Ice Like Fire

by Sara Raasch

  “Why now?” Lekan asks so I don’t have to, his tone dark. “If this is about Jesse—”

  “This has nothing to do with him!” Ceridwen’s voice threatens a scream, but she catches herself, warping it into a sharp whisper. “Simon . . . he . . . you’ve seen it, Lekan.” She squints at him. “Didn’t you see it?”

  Lekan shakes his head.

  “With the non-Summerian slaves,” she starts. “He can control them, like he controls his own subjects. I don’t know how, but he cannot be allowed to continue this, especially if his influence is stretching into more kingdoms. It’s too much.”

  “Wait—the others in Juli acted just like the Summerian slaves because Simon controlled them?” I clarify. She nods.

  I thought the reason was more the slaves’ own way of coping with their lives, but . . .

  Simon controls non-Summerians.

  Only one person has ever been able to influence people not of his own kingdom: Angra.

  “No, Cerie. He just drugs them,” Lekan says, uncertain. “Doesn’t he?”

  But Ceridwen dives between Lekan and me, sweeping out toward the road and, beyond it, the waiting caravan. Lekan grabs her arm and swings her to a stop, but she wrenches away, pointing a steady finger at him.

  “I need you on the ground,” she says, and pivots to me. “And you—you owe me, Winter queen. Your chakram would be better on a roof. Your guard, though, should be with me.”

  “I’m not here to fight for you,” Conall states. “I’m here to protect my queen.”

  Ceridwen’s lip twitches, her rage rekindled, but I grab Conall’s good arm, my body moving independently of my spinning, chaotic mind.

  “I’ll take the roof,” I tell him. “You can stay on the ground below me. Fight down here.”

  Angra. Simon controls people who are not his subjects? No, no, she has to be wrong . . .

  Conall doesn’t seem at all appeased, but he hears the order in my voice and nods curtly.

  Ceridwen grunts approval and takes another step backward.

  Lekan moves after her. “Wait—”

  The scowl she gives him could burn through a brick wall. “He’s been hurting our kingdom for too long, and if he’s using magic on non-Summerians . . .”

  I want to scream at her, a wave of fear swelling in me. No, it can’t be the Decay—it can’t be magic. There’s been no sign of Angra or his darkness for months.

  But the Decay needs a host, like any magic. It has to be coming from someone . . .

  Lekan grinds his jaw, and the way he springs forward makes me think she pushed him too far. But he just hovers there, muscles hard, staring at her with eyes that say more than any words could. Finally he nods, one firm jerk of his head, and Ceridwen flashes a deadly smile before sprinting around the corner. Lekan moves after her, already holding a pair of knives drawn from somewhere within his cloak.

  I watch until I can’t see their shadows on the street anymore, the surrounding city quiet except for the distant murmurs of people moving about their day and, closer, the harsh voices of soldiers. I look at Conall, but he just waits. He didn’t read the threat in Ceridwen’s words. He didn’t come to the same conclusion that drains me.

  Angra’s magic didn’t dissipate.

  He might be alive.

  I force a nod at Conall and he moves to the corner of the building, blending into the shadows that put him between this street and the one just over, the one Ceridwen and Lekan ran for.

  I don’t give myself time to do anything else. No thinking, no chance to reflect on everything that threatens to destroy me from the inside out. For now, for this fleeting moment, I am just a girl helping to stop a terrible act. I am nothing more than the tightness in my arms as I pull myself up the side of a building, window to window, ledge to ledge. I am nothing more than the shiver that spreads across my arms as I stand on the roof in the unbroken wind.

  Angra is alive.

  He’s alive.

  He’s—

  Those words beat in my head alongside my pulse, and I take slow, careful steps up the inclined clay tiles of the roof, crouch down, and peer at the square, three stories below.

  Just focus on this task. Help Ceridwen. Maybe I’ll see something that will explain what Simon is doing—maybe it’ll all make sense.

  And that, honestly, terrifies me more than anything else.

  Buildings form a cage around a small, open square of pale yellow cobblestones. Rintiero’s vibrant colors gleam in the bright light of the day, the magenta and peach buildings providing a riotous backdrop for the people standing in the square.

  Summer’s stained wagon sits in the center of fifteen soldiers, chatting merrily, only half aware of the fact that they’re supposed to be on watch. A jug of wine passes between a few of them as laughter flies upward. More laughter radiates from the wagon along with other noises that make my stomach churn with disgust.

  One of the wagon doors opens. Simon swaggers out a step, unmistakable in the soft scarlet glow that radiates from the conduit on his wrist. My eyes lock on to it, the disgust in my stomach flickering into dread. Maybe Ceridwen was wrong. Maybe he did drug the non-Summerians, like Lekan thought.

  Or maybe Angra allied with Summer, has been allied with them, all along. Or maybe the Decay did kill Angra and sought out a new host, and I’m too late to stop any of it.

  Simon snaps something to one of his guards before diving back into the wagon.

  A gurgled moan emanates from across the square. My eyes snap up in time to see a Summerian soldier collapse, motionless, as a red blur sweeps out of the shadows. She doesn’t hesitate before she moves in on the next one, and by now other soldiers have noticed her, shouting that they’re under attack. No one sees Conall on the road below me, hidden in shadows, or me on the roof.

  I shift onto my knees and yank the chakram out of its holster, no thoughts beyond calculating which soldier will make the best target, which man gives me the clearest shot. The chakram flies from my hand, an effortless and familiar burst of movement, and in that moment it doesn’t feel like months since I threw it. It feels as if I’ve done it every day of my life, and it licks across a Summerian soldier’s leg before smacking back into my palm.

  “Sister!” Simon’s voice catches against the buildings around him, his cocky tone echoing. I crouch down, eyes flicking over the scene as Simon steps out of his wagon, his men pulling back. They aren’t attacking?

  Ceridwen and Lekan realize the oddness too. They stand back to back just across from me, weapons glinting and bloodied, both of them panting yet ready for an attack. But Simon doesn’t tell his men to charge again, doesn’t let his soldiers attack the two intruders.

  He steps toward Ceridwen, his voice carrying around the square with intention. “What brings you to the shadier parts of Rintiero? It can’t be that you’re the one behind all the attacks on my wagons. I know my sister would never turn on me in such a way.”

  Simon’s words barely reach my ears when Ceridwen screams.

  She crumples to her knees, weapons clanking on the stone as they tumble from her hands. Lekan surges toward her but soldiers pin him back and she screams again, writhing on the ground. No one is anywhere near her, touching her at all, not even . . .

  It’s Simon. He’s using his conduit to hurt her.

  And any magic used for the sake of harm feeds the Decay.

  I lean backward until I spot Conall below me. He sees what’s happening from his hidden view between the buildings, and when I move he jerks his eyes up to me.

  I point at him, then back toward the palace.

  Warn them, I plead. Angra’s dark magic.

  Were it any other threat, I wouldn’t consider using my magic—but I can’t be afraid of anything that might help me now.

  Conall’s face pales with shock when my order hits him, driving action into his body in the same way other conduit-wielders use their magic to direct soldiers on a battlefield. He shakes his head sharply, but the resignation on his fac
e cancels out his protest.

  Go, I force into him.

  Conall scowls and takes off, running into the streets, away from the Summerians.

  Once he vanishes from sight, I pull myself back up the roof, fingers digging into the tiles. Ceridwen has stopped screaming, her eyes on Simon, who walks through his soldiers, taking slow, taunting steps toward her. He tips his head at her on the ground, pauses, and glances over his shoulder.

  In that moment, I catch sight of the confusion on his face. He peers at his conduit, twisting the cuff on his wrist, and looks across from him, to my right.

  My eyes snap to follow his and my heart sinks.

  “Princess Ceridwen,” Raelyn coos. Ventrallan soldiers swarm the square, filing around as she takes slow, controlled steps forward. “So glad you could join us.”

  Simon moves toward her. “This isn’t the plan. She’s my prisoner to deal with.”

  Raelyn’s hair curls wildly around a silk mask that matches her gown, a swirling tempest of emerald and obsidian that ripples as she draws closer to Simon. Her soldiers take up positions around the square, barricading anyone from leaving. Even the people in the carriage, some Summerian, some Yakimian, all branded, are dragged out and corralled into a cowering group by the square’s edge.

  But Raelyn has eyes only for Ceridwen, joy mixed with fury mixed with satisfaction, and I don’t realize why she’s so enthralled until she tips her head and Ceridwen screams.

  Simon isn’t the only one using the Decay. Every time Raelyn twitches, Ceridwen screams, her body bending in unnatural angles. My hand tightens on the chakram, but I’m frozen on the roof.

  A non–conduit-wielder is using the Decay.

  So is someone else the host for it? Based on the confusion on Simon’s face, it isn’t him.

  When the Decay was first created, it fed on the fuel of the thousands of people who used their small conduits for evil. It made everyone’s darkest, most sinister thoughts the only thing they thought—and those who had conduits were also given extra strength and power. It has always been able to affect people regardless of their bloodline—Theron and I saw that firsthand in Abril. Normal conduits cannot affect someone not of their kingdom; the Decay is the exception to that rule. It’s the bridge between bloodlines, created during a time when everyone had conduits regardless of lineage or kingdom.

  When Mather broke Angra’s staff, maybe Angra became Spring’s conduit, and the Decay became strong enough to infuse not only evil desires in people, but magic as well. The Decay, Angra, and Spring’s conduit could be one now, a morphed, twisted entity of limitless evil that breaks through everything we used to know about magic.

  Which forms the terrifying question . . .

  If Angra is alive, where is he? Or after centuries of feeding off Angra, did the Decay finally become strong enough to infect whomever it pleases?

  A heavy weight settles in me. I can’t save Ceridwen and Lekan, not now, not here, because I can only use my magic to affect Winterians. So I just watch in helpless horror as Raelyn pauses over Ceridwen, her head tipping back and forth as she surveys the princess of Summer at her feet.

  “This is better than promised,” she says, raising her voice for all to hear. She enjoys the audience, the stunned Summerians, her leering Ventrallan soldiers.

  Simon stomps forward, a few Summerian soldiers following with drawn weapons. “What are you doing? This isn’t—”

  Raelyn waves, beckoning some of her men to restrain the Summerian soldiers. When they’re just as helpless as Lekan, she shoots a look at Simon.

  He falls to his knees before her, gasping like an invisible hand slowly clamps around his throat. His face dims to a violent purple, and Raelyn pushes her long fingers through his riot of hair.

  “Dear Summer king,” she says. “I’m afraid nothing will happen according to your plan.”

  “Angra . . . promised me,” Simon pants, his strain clear in his clenched arms, his face darkening more and more.

  I crouch lower behind the roof, quivering so hard that the building must be shaking too. Simon’s words echo relentlessly through my mind.

  Angra promised me.

  “To ally Summer with Spring.” Raelyn reprimands like he’s nothing more than a misbehaving child. “Yes, I know. But you didn’t honestly think someone so powerful would ally with Summer, did you? Angra only gave you true magic to keep you occupied while real rulers decided what would become of your land.” She pauses, still stroking her fingers through his hair as he coughs and gags. “And we have decided Summer will best serve our new world without its conduit bloodline. So you see, Spring will not ally with you. Our goals do not require you at all.”

  With Raelyn focused on Simon, Ceridwen’s pain stops, her body relaxing. She eases onto her elbows, her fingers digging into the cobblestones as she looks at Raelyn as if the Ventrallan queen is more rabid beast than person.

  “True magic?” Ceridwen dares.

  “Spring.” Raelyn turns to her, Simon gagging still. “They discovered the true source of power, and it is not useless baubles imbued with centuries-old magic. Spring holds a power stronger than any conduit.”

  Ceridwen shakes her head. “Angra’s dark magic? After what he did to Winter, after the vacant control he enacted over his own people? You’re insane. This is just another form of slavery. Jesse will never let this happen!”

  Ceridwen stops, her gaze frozen on Raelyn. That name echoes around them. Jesse.

  “You’re quite right,” Raelyn snarls, and kicks her in the stomach. Lekan cries out, but no one pays him any attention, everyone enthralled by the building storm of the Ventrallan queen and the Summerian princess. “Jesse is too weak. He will fear this power, and he will doom this kingdom as he did when he bedded you. But we don’t need him anymore—I don’t need him anymore.”

  “No . . .” Ceridwen chokes, sucking air in uneven spurts.

  Raelyn lifts her skirt and slams her foot against Ceridwen’s throat, pressing as she shouts words down on her. “I will kill him, sweet girl. I will kill him and those brats and every remnant of the Ventrallan conduit’s bloodline, because I don’t need them. The time of the Royal Conduits is over. The time of true power has come.”

  “Stop . . . Raelyn . . .” Simon spits out one gasping plea. “Leave her alone!”

  In a swirl of green and black, Raelyn spins away from Ceridwen. As if she can sense what will happen, as if every moment had built up to this inevitable end, Ceridwen scrambles to get onto her hands and knees.

  “No!”

  Raelyn flicks her wrist, and Simon utters a single, trembling gulp before his neck breaks, the bone grating in the jarring snap of a quick and easy death.

  Ceridwen’s scream fades to silence and she hovers there, watching her brother’s body fall lifeless to the stones. The other Summerian soldiers move to action, but the Ventrallan soldiers are faster, and the square is soon coated in so much Summerian blood that it’s hard to imagine the stones were ever anything but this gruesome red. The branded Summerian and Yakimian slaves drop to their knees, cowering, spared in their meek surrender—even Lekan is left alive, hanging limp from the Ventrallans who hold him, his eyes on Ceridwen in a look of pure sorrow.

  Ceridwen doesn’t react when Raelyn grabs her hair and jerks her head back to peer down into her eyes. “Isn’t this why you came here? To kill your brother? I saved you the trouble of having to murder your own family. You should be grateful.” Raelyn twists Ceridwen’s neck back and she yelps in pain. “You will be grateful, Princess. You will beg me for death, and before I grant your wish, your last words to me will be thank you.”

  The chakram leaves my hand, my great, spinning blade swirling through the air, but I know as it leaves my palm that my aim is off, my horror sending shudders up my arm that make my chakram teeter and bend.

  It licks off Raelyn’s shoulder, a hand’s width below my intended target. She screams in a deadly mix of pain and fury. All eyes in the square follow my chakram’s path ba
ck to me, and as I leap to catch it, arrows fly.

  I drop to my back, hidden by the point in the roof, the chakram to my stomach. Arrows pierce the roof behind me with sturdy thwacks and a few graze the point just over my head, sending sprays of tile raining down over me.

  “Hold!” Raelyn cries, and the arrows cease.

  I stay down, one foot lodged in a few clay tiles to keep me from sliding off the roof.

  “Winter queen?” Raelyn calls, her voice taunting, and I curse myself for letting my aim falter. “I won’t kill you, Winter queen. That honor has been reserved for another Rhythm. I will, however, deliver you to him, so be a good child and surrender now. There is no escaping this revolution.”

  My lip curls and I pull whatever strength I can from revenge, for Raelyn’s treatment of Ceridwen. From horror, for the murder of the Summerian king. From the hard, unavoidable realization that all of this, every moment of this trip, was a trap. A trap I not only fell into, but helped build. Who else has been swayed by Angra’s power?

  Raelyn said Another Rhythm.

  Noam. Cordell.

  I whirl to my feet and wind my chakram, knowing this time, I won’t miss. Raelyn will die, her smug grin the last expression her face will form. But as I rise above the peak in the roof, my body lurches back, instinct realizing the threat before my mind has time to comprehend it.

  Ventrallan soldiers. Five of them, climbing up the roof. Raelyn distracted me long enough for them to scale the building and gain on me.

  I take off across the roof and slide my chakram into its holster. Arrows whizz past as I hurl myself onto the steep roof of the next building. My boots twist awkwardly and I slam onto my elbows, rolling down the incline. One arrow slices across my arm, a deep gouge that makes me wince, but I don’t have time for it to hurt before I’m thrown off the roof, flailing through the air.

  Another building, one story shorter, stops my fall, a few tiles crumbling when I crash onto it. But this one is infinitely flatter and I take off running again, ignoring the way my arm screams. A quick glance tells me the Ventrallan soldiers are just behind me, one roof away and getting closer. I leap into the air and grab the edge of the next building. Once I’m on it, I spot the palace to the northeast, its riot of colors standing out against the sweep of dense green park. I reel toward it and push myself into a sprint, aiming for the next building, a story taller than this one but easily reachable—