by Sara Raasch
Because they will be used. Oana and Rares will someday soon be able to have the family they deserve. The family Mather should have had; the family I should have had.
That’s all I can do. Help create a world where the life I always wanted exists, even if I don’t live it.
A place deep inside me aches every time I think like that, so close to fully accepting my fate.
“Meira?”
I scrub away any tears with my sleeve before I turn to him. All I want is to do what Rares suggested—give him a choice. Let him know what awaits me at the end of this journey, the reason for my tears.
But the moment my lips part, Phil appears. “Rares said we’re leaving?”
I breathe, sending oxygen out to every muscle. “Yes.” I’m caught by another piece of information I haven’t shared with them, one that makes my own body sway with memory.
“And our route will be a little . . . unconventional.”
Mather rises away from the door, intrigued. “How so?”
But I wave off any explanation. “Packing first.” I wince. “Pain later.”
That night, Oana loads us down with supplies—satchels, blankets, food, bandages, as well as a plethora of things we probably won’t even need. As we all stand in the front yard of their compound, I grab her arms to prevent her from stuffing another apple in my bag.
Rares puts his hand on her waist, watching me. Dozens of words crowd in my mouth.
I’ll see you again.
You two mean more to me than I know how to say.
The bassinet in that nursery will be used. I promise.
Oana wraps her sleeve around her hand and runs it down my cheek. “I know, sweetheart,” she says, and somehow, that undoes me more than if she’d sobbed her farewell.
I hug her and Rares. “Thank you” is all I can get out, and it’s weak and pathetic and not even half of what I want them to know. But they take it and pull back, eyes shining.
I turn to Mather and Phil, who are just as loaded down with supplies. They’re barely healed, and already I’m pushing them on. But they don’t question me or complain.
Though they might after what I’m about to do to them.
“This will hurt,” I warn. “And feel . . . terrifying.”
Phil’s eyebrows launch up. “What?”
But I don’t give them a chance to worry. I take their hands and release the magic in my gut to take us to Ceridwen’s refugee camp. An instant heaviness yanks down on my chest, the strain of magic use, but intensified—I haven’t done this before, transported myself, let alone others, and the weight of it drags at my endurance as though I’m lifting a sword heavier than I’m used to. I falter, but hold.
The only problem is, I’ve never been to Ceridwen’s refugee camp. The only location I have is what Mather told me—that it’s a day’s ride from where the Langstone meets the Southern Eldridge Forest. Is that all I need? Or do I need to have a specific place in mind? This isn’t the best time to worry about this, I realize, as the whir of magic launches us into the void—but I refuse to let overthinking unsettle me, not when Mather’s and Phil’s lives depend on me. So with what concentration I can muster, I focus on the border of the forest where it meets the Rania Plains.
Half a heartbeat later, a solid whoomph ricochets through my body as my feet plant on the ground. Black sky gleams above me, dotted with stars, and stalks of prairie grass wave all around. The earthy, dried scent of the plains clashes with memories of the moist air of Rares’s compound. I pause but, thankfully, the only dizziness that comes is minor, and no nausea incapacitates me this time.
I can’t say the same for Mather and Phil.
I’m fairly certain Phil started retching before we even arrived. He heaves into the grass while Mather, seated on the ground, presses his face to his knees, hands over his head, emitting a low moan.
“What . . . did you . . .” Mather squints up. “Do?”
He notes the landscape. His eyes widen. He folds to the side, mimicking Phil.
I almost rush forward, but their nausea was caused by magic-induced travel—maybe magic can undo it?
A single thread of iciness launches out to them, and both Mather and Phil turn to me with looks of utter confusion. The ease of magic use still shocks me, how uncomplicated it is now—which makes me realize one other thing I need to do.
We’re so far removed from anywhere Angra might know to look for me that his magic hasn’t found me yet, not like it did in Paisly. But I still relax my mind, creating the same sort of protective barrier that kept Rares out of my head. Angra won’t find me until I want him to.
Phil wobbles to his feet, hands out as though he doesn’t trust his body. “What the actual snow above was that?”
I start to answer when Mather huffs a laugh.
“That is how we’re going to win this war,” he says. “The more I see what you’re capable of, the more I start to fear for Angra.”
Phil looks utterly horrified, his lips curled back before he catches Mather watching him and shakes it off, opting for a tight-lipped stare. “You’re stronger than Angra?” he asks me.
I fight off a wince. “Magically? No. But in other ways . . . I hope so.”
The edge of the Eldridge hovers a few paces to my left, shadowed in darkness, while the plains sweep outward on all other sides, ripples of grass as far as I can see. Heat rises from the earth, lingering from what was surely a warm day, and as I shift my chakram along with the satchel strapped across my shoulders, I groan.
“It isn’t as useful as it would first appear,” I say. “I have no idea where Ceridwen’s camp is from here. Or if everyone else even got there. . . .”
Did Jesse free Ceridwen? Did the Winterians get the Ventrallan heirs out of the kingdom?
Mather squares himself in front of me as if he has the ability to hear the chaos in my mind as clearly as Rares did.
“We’ll figure it out,” he says.
“But—”
“We’ll figure it out,” he says again, putting both hands on my shoulders. “They’re all there. I’m sure of it. Now—left or right?”
I swing my head in both directions. Prairielands one way; prairielands the other. I can’t think of a way to use my magic to help me decide. For this, I’m just Meira.
That thought isn’t nearly as terrifying as it once was.
“Left,” I say. “Have to start somewhere.”
Mather nods and swings his hand toward the horizon. “Lead on, my queen.”
I squint. “Don’t you dare.”
“Don’t I dare what?”
“Keep calling me that.”
“What else should I call you, my queen?” Mather’s voice lightens.
Phil stands, adjusting his travel pack. His horror seems to have retreated, at least as he eyes Mather. “I can think of a few things you want to call her,” he mutters.
Even in the dark, the blush that creeps over Mather’s face is the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. And this is the first bit of levity Phil’s shown since he appeared in Paisly.
Mather bumps Phil’s shoulder as he passes, trudging through the grass.
“Come on,” he says. “We should cover as much ground as we can tonight.”
I grin, nearly bursting with how good it feels. “As you wish, Lord Mather.”
That makes him roll his eyes, but he smiles, slow and small, and keeps marching to the left. Phil starts after him, and I fall in behind.
We spend two days walking, foraging for resources, and sleeping. We split into shifts to keep watch, one of us always alert for approaching enemies or lights on the horizon, signaling a camp.
Back in Paisly, for however brief a time, it didn’t feel like the world was falling apart. Rares told me what Angra was doing, but I could still remove myself from it—here, though, each step I take draws me closer to war. Who knows what Ceridwen endured under Raelyn? I still don’t know the state of Winter. And Theron . . . Angra has him.
Why would Angr
a ally with him at all, though? Cordell does have one of the most powerful armies in Primoria. But Angra wouldn’t need Theron for that—the Decay’s influence could sway anyone. Keeping Theron alive is a far bigger threat to Angra, because yet another person remains who is connected to pure conduit magic—the only way he can be defeated.
I haven’t asked Mather what happened to Theron’s conduit. Last I knew, Mather had taken it after Theron tossed it away in Rintiero’s dungeon, but I doubt very much Angra let him keep it once they were captured again.
But that still poses the question—why would Angra want Theron at all? Angra loves having puppets to carry out commands for him—Herod was proof of that, Raelyn too. Is he planning to use Theron that same way?
My heart sinks. There’s only one thing I can think of that Angra might need Theron for: me.
Theron knows things that could weaken me. Theron himself could weaken me, just by being who he is—someone I care about, possessed by the one thing I hate above all else.
And Angra knows that.
I wipe a bead of sweat from my forehead. Grass tangles around my boots, the sun beats down on me, but of all the emotions I could feel now—discomfort; fatigue; racking, consuming, fiery guilt—I only let myself wallow in one: acceptance.
This war will force me to confront Theron. I’ll have to face whatever Angra made him into—someone just as cruel as Herod, just as dark as Angra. And I’ll have to be ready.
Phil makes an oof as I bump into him. But he looks ahead, gaze fixed on the horizon.
Ahead of us, tucked around a bend in the line of trees, stand hundreds of tents in yellow, brown, and earthy green to camouflage against the plains and forest. Tendrils of smoke lift from campfires, movement shifts within, and the hum of voices hangs light on the air.
Mather spins to us. “That looks like a camp, right?” But he’s already walking backward toward it, relief chasing off his discomfort at the plains’ sweltering heat.
Phil throws his fist into the air. “Civilization! Well, sort of.” He rushes forward, legs pumping over the grass.
Mather keeps walking steadily backward. My eyes roam past him to the camp, but I can’t seem to make myself move.
“We’re here,” I say, throat dry. I grip the straps of my chakram’s holster.
Suddenly We’re here sounds more like a threat than the relieved statement it should be.
Mather steps toward me, his hand out.
War may loom, but I’m not alone.
I put my hand in his and let him lead me on.
All noises cease the moment we enter the camp. Conversation and laughter snuff out like candle flames guttering in a windstorm; pots clang idly over campfires as their users gape in shock.
I pull my shoulders straighter as I walk between Phil and Mather down one of the many makeshift roads, the grass worn by foot traffic in patchy stretches. People stare as we pass, mostly Summerians with their flame-red hair and tanned skin, but also Yakimians, even a few citizens of Spring. A hodgepodge of blond hair, brown hair, dark skin, light skin—but one common feature links most: the S brand of charred skin below every left eye.
We only make it past a few tents when the voices kick back up.
“Is that . . .”
“She’s wearing the locket—look!”
“It’s the Winter queen!”
I bite the inside of my cheek, trying with all my remaining strength not to wither under their assessments. I have no idea what these people think of me. What rumors have they heard? That I’m the girl who freed her kingdom only to have the same attacker come roaring back into the world? The girl who betrayed her only ally by seeking other allegiances behind his back? The girl who let these people’s own savior, Ceridwen, become imprisoned?
My hand tightens around Mather’s, drawing strength from the way he and Phil stay beside me.
More reactions come, echoing out from people as we pass. I stiffen, expecting the worst, but the people around us throw their hands in the air, shouting praise.
“Down with Angra!” they cry, and even more strongly, “We are Winter!”
That phrase hooks into my heart. These people have no reason to rejoice at my presence—their own problems have never intersected with mine. But that phrase—We are Winter—only two people I know could have taught them that.
I tear ahead of Phil and Mather, hurtling into the camp. My heartbeat tramples my lungs, more people catching the cheer—“The Winter queen is here! Down with Angra! We are Winter!”—until those shouts are all I hear.
I spin around one more tent, sweat slicking down my back.
In the middle of the road, sprinting toward me, is Nessa. Behind her, Conall follows at a slower clip.
A beaming grin overtakes my face.
Nessa sees me and pushes faster just as I do, both of us racing until we collide in a tangle of arms and laughter and questions.
“How did you get here?”
“How long have you been at camp?”
“Where have you been?”
“Are you all right?”
I pull back and survey her for any injuries. She’s fine—not even a bruise or a healing cut. Conall looks the same, and I tuck my arms back around Nessa.
“I’m so sorry,” I gasp to her and Conall. “I’m so sorry I left you.”
“You should be,” Nessa snaps, but when I jerk back again, she’s laughing. “You better have a good excuse for it.”
I smile. Even her threat sounds delighted to see me. “I do, I promise.”
“Meira!”
Dendera engulfs me, breaking her embrace only to give my shoulders a firm shake. “Don’t you ever do that again. Do you hear me? Never again.”
Her command sobers me. I wish I could promise her that I’ll never again leave without warning, but the lie gets stuck in my dusty throat.
“I missed you too” is all I manage.
But she’s already moving past it, her eyes shooting to Mather and Phil, who hurry up behind me. Her face brightens and she tucks her hand into mine.
“Follow me,” she says to us.
Nessa takes my other hand, bouncing alongside me as we turn down another grass-trampled road. Around us the cheering has dissipated, but the news still spreads—eyes watch me with interest, people point and call to friends that the Winter queen has arrived. I’m so distracted by the spreading news that I don’t immediately realize who surrounds me.
Winterians. Dozens of them, holding bowls or food or buckets, but all turn toward me, staring with just as much wonder as I stare at them with.
“They’re here.” I tug at Dendera’s hand. “How?”
“Henn heard about the camp while we were in Summer,” Dendera explains. “He thought it would make a good safe spot for those who escaped the takeover.”
“How many escaped?” I dare to ask. “Where is Henn? And—”
Did Sir not make it out? What about Finn and Greer and Deborah?
Dendera squeezes my shoulder. “William made it out. Finn and Greer—” She closes her eyes in a soft sigh. “They’ll be free soon enough. William and Henn left yesterday morning.”
“Left? For where? Are they going back to Jannuari?”
Mather closes in on one side, his expression just as dark as mine feels. My gut starts to throb as Dendera reads our concern and shakes her head.
“Not Jannuari. They’ll be fine! You act as though they’ve never gone on a mission like this before. They went with Ceridwen and a small group of Summerians and Yakimians to Juli—it’s Ceridwen’s plan to assassinate Angra while he’s—”
The noise I make is half a scream and half a sob.
“No,” I say. “Tell me they aren’t going to face Angra. Dendera, no—”
She squints, her pride in their mission flaking off the more I shake my head.
Ceridwen, Sir, Henn, and a group of soldiers went to Juli to face Angra. Without any magical protection.
They’re all as good as dead.
16
<
br /> Mather
MATHER LATCHED ONTO Meira’s plan before she’d even spoken. All she did was look up at him, and he knew—they were going to Juli.
They had to do what they could to help William and the rest, who would be walking into a kingdom overtaken by Angra’s Decay, possibly even more so than Ventralli by now. Ceridwen’s group had more than a day of travel on them and could reach Juli the next night. They could attempt to face Angra and end up possessed by his Decay before they’d even raised their swords.
Meira whirled away from Dendera, her eyes going to the sword at Conall’s waist. She pointed at it. “I need weapons,” she told him. “Enough for—”
“Eight people,” Mather cut in. “The Thaw and I will go with you.” He nodded at Phil. “Go find them. They have to be here somewhere.”
“I’ll show you!” Nessa offered, and raced away so fast Phil had to scramble to keep up. Conall dispersed as well, ducking into a tent to start gathering weapons.
Meira pressed on. “We’ll need medical supplies too—I can’t heal any non-Winterians.”
“Horses?”
“No, we’ll travel as we did from Paisly.”
Mather grimaced. “Great.”
“Stop!”
The Winterians around them watched as Dendera stood with her hands spread.
“What are you doing?” she hissed, her voice low as she noted their audience. “If you wish to join them—”
Meira’s face hardened. “Not join them. Save them.”
Dendera blew out a breath. “What don’t they know?”
But Meira shook her head. “No time to explain. Who’s in charge of the camp in Ceridwen’s absence? Send for whoever it is, now.”
Dendera stood frozen for as long as it took Meira to turn away from her. Then she moved, her years of training as a soldier compelling her to obey orders even as Mather saw the gray hue of terror engulf her face. He knew what she was thinking, one worry pulsing like a brand across her mind—Henn. He’s in danger.