by Sara Raasch
“My queen,” he says.
I fumble behind my back for the knob and open the door to the confused faces of Conall and Garrigan, who only grow more confused when Mather walks past me, out into the hall.
He leaves. Just like that. No final good-bye, no last, lingering glance.
Like we never loved each other at all.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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Meira
MUFFLED CRIES RESONATE from a room beyond mine, yanking me out of sleep. Before I can do anything to help, the main door to my room opens and Garrigan slips in. He eyes me but I wave him off.
“Nessa needs you more,” I say, and he eases to the door that connects mine to the one Nessa claimed as her “proper maid’s quarters.” When he opens it just enough to enter, her desperate screams fly out to meet me.
“Shhh, Ness, shh,” Garrigan’s calming voice tries.
I roll onto my side, eyes shut, hands around my head, motionless in the dark. Over Nessa’s continued weeping, Garrigan talks. But it isn’t more reassurances—it’s a song, one that pins me to the mattress.
“Lay your head upon the snow,” he sings, uncertain at first, but with more confidence as he loses himself in the lyrics. “Lay sorrow in the ice. For all that once was calm, sweet child, will belong to you tonight. Lay your heart upon the snow. Lay your tears in the ice. For all that once was still, sweet child, will belong to you tonight.”
I gasp when silence rushes in. Pure silence—not even a whimper from Nessa. After a few long moments of that delicate peace, the door opens again and I roll upright to face Garrigan.
He stops when he sees me, his body going stiff. “My queen?”
His concern catches me awkwardly before I feel warmth dripping down my cheeks. I’m crying and I don’t know why, lured by Garrigan’s gruff singing.
“Where did you learn that?”
He steps forward, his shoulders slackening a bit. “Deborah found the sheet music in the rubble of the palace and played it one day, and—” He chuckles, a quiet, hushed sound so as not to wake Nessa again. “I remembered it. I think our mother used to sing it.”
An image hits me. Something urged by the remnants of Garrigan’s song on the air; something I see every time I look at him or Conall or Nessa, but can never admit.
Garrigan’s life, how it should have been. Him singing that song to his child, raising a family alongside Conall’s and Nessa’s. And their parents, alive and happy.
“Do you . . .” My question wavers. “Do you regret who this war made you?”
Garrigan’s face flashes with first wonder, then hurt. “No, my queen. Do you?”
“I . . . never mind.” I shake my head. “Good night.”
Garrigan hesitates, but he doesn’t press it. “Good night, my queen. If . . . Nessa has more nightmares, I’ll be just outside.”
I hear the words he doesn’t say: if you have nightmares, I’ll protect you just the same.
I smile, something true and simple, and he leaves with a bow. I’m left alone in perfect, unbroken stillness, even the magic in my chest blissfully quiet.
Garrigan doesn’t regret who he is now. Sir doesn’t; Dendera doesn’t; Nessa, Conall, Alysson, Theron—they’re all hurt by what happened to us, but none of them seem at all anxious to do anything but move forward. Find the keys, open the chasm, create a new world.
I prod at the magic. It doesn’t flare up at my gentle curiosity, maybe because I’m so exhausted.
Once, this would have been something I’d talk about to Hannah. She would have helped with this—or given me cryptic, maddening advice that I’d only figure out at the precipice of our destruction. But she was still someone I could lean on, someone resilient and strong.
Like Mather.
I ease back onto my bed, curling tight against the darkness.
No. I’m strong enough on my own, I tell myself. I’ll find the Order and win allies for Winter—all as Queen Meira. This is me now. And if I keep trying, someday I won’t have to fight so hard to be queen. It’ll just be a part of me. It won’t hurt.
Someday.
Four days later, the palace is a flurry of departures.
The Autumnians prepare to return to their kingdom while Noam oversees the preparation of a caravan to take his son, myself, and an amalgamation of Cordellan and Winterian escorts around the world. He already sent word to Summer, Yakim, and Ventralli to expect us, still holding strong our guise of meeting the world for Winter’s benefit. He has made no mention of Theron’s new plan, which eases only a small part of my anxiety as I descend the steps that bright morning, dressed in a starchy travel gown of wool and layered skirts. Dendera’s idea.
People pack the area in front of the palace, a mix of workers rebuilding and the departing groups at the end of the yard. Winterians gather too, those who will be staying in my stead—Sir, Alysson, Deborah, Finn, and Greer. Horses and wagons stand before them on the dirt road, the snow cleared into piles as more flakes drop from the clouds. I quicken my steps down the narrow path, my body thrumming with a need to get this journey started.
Theron swings down off his horse when I approach. “I have—”
A cry of delight cracks the air. I glance over my shoulder in time to see a few Winterian workers grunt in shock as they fall out of the way of an unseen force carving a path from the back of the courtyard to us.
The source of the cry flops out from under one unlucky worker’s legs, moments ahead of a rather flustered maid. The whirlwind doesn’t pause to see who she might be barreling for next. She leaps through the snow, launches herself at me, and once her short arms lock around both of my legs, she gapes up, all brown eyes and flopping green fabric and a large, gummy grin.
“MEE-WAH!” she squeals, and hugs me so enthusiastically it’s a wonder my dress hasn’t ripped off.
I widen my arms, unable to stop the smile that spreads over my face. “Hello, Shazi.”
Theron grins as well. “I think you’ve made a friend.”
“I’m not sure how good of an impression I made when I dragged her and her parents on rather long tours of Jannuari, but she doesn’t seem to hate me too much,” I say, and Shazi squeals deep in her throat.
Her commotion draws the attention of the Autumnian courtiers, and one pulls away from the crowd. Nikoletta drops into a crouch and opens her arms to her daughter, who releases me and jumps at her mother, sending them both toppling into the snow. But Nikoletta giggles just as much, if not more than her daughter.
Nikoletta sobers slightly and pulls to her feet while Shazi stomps on the snow, laughing at her own footprints. Theron beams down at his cousin, an adoration that mimics the emotion of the Autumnian courtiers, still readying their horses. All these people’s hopes heaped upon this one tiny head, with her infectious grin and the small sauce stain on her dress. Autumn hasn’t had a female heir in two generations, and without a female-blooded conduit, they were almost as badly off as Winter. Shazi won’t be able to use her conduit for at least another ten years, though, until she’s able to understand it and consciously push its power into her kingdom.
She feels me staring and clutches something at her neck. “Meewah,” she declares, and waddles back over, trying to hand whatever is in her fist to me, but the chain holding it around her neck doesn’t let it go far.
I drop to my knees and she plops a ring into my palm, a gold circle holding a pyramid of teardrop jewels and a small diamond. The cluster emits an auburn glow—Autumn’s conduit.
A gasp sticks in my throat the moment it touches my skin. Images swarm at me, patchy things pouring from Shazi’s memory into mine, exactly like what happens when Noam touches me.
Caspar chasing a giggling Shazi around a pale yellow tent. Awakening to the tearful face of Nikoletta as cannon explosions echo in the background, and people scream, urging them to hurry. Caspar kissing Shazi’s head and pu
lling away with teary eyes, and some small jolt of terror slashing through her, knowing that if he leaves he might never come back.
I jerk to my feet, the conduit falling from my palm and dropping against Shazi. But she smiles and tightens her fist around the ring. “Stwong, Meewah!”
My eyes flick over Shazi’s face. Strong. She wants her conduit to make me strong—she’s probably been told since birth that it will make her strong someday.
I smile at her. “Thank you, Princess Shazi.”
She grins again, satisfied with my response despite the lack of emotion that makes my words dry. Part of me feels like laughing—a toddler is trying to comfort me. Is my panic that obvious, or is Shazi already that observant?
“Thank you for coming,” I tell Nikoletta, because I need to talk past the lump in my throat. “I’m sorry your visit couldn’t be longer.”
Her smile is worn, as if she understands. And since she grew up with Noam for an older brother, she just might.
“We hear that you are heading to Summer.” Nikoletta eyes the crowd before stepping closer to me. “My nephew showed me a most intriguing treaty. It is an ambitious goal, but know that Autumn will help however we can.”
My eyes widen and I snap my head to Theron as his hand drops to the small of my back.
“Autumn signed,” he explains. “Shortly after I did. They are aware of its delicate nature.”
I roll my eyes. I hate having to translate political-speak.
Caspar signed the treaty after Theron did—secretly, no less. Theron tried to show it to me yesterday, but I . . . well. Lying to Theron about what I think of his goals is hurting more and more, and I didn’t want to have to fake added support of it.
But this is only the beginning.
“Yes,” I manage, voice thin. I turn back to Nikoletta. “I . . . hope it will be fruitful.”
Nikoletta nods, considering, before her demeanor softens. “I know how difficult it is to be a young ruler. It gets easier, I promise you that.”
My chest cools a little. I wish I could tell her how grateful I am that she is nothing like her brother, but the ramifications of that are far too obvious. “Thank you,” I tell her again.
They leave shortly after, winding out of Jannuari and back to their kingdom, the first of many departures today. Their absence urges me into motion—I want to leave before I lose my nerve, and as I check the supplies on my horse, a task Dendera chastises is “unbefitting of a queen,” two sleighs roll forward.
I turn and fist a handful of my skirt when I catch Noam analyzing the sleighs, a grimace hardening his face. But he doesn’t argue with their presence; he doesn’t demand that the spoils within be moved to his coffer.
“I can’t believe he’s accepting of this now,” I mutter.
Theron double-checks the straps on his own saddle and shoots me a sympathetic gaze. “He isn’t—he’s just taking advantage of the situation.”
“How very Cordellan of him.”
Theron winces, but he doesn’t counter me, and I don’t apologize.
Noam strides to us as if on cue, his arms tucked behind his back. “One of my ships will be waiting on the Feni.”
“So kind of you,” I bite, teeth clenched.
Noam cocks his head. “Do not forget what we discussed, Lady Queen. The conditions of your return are nonnegotiable.”
Bring me the keys or Cordell’s charade of caring for Winter is over.
Fury burns from my stomach straight up my throat, but I say nothing. A queen wouldn’t.
Noam pivots away, heading to his own caravan, one bound for Gaos so he can inspect the magic chasm entrance himself. I hope he tries to reach the door. At least once.
I heave myself onto my horse as Sir approaches me.
“Everything will be taken care of, and you’ll be informed of any changes,” he says.
I blink at him. Just orders now, orders and duty and pride, that’s all Sir is.
The wind blows at me, swirling snowflakes through my loose white curls. I fight to keep the smile on my face, but the longer Sir stands there, spewing information about my absence, the more I can’t hold on to my resolve. One moment of truth, and I’ll go back to being an obedient little queen. I’ll be perfect and calm and emotionless—someone Sir will continue to be proud of.
“I understand why you did it,” I whisper, cutting off his explanation of which new mines will be opened while I’m gone. “I understand why you hid everything from me and Mather and why it’s all backward now. But what I don’t understand is why you hated who I used to be so much. Why you knew how badly I needed you to love me, yet you refused to give me that. Did you blame me for everything?” I gasp, the air thin. “Maybe it was my fault. I caused a lot of our problems, I know I did, but I swear to you—I’ll be a better queen.”
Sir’s frown slides off, his face blank, a stone statue come to life. “This is not your fault.”
I wait for him to say more. To tell me he doesn’t hate me, he never did.
“We will await your return most anxiously, my queen,” he says with a bow.
I don’t bother seeing whomever else wishes to bid me farewell. With a flick of my reins, the horse moves forward, winding toward the head of the caravan.
As I ride, someone pulls his horse alongside me. He leans across the space between us and puts his hand on mine, a small gesture that makes me glance at him, at his soft smile and the way his golden hair waves in the snowy air.
“It’s going to be all right,” Theron promises.
“Doubtful.”
He shrugs. “We’re the most capable people I know. We’ll find the keys, and we’ll win against my father, and the world will be at peace.”
I throw him an exasperated stare. “Your optimism is annoying.”
“That doesn’t stop me from being right,” he says, grinning.
I glance over my shoulder, eyes darting through the crowd, until I see the Winterians by the palace dispersing. Alysson heads toward the cottages, and Sir walks away . . . and Mather.
He stands with a group of boys, half listening to them and half watching me.
I spin away, eyes closed, and let Theron’s grip lead our horses through the streets.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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Mather
WILLIAM’S OFFICE WAS by far the dreariest room in the palace. Just off an open-air walkway, anyone moving past it would see what had once been a garden around the back of the palace, gray stone fountains coated in ice, dead plants frozen beneath layers of flakes, and the snow-covered buildings of the southern part of Jannuari. A nice view, all for a windowless, dark room lined with empty bookshelves and two sad sconces holding up jagged clumps of candle wax. A desk sat surrounded by three chairs, every free surface covered in papers and scrolls. It had been just as disheveled each time Mather had been there.
The other people in the room—Brennan Crewe and an old woman named Deborah who had been the city master of Jannuari before the takeover and had fallen back into her role without a blink from anyone—seemed willing to stay away from him, something for which Mather couldn’t have been more grateful. Phil had gotten another few crates of ale from the Cordellans, letting all who had avoided the celebration a few nights ago relive that evening in the cottage every night since. Which was great fun during the drinking, but once morning came . . .
Mather pressed his fist against a throbbing vein that cut through the middle of his forehead. The ale left him feeling like he’d been dragged through a battle without armor, his eyes filled with bolts of pain, his body sagging from a raging headache. He leaned against one of the shelves, wincing to keep the bread he’d choked down for breakfast in his stomach. Thank the ice above that Meira’s departure had delayed the Winterian army’s usual training—Mather wasn’t sure he could hide another morning of being hungover from William.
Alysson swe
pt into the room, her pale hands cupped around a goblet. She walked up to Mather without any of the pleasantries he expected, and before he could clear away the fog of his hangover, she shoved the goblet to him.
“Drink this,” she ordered.
Mather squinted at her, then at the cup in his hands. “I . . . what?”
She placed her palm on his face, her skin cool against his clammy cheek. “Drink this,” she said again, this time in the patient, careful tone Mather was used to from her. The woman who mended their injuries and nursed them back to health and sent them off on missions with this same tender cheek pat, a mild yet staunch show of belief.
Hating William was easy. Hating Alysson took more effort than Mather had.
Mather raised the goblet to his lips and downed a swig before the horrid taste hit him. Like eggs left too long in the sun, like meat gone rancid. He hacked and doubled over, one wrong breath away from reliving everything he had consumed last night in reverse.
He gagged. “What is this?”
Alysson squeezed his shoulder. “A remedy for your ailment. It will take away your headache and nausea, but remember this delicious flavor should you insist on drinking so much again. Which won’t be any time soon, will it?” Her tone pulled taut in a way that said she wouldn’t accept anything but agreement. She patted his cheek once more as he stayed bent before her, arms around his middle, stomach churning like an angry sea. “Drink up, sweetheart. Every drop.”
Mather collapsed onto the frayed carpet in a burst of dust. He looked up at her with hooded eyes as she scooted papers off a chair and sat next to Deborah, who shook her head at him disapprovingly. Brennan, on the other hand, leaned against the shelves and stifled a smile, no doubt enjoying Mather’s torment.
When he met Alysson’s eyes again, he knew this beverage was meant to be more of a punishment than a cure. Honestly, he was surprised he’d gotten away with four nights of such behavior—though he had expected the repercussions to come from William.
Luckily the study door opened again and William entered. All attention swung to him, everyone standing straighter, but Mather merely sank more heavily into the floor and sipped at the repulsive concoction in his hand. His cheeks puffed in an uncontrollable gag. This stuff was awful even in small increments.
