by Sara Raasch
Mather swung the mock sword in what should have been a killing blow, the wood sailing through an opening and smacking against her exposed neck. But Feige didn’t surrender, just batted his sword away and lunged. Mather blinked, surprised long enough for her to swipe at his legs. She sent one buckling under him and flung herself on his back. Her mock sword stung where she pressed it against his neck, jerking his head so he stared up at her on his knees.
Mather heaved her over his head, slammed her onto her back, and pinned her with one arm across her chest. He tugged her mock sword away and tossed his own, his jaw tight.
“You could be a good fighter,” he snapped. “If you learn to control your anger.”
As Feige glared up at him, Mather’s instincts screamed. Once, as children, Meira had talked him into stealing a bottle of Finn’s Summerian wine. When William found them, he had taken the half-full bottle and smashed it into the fire, and the wine had urged the flames from steady fingers of orange into a burst of roaring heat. Mather saw that now in Feige—flames shooting higher, egged on by primal fear.
She snarled up at him. “Get off me.”
Before Mather could react, Hollis flew forward and yanked him away. Mather stumbled to his feet as Feige shot up, her shoulders caved, her wild ivory hair reaching around her face.
Mather stepped forward but Hollis shot a hand out, his fingers digging into Mather’s arm. “Feige, you’re done,” Hollis snapped.
“No.” Mather felt everyone around him draw breaths in confusion. “We can’t ignore things because we’re afraid of them—your sister needs to learn to control her anger.”
“I don’t need to do anything,” Feige growled. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. None of us are. And until we admit that—”
He stopped and reached into his pocket, closing his hand around the carving he kept there. When he pulled it out, Feige stayed quiet, staring at her creation.
“Child of the Thaw,” Mather whispered, rolling through his thoughts. He tightened his fingers around the snowflake-wildflower hybrid, tipping his head down to catch Feige’s gaze. When she met his eyes this time, she seemed almost meek, and he couldn’t believe one girl could show such a vast array of emotions in so short a time.
“You were right,” he said. “None of us belong to Winter, do we? Everyone else tries to cling to a Winter they once knew. But such things don’t burden us—the Winter we know has always been one of our own creation, a kingdom we built on dreams. So you’re right, Feige. We’re all”—he paused, rotating the snowflake-wildflower carving to show the script on the back— “Children of the Thaw. Our own hybrid of the past and the future.”
The smallest, most delicate smile fluttered across Feige’s lips. It took Mather as much by surprise as her abrupt mood changes—the girl was a storm of emotion.
Just like the wild girl who had gotten him into all kinds of trouble as a child, a girl whose eyes flickered with the same desperate, blinding drive to succeed.
Someone who had only smiled at him like that once in the past three months—because he had chosen not to make her smile like that again.
He had slammed the door on Meira, locked the bolt tight. All that waited before him now were these people—maybe he could help them where he couldn’t help Meira anymore.
Where he had never been able to help her.
“Children of the Thaw,” Phil echoed, scratching his chin. “Like our own little group?”
Eli’s eyes flashed with eagerness and he turned to Kiefer, still on the table at the edge of the room. Kiefer seemed to be rolling those words through his mind, testing their strength, mimicking the hesitation from the other boys. Like they needed to belong to something, but no one wanted to be the first to admit that need.
Finally Trace broke into a smile. “I like it.”
Phil laughed and hooked his arm around Mather’s neck. “The Children of the Thaw, led by the fierce Once-King of Winter! We’ll strike fear into our enemies’ hearts.”
“And hope into the future,” Mather added.
That sobered Phil, and he unwound his arm. “Aye, that we will.”
The rest of the group seemed just as enthralled with the idea, smiling and tossing jokes about it as they went back to training. Even Kiefer moved warily closer to the throwing range and hovered beside his brother and Phil, all of them watching as Trace worked through throwing.
Feige returned to her seat in the corner, where she pulled out her whittling knife and hunched down again. When Mather turned away from her, Hollis waited next to him.
“You are our leader, my lord,” Hollis whispered. “Do not abuse that power.”
Mather swallowed. “I won’t. We need this, Hollis. We need to face what we are.” He motioned to Feige. “All of what we are, especially the parts that hurt.”
Hollis stared at him, uncertainty framing his face. But he nodded and trailed Feige to the corner. Somehow, that silence was more intimidating than if Hollis had threatened him. Feige may have been a storm of emotion, but Hollis was the eye of that storm.
They would get through this, though. They had one another now.
Like their newly acquired name, they would all thaw.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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Meira
CERIDWEN LAUNCHES AHEAD, leading the way back through the rows of wine—and toward the scream. Thoughts leave me, giving way to instinct as I dash behind her.
Theron’s shout fades in the ageless silence of the cellar. The last time I heard him yell like that, we were in the throne room of the Abril palace, Angra standing over him, snapping his ribs one by one with the Decay—
Maybe some spark of memory lingers from my panic attack. Maybe Theron screaming in the darkness of Juli is too close to Theron screaming in the darkness of Angra’s palace. But as Ceridwen flies around a corner and slams to a halt, I spin past her, worry fading behind the focus that builds in my mind.
The stairwell opens two rows over, hazy light from the sconces on its wall filtering into the cellar. My eyes fix on a figure pressed against the left side of the wine shelves before us. It only takes one beat of recognition for me to know it’s him—the gold and green on his jacket—and I pin my body in front of Theron, instinct throbbing at how weaponless I am. Defenseless, again, forced to just watch as—
But there is no threat here.
I release my breath in short bursts, sweat pouring in freshly awoken rivers down my body with each passing second that I survey the shelves, the floor, even the ceiling.
Theron touches my shoulder and I immediately whirl, assessing him for injuries.
Blood gleams on his hand like a beacon, glistening and fresh, sending a sharp spasm of concern through me.
He shakes his head. “No, it’s not mine. When I realized you left, I came looking for you and . . .” His words scratch against a dry throat and he lifts his blood-covered hand to point at the mouth of this row, to a spot where neither Ceridwen’s lantern nor the staircase’s light reaches. “I tried to help him, but he was already dead.”
I face the end of the row, heart rate slowing, limbs unwinding.
It all feels like it’s happening at the edge of a dream—the Cordellan soldiers who rush down the staircase, holding lanterns that turn this dim cellar as bright as day, making every shadow slither away from the light. The relief that someone else heard Theron’s scream; someone else could have helped him if I hadn’t been here. Or if I had been, but failed, anyway.
All of it falls away when I drop to my knees next to the man. He isn’t Summerian—the light from the Cordellan lanterns flickers on his face, revealing hair that hangs in matted black tendrils around olive skin, curling over a branded S on his left cheek. He looks with glassy hazel eyes at the rows of dusty wine bottles, unaware of the glistening blood wrapping around his throat in a gruesome collar. Heat wavers off his
body, the warmth of fading life, and his blood hasn’t yet dried, gleaming in a vibrant ruby hue.
He’s only been dead for minutes.
I stand, hand to my mouth. He was murdered while we were down here. Anguish sticks to every muscle until my hand drops, useless. Where is he from? Autumn? No, his eyes are too light. Ventralli? Oh, please don’t let him be Ventrallan—Theron is half Ventrallan, and I don’t know what that would mean for him, seeing one of his mother’s countrymen reduced to this.
“My queen?” Garrigan tugs at my arm, trying to ease me away from the body.
I push past him, one of my hands in a fist, the other bearing down so hard on the key’s chain that the metal threatens to puncture my skin. Theron wipes the man’s blood off his hand with a rag, his soldiers asking him the same kinds of questions Garrigan quietly whispers to me: “Are you all right? Are you sure?”
I can’t bring myself to ask if the man is Ventrallan. If Theron hasn’t realized that, I don’t want to point it out. Maybe he didn’t see the man’s features in the dark. Maybe he won’t look, and he can just assume the victim is Summerian.
Not that that makes the death any less jarring.
Ceridwen is the only one who doesn’t seem to care about any of the living. She peeks around us, expression solemn with expected dread—until she sees the man’s face.
She staggers back, dropping her lantern, the metal cage bouncing at her feet.
“Princess?” I start, but she spins away, fighting for composure at the edge of the torches’ light. Does she know him? Or is she just upset by his death?
I look at him again. This isn’t the slave who helped her, and I sigh relief. But still—who was he?
“Well, this certainly puts a damper on the party.”
My shoulders tense and I glance back to see Simon at the end of this row, just beside the man’s body. Half a dozen courtiers circle him, none of them guards, most clutching goblets of wine and watching us as if we’re another act arranged for their entertainment.
Ceridwen stalks toward him, and I grab her arm before I can consider why. “You did this—” she snarls at her brother, but catches herself. Her gaze drops to my hand on her arm and she yanks away, toward the rows beyond.
Simon swaggers forward, his orange silk shirt catching sheens of light, his conduit emitting a hazy scarlet glow as he swings his arm through the air in something like a dance. He stops just before me, eyes swimming in a sea of swollen veins and alcohol-induced redness.
“Winter queen,” he starts, dipping forward. “Why did you come to Summer, if not to partake in all we have to offer? Surely not for—” His eyes shift to the body and his air of drunkenness unfolds to reveal someone observant, calculating. Deadly. “This.”
It’s an act. He may be drunk, but he’s no less in control of his kingdom than Noam is of Cordell.
The realization sickens me even more. Because he’ll remember I vanished from his celebration; he’ll remember that Winter affronted Summer.
And he’ll remember that he found me, down here, in his wine cellar, with a dead body.
“Of course not. We came down here—” I choke on the lie. “To see Summer’s vast collection of wine.”
Theron shifts and I look at him, still driven by my instinct to keep him safe.
Which is why I don’t realize until now, too late, much too late, that he can see the key dangling from the chain in my hand.
Theron glances down, hardening when he sees it. He doesn’t need to utter a word for me to understand everything he’s feeling. It’s written plainly on his face.
Eyes wide, lips leaping up in a half smile—surprised joy when I don’t say anything to deter him from his assumptions.
Then, face relaxing, mouth parting in confused hurt that I went searching without him, that I’m doing nothing to confirm or deny the importance of what is in my hand.
Simon swaggers toward me. “I would have been happy to give you a tour!” His focus drops to my hand for a beat, though he clearly can’t figure out why it holds Theron’s attention. “Prince Theron and I were having the most interesting discussion before we realized you had left. Something about unifying the world? A lofty goal for a Season.”
I squint at Theron. I thought he was waiting for the trip to Summer’s vineyards to tell Simon about his treaty? Why did he tell him tonight?
Theron gives me no hint about why his plans might have changed—he just continues to stare at the key.
I arrange my fingers around the chain, the metal links digging into my palm as I try and fail to hide it now. “Someone should . . .” I motion to the body, not sure what I mean. Cover him? Take him to be prepared for burial or burning or whatever they do with bodies in Summer? Would they do that for him, though, if he’s a slave? Acidic repulsion eats at me. I hate that I even have to wonder such things in this kingdom.
Simon’s reaction emphasizes my worries. He flips his hand as if the dead man is nothing more than a blotch of dust on the floor. “What were you saying, Prince Theron? There’s a treaty to be signed?”
I glower at Simon as Theron blinks, nods, shaken out of his staring by the mention of the body and Simon’s business talk so near a murder victim. “We . . .” He clears his throat. “We continue on to Yakim and Ventralli next. And eventually, Paisly and Spring. I have a—” His eyes dip to the body but instantly jerk back up and he angles himself so he can’t see it. “I drafted a treaty, outlining the requirements of a united world. Support during times of strife; a council to be convened when war threatens—”
Simon applauds, cutting him off. He smiles, a giddy beam that catches like the spark of a flame, and soon all his courtiers are smiling too.
Do none of them care about the dead body?
Simon lifts his goblet in some sort of toast. His conduit emits hazy red light, dimmer than the vibrant violet of Noam’s.
Anger flares anew. Simon is using his conduit to feed his courtiers’ revelry. The only thing they feel, the only thing they will ever feel, even here, even with blood staining the floor.
“Such ambitions indeed,” Simon chuckles. “I’ve never been one to turn down a Rhythm invitation. The parties, you see. And you’ll be most interested in joining us, especially in Ventralli, won’t you, sister?”
I flinch with panic. We weren’t inviting him along—
But Theron doesn’t correct him.
Ceridwen, still with her back to us, glares over her shoulder, her hard gaze biting into Simon. She ducks away, vanishing into the darkness of the cellar.
Simon grins again like her reaction was exactly what he wanted. “Excellent,” he says, pulling up a conspiratorial smile. “You’ll love Yakim, Queen Meira—they make the best whiskey! For now, though—there is wine to be drunk!” And with that, he saunters back into his group of courtiers, probably expecting us to follow him as he ascends the staircase.
The moment the Summerians leave the cellar, I turn to Theron’s guards, the only others here I can give any sort of command to.
“Can you take care of him?” I ask, voice soft, eyes flashing once to the body.
The soldiers nod without scoffing or refusing the lowly Winter queen. At least they care. That compounds my hatred of this kingdom—Summer is making me like Cordell a little more in comparison.
While his men busy themselves with fetching someone to clean up the body, I pull Theron toward the stairwell, putting a row of shelves between the man and us.
“You’re letting them come with us?” I ask, my voice tipping low enough for only Theron to hear. “We don’t need—”
He grabs my arm and lifts my hand. “Where did you get this?”
The key bounces against me, Theron’s fingers tight around my wrist. The moment the key touches my skin, a scene flashes over my eyes.
I’m in the cell again. Angra crouches before Theron, his staff leaking black shadows that suffocate the room. Theron rocks forward, sucking in airy breaths and releasing ragged exhales. He blinks, disoriented, unti
l his eyes lock on Angra, and the look on his face unravels me.
Not fear. Not resilience. Not even anger.
He’s exhausted.
“He didn’t . . . save her . . .” Theron pants, sweat glistening down his neck. How long has Angra been torturing him?
And torturing him with what?
Angra reaches forward and cups Theron’s cheek in his palm. I lurch back, shoulders smacking into the stone wall. Angra hesitated. Before he touched Theron. The rarest beat of a pause, as if he was uncertain.
Angra is—WAS—never uncertain or careful. About anything.
“What is this?” I shout, though neither Angra nor Theron pay me any heed.
“He could have saved her,” Angra whispers, and his usual malice is gone. His voice sounds wrong without it, deflated, a flower without petals. “He had all the power. He could have sent her back to her kingdom—he could have helped her heal. But he didn’t. And many like him exist in this world, many who don’t deserve power.” Angra leans closer. “Who does deserve power, Prince Theron? Who?”
I stumble, slipping on the dusty stones of the cellar, just as disoriented as Theron was in the—vision? Memory? I don’t know. I don’t want to know—but I do.
This happened to him. These scenes are Theron’s memories, however repressed or hidden by Angra’s magic. The Order’s key, the first of the three to open the door—it’s a conduit? Or it has magic, at least, magic like the barrier.
Snow above. Theron took it. Somewhere in my distracted state, he took the key from me.
I surge back to him, but he studies the key, rolling it through his fingers, unaware of my panic. He doesn’t see anything when he touches it—he’d react in some way if he did.
In the darkness of the cellar, sweat glistening on his skin, he looks almost like the Theron in the vision. Broken, scared, small.
I can’t find it in me to yank the key away from him—and I don’t want to risk touching it and seeing more of the poison Angra pumped into him. Theron doesn’t remember it; whatever his mind is doing to deal with what happened, he needs it. And right now, he needs this key, needs it in the way he grips it in his fist and sighs like some of the weight on his shoulders has slid right off.
