by Sara Raasch
“I’ll put us in Jannuari,” I say. “We’ll find Theron and get the keys from him. As soon as we have them, I’ll get us to the Tadil—the quicker we do this, the shorter the battle will have to be. Angra put more guards on the mine, so there will probably be soldiers down there—but hopefully we’ll have surprise on our side. Once they’re down, face the door—we have to cross the barrier and get through it as soon as possible.”
Mather nods. “Get the keys. Cross the barrier. Got it.”
Sir is less ready. “The last time you tried to cross the barrier—”
“That’s why I need you both,” I say. “Three people have to cross, all with the same will to reach the magic chasm. A united effort.” I stretch my hands out to them, hoping they don’t see how hard I’m shaking. “I don’t know if the barrier will fall completely after that, and if soldiers will be able to follow us in and carry our fight into the labyrinth itself—”
I blow out a breath. One thing at a time.
Theron’s face overtakes my memory, the look he gave me in Juli. Eyes vacant of all emotion, save for a possessive, dominating leer.
One thing at a time.
“A united effort,” Sir echoes as he takes my hand. “I’m with you, my queen.”
Mather takes my other hand. The moment the three of us are linked, I funnel all my concentration toward a single destination.
Winter.
28
Meira
LOCATIONS FLY THROUGH my mind as the familiar tension of the magic drags us into oblivion. The slightest exhaustion pulls at me, the exertion of having to transport multiple people, but adrenaline makes it easy to ignore.
If Angra sent Theron to Jannuari, he’ll be in the biggest symbol of my city—the palace. And the sooner we reach him, the sooner we can get the keys.
I envision the maze of cold stone halls beneath the palace. The corridors toward the northwest corner were the least used, places no one had yet reached in the all too brief time we had to repair our kingdom.
My feet catch on worn cobblestones and I teeter forward. A wall of frigidity smacks me in the face, a drastic drop in temperature, even compared to the Autumn-Winter border. That drop eases my tight knot of worry.
The last time I was in Winter, my magic was a fearful, uncertain ball of power that thrashed against the barriers I put up. Now, it radiates down my every limb, cresting spirals that coil around my nerves and draw energy from the earth itself.
Home, every part of me says, each breath of cold air infusing me with joy.
If I thought my magic was powerful before, being back in Winter makes it feel . . . I can’t even describe it. Invigorated; encouraged; right, the same unnameable sense of belonging that all Winterians feel being anywhere near snow.
My magic’s purpose is to protect this kingdom, and it knows that.
Blackness coats the hall just as thoroughly as the chill, so I only hear Mather stumble back, still not entirely used to traveling this way. I send a blast of magic to them both, clearing their bodies of any ill effects. Sir wastes no time.
“Is he here?” he asks, a quick whisper that points out how quiet it is. No stomping footsteps from above or deeper in the halls; no shouting of orders or clanking of weapons. What did I expect, though? For an army to be lying in wait for us?
Yes. Because an army would be far more manageable than what I suspect Angra has planned—mind games like those he tortured me with in Abril, playing with my deepest fears.
But Sir’s question prods me along. Is Theron even here?
I do exactly what I did to sense Angra: widen my awareness.
The halls around us—no sign of him.
The floor above us—
I jolt with recognition.
Theron is in the ballroom, almost directly overhead.
My magic senses his with frightening clarity. We’re both connected to the Royal Conduits—mine is a stronger connection, but it’s the same as when I sense Angra. Can Theron sense me too? Does Angra’s Decay allow him that firm a grasp of magic?
But even as I wonder that, my magic responds with an answer of its own.
It doesn’t matter what Angra made Theron capable of. It doesn’t even matter what Angra is capable of. Because here, in Winter, is where I’m most powerful.
I’ve been blocking Angra for weeks now—so I do it again. Only this time, I block my entire city from him, a surge of magic flaring out over Jannuari in a shield. While we’re here, Angra can’t come. We’ll get the keys from Theron without his interference. See how that works into Angra’s plans.
Iciness streams from my veins, making me nearly giddy. Everything in me is a flurry of snow and ice and frost, my magic the center of a mighty blizzard that could level all the enemies in this city one by one.
Fingers tighten over my arm, and even in the dark, I turn to Mather with a wicked smile.
“He’s here. In the ballroom above. We can do this quickly—I didn’t account for the extra boost of being back in Winter. Theron doesn’t—”
“This is a trap, Meira.” Mather’s voice is soft. “Angra wanted you to come here. We have to assume he planned for this.”
“Planned for me to become even more powerful?”
“Planned for you to be careless.” Mather’s fingers shift over my arm until he’s holding both my hands. “Planned for something that would weaken you.”
I swallow, tendrils of magic sinking back into my chest. A deep breath fills my lungs, and I squeeze Mather’s hands in response.
“You’re right.” I take a step back. “Let’s go, but slowly.”
I start to give them more definite orders when a noise makes me pause. Two soft bangs, like metal tapping on metal.
Clank, clank.
“It’s coming from up the hall,” Sir says. The way toward the ballroom.
I grunt and start forward, boots swishing across the floor. The stone wall is grimy under my touch, but my fingers whisper across it, guiding me forward. Mather and Sir follow, noiseless but for the steady rustle of their clothing as they slip behind me.
Again the banging echoes toward us. Clank, clank.
The hall lightens shadow by shadow thanks to a single lit lantern two halls over—exactly in our path to the ballroom. My once invigorating power retreats in favor of unease as we near the lantern, all the shadows around me warping in the mesmerizing pull of the light.
And when I turn into the lantern’s hallway, the two soldiers standing guard over one of the rooms face me like they’ve been waiting for us to appear.
They smile, blades already drawn, and waste no time in propelling themselves at me. Sir and Mather react faster than I do, diving forward with their own weapons as my eyes dart to the room the soldiers had been guarding. Rusted iron bars make up the door—a cell. Yellow sconce light plays with shadows that dart over mildew-covered walls and the body that smashes itself against the bars. Two taps echo over the clash of swords, eyes staring vacantly as the prisoner bangs a metal cup against the poles.
Clank, clank.
I jolt back to the fight as one of the soldiers drops at Mather’s hand. Sir dispatches the second and doesn’t break stride—he crouches an arm’s length back from the cell.
“Greer,” he whispers in relief.
Greer looks up. “William,” he says as if he bumped into him on the street. He looks past him. “Mather.” Then to me as I step into the light.
He smiles.
“My queen.” Clank, clank. “He told me you’d come.”
I look beyond him, into the cell. “Where’s Finn?”
Greer smiles, a feverish grin. One quick flick of my magic, and I can feel the Decay inside him, a deep and thorough store that Angra no doubt spent days pumping into him. He’s had free rein of Jannuari—any Winterian here would easily fall victim to the Decay without my magic’s protection.
Clank, clank. “King Angra rid us of those who wish to bar the world from change,” he coos, attention on the cup again. “King Ang
ra killed the weak one. King Angra—”
He continues babbling, banging that cup harder with each word, but I block him out.
Angra killed Finn.
The pain of his death drops alongside all the others I’ve lost. So much loss, still, always, nothing but loss, even here.
I pull resolve over myself. Angra knew I’d find Greer, so he knew I wouldn’t leave him here, possessed by the Decay, when I have the ability to purge him of it, since he’s a Winterian. But I won’t stop from helping my people just because Angra planned something. He’s taken so much else from us—he won’t take my ability to help them.
I launch a stream of magic at Greer, wiping the Decay from his body in one icy jolt. Clean and swift, as it should have been with Phil. But in the deepest, truest part of Greer, he doesn’t want the Decay to possess him. He doesn’t believe it will save him, not like Phil did.
Greer stops midsentence, gaping up at me.
“My queen,” he says. His eyes scramble over Sir, Mather, and he drops the cup, coming onto his knees as he grips the bars in two tight fists. “Where are the others? Did you bring an army? Tell me you brought more than—”
“An army would have been impractical, under the circumstances,” Sir answers.
Greer’s laugh is almost a sob. “You’ve come to reclaim Winter.”
“In a way.”
He bends toward Sir. “I’ve heard footsteps for hours, marching above. Theron has soldiers in the ballroom with him.” Greer’s eyes turn to me. “He’s waiting for you.”
I clamp my jaw and glance up at the ceiling.
“Dozens of men,” Greer says, as if reading the calculations on my face. “My queen, you need more help.”
“Or a diversion.” I look at Mather.
He darkens, the dancing light of the one sconce in this hall casting him even more concerned. “We’re not letting you go in alone.”
“Alone?” Sir rises, but by the time he’s up, he realizes what I mean. “You want us to call the soldiers out of the ballroom.”
I nod. “I can handle Theron. I can even purge the Decay from the Winterians in Jannuari like I did with Greer—you can have other fighters to help you—”
But Sir cuts his hand through the air. “No. No civilian causalities. Mather and I can keep the soldiers occupied for long enough on our own.”
Mather eyes his father. “Two against dozens?” He smiles slightly and shrugs. “We’ve had worse odds.”
Greer pulls himself up the bars. “Three against dozens.” He pauses, leaning all his weight on the iron, and an almost imperceptible wince rocks his features as he meets my eyes again. “Finn. My queen, I’m sorry. Angra—”
“No,” I say. I need to choose strength right now.
Sir is silent for a moment, no doubt pushing away his own memories of Finn. After a pause, he notes the injuries on Greer’s body and looks at me. I move to work.
His injuries are easy to heal, though they churn my stomach as I pour magic into him. Angra has been torturing him with more than the Decay—far more. But I say nothing about it, and when I finish moments later, Greer grunts in relief and stretches.
“I haven’t felt this good in years,” he mumbles as Sir works to pick the lock on his cell.
I step down the hall before the door is even fully open. Angra tortured him. Truly, unrepentantly tortured him, and still the Decay made him mumble in devotion to Angra.
So what has Angra done to Theron? What state will I find him in? And, worse still, what state is the rest of my kingdom in? Are the Winterians in Jannuari all walking around with just as much mad passion for Angra as Greer showed?
I ball my hands into fists. It doesn’t matter. Soon they’ll be free. Soon everyone will be free.
Mather puts his hand around one of my fists. “Don’t go in until the room is clear.”
“I know.”
“We’ll try to stay near the palace so you can find us when you’re done. You can sense us with your magic. Or should we—”
“Mather.” I turn to him just as we reach the staircase that will take us up to the first floor. “This is our kingdom. We can survive this.”
He puts his other hand on my cheek, his thumb glancing back and forth over my temple. “That’s not the part that worries me.”
I kiss him, quick and hard. “I’ll be all right.”
He presses me even tighter against him. “Yes, you will,” he tells me.
I pull back, unable to meet his eyes, so I look at Sir. “After you, General.”
Sir pauses for a moment, lips parted as if he wants to say something. But he only nods and pushes ahead of me to lead Mather and Greer up the staircase. I trail behind them, keeping time with their quiet footsteps, all the while letting half of my focus float to the ballroom. Theron is still there, unmoved, waiting for me. I recheck the barrier over Jannuari—Angra can’t come.
It will be just Theron and me.
At the top of the staircase, Sir darts to the right, forging a path toward a side door on the eastern edge of the palace. Mather shoots me one last look, weighted with purpose and surety in the way he tries to smile, and they’re gone, leaving me alone in the dark, quiet hall.
There is one last thing I can do for them, though. I close my eyes, suck in a breath, and funnel a powerful surge of magic into Mather, Sir, and Greer, bleeding strength into their bodies.
I breathe in and turn down the hall, opposite them.
No soldiers guard these halls; no further traps lie in wait for me. The only noise is the creaking and groaning of the broken palace, occasional flurries of dust raining from the ceiling. When I catch glimpses out the windows, the roads are empty, the only inhabitants stray spirals of snowflakes that spin on gusts of wind.
If I couldn’t sense Theron, I would almost believe this kingdom was deserted again.
Finally, the hall ends in looming double doors that hold the ballroom behind them. I stop, one hand on the curving knob and my ear to the crack between them.
Metal clanks. Someone whispers harsh orders before everything falls silent.
The soldiers are still within.
I pause, my attention split between listening to the ballroom and watching the hall behind me. After a few heartbeats of anticipation, each moment stacking atop the last to create a trembling wall of expectancy, it all comes crashing down when a shout echoes through the ballroom.
“Attack!”
“Intruders, spotted outside—”
A voice, then. One I know well.
“After them!”
Theron’s order spurs the soldiers into action. The pounding of booted feet fills the ballroom in such a deliberate rush that I can’t tell which direction they’re marching. Panic sings through my chest and I fly back from the door, holding flat against the wall should they burst through this way. But a moment passes, and the chaos fades through the main doors, retreating into a battle for Mather, Sir, and Greer while I’m left with an empty ballroom.
And Theron.
Because he’s still there. I can feel him, a sparking sensation that eats at my heart as my magic reacts to his. Close, so close . . .
I ease away from the wall and approach the door again, fingers around the handle. No time for hesitation—the longer this drags out, the longer the battle has to rage outside the palace.
So I pull open the door and march into my ballroom, head held high, muscles tense and ready for whatever might be awaiting me. An attack; a debilitating vision; a memory.
The ballroom is empty, the marble floor gleaming white. The windows carved into the southern wall have been covered with heavy black cloth that drips from the hole in the ceiling, cutting out most of the natural light. Tendrils of it peek through, though, slivers of white that let me see the only person still here.
Theron, in the middle of the room, arms behind his back and chin level.
His dark eyes latch onto mine as if he knew exactly where I’d be. The moment he sees me, his expression is so him, so h
appy and calm, that I almost forget what he is now, all he’s done.
“My queen,” he says. “Welcome home.”
29
Ceridwen
EVERYTHING CERIDWEN KNEW about Autumnian warriors proved true.
Never had she seen such dedicated soldiers. The moment Meira and her group left—flame and heat, the moment they’d agreed to go to war at all—every body bound for fighting turned into a weapon, nothing more. The Autumnians were calm, their eyes alert, their muscles taut, so each of them resembled more a beast on a hunt than a person.
If they achieved ferocity like this without a female monarch who could use their conduit magic to give them strength, how much more intimidating would they be with one?
Ceridwen caught herself. Magic would never again be an influence in their lives after today—a welcome change that would level their out-of-balance world. But to have been able to see the Autumnians spurred by both natural and magical abilities would have been spectacular.
As Ceridwen jogged back to the main tent for one final meeting with Caspar, she couldn’t stop herself from glancing west, toward wherever the new camp was that held the loved ones of every person in this army. Caspar’s family, Lekan’s family, her family.
Appreciation nestled inside her heart, and she shot wordless looks of thanks at every Autumnian soldier she passed. They would need such fierce, dedicated fighters on their side. They would need all the help they could get.
Lekan pulled his horse up alongside her and dismounted just outside the tent. “Our soldiers are centered in the valley; the Yakimians too. Caspar’s infantry surrounds them. If Angra wants to break through, he’ll have to pay dearly in blood.”
“Angra has never been afraid to pay such a toll before.”
Lekan winced. “You excel at motivational speeches.”
“Everyone is well aware of what we’re doing here.” Ceridwen ducked into the open-air tent, weaving around tables strewn with maps and weapons. “And the cost that will come.”
“In less than two hours now.” Caspar didn’t look up from the map he crouched over in the center of the tent. “My scouts got a more specific location—Angra’s army should be here this afternoon. Are you fighting?”
