by Sara Raasch
My heart aches. Angra whisked Theron off like an ally, not a prisoner. What else has he made Theron do?
“His takeovers will hopefully be bloodless,” Rares continues, his tone still hard and removed, as though he knows showing no emotion will give me room to foster my own. “His method is to approach a city, much as he did Rintiero, and spread his magic to the residents. Most will be taken willingly and bow to him, either joining his army or giving in to the fear his magic fosters in them—they don’t know to resist it. Why would they? It happens so quickly, they don’t have time to realize who he is. Those who resist, though . . .”
Those who resist. Mather. Ceridwen and Nessa and Conall . . .
I want to stop this. I WILL stop this. I will make myself even more powerful than he is and I will return every speck of worry he’s heaped on me tenfold.
The sword wobbles, launches straight up, hilt-first, and I grab it.
Rares hoots in approval, and through the sweat now beading down my face, I look over at him, frustration and anger and determination making for a toxic swirl that all but blinds me. I have to be in control of my emotions to best use magic—and these emotions are, right now, the easiest to control.
I do want to survive this. But I want to end this too.
I need to end this.
Unfortunately, I have to constantly keep that desire in my mind.
Rares doesn’t move directly into fighting—for two days, he has me retrieve every sword from the crate and put them back to make sure I “understand the fundamentals of magic.”
Two days.
Three that I spent sleeping.
Six, total, since Angra took Rintiero.
Each passing minute reminds me of all I’m letting happen in my absence, made more potent when I tell Rares to weave news of Angra into our training.
Rares can only give me updates based on what the Order observes—which means he can’t tell me any specifics about my kingdom or my friends. Though this also means Angra hasn’t spread his evil to them yet, which is infinitely preferable to having more concrete news of them. They escaped Rintiero. Angra hasn’t yet reached Winter. I have to believe they’re all okay.
The other news stays much the same—Angra approaches Summer; Ventralli is under his control, Raelyn’s troops are readying to move out; Cordell has sent extra soldiers to supplement Angra’s army; another force gathers in Spring, presumably to join Angra as well. Yakim remains untouched; Autumn is a mystery. Rares can tell me the state of citizens within each kingdom Angra has overtaken as he spreads his magic to them. It’s faint—small currents of connection that only let Rares know they’ve succumbed to Angra—but it’s enough that I become very, very good at retrieving swords.
By the time the last sword clanks against the others under the orange evening sky of the second day, sweat drips down my face despite the coolness of the proper spring air. I slam the lid closed with only the barest thought and throw a glare at Rares.
“How many more times—”
But he isn’t looking at me. Through every clumsily lifted sword he watched me, arms folded, eyes bright, but now he stares at the main wall of his compound. For the first time since I met him, he looks worried, and panic flares in my heart.
I’m reaching for the crate to draw a sword back to me when Rares spins around.
“No,” he says. “Alin found . . .”
He says a word that doesn’t process, not here, so I shake my head.
“What did you—”
“Winterians,” Rares repeats.
My muscles go slack.
“What?” is all I’m able to say.
“Two,” he tells me. “Alin says one is hurt—he’s unconscious.”
All my incapacitating shock breaks away under that, letting turmoil rush in.
Winterians.
He’s unconscious.
Mather?
I take off toward the gate, the iron bars already groaning open at my command. Before I make it two paces forward, Rares is there, his hands digging into my shoulders.
“Alin will bring them here,” he assures me. “He’s on his way.”
I glare up at him. “But how did they even get here?”
The question hits Rares, making him wince.
“What?” I shake him. “What?”
“When we first arrived in Paisly,” Rares says, “Angra found you right away. How did he know where to search for you? I simply assumed he’d figured out on his own where we’d be. But what if . . . someone told him?”
I’m numb. A river frozen solid.
I don’t know the full story yet—it could be that Mather and one of his Thaw followed me on their own.
It isn’t—it can’t be—that Angra caught them, dug my location out of them, and planted them here for me.
But my heart whispers the truth, and I look over the wall.
Rares squeezes my shoulders again. “Alin will bring them here,” he promises me again.
I step out of Rares’s grip and the gate thuds into the dirt. “Just get them here,” I say before I square myself in front of the gate, arms crossed, chest humming with an emotion I know all too well—terror.
And this time, it isn’t something I can let go, because the thought of Mather, unconscious, grows more unbearable with each heartbeat.
10
Mather
WHEN MATHER WAS a child, he could train every day in weaponry; he could listen with undivided attention to William’s lessons on war strategy, economy, and history; he could be kind and fair and just. But not a single one of those things made him the female heir Winter needed, and through every lesson, he always felt that nagging pull in the back of his mind that whispered of his true worth—which was, at the time, merely to someday carry on the female lineage of his kingdom.
And in the dark, quiet nights, when the whole camp slept in their haphazard tents in whatever location William had selected, Mather would find himself wishing an impossible wish. One he didn’t dare voice aloud, not when his kingdom’s salvation depended on it:
He wished for magic to disappear. He wished for a world free of it, where worth was based on a leader’s true self, not on gender.
Mather had harbored this wish until Angra was overthrown and Meira revealed as the true heir. Then, it seemed almost as if magic might be good after all—it had saved their kingdom. So he’d pushed that wish aside, and tried to accept the world as it was.
But when Phil’s screams turned to wails that weren’t so much heard as felt, Mather wished more than he ever had that magic didn’t exist.
Mather was held on the ground through every tortured wail, unable to even see what they were doing to his friend. And when silence finally came, a bag was tugged over his head, his wrists shackled, his legs bound, everything tight and suffocating and pain.
He was thrown alone inside something wooden, the air tainted with the smell of mildew, telling him that either they were on the Langstone River or he was in some kind of box that had been on a ship. The rocking, reeling motion of his crate was too haphazard to guess whether he was being tugged along by wagon or boat. But they traveled, and traveled, and traveled some more, and just when Mather thought he might pass out from the improperly ventilated box, they stopped.
The heave of his crate sent him tumbling into one of the walls. His shoulder only connected with the wood for half a breath before the wall vanished, a door that opened and sent him plummeting out. Though Theron had shoved Cordell’s conduit back into Mather’s belt, he’d been unable to bend at the necessary angle to reach it, and therefore had been unable to get the manacles off during the trip. He had nothing to break his fall as he slammed into the ground.
Rocks. Gravel, mostly. No grass.
Where were they?
Hands lifted him by his upper arms, and after so long being bound, he hissed in pain at the further contortion. It would take weeks for his muscles to forgive him.
Such thoughts were all he’d let himself think during the
journey. Anything else . . .
Mather squared his jaw.
His captors tore the bag off his head, cut the binding on his legs, even unlocked his manacles. The freedom died even before it had time to blossom—if they felt comfortable undoing his bonds, he had to be seriously outnumbered.
“Ice above,” he cursed, and bowed his head to his chest, his eyes watering at the stabbing intrusion of light. But he blinked, clearing his vision, and snapped his head up to take in his surroundings.
He had been in a wagon, for this part of the journey, at least. Cliffs loomed all around, and a bright-blue sky contrasted against the grim gray stones. If he hadn’t known any better, he’d have said they were in the Klaryns, but they hadn’t been traveling that long.
A thump pulled Mather’s attention back to the wagon. Some of the soldiers—ten in total, and neither Angra nor Theron among them, which was both a relief and horrifically unnerving—had opened another compartment near the back, out of which they dragged Phil.
Shockingly, no one stopped Mather as he scrambled to his feet, then dropped, knees folding with disuse. But determination won out, letting him half drag, half throw himself at Phil, who buckled on the stony ground without so much as a moan.
Mather held Phil upright, hands digging into his shoulders. One of Phil’s eyes was swollen shut; the other blinked away blood that trickled from a cut over his brow.
But that was it. There were no other wounds that Mather could see, and Phil didn’t favor any limbs or hold his hands over any gashes.
“What did they do to you?” Mather demanded.
Phil looked at him, tears welling. “I . . . told them . . . where she went. . . .”
Phil’s face flashed with dread as the soldiers grabbed Mather and heaved him back, tossing him against one of the many boulders that lined the clearing. His hands were coated with the chalky grime of stones, and as he spun, he clenched his fists, legs in the best defensive stance his still-unsteady body could muster.
Phil only had three soldiers standing over him—the final seven had gathered around Mather.
One of the soldiers tossed something at Phil’s feet. Mather blinked. Was that . . .
Phil frowned at it, looked up at the soldiers, then at Mather.
It was Meira’s chakram.
The soldier closest to Mather sneered. “Angra wants her to have it—consider it a gift, a mark of his leniency. He wants her to have you, too, so you can tell her something for him.”
Exhaustion and hunger and a myriad of worries made Mather’s brain slog through details like a horse in a muddy field. One soldier swung a fist, and Mather ducked, but another soldier met his movement with a punch to the gut. The air shot out of his lungs and he wheezed, doubling over.
The soldier bent over Mather as he slumped to his knees.
“If you live through this, tell her that this is what will happen to everyone who sides against Angra. And even if you don’t survive—well, I suppose that will warn her all the same.”
With that, he landed an elbow on the back of Mather’s spine and dropped him to his stomach, where he landed with a broken grunt.
Phil sobbed, limp in the arms of the soldiers.
The others descended. Seven against him—Mather tried to fight back, but even as he did, he felt the hopelessness in every fist to his body.
Angra knew where Meira was. And Mather would lose this fight.
He wouldn’t be there to help her.
Mather leaped up and dove at the closest man. A bright flash cut through his vision, a jolt of white that shocked every nerve into deadened silence.
He collapsed as a soldier swung another rock, but nothing else came—only pain.
11
Ceridwen
AFTER GISELLE DISEMBARKED in Putnam, the Yakimians dumped Ceridwen, Jesse, and Lekan where the Southern Eldridge Forest met the Langstone River, leaving them with horses, a day of supplies, and reminders of their queen’s wishes—to stop Angra before he could destroy Yakim. No hint as to how they might do such a thing. Which was almost preferable—Ceridwen wasn’t bound to follow any more of Giselle’s orders—but she had no idea how to go about stopping Angra. Wait for Meira to show up and hope she had a plan? Track Angra’s location and stage an assassination attempt?
Ceridwen kept Giselle’s seal in her pocket and pretended the weight of the impending war was enough to distract her from Jesse’s presence.
She knew her time of ignoring him wouldn’t last. But, flame and heat, she would fight to do so until the bitter end.
The refugee camp was only a day’s ride from the Langstone, and Ceridwen was grateful that they didn’t have to spend a night camping in the forest. Just as the sun and night sky warred on the horizon, they broke out of the trees into the Rania Plains.
Lekan’s husband had helped pick this location. They had had a camp deeper in the Eldridge before, but with so many Summerian refugees, the wet, chill climate was less than ideal. Their camp now straddled the edge of the forest, close enough to the trees to allow for resources to be scavenged yet close enough to the plains to give the Summerians needed breaks of heat and dryness. Ceridwen breathed that arid wind, her chest aching at the memories such scents dredged up. Memories of Summer, of her cracked earth baking in the sun.
She squeezed Giselle’s seal. The Yakimian queen wasn’t the only one with a kingdom to protect from Angra. And now that Simon was dead, and Ceridwen Summer’s only living heir . . .
Ceridwen closed her eyes, catching the gasp that rose in her throat. Her brother had died, Angra was slowly yet persistently enslaving the world, but some deep, sick place inside her reveled in knowing that one of her longest-kept goals had finally been achieved. For years she had bled to be the sole ruler of Summer.
She was a Summerian, through and through—able to find joy in any situation.
Ceridwen forced her eyes open. Through the dim blueness of night and the pale brown grass a few shapes moved toward them.
“Lekan!”
Kaleo leaped through the tall grass. A few soldiers followed—and Ceridwen sighed in relief to see they were Summerian, not Yakimians posing as refugees, damn Giselle—but they turned back to the camp when they heard Kaleo’s confirmation of who approached.
Lekan kicked his horse but didn’t let it get far before he heaved on the reins. His injured leg had stopped bleeding, but it still had to cause him pain when he dropped to the ground. He didn’t hesitate in his mad rush to meet Kaleo in the grass, and the two collided, Kaleo’s force sending Lekan toppling backward, their bodies vanishing in the waist-high grass amid a chorus of laughter—which quickly faded to a silence that made Ceridwen cut her eyes to Jesse.
He looked so different without a mask, and among the other things Ceridwen hadn’t yet talked to him about was whether or not he wanted a new one. She couldn’t deny the part of her that loved being able to see his emotions as he watched Lekan and Kaleo, a smile lifting his lips, consuming his whole face in light.
Then Jesse stiffened in his saddle, the muscles in his neck convulsing as he swallowed and looked at her. He bowed his head as if she had given him an order and kicked his horse on, fading into camp. She expected to be able to breathe easier with him gone. But nothing changed, not a single spark of relief.
Ceridwen pulled alongside Lekan and Kaleo. When her horse’s hooves clomped just next to them, Kaleo whipped upright, straddling Lekan’s waist.
“Princess! You brought him back injured. Again.”
Ceridwen shrugged. “Only because I know how much he loves you taking care of him.”
Lekan flopped out, arms splayed. “You’d better restrain me. Bed rest, for my own good, since I can’t be trusted to stay safe and uninjured anywhere else.”
Kaleo balled the fabric of Lekan’s shirt in his fist, leaning deeper over him with a look that prompted Ceridwen to chuckle.
“I’ve slept in tents next to you two,” she said. “I’m not sure your idea of bed rest is any safer.”
She pushed forward, leaving them to their reunion. The camp stretched in a haphazard circle, more tents added whenever new refugees joined their group, creating uneven roads and paths. A messy, chaotic camp for a messy, chaotic group.
Ceridwen slid off her horse and eased it into a corral at the edge of camp. Everyone had settled in for the night, with only soldiers patrolling, casting nods as they recognized her. She studied each tent. Everything where it should be.
Her fists tightened involuntarily.
Well, everything almost where it should be. Three hundred of the refugees around her were Yakimian soldiers. There were no more than eight hundred people here in all.
Ceridwen growled. That meant there were three hundred places in this camp that could have been taken by slaves who actually needed saving.
Damn Giselle.
How many of the Yakimian spies had posed as soldiers here? How many had stayed hidden in the ranks of families and laborers? In the worst case, if every Yakimian soldier had taken up ranks as one of Ceridwen’s fighters, she’d have only about a hundred and fifty non-Yakimian soldiers. A hundred and fifty. To make any sort of stand against Angra . . . that amount was laughable. She’d have to use the Yakimian soldiers. But for what?
The refugee fighters had been causing mayhem despite their small numbers for years—they could continue the sort of guerilla attacks that had frequently crippled Summer’s forces. Surprise assaults from treetops, traps constructed on rough roads.