Frost Like Night

by Sara Raasch

  And nearly leaped back into the tunnel.

  This place did terrible things to his soldier’s instincts—his every muscle was poised for attack, his every thought was about drawing his weapons. But so far, they had seen no physical enemies, just the itching sensation of an ambush coming with every breath.

  If this was how they were going to go out, lured to some fantastic end with no enemy save for mystical tunnels and glowing platforms, Mather would go mad long before death.

  What Meira was frowning at, what Mather had sworn wasn’t there moments ago, were doors. Three of them in the walls now, beside each torch.

  Meira neared the door on the left, her hands slung idly in the straps of her chakram’s holster.

  “There are three doors,” she said. “And three of us.”

  Mather balked. “We have to split up?”

  The refusal must have been clear in his voice, because Meira’s shoulders drooped a little. Mather bit back further retort. This was hard enough on her without him questioning her every thought—but what did she expect from him? That he’d wordlessly agree to every idea that drew her closer to death?

  There were three tasks, though. This was only the second. They would get through this and still have one more before Mather had to figure out a way to save her.

  And maybe this damn labyrinth would produce an answer on its own.

  “Fine,” he conceded. “I’ll take the middle one.”

  He started toward it, but Meira intercepted him. Her body pressed against him, her mouth on his in a still, frozen kiss, like she wanted to simply absorb how it felt.

  “This is a maze of humility,” she said. “We’re on our own for it. That was all this plate showed me—a maze, each of us standing alone.”

  Mather chuckled. “Why do I get the feeling you’re worried for me?”

  “Well, you aren’t the most humble man I know.”

  “My lady, I’m hurt that you have so little faith in me.”

  As Meira let him go, her face wore the same look she had given them in the last test—confident and serious and fiercely attentive.

  She glared at William, who lingered at the door on the right, watching them with an expression that triggered Mather’s need to defend his relationship with her again. But William just dropped his head in a reverent bow.

  “We’ll see you on the other side,” he told her. “Wherever that might be.”

  Meira and William each lifted the torch from beside their door and took it with them, ducking into darkness that abated in a steady pool of light from their flames. Mather drew in a breath and waited, motionless, until both Meira’s and William’s lights had been swallowed by the blackness farther on. When neither screamed for help, Mather squared his shoulders and approached the door in the center, the light twitching as he lifted the torch. Iron formed the base for a knot of fuel, oil most likely, and he shuddered to wonder how it had come to be here after so many thousands of years.

  The flame licked heat onto his fingers, and he stepped through the door, creeping forward in small increments. Walls rose around him, ending before the ceiling but still too high for him to climb, and a thick layer of rubble and dust coated the floor.

  He’d taken only two steps inside when a whoosh of air assaulted his back. Mather ripped a knife free and turned, crouched low, his eyes flying over the wall behind him.

  The wall behind him? The door, the opening that led back to the room they had been dumped in, was gone.

  Mather hurled his shoulder against the newly appeared wall, knowing even as he did that it wouldn’t budge. This test really had meant to split them up.

  The flame in his hand flared brighter for a flash as he whirled back to face the hall, his breath tight in his throat. Nowhere to go, now, but forward.

  His steps became less cautious the farther he went, meandering deeper into the maze. Turns opened every so often, halls branching off to the left or right, forks splitting the path in two, dead ends popping up at blind corners.

  Mather slapped the wall of another dead end, his fifth so far. Now he knew why Meira had feared for him—he’d never been good at things like this, tasks that required patience and analysis and a keen, clever mind. Meira would have no trouble with this. William wouldn’t, either. They were probably both right now waiting for him wherever this test dumped them, conspiring about how best to go into the maze and save him.

  Great—he’d come on this journey to save Meira, and she’d be the one who would have to save him.

  Mather pivoted, stomping back to the last place he’d made a wrong turn. No—he’d get through this damn maze. He’d figure out this labyrinth’s secrets and resolve some way to make this all nothing more than an adventurous story they’d tell their children one day.

  He shifted a knife out to scrape an X into the left side of the wall where he made a left turn. Now if he passed it again, he’d know he was going in circles and to turn right instead.

  A few more steps, then he carved another X.

  A branch of four halls. Right this time. X.

  Mather shifted the pack that clung to his chest, the contents scraping against his back. Sweat crept down his spine and smeared in greasy streaks over his face, but he brushed his dirt-matted hair back with his wrist and carved an X as he turned right again.

  Another branching hall. Mather made to carve a marker as he turned left—

  But growled at the stone when an X already stared up at him. He was going in circles.

  Mather flung himself backward, dove at the right hall, stopping only to carve a shaky X on this one. Right, right, left, straight—

  Until he met a hall with X’s carved at every turn.

  “Damn it!” he swore.

  Mather took off at a run, jogging straight, left, straight, taking the most directly forward path he could. No more circles, no more turns if he could help it—

  Back again to the hall with X’s at every corner.

  If the labyrinth wanted to play it like that . . .

  He tossed the torch to the ground, the flame flaring up as it clattered on the stone, but the light held. He didn’t think about it extinguishing; he didn’t think about much of anything beyond the frustration of these halls, the darkness stretching ever onward, the walls pressing around in stances that seemed almost mocking. Could walls mock him? These walls could, and as Mather attacked the one closest to him, he swore he could hear it laughing.

  His dagger chipped furiously at the stone, carving a rudimentary foothold. And another, slightly higher; still another, and another, until Mather had to lift himself up onto the first ones to carve more. Slowly he carved his way up, chipping rock in a flurry of projectiles.

  Mather jammed his dagger into the wall about an arm’s length from the top. One more foothold, and he’d be able to stand atop it and see this maze—at least as far as his light would show.

  But as Mather wrestled to pull another chunk of rock free, the wall . . . trembled.

  He stiffened, legs braced in his crude footholds, both his hands wrapped around the dagger embedded in the wall. A second shudder ran up the stone, this one more deliberate, and without further warning, every foothold Mather had carved vanished.

  He scrambled against the now-smooth wall, only his knife remaining as support. But even that failed him as the wall seemed to eject it like an arrow from a bow. Mather dropped, his body bumping against the stone as he slid down at least twice his height before collapsing with a thud—

  On his torch.

  The light snuffed out beneath him, encasing the maze in darkness.

  Mather had thought he understood darkness. The time they’d spent in the Rania Plains had given new meaning to the word, when moonless nights would fall and their fires would go out. Storm clouds rolled in sometimes, casting gray hues to the blackness, and Mather remembered standing at the edge of camp, petrified, but forcing himself to endure the slithering feeling of being blind yet surrounded. Enemies could be right before his eyes but he, l
ost, disoriented, was unable to see them no matter how hard he strained.

  That was what he feared most: being unable to perceive danger even if it was right before his eyes.

  Like with Meira.

  Mather leaped to his feet, fresh blades in both hands, ears straining to compensate for his lack of sight. Thoughts of her fueled his drive, urging him into a frenzy.

  Yes, like with Meira. Like how, even as he lay next to her at night, even as he kissed her and touched her and had her right beside him, he couldn’t see what danger possessed her. He couldn’t protect her.

  He couldn’t protect her.

  Mather slashed out at nothing.

  “Damn it!” he screamed when he slammed into a wall, the stone tearing into his shoulder. “DAMN IT!”

  He spun, stabbing, sweat pouring in waves down his body.

  If he didn’t get out of here, he wouldn’t be able to protect her. She’d go on with William to the next test, and after that, William would let her die. She’d walk into whatever end she had planned, one Mather couldn’t see, an enemy crouched in darkness and stealth, waiting with eager, unforgiving hands to destroy the best part of his life.

  “No!” One of Mather’s blades caught the wall and twisted out of his hand, clattering into the darkness. His muscles ached, his throat burned with thirst, and he slumped against the wall, forehead to the dusty stone.

  No. She wouldn’t die. She wouldn’t die. He would save her. He would get out of here—damn it, he would get out of here—

  Mather dropped to the ground, knees banging on the floor. He’d never felt this helpless, not even when Herod had captured Meira. Something about this place, this darkness, the looming threat of losing her, made every fear and doubt and hatred rear in his heart. Every bone in his body ached, and he caved forward, wanting to lash out, wanting to dissolve.

  “You aren’t the most humble man I know” came a voice.

  Mather exhaled, dust puffing in a cloud that coated his face.

  “This is a test of humility. You aren’t the most humble man I know.”

  “Meira!” He launched to his feet, stumbling forward. “Meir—”

  He stopped. It wasn’t her—she had said that to him before they’d parted.

  Mather gulped breaths to calm himself. Was he hallucinating?

  A test of humility. The tests had been designed to ensure that only those who were worthy reached the magic chasm. And humility meant being able to acknowledge your own unworthiness and admit things like . . . defeat.

  Mather’s instinctual reaction to that was a rumbling Never. It went against everything he had ever been to admit that he couldn’t do something, especially when that thing involved Meira. No—he’d figure out a way. He’d get out of this. He’d save her.

  Mather dropped to his knees again, hands open and empty on his thighs.

  Humility.

  “I can’t . . . ,” he started, determination coiling around his words. He could, though. If he tried harder; if he could climb the damn walls; if, if, if . . .

  If he admitted he couldn’t do this, what other declarations would come streaming out of his mouth?

  I can’t save her.

  I know I can’t save her.

  She’ll die, and I’ll stand there helpless to do anything but watch her go.

  Mather doubled over, forehead to his knees.

  This test was seeping into his mind. He just needed to get out. He’d get out and—she would still die.

  “I can’t do this,” he spit, fury boiling in his gut.

  Nothing happened. Mather pulled himself up, glaring at the darkness. The magic here knew his heart. He had to be honest, humble.

  Fine.

  He might not be able to save her. But he wouldn’t let her do it alone.

  He swallowed, willing his lips to move and release the words with intention, with submission.

  “I can’t,” he said, muscles hard, “do this.”

  The ground trembled again, a gust of air billowing coolness in a much-needed burst of relief. Mather’s tension sloshed away the moment he saw the door open in the wall.

  White light seeped into the maze, glaring after the utter darkness of the halls. Mather leaped to his feet and plunged into it.

  “Meira!” he shouted. “William—”

  The names echoed back to him much too loudly, a rebound of noise that spoke of far smoother walls than the carved stone of the labyrinth so far. His eyes adjusted to the light, pain lancing through his head as he took in the room. A tiled floor of black and white squares spanned in a perfect rectangle with pillars of white guarding either side. The ceiling—there was none. Just those pillars stretching on and on, ending in a cloud of brilliant ivory light.

  Mather’s instincts raged anew and he scrambled for more weapons. A dagger and one of the swords he wore across his spine. He spun, weapons raised, body yearning for a fight while his mind tried to speak rationally against his euphoria at having an enemy he could see.

  Because . . . well, he could see this enemy.

  And seeing it conflicted with every logical explanation Mather could dredge up.

  Three figures stood in the room. One was Meira, a bit more dust-covered than she had been, but uninjured; another was William, hands free of weapons and face completely blank in a frightening, deathlike sheen that Mather couldn’t understand.

  Until he recognized the last person in the room with them.

  As a child, William had found a number of books on the Winter Kingdom, and in one, a portrait of Queen Hannah showed her as a small, pretty woman with long white hair and a serene stare. Mather had stolen glances at that picture whenever he could, desperate to feel some connection to the woman who, at the time, he thought was his mother.

  Now that painting came to life before him, and he found himself staring at Queen Hannah Dynam.

  “You’ve reached the end of the labyrinth,” Hannah said, smiling. “You’ve come so far.”

  33

  Ceridwen

  THE CLOSER CERIDWEN drew to the Ventrallan queen, the quieter everything became. As if all her other senses demanded her attention more, drowning out her ability to hear anything but the echoing thump-thump of her heart matching the cadence of her feet on the earth. The handles of her knives dug into her palms. The crisp, bitter air of Autumn met the frigid air of Winter, weaving into a blanket of iciness that burned Ceridwen’s lungs.

  This was war.

  The Autumnian, Summerian, and Yakimian armies ran alongside her, the impact from their steps vibrating up her legs. But nothing penetrated her fog of concentration, the bumps sprouting along her arms the only thing telling her that her army shouted a war cry. True war cries didn’t need to be heard—they were felt.

  It had been too much to hope that Raelyn would surge forward along with her soldiers—instead, she hung back at the rear. She’d make Ceridwen fight her way through until, by the time they met, she would be tired and bloodied while Raelyn remained poised and whole. And were this a normal fight, Raelyn would need such an advantage. But Ceridwen had seen the power Raelyn wielded now, how she had snapped Simon’s neck with a flick of her wrist.

  It was Ceridwen who would need any advantage she could get.

  Lekan’s shoulder jostled into Ceridwen’s moments before they collided with the Ventrallan army. A wordless signal, one they had shared dozens of times—a swipe of his hand on her arm before an attack, a bump of her fist to his back before a rescue.

  I’m here. I’m with you.

  Ceridwen was never more grateful to have him by her side.

  They fell into a routine as they always did, as if this wasn’t a war, but rather one of their many missions to free Summerian slaves. Her left shoulder angled to his right, pivoted to create a deadly barrier with him slashing one side, her the other. When he ducked, she knew to duck too; when she deflected an enemy to take on another, the soldier stumbled into Lekan’s blades. Against a dozen or so slavers, such maneuvers brought them quick victo
ry—but never had they been forced to use it in a battle, where each soldier they felled was replaced by two more.

  Nor had they ever used it on soldiers possessed by a deadly magic—not nearly as strong as Raelyn’s grasp of it, but each enemy they met moved faster than they should, weapons puncturing the air in rapid blows that Ceridwen could barely see. Only her fighter’s instincts kept her alive—she had no time to plan any attack.

  These soldiers are using Angra’s Decay.

  But only Angra himself could spread the Decay. He was the source, as Meira had said. Until he showed up here, no one fighting against him needed to fear becoming like the soldiers they encountered, attacking as if they personally loathed each enemy they came upon.

  One pause, a break in the wave of Ventrallan soldiers, and Ceridwen gasped icy air. They were in Winter now, snow matted and brown beneath the chaos, and the frigid air clung to Ceridwen’s skin, making her nauseous with the discomfort. But these were prices she would willingly pay—for when she took stock of the area, she spotted Raelyn only four soldiers away.

  Ceridwen met Lekan’s eyes. He nodded and dove for the men, who advanced on him with howls of warning. He dropped the first two, ducked under the third, and impaled the fourth as Ceridwen dispatched the one he had avoided.

  Raelyn watched this happen without moving. There was no weapon in her hands; she didn’t even wear armor, just a simple black riding outfit and a small black mask, as if she had wandered into this battle while out on a leisurely gallop through Winter’s ivory forest.

  Lekan slid to his knees from the momentum of gutting the final soldier. He stabbed his blades into the frozen earth to free his hands so he could interlace his fingers into a solid cup against the snow.

  Ceridwen backed up, then took off at a sprint. She landed one of her feet in the cradle Lekan made and he lifted, jolting her into the air. Her bloodied knives glinted as she reared, body arching to send her soaring toward Raelyn, high atop her horse.

  For the smallest flash, Raelyn’s eyes widened behind her mask. She shot her arm out and an invisible force smacked into Ceridwen, spinning her body to the side, her knives dipping just shy of plunging into the Ventrallan queen’s chest. Ceridwen slammed into Raelyn, knocking both of them so they landed with a heavy thud on the trampled snow.