by Sara Raasch
“GISELLE!” Ceridwen’s roar echoed off the buildings. “The moment you untie me, I’ll kill you!”
A few horses up, Giselle shook her head. “You are quite the terrible negotiator.”
“And you are quite the terrible ally. For decades you sell to Summer, and this is how it ends—with you taking me prisoner? I knew Yakim was selfish, but I didn’t think you were heartless.”
That made Giselle yank her horse to a stop. After a moment, her party started on again, but Giselle drifted back until her horse kept step beside Ceridwen’s fumbled mix of walking and being dragged.
“We are not heartless—we are practical.” Giselle’s back was rigid beneath the burnished, double-bladed ax that sat against her spine—Yakim’s conduit. “And we are one of the few kingdoms, might I add, not currently involved in this war. Winter is here, Summer, Ventralli, Cordell—Spring. Autumn has been invaded, or so I heard, and Paisly has never bothered to be more than mountain rats. Being practical is what will keep my people alive. Don’t pretend you wouldn’t do the same for your kingdom, had you the foresight to protect it.”
“I protect my people!”
“You had no idea this takeover would happen until it unfolded before your eyes.”
“At least I’m still fighting it. What are you doing? Running away to barricade yourself in Putnam?” Ceridwen flinched. “How did you even know about any of this?”
Giselle tipped her head. “It took you far too long to ask that.”
“Because I knew you wouldn’t tell me.”
“Won’t I?” Giselle pulled her attention to the street. A hint of mildew tinged the air—they were drawing close to the Langstone River. “He came to Yakim. After your visit a few days ago.” When Ceridwen didn’t ask who, Giselle pressed on. “Angra. He came with a proposition to unite Primoria—but unlike the rest of the world, I realized what he truly offered. And it was not freedom, as he professed.”
Ceridwen risked a glance up. Night had fully embraced them by this time, but she could still make out Giselle watching her with that maddeningly studious gaze Yakimians did so well.
“He left once I told him I would consider it, as is the nature of my people. To think and ponder and live in a world of ideas—which is the exact reason I cannot allow him to spread his magic.”
Ceridwen’s jaw went slack.
“I have seen the product of his rule. The entire world has.” Giselle’s grip on her reins tightened. “Spring festered for centuries—stagnant even by Season standards. And he wishes to spread the same to my kingdom? He honestly expected me to embrace something that would change my people from learned members of this world to mindless, possessed shells. I will not let my people’s minds be marred by him.”
Giselle smiled as if she were an adult speaking to a child. “Which is where you come in.”
Ceridwen balked. “What? How?”
Giselle’s smile softened. “When I asked who else was involved in his plans, he rattled off an impressive list, with even more impressive plans to choke the rest of the world into submission—except for Winter. ‘That kingdom will burn,’ he said. The only reason a man would destroy something like that is if he finds it a threat. They’ve been at war so long, Winter must know things about Angra that he fears. And the Winter queen calls you an ally.”
“Yes. But—”
“And you have an army at your disposal.” Giselle waved her hand before Ceridwen could say no, Simon had been killed, and Raelyn or Angra would no doubt seize Summer’s assets. “No, child—your army. The one you think hidden from everyone else.”
Ceridwen’s face pinched before she tripped, slammed into Giselle’s horse, and launched around so she swung as far from Giselle as she could get.
Her refugees. Her freedom fighters. Giselle knew about them?
“If you touched them—” Ceridwen spit.
Giselle stopped her with another flick of her wrist. Ceridwen wanted so badly to cut off that hand. “I care not for your survivors, but of course I know of them. Did you believe I had been selling people to your kingdom for money all these years? No, Princess, I sought a far greater prize—Summer itself.”
Ceridwen blinked. “What are you talking about?”
“The people Summer bought from Yakim. Some were peasants, useless enough—but most were not so useless at all.” Giselle’s eyebrow arched high. “Soldiers, Princess. Spies, if you will, sent to build an army within your own walls. I hadn’t planned the invasion to happen for a few more years, but recent events have forced me to reevaluate Yakim’s priorities.”
Sweat pooled along Ceridwen’s spine.
“You were . . .” Her mind sputtered. “You sent your people to be tortured! Why would you think they would still be loyal to you after that? Children, Giselle. You sold my brother children so you could conquer Summer?”
Giselle clucked her tongue. “I did not tell you this so you could question me. I told you this because you have three hundred of my soldiers in your camp, and I want you to use them.”
“Three hundred?”
Ceridwen couldn’t see Giselle’s face anymore. She couldn’t see the street, or the shadows of night, or Rintiero at all—the only thing she could see was her refugee camp. The hundreds of freed slaves who lived on the border of the Southern Eldridge Forest in safety and anonymity—or so she had thought.
Ceridwen’s blood caught fire.
Giselle fished for something in one of her gown’s pockets and turned to Ceridwen, hand extended. “My royal seal, so you can convince them that I gave the order to fight for you.”
The seal dropped from Giselle’s palm and Ceridwen caught it. A small ring with an indentation on top, metal that curved into the outline of an ax.
Ceridwen glared down at it. She almost snapped at the Yakimian queen, almost shouted what she would really do with this information. She would use the help to stop Angra, yes—but she wouldn’t let a moment pass after his fall before she swayed every Yakimian slave to her side. She would tell the innocents what their queen had done to them, and she would rally them against the callous bitch who had sought to use them. Conduits and magic be damned—everywhere she turned, it seemed, she met corrupt people misusing the power she would have given anything to have.
“You’re sick,” Ceridwen hissed. She tugged on the rope, drawing Giselle’s attention to it. “If you did this to help, why am I your prisoner?”
They turned a corner and the docks stretched before them, long wooden fingers reaching into the blue-gray water of the Langstone River. Boats bobbed along the docks, small vessels beside large, mighty ones with sails coiled shut against the night wind and flags rippling over masts. One boat, sails unfurled, stood at the end of a short dock. Soldiers dashed across the deck and Ceridwen’s eyes cut to the flag atop. An ax on a dark background.
“If I set you free now, you’ll rush back in a futile attempt to save Ventralli, and I don’t care about Ventralli,” Giselle said. “You will be escorted to your camp to prepare for battle. I expect the Winter queen’s own people are fast at work helping her escape as well—but even if she does not survive this night, I expect you to be an ally of Yakim. I’d accompany you myself, but I have a feeling Angra will try to worm his way into my kingdom, so I must leave.”
“You’ll have to kill me if you want to get me out of Ventralli,” Ceridwen growled. “I’m not leaving anyone here to be slaughtered.”
Giselle looked down at her. “You’re far too useful alive. Conscious, though—”
Ceridwen ducked on a hot burst of instinct. As she dropped, the soldier who had crept up behind her swung forward, the hilt of his sword swinging where her head had been.
Lekan shouted, but his soldier didn’t merely strike him this time—he dug his fingers into Lekan’s wound, eliciting shrieks that spiraled through Ceridwen’s ears.
“Stop!” she cried.
The soldier who held Lekan sat two horses ahead, unreachable. But if the attacking soldier swung, missed her, sh
e could use the distraction to wrestle the sword out of his hands and arm herself.
Ceridwen angled, fists to her chest, legs splayed as she held her place. The soldier swung again, hilt of his sword arching toward her, the blade flailing behind, and she counted out beats until the last possible moment—
Thwack.
The soldier grunted, his body spasming as an arrow sank into his shoulder. The blade dropped from his grip, clattering to the street, and it hadn’t fully settled against the cobblestones before Ceridwen swiped it up, holding it in her two bound hands, and whirled toward Giselle.
“Let him go,” Ceridwen demanded, her eyes flicking for a beat to Lekan. He was barely conscious now, but the soldier had stopped torturing him.
Most would feel panic that their prisoner had armed herself and someone had just shot one of their men, but Giselle looked only curious as she analyzed the street behind Ceridwen.
“I’d listen to her, Giselle,” came a voice. “I thought I’d lost her twice today. That kind of stress does things to a man.”
Ceridwen sobbed and bit her lips together before more could follow.
Jesse.
She couldn’t bring herself to turn to see him, afraid she might be hallucinating, afraid if she looked away from Giselle she would lose her one small advantage. So Ceridwen stood there until Jesse stepped into her peripheral vision, a loaded bow stretched across him, one of his fingers anchoring by the corner of his mouth.
He had shot the soldier? And actually hit him?
That that was her thought made her want to laugh. But now she noticed the way he shook, the vibrations that trembled down the shaft of his arrow. Flame and heat, had he even been aiming for the soldier? Jesse was entirely useless when it came to weaponry.
Luckily, Giselle didn’t know that.
“You escaped,” Giselle noted.
Jesse pulled the bowstring tighter, this one aimed at the soldier holding Lekan. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
Giselle laughed. “Disappointed? Certainly not. This makes things far easier.”
She waved at Lekan’s soldier, who deftly thrust Lekan off the horse.
Ceridwen sprang forward and looped Lekan’s arm around her shoulder to help him up. He wobbled against her, his body cold with sweat, and she pressed him as close as she could, hoping some of her heat would flow into him. He had fallen in the center of Giselle’s men, and Ceridwen struggled to keep him standing with one arm while holding the blade in her other. Jesse waited just outside the ring of soldiers.
“You will still use my boat. It will get you to the camp far more quickly,” Giselle said.
Ceridwen snarled. “You can take your boat and shove it up your—”
“Camp?” Jesse lowered his bow slightly. “You were taking her to the refugee camp?”
Giselle nodded. “Now that you’re here, she won’t be tempted to run off to pursue less productive goals.” Another curved eyebrow. “Unless someone else remains in the palace whom you feel the need to retrieve? Because the world is dissolving, King Jesse, and I have no qualms showing you the same force.” Giselle bowed her head toward Lekan and Ceridwen.
Jesse shook his head. “No. We have no reason to return.” He paused. “For now.”
Giselle bobbed her head. “Excellent. Shall we?”
She pressed on to the dock, leaving a few of her men to make sure no one useful to her tried to scamper off into Rintiero. Ceridwen would have spared a few more scowls for her if not for Jesse, on this road, here.
The darkness of night and the appearance of storm clouds made it difficult for her to grasp his image, so she could almost dismiss him as a dream. His hair swung untamed and the sleeves of his black shirt were rolled to his elbows, showing the way his forearms clenched the bow.
He cleared his throat and slid the arrow back into his quiver.
The soldiers around them bore the usual Yakimian air of detachment and Lekan stood silent against her, which made Ceridwen feel suddenly as though she and Jesse were alone. Heat throbbed in her head, dizzying and unnameable. Anger? Relief? She didn’t know what she felt.
She just knew he looked . . . different.
Jesse cleared his throat again. “I found the wagon. I didn’t think Giselle would be bold enough to dock where she always does when she visits, but I had to try. I had to . . . save you.”
Ceridwen shifted Lekan’s weight. “I don’t need saving.”
Jesse swung forward to hook Lekan’s other arm around his neck, taking some of his weight.
“No, you don’t need to help me,” Lekan protested, leaning into Ceridwen more.
“Please,” Jesse cut him off. “Let me.”
But his eyes were on Ceridwen.
She couldn’t breathe.
“Your . . . your children?” she dared ask. Her voice grew in strength. “And the Winterians? Did you hear anything of them? How did you even escape?”
She and Jesse started hobbling Lekan toward the dock, slow work that gnawed at Ceridwen’s spine. The sooner they got onto Giselle’s boat, the sooner she could find a place to be alone, away from Jesse.
She had ended her relationship with him. And the only reason she had intended to go back for him was to right Raelyn’s injustices. Ceridwen had been prepared to see him under those circumstances, when she would have been the savior and he the one who needed her.
She was not prepared for . . . this.
Jesse winced at the mention of his children but seemed to physically force back his worry for them. “They’re fine. The Winterians too, actually. They helped me escape. We all split apart, but we’re to meet at your refugee camp.”
The tension around his mouth lifted into his eyes.
Ceridwen choked.
That was why he looked different. He wasn’t wearing a mask.
When he saw her studying him, the corners of his eyes lifted.
“I broke it,” he whispered. “My mask. It’s over, with Raelyn.”
Ceridwen couldn’t remember when she had last taken a full breath. Before Jesse had shown up, most likely, and she wheezed now, flashes of light spinning in her vision.
He had broken his mask. He had ended his relationship with Raelyn.
He did it. He finally did what she had wanted him to do for so long that the wish had become a permanent knot inside her heart.
But he hadn’t done it until now. After Ceridwen had left him. After Raelyn had revealed herself to be dangerous.
They reached the boat, a plank of wood leading them from the dock to the ship’s deck. A pile of empty sacks sat in a corner, and as they lowered Lekan onto it, Jesse squatted next to him, his eyes boring into Ceridwen’s.
She couldn’t look at him. Not now, while Lekan needed her, while Angra’s war still raged—while she wanted to hate Jesse. Flame and heat, she wanted to hate him so much—and as soon as she recognized that need, it roared strong and aching through her body.
She had waited for him for four years. And it had taken a coup and the return of dark magic to make him fight for her in return.
“Cerie,” Jesse said. “Please, talk to me. Let me—”
“No.” Ceridwen worked at checking on Lekan’s leg. It needed a proper dressing, and she almost thanked him for getting injured so she had something to do.
Jesse didn’t relent. “Please, I know I—”
“No!” Ceridwen snapped. “No, you don’t know. Go away, Jesse. Leave me alone.”
Her final words lost their fire, dropping like rain falling halfheartedly from the sky.
Jesse’s eyes shot to hers. A few lanterns hung around the deck of the ship, not enough to draw unwanted attention or do more than highlight the copper gleam of his skin.
“All right,” he agreed, broken.
He hesitated, hoping maybe that she would change her mind. But finally he stood and took jolting steps across the deck to where Giselle talked with her men.
Lekan’s cold fingers touched Ceridwen’s arm. “He came for you.”
&n
bsp; Ceridwen stiffened. “Your wound needs dressing.”
She started to flag down a passing soldier for supplies when Lekan caught her hand.
“Yours does too,” he whispered. A deep breath, a wince, and he relaxed his grip. “He sought an alliance with the Winter queen. Before the coup, just after you ended things with him. He intended to overthrow Raelyn before any of this happened.”
Ceridwen’s jaw popped open and she instantly snapped it closed. Lekan knew her too well, and that knowledge would force her to confront things she didn’t have the strength for yet.
She had a war to plan for. Giselle’s soldiers in her camp. Angra’s threat spreading through the world. Dozens of other problems, all far more immediate and awful than . . . Jesse.
So she found bandages and water and cleaned Lekan’s wound, all the while ignoring the way that Jesse watched her every move.
8
Meira
I WAKE IN the room Oana brought me to, unable to remember the last time I slept so well. Everything in me wavers like an empty sack in the wind, and I realize that’s exactly what I am now—empty. I still remember every emotion, every worry, the faces of all the people I need to protect—but they’re not consuming me anymore. They’re just hovering in my mind.
I poke at them uncertainly. Sir—he’s still in Winter, and who knows if he’s alive or dead? Theron could be ransacking my kingdom now at Angra’s behest. Mather . . . he might not have gotten everyone out of the dungeon. He might not have gotten away.
And while I’m aware of the concern each thought brings, I’m not crippled by it. The prevailing emotion in my head is just . . . nothing. Which allows me to focus on the small, insignificant things I’d all but forgotten.
Like the calluses on my hands, softening now because of how long it’s been since I regularly threw my chakram. Or the shocking gauntness in my legs and stomach—have I been eating? I honestly can’t remember.
So I do. Dishes sit on the table, fresh and steaming, and snow above, nothing has ever tasted so delicious. I don’t even know what they are—something savory that looks like potatoes, and something sweet that has the texture of honey and cake all in one. I eat until my stomach bulges, and head for the washbasin in the corner.