve hours. . . .”

  For once, distraction works in my favor, coming in the form of a trio of Autumnian soldiers. My eyes snap to their entrance across the clearing, noting their travel-beaten wear with a jolt of recognition. More of Caspar’s spies. Do they have word of Angra? Or news of the last group of refugees? Henn and the Thaw should be back by now.

  Everyone at my table turns to see what has my attention, their expressions dimming like candles in a harsh breeze.

  “Do you any of you have news?” I ask.

  “We should be ready to march out by early afternoon,” Ceridwen says. “Once we decide on a location.”

  “How many are staying here?”

  “About a hundred soldiers to protect those who can’t fight, which leaves just shy of three thousand to stand against Angra.”

  I wither at the numbers, but it isn’t meant to be a full-on war. Just a diversion.

  A shadow falls over our table.

  “If you’re finished eating,” Sir starts, and angles his head toward the main tent.

  “We’re just about done, General,” Jesse says for us.

  He nods, his eyes steady on me before he walks toward the main tent. The four of us stay seated for a beat longer, Mather’s hand in mine, Jesse’s arm around Ceridwen.

  There’s no room for emotions in war.

  It’s one of the many rules Sir beat into my head as a child. I see now that it’s necessary. These are just numbers we’re discussing; these are just fields we’re mapping; these are just chunks of iron we’re dividing. Not people, not battle sites, not weapons.

  “My scouts put Angra’s forces four days out from being fully gathered,” Caspar says, and points to a map of the Autumn-Winter border, against the Klaryns. “This valley runs from Autumn into Winter. We could thin out Angra’s army and prevent him from surrounding us all at once. He’d only be able to send a fraction of his soldiers at us at any time.”

  Ceridwen frowns. “But he could block us in. What if we need a retreat?”

  “You won’t,” I promise. “Once the magic is destroyed, no one fighting for Angra will have magic to use against you.”

  Jesse slackens, his hand on Ceridwen’s shoulder. “Angra’s entire army will be able to use his Decay? I thought it was just a select group close to him.”

  “I don’t expect he’d hold back in a battle,” I say. “And . . . there’s a chance the Decay could infect you, too. If Angra is there, the only thing stopping him from sending his Decay to weaken you would be your own resilience—none of you have conduit protection. Even the Winterians will only have it as long as I’m there with them.”

  Ceridwen darkens. “Now that I know what his magic feels like, there’s no way he’s getting into my head again. Years of repelling Simon’s magic should pay off somehow.”

  An idea flashes through me. “Wait—that’s a good point. Maybe the principles you used to resist your brother’s magic can help everyone else ward off the Decay. For a little while, at least?”

  Ceridwen shrugs. “I can have the Summerians start teaching the methods we use, but I don’t know how effective they’ll be. It took us each years to be able to fully resist Simon, and I only lasted a few hours under Angra’s influence in Juli.”

  “It’s better than nothing,” Caspar agrees.

  No one else comments on this looming threat, the possibility of being swept up in Angra’s war not by death, but by the Decay. Maybe it’s something they’ve all considered, too. They’ve seen people fall to it—people who we already knew were dangerous, like Raelyn, and people who we never would have guessed could hurt us, like Theron.

  We’re all at risk, and they know that.

  “How long is the march to this valley?” Sir interjects.

  “With our army, three days.” Caspar scratches his chin. “We could press for two, but we’ll still beat Angra to any attack.”

  “Three days,” Sir echoes before he shifts to me. “Let’s move out.”

  His face is weighted with the same awareness I feel digging into my chest.

  We have a deadline.

  I lean back from the table. “Yes. No time to waste.”

  Everyone else moves, darting off to their various tasks. I duck out of the tent and hesitate long enough for Mather to sweep out after me. When he does, I throw my arms around his neck, kissing him. There’s no hiding now—Dendera emerges from the tent behind us, followed by Sir. They see, and I don’t care to notice their reactions. I have only a handful of days left for moments like this, and if I spend even a blip of that time not with someone I love, none of this will matter at all.

  I pull back from Mather, who drops his hands to my waist.

  “They’re all standing behind me, aren’t they?” he asks.

  I smile. “Afraid so. I think I’ll leave you to explain it to them.”

  “So much for being a benevolent ruler.”

  “Where’s the fun in that?” But I’m already backing away. Mather turns to Dendera and his father, who no doubt have a few things to say about this development.

  But I have other people to see, and I head for the area of camp where the Summerians, Yakimians, and Winterians have set up their tents.

  Nessa sits by a small campfire, a book in her lap and a group of wide-eyed children around her. Behind her, Conall fits a new string in his bow. His attention catches on me first and he rolls to his feet as I near, but he isn’t able to say a word before Nessa leaps up too.

  The children groan. “Finish the story!” one whines—Jesse’s oldest, Melania.

  Nessa flaps her hands at them. “Later! Go help with chores now—some of the soldiers will be leaving on their own adventure soon, so we must do our part to help them!”

  The look on Conall’s face as the children cheer and disperse is nothing short of disbelief. That his sister is someone capable of turning a march to battle into an adventure; that he was the one who raised the bubbly girl who bounds over to me, her smile sticking on her face as the children wave their good-byes.

  “Meira!” Nessa says. “Someone said you were called into another meeting. Have more details been decided? When are we leaving?”

  “Today,” I start, noting how her smile slowly hardens the farther away the children get.

  Conall nods. “We can be packed within the hour.”

  “No,” I tell Conall. “You two will stay here. You won’t come with us to the battle.”

  Conall’s head tilts. He doesn’t say anything, but his expression is resistant.

  I soften. “I appreciate all you have done for me. All you’ve lost.” Emotions break through, squeezing around my throat. “But I need you to protect those who stay behind. Because if I fail . . .” I falter. “If this war ends badly, I can’t think of anyone else I’d trust more to get those in this camp
to safety.”

  Conall’s jaw clenches, and after far too long, he looks down at me with narrow eyes. He’s angry, but he’s my soldier.

  “All right,” comes Nessa’s soft agreement. I look at her, seeing an emotion I realize I expected. She’s fine with staying behind—because she’s found her place in this war.

  I don’t say anything, just step forward and wrap my arms around her neck.

  “I don’t want you to feel like you’re alone in this, though. Like I’m abandoning you,” she whispers into my shoulder.

  A laugh bursts through the knot in my chest. “You have made me realize I’m not alone. And it’s hardly abandonment if I tell you to stay.”

  Nessa pulls back. She looks older suddenly, like pieces of the innocent girl she was in Abril’s work camp have splintered away over the past months. She takes Conall’s hand and beams up at him.

  Watching them together, I remember being in the Abril camp, meeting Nessa, Garrigan, and Conall, three survivors far stronger than I could ever be. I remember Nessa loving me instantly, Garrigan treating me with wary concern, and Conall outright hating me. He was afraid I’d stoke Nessa’s hope too high and it would shatter her when Angra killed me.

  I swallow the sorrow that almost makes me confess the future to them. How my death will come, and how I hope it doesn’t break Nessa like Conall feared it would.

  But a look of confusion descends over Conall and Nessa’s faces.

  Then I hear it again. The noise that cut off my confession.

  Shouting.

  23

  Meira

  “MY QUEEN!”

  I squint at the rider who races up the road, and when he stops beside me, I blink dumbly.

  “Trace?”

  Both he and his horse look one swift gust away from collapsing in exhaustion. My eyes scramble behind him, looking for the rest of the Thaw or Henn—they should all be together, leading in the final group of refugees.

  But it’s just Trace, and he drops off his mount. “I rode—ahead—to warn—”

  I grab his shoulders, holding him in place. He meets my gaze, his eyes holding such sadness I wonder how he hasn’t cracked to pieces.