Snow Like Ashes

by Sara Raasch

  I hold up the book. “Can I borrow this?”

  Theron nods before he even sees what it is. “Of course. Take anything you want.” He nudges the painting. “And I will have someone put this up for you. Now,” he tries again, a bright smile washing over his face, “the menagerie?”

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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

  15

  THE NEXT MORNING, when Rose and Mona come again with pleas for me to attend etiquette class, I shock them and myself by agreeing.

  Rose, holding a sky-blue gown and a navy ribbon, stops beside the wardrobe. Her eyes narrow, and after a pause she scurries over to stand between my bed and the balcony. “Is this a trick?” she asks, and I don’t miss how she tries to hold her arms out, as if to block me from sprinting around her and leaping off the balcony.

  I slide off the bed, on the side opposite the balcony doors, and calmly meet her eyes. “No. I’ll go.”

  Rose puckers. “Wearing a proper outfit?”

  I frown. “Yes.”

  “Without your weapon?”

  A groan bubbles in my throat. “Going isn’t compromise enough?”

  Rose’s pucker sharpens and she clucks her tongue. “Weapons have no business inside the palace.”

  She takes a few quick steps across the room and lays the gown and ribbon on the bed. No sooner does the fabric relax against the mussed sheets than her hands move to my nightgown, undoing the buttons down the back like she’s afraid I’ll change my mind if she doesn’t move fast enough. I start to flinch, start to fight her off on instinct, when my muscles still. I can do this. All of this—the marriage, whatever classes Noam ordered, and help my kingdom in ways that I never even dreamed of but that will still make me feel like I belong to Winter.

  If Theron can do it, I can too. I can weave threads of myself into a tapestry already designed by others. It’s possible. And this could be good—I’m in a position of power, aren’t I? Far more power than being an ordinary soldier. This will be good.

  So as Rose tugs the sky-blue gown over my head, and Mona runs a brush through my hair, I pull my shoulders straight. I’m a future ruler of Cordell. How would a future ruler act? Mather bursts into my mind, his steadiness, his calm demeanor in the face of … everything. Act like Mather. I can do this.

  “I’m bringing my chakram,” I say. When Rose whips her head up, I level my eyes in a stare. Calm, in control, steady. “I don’t intend on using it, but I will have it with me.”

  Rose’s lips twitch. Her eyes narrow, a tight sweep of a glare, before she drops back to work tying the dark-blue ribbon around my waist.

  I can’t hide my smile. One small victory.

  The next week flies past in a whirl of Cordellan history and curtsying properly and which fork to use while eating salad. I clearly surprise Rose and Mona by paying attention, and every time an instructor compliments me on answering a question correctly, they twitter excitedly from the back of the room. But I’ve always been a good student—in camp, it was only when I saw Mather sparring without me that I started to get twitchy and disruptive, and Sir would throw his hands in the air and shout at me until I broke down in tears. Now though, I really am trying to be good at this whole future-queen thing.

  If only because, every morning, I find a way to be me.

  In the earliest cracks of dawn, when the sun is still fighting a black-blue war with the night sky, I slip on my clothes—my real clothes, a shirt and pants and boots—and scurry through the still-sleeping palace to the library, where I stashed Magic of Primoria. This coupled with my chaotic schedule of classes and meals in my room means I haven’t seen any of the other refugees since Mather and Theron’s disastrous sparring session. Certainly not for lack of trying on their part—I dart down side halls when I see Dendera coming, scale walls when I hear Finn’s voice around the corner. I have no desire to face anyone until I can present a revelation. Until I can prove that I can still be useful in this position as me.

  Part of me wants to sneak out to the shooting range each morning instead of creeping to the library. I haven’t used my chakram since I started queen training, and even though I take it with me to every lesson, it’s starting to feel too much like a prop. But the other part of me, the part that’s resigned to this arrangement, knows how important it is that I try to read Magic of Primoria.

  Emphasis on the word try.

  Every line on every page of the leathery, almost-disintegrating-in-my-hands book is filled with the tiniest of tiny words written in cramped, illegible script. The letters bleed into each other from age and the fact that the writer pushed the lines so close together that the text looks like one big blob of ink. As if that wasn’t enough, the lines I actually can decipher are beyond unhelpful, either filled with archaic language or riddles, but mostly just history I already know. How the chasm of magic has rested beneath all the Season Kingdoms for as long as anyone can remember, a source of mystery and magic that has existed as long as our world itself. The chasm sits deep, deep beneath our land, so even if a Rhythm did conquer a Season Kingdom and chose to dig through it in an attempt to get the magic, they’d be digging for decades.

  There used to be an entrance to the chasm through the Klaryns, a shaft that was opened one day when miners stumbled into it. No one knows where the mine actually was—shortly after it was discovered, it was lost to landslides or deadly weather. But I like to think it was in Winter’s part of the Klaryns—after all, what other Season Kingdom is as good at mining as we are? Then again, we haven’t been able to find another entrance to the magic chasm since the first one vanished, so maybe we aren’t that good.

  When the entrance was open, thousands of years ago, an expedition was sent to retrieve magic. According to legends and a few of the more legible lines in the book, the magic sat in the center of an endless cavern, a great ball of energy snapping and crackling as it hung in the negative space of the cave.

  To be removed from the cave, the magic needed a host, an object imbued with its powers. The great ball of energy pulsed around the cavern, striking rocks here and there like uncontrollable, chaotic fingers of lightning. And the rocks it struck became imbued with magic. So monarchs started leaving other objects close to the source, waiting for the bolts of magic to strike swords or shields or jewelry and fill them with power. They also tried more dangerous ways of creating conduits, of letting the magic strike their servants. This led to the discovery that only objects could be imbued with magic—people didn’t turn into conduits so much as they turned into overcooked meat.

  That was how the Royal Conduits were created. The monarchs of the world ordered their conduits made first, connecting them to their bloodlines through even more magic. But those ended up being the only conduits ever made, because just after the eight Royal Conduits were created, the entrance to the chasm disappeared and our world changed forever. Not only did we have magic now, but we had prejudice too—the Rhythms hated us for losing something so vital. They might have hated the Seasons before anyway, for any number of reasons, but it’s the loss of the magic source that hangs with them to this day, even when no one can remember our lives being any different than they are now. There have always been the eight Royal Conduits, nothing more, nothing less.

  That’s all I can decipher. And the more I stare at Magic of Primoria, the more my flicker of doubt grows into a full-on flame. What am I even looking for? I’ve had the same Hannah dream every night this week, the one where I see her surrounded by the refugees in the study. But I can’t figure out any connection between the dream and the things I do or don’t do—I even tried hiding the lapis lazuli ball and not touching it for a few days, but I still had the dream. So it isn’t magic? But what did I even want to find, anyway? Some long-lost source of magic that I could present to Sir, proving that I can matter to Winter in my own way in addition to linking us to Cordell?

  I slam the book clos
ed and press my back into the balcony railing behind me. The early morning light casts yellow rays through the towering windows on my left. It’s almost time for more queen lessons, but days of being awake so early are catching up to me, and I just want to crawl back into bed and forget about trying to be a proper Cordellan lady. My fingers tighten on the book’s cover and I regret leaving the chakram in my room this morning. A few easy slices and this uncooperative tome would be nothing but confetti.

  “Sustenance?”

  I look to my right to see Theron peeking over the top of the staircase that leads to the third-floor balcony where I set up camp. A tray of steaming dishes sits in his hands, and my stomach answers with an unladylike gurgle. Theron is the only person who knows about my early morning sessions—he comes here each morning himself to return books or get new ones, and running into him was an inevitability I didn’t mind.

  He continues up the stairs, dropping to sit beside me but facing the library below. “I figured you’d be hungry, since you didn’t attend breakfast again,” he says, and sets the tray between us. “My father is appeased that you’re attending those lessons, but your friends are—”

  “Deserving of every speck of worry and stress I give them?” I fill in, reaching for a crusty slice of bread from a basket.

  Theron laughs. “I was going to say that they’re scaring my court with how often they have whispered disputes behind potted trees, but deserving of stress works too.”

  “Someone should tell them potted plants don’t keep sound from carrying.” I stuff small bits of bread into my mouth but keep talking, reveling in this small act of impropriety. It’s all too easy to forget that Theron’s a prince, that his station is so far above mine I couldn’t reach it if I was standing on top of the Klaryns, that I should be proper and ladylike and curtsy when he approaches, all things I learned in yesterday’s etiquette lesson. It’s too easy to do a lot of things around him, and I’m still trying to figure out why that is.

  Theron nods toward the book still pressed between my legs and chest. “Dare I ask how it’s going, or are you going to threaten to cut it apart again?”

  I groan. “I don’t want to talk about it. This porridge is good. What’s in it, strawberries?”

  “You’re still not going to tell me what you’re doing?”

  “No,” I say to the food tray. There’s no scenario in which telling someone you’ve been having dreams about a dead queen ends with them not believing you’ve fallen into the dark abyss of insanity.

  “I can be helpful,” Theron offers, his voice light. “I am, in fact, trained to help an entire kingdom, so I think I can channel some of that training into helping one beautiful woman.”

  I look up at him, my eyes narrow despite the smile that crawls across my face. “That’s not fair, throwing out compliments like that. Do you know how dangerous those things can be?”

  Theron shrugs, grinning, his cheeks tinged just the slightest bit pink. He’s embarrassed? I must be as red as the strawberries in the porridge.

  He drops his grin into a pout, puckering his lips and pulling his eyebrows tight over his nose.

  I glare.

  He pouts harder.

  “You’re impossible,” I growl, and rip open the book.

  Theron laughs and scoots a little closer to me. “Impossible, endearing. Synonyms, really.”

  I mock-laugh and scan the indecipherable pages again, pain instantly pulsing through my head at the sight of all that black, swirling ink. “I’m trying to learn more about magic,” I start.

  Theron gasps. “While reading a book called Magic in Primoria? No!”

  “Impossible, endearing, hilarious. Also synonyms.”

  “So you agree I’m endearing?”

  I glare at him and open my mouth, only to find I have absolutely nothing to say. He smiles, waiting, and my gape becomes an incredulous snort.

  “As I was saying,” I start again and Theron waves a hand in surrender to tell me he won’t interrupt. “I’m trying to learn more about magic. The Royal Conduits and where they came from and”—I run my fingers down the swirls of black ink—“and everything. Anything I can learn. Maybe there’s some loophole, something that means we could defeat Angra without needing our locket.”

  As I talk, the amusement on Theron’s face fades, and he eyes the pages under my hands. “What have you learned so far?”

  “Nothing I didn’t already know. This book is unreadable.” I flip to one of the passages I could actually make out—but just because I could read the words doesn’t mean they made any sense. “Like this, for instance. ‘From the lights, there came a great Decay; and woe was it unto those who had no light. They did beg, thus the lights were formed. The four did create the lights; and the four did create the lights.’” I slam my head back against the railing. “WHAT?”

  Theron’s face stays serious. I recognize the expression as his “art” face, the same look he got when we were in his room and he was looking at the painting of Winter. Curious, focused, like the whole case of books behind him could fall over and he wouldn’t even flinch.

  His lips move soundlessly, repeating the passage to himself. “Four? It said four twice?”

  “Yeah.” I look back at the book. “The same thing twice too. ‘The four did create the lights; and the four did create the lights.’”

  Theron nods. “The kingdoms of Primoria. Four and four. The Rhythms and the Seasons. They created something … resources? No, something magic-related. A metaphorical light? Perhaps the conduits? So light could be conduit.” He leans over the book and points at the passage, inserting his words as he goes. “From the conduits, there came a great Decay; and woe was it unto those who had no conduit. They did beg, thus the conduits were formed. The Rhythms did create the conduits; and the Seasons did create the conduits.”

  He beams up at me but it flies away when he sees my glare. “What?”

  “What?” I stab a finger at the passage. “I’ve been staring at that for three days and you come in here and figure it out in three seconds.”

  Theron’s smile returns. “Told you I’m helpful.”

  I will not give him the satisfaction of me smiling back. “What does it mean, though, O Wise Learned Prince? It still doesn’t make sense. A great Decay came from the conduits? But the Rhythms and Seasons created more conduits? But they only created the eight before the entrance vanished. So what, exactly, is the Decay, and why is it capitalized? A metaphorical decay, a literal decay …”

  Theron leans back, arms resting on his knees, and stares at the library below. “That’s why literature is so fascinating. It’s always up for interpretation, and could be a hundred different things to a hundred different people. It’s never the same thing twice.”

  I close the book with a groan. “I don’t need a hundred different interpretations. I need to read a book that says ‘Here’s how to defeat Spring and restore power to your king, and while you’re at it, here’s how to prove you matter when no one else thinks you do—’”

  I stop. I’m staring at the bookshelves and not at Theron, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at him again without shriveling up from embarrassment. Which might make the whole marriage thing a bit awkward. I can still hear what I said hanging around me, my weak, weak admission, and I can’t bring myself to breathe, let alone face him.

  Theron doesn’t give me a choice. He crawls up onto his knees and moves into my line of sight, his forehead wrinkled and his eyes darting over mine like he’s trying to figure me out the same way he figured out that passage. After a moment of silence, he grimaces.

  “You matter,” is all he says.

  I flinch, cold tingles bouncing all around as he stares at me with that certainty in his eyes. It’s similar to all those tense, lingering stares Mather would give me, yet at the same time … not. When Mather looked at me, I never knew what emotions he was hiding behind his seriousness, if he liked me or if he was trying to figure out if he did. But with Theron—it feels mor
e purposeful. Like he’s staring at me because he wants to, not because he’s questioning himself.

  Neither of us says anything else, exhaling slowly into the space between us, too afraid to move away, too afraid to move closer.

  A door slams below us, echoing up the three floors of the library. I jump, shaken out of my trance. It’s probably Rose—I’m late for today’s lessons. But the voice that fills up the library makes me groan with a different weight.

  “Meira,” Sir says determinedly enough to practically pull me over the third-floor balcony.

  Theron sighs. “There’s only one door out of the library,” he says as if reading my thoughts.

  I groan again. There’s no escaping Sir now. Unless I barrel past him and run as hard as I can into the twisting halls of Bithai’s palace. The mature reaction.

  Theron stands and reaches out a hand to help me up. “He won’t yell at you when I’m present.”

  I slide the book onto the floor, slip my hand into his, and want to smile. I want to do a lot of things when he pulls me to my feet and we’re so close, so very close, for one short second, and I wonder if marrying him would be such a horrible thing.

  Theron leads me down the stairs, still holding my hand. I’m all right with that, in a way that makes me think my answer to the do-I-want-to-marry-him question might surprise me.

  We reach the bottom floor of the library and there is—everyone. Sir, Alysson, Dendera, Finn, Greer, Henn, and Mather. All standing in a tight group in the middle of the room, faces in various states of anger or frustration.

  Sir steps forward to meet us halfway, his arms crossed tight over his chest. His eyes fall to Theron’s and my hands, intertwined, but he doesn’t say anything, and shivers run up and down my arms, spreading through my body the longer we stand there not speaking.

  “Prince Theron,” Sir starts, keeping his voice strangely calm. “We need a word with Lady Meira. Alone.”

  I stifle the urge to whimper. Not because Sir wants to talk to me—because of how he said it. Lady Meira. It feels so formal. Too formal. I don’t want Sir to be formal with me.