by Sara Raasch
DEDICATION
To Doug and Mary Jo,
for being far less troublesome than Sir and Hannah.
MAP
CONTENTS
Dedication
Map
1. Meira
2. Mather
3. Ceridwen
4. Meira
5. Meira
6. Mather
7. Ceridwen
8. Meira
9. Meira
10. Mather
11. Ceridwen
12. Meira
13. Meira
14. Ceridwen
15. Meira
16. Mather
17. Meira
18. Ceridwen
19. Meira
20. Meira
21. Mather
22. Meira
23. Meira
24. Ceridwen
25. Meira
26. Mather
27. Meira
28. Meira
29. Ceridwen
30. Meira
31. Meira
32. Mather
33. Ceridwen
34. Meira
35. Meira
36. Ceridwen
37. Meira
38. Mather
39. Meira
Acknowledgments
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About the Author
Books by Sara Raasch
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
Meira
THIS IS WRONG.
I’m still hidden in the doorway of the Donati Palace’s dungeon and already I can feel the change in Ventralli, like the darkness of a storm moving in. But instead of staying to fight with my handful of Winterians, I left them and followed the man in front of me.
And I have no idea who he really is.
Any guards who might have been posted outside the dungeon are gone, drawn into the chaos of Raelyn’s takeover of the kingdom. Rooms open to our right and left, far enough away that the people within don’t notice us, close enough for me to catch glimpses inside. Soldiers corral courtiers into groups against the gilded walls, servants weep—but even more terrifying are the bystanders who do nothing at all. The ones who watch the soldiers swing threats like blades, declaring King Jesse deposed and his wife, Raelyn, the ruler of Ventralli because she has a stronger power now, one everyone can use—power given to her by King Angra of Spring.
“He’s alive?”
“His magic is stronger than that of the Royal Conduits?”
“Is that how he survived?”
These questions rise above the soldiers’ threats, mixing with the pounding of my heart in my ears.
“Angra helped the Ventrallan queen depose its king. He”—my breath hitches—“already has his influence in Cordell. He seized Autumn and Winter and had the Summer king murdered, and yet somehow, this makes people feel wonder, not fear.”
The man I’ve been following—Rares, if that’s even his name—looks at me.
“Angra has probably been planning this conquest for the three months he’s been gone, so his retribution isn’t as swift as it would seem,” he says. “And you more than anyone know how easy it is for people to choose wonder over fear.”
“I, more than anyone?” I choke. “How could you possibly know that?”
“Do you truly want to have this discussion now?” The scar that runs along the right side of Rares’s face, from his temple to his chin, creases with his squint. “I’d planned on at least getting us past any immediate threat of death first. . . .”
Swords clash and a soldier shouts from up the hall. Rares dives around the corner without waiting for my response, leaving me to scramble after him.
I shouldn’t be trailing some mysterious Paislian—I should be helping Mather release the Winterians in the dungeons. Or planning a way to free my kingdom from the Cordellan coup. Or saving Ceridwen from Raelyn. Or finding a way to extract Theron from the grip of Angra’s Decay.
I falter, tripping over my many worries. While I always suspected Angra’s death was a ruse, I never, not in any of my most delirious fears, thought he could be strong enough to give magic to non-conduit-wielders.
But his power is tainted by the Decay, which was created when there were no rules binding magic to only royal bloodlines.
As Rares and I duck from hall to hall, I see the fruits of Angra’s magic firsthand. The Ventralli of light and color that existed when we first arrived is gone, replaced by one that resembles the dark streets of Spring. Soldiers march with faces pinched tight by anger, their movements sharp. Courtiers huddle in trembling masses, fearful, with wide eyes and an eagerness to please their conquerors.
No one fights it. No one shouts retaliation or struggles against the soldiers.
This is Angra’s doing. Though it looks as though he’s only given his higher-ranking subordinates the ability to control magic, as Raelyn did when she killed the Summerian king. The people who crowd the halls simply appear fogged, influenced by something beyond themselves, as if they all got drunk on the same bad wine.
This is what Angra is creating, a world of infinite power, where everyone is possessed by a magic that makes them pliable, overcome by their deepest, darkest emotions.
How do I stop him? How do I save—
It claws at me, the question I asked my conduit magic, and I’m sucked back to that moment, when I was running through the streets of Rintiero with Lekan and Conall. My biggest worries then were trying to keep Ceridwen from murdering her brother, and figuring out how to form an alliance with Ventralli, and finding the Order of the Lustrate and their keys in order to keep Cordell from accessing the magic chasm.
Then I asked that question—how do I save everyone?—and the answer blistered itself onto my soul.
By sacrificing a Royal Conduit and returning it to the source of the magic.
But I am Winter’s conduit. All of me. Thanks to my mother.
Rares yanks me behind a potted plant moments before a contingent of men jogs out of a room just ahead.
“Not now,” he whispers. He fishes for something in his shirt and withdraws a key on a chain, the one he showed me in the dungeon—the final key to the magic chasm in the Tadil Mine. “You found me. You found the Order of the Lustrate—and yes, we will help you defeat Angra and stop all this. But first, let’s just get out of here alive.”
His words offer much-needed comfort, so needed, in fact, that it isn’t until he darts back into the hall that I wonder—how did he know I was worrying?
It doesn’t matter. I swallow, resolute. I will do this. I will learn what I can from the Order, and use that knowledge: either I will face Angra in battle and destroy him and his magic—or I will get the keys from him, enter the chasm in the Tadil, and destroy all magic in the only way I know how.
Either way, this is what I need to do. Angra is too strong—I need help, and the Order of the Lustrate is the only resource I know of that could help me grasp my magic in the same unstoppable way that Angra does.
Rares leads me inside an empty kitchen filled with thick wooden tables and roaring fireplaces and food abandoned by servants who are most likely hiding from the frenzy of the takeover. He pulls out a water sack and fills it at a pump in the corner.
“Who are you?” I finally manage to ask.
He points to a block of knives on a counter. “Arm yourself.”
“With kitchen knives?”
He doesn’t break stride. “A blade is a blade. Blood can be drawn all the same.”
I frown but slide a few knives into my belt. My empty holster still hangs against my spine—my chakram is back in the ballroom. Back in Garrigan’s chest.
I grip the edge of the counter.
A hand cups my sh
oulder, and when I look up, Rares is watching me.
“My name is Rares. I didn’t mislead you about that,” he says. “Rares Albescu of Paisly, a leader in the Order of the Lustrate.”
He glances over my shoulder, at the kitchen door that leads into the palace. Footsteps echo, growing louder, and I know we’ll have to run before he can explain more.
“I will tell you everything,” he promises. “But first we must reach safety—in Paisly. Angra can’t follow us there.”
“Why not?” I face Rares. “What are you planning—why is this—”
Rares cuts me off with a squeeze to my shoulder. “Please, Your Majesty. It’s the safest place for all I must show you, and I promise, I will tell you everything as soon as I am able.”
“Meira,” I correct. If I’m going to risk my life for the foreseeable future, then I’m going to be addressed how I want to be addressed.
Rares smiles. “Meira.”
We move to the other kitchen door, the one leading to a garden. Rares starts to slip out when I’m caught by one last grip of remorse at all I’m leaving. By going with him, I am helping—the Order of the Lustrate is my best chance at stopping Angra—but it still feels like I’m running away.
Rares turns. “You can’t save everyone by staying.”
Other people have told me this before—You can’t save everyone; Winter is your priority. Most loudly: Sir.
Grief stabs into me. Mather told me of Alysson’s death, but what about Sir? Did he survive the Cordellan attack on Jannuari? What about the rest of Winter—what state is my kingdom in? I can’t think about Sir being dead. He has to be alive, and if he is, he’ll be doing everything he can to keep Winter together.
I hear what Rares said again, realizing now the exact meaning of his words, and I begin to see all the ways he differs from Sir. Rares’s eyes are wider; his skin is darker; his hands are more scarred from years of fighting. And most of all, in Rares, I see something I never saw in Sir—something that made Rares add the two words that entirely changed the meaning of that sentence.
You can’t save everyone by staying.
Not an end. A choice.
“Who are you?” I breathe again.
Rares smiles. “Someone who has been waiting for you for a long time, dear heart.”
Soon after we leave the palace complex, a horn wails through the hazy gray sky.
They’ve discovered I’m gone. Which means they found Theron, chained to the dungeon wall, and Mather and the rest—
No. Mather wouldn’t let anything happen to anyone in his care. Not because I ordered him to keep them safe, but because that’s who he’s always been—a man who, even after he lost his throne, still found a way to be a ruler. The way his Children of the Thaw look at him, with the unquestioned loyalty earned by someone born to lead . . .
He is the one person in my life fully capable of standing on his own.
What about Theron?
The question makes me stumble as Rares and I sprint out of the city, wiggling between two bright, lopsided buildings and into the lush forest that borders Rintiero to the north.
That question. It wasn’t me. It sounded almost like—
I slam to a halt, Rares making it a few paces farther before he realizes I’ve stopped. But the voice in my head holds me captive, and I brace my hands over my temples.
A terrible fate, isn’t it, being part of the same magic? If only you were stronger.
My vision blurs until all I see is Angra’s face in my mind.
“No!” I scream, buckling, my knees slamming into the moist earth. Angra could hear my thoughts when we were both in the Donati ballroom, but he’s nowhere near me now. How is he able to talk to me, within me? I should be able to stop him—
But you can’t stop me, can you, Highness? My soldiers are coming for you. Winter is finished. Spring has come.
A single word ekes out in response. Why?
I’ve already asked that question, back in the ballroom of the Donati Palace, surrounded by the carnage—the Summerian king’s head, Garrigan’s and Noam’s bodies. But the only answer I got was the reason why Angra sought to destroy Winter’s mines—he fears pure conduit magic countering his Decay, which is why he spent every moment he could working to undo that threat. That was why he attacked Winter for so long; that was why he turned on anyone who tried to open the chasm.
But what I ask now isn’t even a conscious question—it’s a whimper in the darkness as his face fills my mind.
Why is this happening . . . ?
I’ve seen my friends murdered for this war. I’ve watched my kingdom burn for this. I’m running for my life now for this, and after all these years, I still don’t know why. What does he want?
Hands cover mine where I grip my head.
I open my eyes. Magic spreads down my limbs, cooling and deep and pure, turning my fear to shock.
Rares is pumping his magic into me.
His face tightens, beads of sweat breaking along his forehead. “Fight him!”
My heart knows I don’t have to submit to Rares’s magic, shouldn’t submit to him, but everything else in me wants to, fear and panic coiling in a whip that tears apart my insides.
Fight! I will myself to stay open to whatever help Rares may offer.
A shock sends me flying backward. I slam against the ground, leaves sticking to my clothes, my head ringing as though someone has struck a bell inside my skull.
I see Rares mouth my name.
“You . . . ,” I think I say. “What did you . . .”
Pain flares behind my eyes and it’s all I can do not to vomit on the soggy undergrowth. But Rares puts his hand over mine again, even when I glare at him through the agony that turns everything a vibrant scarlet.
Rest now, a voice says. It isn’t Angra—it’s Rares, in my head. Rest, and trust me.
Trust you? What did you do? You haven’t told me anything!
But even as I try to fight it, unconsciousness comes, lulling me like the tempting aromas that waft from a feast. I’m half aware of Rares lifting me, of the jostling sway of being carried at a run through the forest.
You’re more like Sir than I thought are my final words before everything goes dark.
2
Mather
SHE LEFT.
Channeling every bit of his panic into the task at hand, Mather threw his weight against the bolt. It released with a squeal and the cell door opened, freeing Phil, who barreled out, fists ready, a breath ahead of the rest of the Thaw. But Mather spared them no orders before he heaved open the bolt on the next door, releasing Dendera, Nessa, and Conall. Theron’s shouts for help from inside his own cell would alert his soldiers at any minute—and Meira had left them.
“We need to get out of here,” Mather said to no one in particular, but as he pivoted toward the staircase, he hesitated. Leaving that way would almost certainly land them right back in the dungeon if they encountered any soldiers. Was there another way out?
Phil stepped forward. “We can split up. Some of us go up the stairs, the rest go deeper into the dungeon, see if there’s a way—”
Another voice spoke. “Or you could follow me.”
Mather was too numbed by the day’s events to feel anything but readiness as he leaped toward the voice. He reached for a sword, but his weapons had been taken before the descent into the dungeon, and all he had now was Cordell’s Royal Conduit. His fingers brushed the jewel on the hilt, his lip curling as he remembered how Theron had tossed it away so carelessly—a part of him would take such joy in tarnishing Cordell’s pretty blade.
The person who had appeared in the middle of the hall folded her hands against the skirt of her gown, the silver looking almost like armor. A matching silver mask obscured her face, and when she spoke, she lifted her chin as authoritatively as a commander.
“If you wish to live, that is,” she said.
“You’re Ventrallan,” Mather countered, stopping just shy of her. “Why would we trust you
?”
The woman scoffed. “And you have so many options at the moment?”
Mather didn’t get in another word before Dendera croaked, her eyes narrowing,“You. You’re Duchess Brigitte, the mother of the king. I saw you with Raelyn!”
Brigitte rolled her eyes. “If I agreed with her coup, do you think I would bother to be in this filthy place”—she turned up her nose at the walls— “alone? Either I can regale you with an explanation, or you can follow me. As I said, I personally do not care whether you live or die, but I think you can be useful to me, so make a decision quickly.”
The door at the top of the dungeon’s staircase rattled. Someone had finally heard Theron’s shouts.
Mather lurched toward Brigitte. She took that as acceptance and spun on her heel, her silver gown flaring as she hurried down the hall. The rest of Mather’s group followed without question—what other choice did they have? He had to get out of here to make sure Meira was all right, that whomever she’d left with wasn’t part of a trap of Angra’s. So many secrets had come to light—Cordell had turned on Winter, Theron had turned on Meira, and the Ventrallan queen had staged a coup. Could the man Meira left with be trusted? And beyond that, Winter was still under Cordellan control—how could they free it if they were Angra’s prisoners?
Brigitte ducked into a cell on the right. Mather hesitated just long enough for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. If the old hag had led them into a trap—
But at the back of the room, a door cracked open, the stone on the outward side showing that, when closed, it would blend seamlessly into the wall.
“Shut the door behind you,” Brigitte called before vanishing through the opening.
“Hollis,” Mather hissed. “Take the rear. Stay alert.”
Hollis positioned himself inside the room to let everyone pass. Mather followed Brigitte, muscles humming with pent-up fight. The stone deadened most sound, leaving him with only the distant clicking of the duchess’s shoes moving upward—stairs. He darted after her, hoping to put enough space between him and his group that if a trap did await them, he could give a warning with plenty of time for them to make it back down.
Alone in this narrow, dark space, a crack formed in his determination. It had all happened so abruptly—the man; Meira’s unexpected trust; her desperate plea for Mather to free everyone. And he had agreed, only because he hadn’t seen her look like that in months. Like the eye of a storm, terrifying and brilliant and severe.