Snow Like Ashes

by Sara Raasch

  I throw a finger up and look around. “Wait. He who?”

  Mona zips up her bag of supplies. “Prince Theron, Lady Meira. He’ll be smitten!”

  Noam’s son. I frown, absently clutching the fabric of the skirt. I knew I was forgetting something.

  The girls start to leave, Rose herding them out with sharp orders to see if other guests need any last-minute assistance. I leap down from the dressing pedestal and grab Rose’s arm.

  “General William and King Mather.” Saying his title flows out surprisingly easily, and I start in discomfort. “Where are they?”

  “Getting ready themselves, Lady Meira. They did say that if you were to ask for them, they would meet you in the library before the ball.”

  “And when is the ball?”

  “In ten minutes.”

  I smack my fist to my forehead to fight down a sudden migraine. “Lady Rose, if you wish me to attend this ball, you will tell me exactly where the library is. Now.”

  Rose points down the hall and to the left. “Two lefts, one right. First door on your right.”

  I start to say thank you, but realize—I’m wearing a ball gown. How many times will I have this opportunity? I drop into a sweeping curtsy, skirt fluffing out in my descent, fabric swallowing me up. Rose applauds as I leap up and start to run out the door. Then I pause, pull back, and stuff the small blue stone into one of the gown’s pockets. Just something to hold on to.

  Two lefts. One right. First door on the right.

  I repeat the instructions as I run, trotting past scurrying servants and fancy-looking people I don’t know. Cordellan royals, probably. Running in a dress is hard enough, but running in a ball gown is like trying to run while wrapped in a tent, so eventually I concede defeat and heft the whole mess of silk into the air. A few passing courtiers raise their eyebrows, but I hurry past them, too glad to move my legs freely to really care about their shocked looks. I was right—skirts are inventions meant to make running harder.

  The library door is already open when I dash in, but the room is empty. Books line shelves three floors high, and windows just as tall let in rays of dying sunlight. Three balconies wrap above me and a grand piano stands in the center of the bottom level, but there are no people, not even a servant dusting old books in a corner.

  I scurry into the room and scan each level for any sign of Sir or Mather or Dendera, anyone. The more empty corners I see, the harder my heart hammers.

  They’re not here.

  Their absence shakes me out of the lightness of preparing for the ball, of getting to take a bath, of the luxury and finery of Bithai. Here I am, standing in Cordell’s library, playacting like some foreign damsel, all ball gowns and lavender-vanilla perfume. I should embrace this. I shouldn’t care that I won’t find out anything before the ball, because this type of normalcy is what Sir wanted for me, isn’t it? To dance and laugh and wear frilly dresses. To lead an easier life.

  But however nice it is to have a tub full of steaming water, however pretty my gown is, I’ve never wanted this kind of life. Dendera would talk about the days when Winter was whole and its court was intact, when Queen Hannah would throw lavish balls like all the other kingdoms of the world. The ladies would dress in fine ivory gowns and the men in deep blue suits, and everything glittered silver and white. I would listen to Dendera’s stories and smile at the images, but it was the tales of Winter’s battles that filled my dreams. Tales of protecting our kingdom. Fighting for our land. Defending our people.

  Not that the courtiers were any less worthy of Winter than the soldiers who fought for it, but I never wanted the life Dendera said she’d had. I wanted a life of my own, a life where I could feel myself being a part of Winter. And that, to me, came through fighting for it.

  A piece of parchment on the music stand catches me, and I pick it up. Something about the way the script bends in a frantic, scratched hand, like whoever wrote it was in a hurry to get the poem down.

  Words made me.

  They shifted over me from the moment I took breath;

  Little black lines etched into my body as I wriggled and screamed

  And learned their meanings.

  Duty. Honor. Fate.

  They were beautiful heart tattoos.

  So I took them and kept them and made them my own,

  Locked them away inside of me and only took them out

  When other people got their meanings wrong.

  Duty. Honor. Fate.

  I believed in everything.

  I believed in him when he said I was his greatest duty.

  When he said I would be his greatest honor.

  I believed no one but him and his three words.

  Duty. Honor. Fate.

  I believed too much.

  There’s a pain in it, the same I-want-more-than-this pain that makes my dress a little less pretty. It sucks my breath away. I’d expect something like this just lying around if we were in Ventralli, which is known for its artists, but not in Cordell. Cordell is all money and power and fertile farmlands. Who wrote this?

  “Lady Meira?”

  I fly around, parchment fluttering to the ground, gown whooshing in a great funnel of red. At first I think it’s Noam. Same tall build, same golden hair, same dark-brown eyes. But this man isn’t old enough to have gray in his hair, only a few years older than me, and his skin is smooth, sporting only a patch of stubble on his chin. He’s much more handsome than Noam too, not quite as harsh, like he’s more apt to sing a ballad than lead a kingdom.

  I smooth my dress. “Prince Theron,” I guess.

  An intrigued light brightens his face. His eyes drop to the parchment resting between us on the carpet, words up, and the light falls. He dives, grabs the paper, crumples it in his fist like he can disintegrate it through sheer will.

  “Golden leaves,” Theron curses, catches himself, and grimaces, the paper in his hands cracking through his careful foundation of manners. “I’m sorry. This isn’t—it’s nothing.”

  I frown. “You wrote that?”

  His mouth tightens. Fighting with admitting to it or getting this conversation back on course.

  I motion at the paper he gently sets on a table. “It’s good,” I say. “You’re talented.”

  A little of Theron’s panic ebbs away. “Thank you,” he says cautiously as the corners of his lips lift. It’s not Mather’s full-face smile, but it still disarms me, making my legs weak under the layers of skirts and petticoats.

  I clear my throat, pulling my focus off of Noam’s shockingly attractive son and back on to why I’m here. Even if Sir or Mather shows up now, we would have to talk in front of Theron. So I lift my skirt in a slightly more ladylike way and walk around the piano toward him.

  “Apparently I’m wanted at a ball,” I say. “I don’t want to risk incurring the wrath of Rose. Are you on your way there as well?”

  Theron nods and puts a hand on my arm when I pass him, gently enough for me to feel an indescribable tingle rush up and down my body. A single spark of lightning created by his fingers on that one small spot of my arm.

  “I am. Would you mind an escort? I thought it might be a good time to get to know each other.” His eyes flick back to the parchment. “Well, properly.”

  How far away could the ballroom be? “Yes, thank you.”

  Theron offers me his arm. I pause, eyebrow cocked, before slipping my hand through it and resting my fingers on the green velvet of his sleeve.

  “So,” I start as we pull to the left in the hall, “you’re the king of Cordell’s son. How’s that?”

  Theron chuckles. “Beneficial sometimes, horrible others. You’re beautiful—how’s that?”

  The heel of my shoe catches at a weird angle and I stumble forward. No one has called me that before. Dendera said I was a “pretty thing” once, and Mather … I exhale, running through every interaction I’ve ever had with him, and deflating a little as I do. He’s never said anything like that to me, and until now, I never realized h
e hadn’t—or how much I wanted him to. It makes me agonizingly aware of the fact that Theron’s looking at me, and I just stare at him, not sure what to do.

  “Forgive me,” Theron says, his face pale. “I shouldn’t have been so forward. We’re still getting to know each other. I promise, over time you’ll see I’m much more charming than I first appear.”

  “Well, I hope we get plenty of time alone together so you can convince me of your charm.” My eyes flash wide when I hear what I said. “Oh. No. I mean—well, I mean that, but not as presumptuously as it sounded.”

  Theron bobs his head. “We have all the time you desire, Lady Meira. I will not rush you.”

  We make another turn and one of the two grand staircases sweeps down in front of us. The giggly chatter of party guests mingles with the music lifting from the ballroom below, something light and string-based. Food smells drifts up—honey ham, lavender tarts, the sharper tang of alcohol, the nutty aroma of coffee. For a second I just breathe it all in, my stomach grumbling under the lush scents, then—

  “Wait,” I say, my mind working over his words. “Won’t rush me to what?”

  Theron’s face flashes with confusion, putting pieces together I can’t see, and he pulls back, taking his arm away from me. “No one’s told you,” he breathes.

  At the same time, the pieces click in my head. “You know! You know what Noam and Sir and Mather—”

  Theron nods. He’s got a serenity to him that Noam doesn’t have, something graceful and calm that makes every move look deliberate. “Yes,” he whispers. He looks to the railing, the ballroom below, and back at me. “I … I’m sorry. I assumed someone told you. My father and King Mather have come to an arrangement. We aid Winter—”

  I clap with delight. Sir did it! Winter has an ally.

  But Theron isn’t done. “—so long as we are linked with Winter.”

  My hands freeze mid-clap. “Linked?”

  He exhales. I feel him take my hand before I see it, his skin warming my fingers in a grip that’s tight, intimate.

  I jerk back, slamming into a small decorative table behind me. The vase on it falls over and clatters on the floor, water and flowers sullying the thick carpet.

  But I just stare at Theron. King Mather made a deal with Noam.

  He linked Cordell with Winter. Through me.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  11

  I’M A PAWN they used to create an alliance with Cordell.

  My tongue sticks in my throat, choking me as I stand there, staring at Theron. This has to be a figment of my overly active imagination, because the king of Cordell would never agree to wed his son—the heir of one of the richest Rhythms—to a mere peasant from a Season. I’m wrong. I have to be.

  “Tell me Mather linked us to Cordell through a treaty, or something. A meaningless piece of paper,” I beseech him. “Tell me this isn’t … what I think it is.”

  But Theron doesn’t say anything, which only feeds my panic more. His mouth opens absently, but he just sighs, his eyes flitting over me in silence.

  I grip my stomach, the fabric of the gown smooth against my fingers, and swallow the tight knot in my throat. Mather did this. My chest swells with a new emotion—betrayal. How could he—why did he—no. No. I will not lose my mind over this, because it still doesn’t make any sense. Why would Cordell agree to take me? There has to be something Mather and Sir didn’t tell me.

  Well, obviously there’s a lot they didn’t tell me, but they’re down at the ball right now. And I will make them talk.

  “Are you all right?” Theron finally speaks, but he doesn’t try to touch me again. This would be easier if he was horrible, if he didn’t care if I was all right. But he looks hurt. Is he just a pawn too?

  Remembering the poem he swiped off the floor—probably.

  “I’m sorry,” Theron says. He looks at the railing, motions toward the ball. “I know this is sudden, but this ball is for you. Me. Us.”

  Us. It sounds like a foreign word.

  I pry myself away from the wall, my roaring determination to march down to that ball and face Mather and Sir and demand answers now replaced with dread. Because when I see Mather and Sir, they’ll see me with Theron. Mather will smile and congratulate me and try to explain why this is the best thing for Winter. That the only good we can do for our kingdom is marry to create an alliance because we’re useless children. That the kiss before we left camp was a good-bye, nothing more. That even though I’ve never seen Winter or its enslaved people or set foot on its soil, I’m expected to sacrifice everything, because until Winter is free I don’t matter.

  I instantly hate myself for thinking that. Other Winterians suffer enslavement while I’m engaged to the crown prince of Cordell—someone bring out the sympathy parade, poor Meira is engaged to a handsome prince.

  My life could be worse. A lot worse.

  Then why does the thought of taking Theron’s outstretched hand make me feel empty?

  My fingers are stuffed into my pocket, grasped tightly around the piece of lapis lazuli. I yank my hand free, fighting the urge to hurl that stupid rock as far away from me as possible. I don’t want any of it. I don’t need Mather or Sir. I never did.

  I place my hand in Theron’s, and his warm fingers tighten around mine as we move toward the staircase. Having him hold on to me gives me strength I didn’t expect. Something infinitely more powerful than the fake strength of the blue stone, still weighing heavy in my pocket.

  We’re there. Staring over the railing at all the many Cordellans who wait below. Dignitaries mostly, the men wearing hunter green and gold-trimmed uniforms like Theron’s, the women wearing gowns in reds and blues and purple jewel tones like mine. And in the far back corner, the Winterian delegates, dressed in what I assume are borrowed outfits too—sharp green suits for the men, billowy gowns for the women. Sir and Dendera and Alysson and Finn and Greer and Henn and Mather.

  Mather stares up at me, and even from all the way across the ballroom, his face ripples like he’s been grinding his teeth since we got here. When I meet his gaze, hold it, he looks away.

  The music glides to a halt, violins fading in gentle whines. Below us and to the left a platform has been erected for the orchestra, but Noam now stands on it too, one hand upraised triumphantly toward his son and me.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, honored guests,” he begins. He’s so happy. Exuberantly happy. “May I present Prince Theron Haskar and his bride-to-be, Lady Meira of Winter!”

  Bride-to-be.

  I gasp, drawing in breath after breath, unable to get any air into my lungs. It’s real. This. Theron.

  The crowd pulls back as if Noam announced that he was stripping them of their titles, their delight at the ball turning to shock. Clearly Noam’s arrangement isn’t something all of his courtiers welcome with open arms. Somehow, knowing that makes me feel a little better. Not much, but enough that when the crowd breaks into halfhearted applause, I’m able to wave slightly at them all.

  Mather sees my reaction and turns to Sir, who snaps something to him before they both move toward the great glass doors on the right side of the ballroom. Doors that open to manicured green hedges, cobblestone walkways, bubbling fountains under a nighttime sky.

  So that’s how they want to play it.

  As Theron and I reach the ballroom floor, a herd of nobles attacks us, blabbering questions that sound innocent but are at the core insulting. Questions such as, “I thought you and my daughter had gotten along so well, Your Highness,” and “Won’t you dance with my niece? She so enjoyed your company last winter. I mean, not Winter. Our season. Our normal season.”

  Theron’s mouth hangs open, unable to get in a word. The fat duke whose niece had such a nice time last winter grabs his arm, persistence making his blubbery face pink.

  “I insist, my prince!” he says, and drags T
heron into the crowd. Theron looks at me, eyes darting to the duke and back. Should he fight it? Should he stay with me?

  I shake my head and wave my hand in front of my face to mimic being hot in here. Theron returns my wave with a single head bob. He understands.

  Once he’s gone, the rest of the courtiers eye me, their narrow gazes examining me like I’m some mythical being come to life. I drop a curtsy and turn away from their assessments, making for the terrace doors. Let them think whatever they like. Let them conspire and say horrible things about me. This isn’t my kingdom. At least, it shouldn’t be.

  I throw open a door. Stars glitter in the black sky above me, small twinkling eyes that watch as I slam the door shut and dive into the fantastic nighttime chill of Cordell’s autumn. The pureness of the cold hits me, threatening to pull out the scream I’ve been holding in for the past ten minutes.

  “Meira.”

  I pivot toward Mather and Sir, standing in the entrance to a hedge maze. Half of me wants to run to them and cry and beg to leave, half wants to start throwing rocks at their heads.

  But I’m a soldier. A Winterian soldier. And apparently a future queen of Cordell.

  So I pick up a handful of rocks from beside the path and hurl the small stones at them as I step forward.

  “You—giant—awful—traitors!” I stumble to a halt a breath from Mather. That last rock hits him in the shoulder and he flinches back, rubbing the bruise.

  “Meira, calm yourself,” Sir says, putting his hand on my arm.

  I grab his wrist and slam him back into the hedge, my other hand going to his throat before I know what I’m doing. I’m pinning Sir to a wall of shrubbery. I never thought I’d be in this situation.

  “Why?” I growl at him. “Why would you do this to me?”

  Sir doesn’t fight; if he did, I’d be on the ground with a few broken fingers. “We had no choice.”

  “No,” I spit. “I have no choice. You forced this decision on me. Why?”

  “I did it,” Mather answers.