Ice Like Fire

by Sara Raasch

  Noam finally loses his patience. “So help me, if you—”

  “Each symbolizes a kingdom in Primoria. Vines on fire—Summer, their vineyards and their heat. Books in a pile—Yakim, their knowledge. A mask—Ventralli, their masks and art. What else could it be? I think these symbols are meant to lead us to a way to open the chasm. I propose we put together a caravan to visit these three kingdoms and see if my suspicions are correct,” Theron finishes.

  Summer, Yakim, and Ventralli? I keep my face as blank as I can, but inside, unease takes root in my stomach. A Season and two Rhythms? Why would the Order hide the keys in those three kingdoms? Could it be that easy?

  Theron certainly thinks so. And he has proven rather useful when it comes to deciphering cryptic things.

  “But where?” Noam waves his hand west, in the general direction of Summer, Yakim, and Ventralli. “Where do you propose we begin? What are we even searching for?”

  “The keys for each lock, I think. It seems right, at least—three key holes, three symbols. Once we get them, I’m hoping the barrier falls—it’s a barrier of magic, so the keys might be magic too—”

  “So you propose we search all three damn kingdoms?” Noam’s annoyance flickers into anger at being so close to a goal yet still hindered.

  “Yes—well, in part.” Theron looks down at his sketches of the chasm door’s symbols. “We could start by exploring the areas in each kingdom that are most likely to have what we seek. Areas of value, perhaps, that would have survived the tests of time. It’s at least a start. We could ask—”

  Noam jerks forward, one hand jabbing threateningly. “You are not to breathe a word of this venture to anyone. There is no asking anything. No questions of keys or mystical barriers or the Order of the Lustrate. If anyone knows anything at all about these things and hears you speak of them, it won’t be difficult for them to figure out what we found.” Noam grinds his jaw. “Leaving at all is risky. If word gets beyond these borders . . . no. There has to be another way to open that door.”

  Theron’s brows lift. He seems close to arguing with Noam, his eyes sweeping over his father’s face.

  I step forward before Theron needs to say anything.

  “Do you have a better idea?” I snap at Noam.

  The Order of the Lustrate is out there. They exist; they wrote that book, they made the chasm entrance. They have to be out there still, or at the very least, there has to be someone in Primoria who knows them or remembers their teachings, and talking to someone would be infinitely more helpful than that mysterious book.

  Maybe they can seal the door or tell me what their barrier did to my magic so I can get it under control—or even just reconnect my link to Hannah, so she can help me. However strange it was to have my dead mother in my head, she was useful sometimes.

  “You want the door opened so badly?” I continue. “This is the only clue we have. Unless you’d like to go to Gaos and try running into the barrier. I know I’d prefer that option.”

  Noam scowls. “Careful, Lady Queen.”

  “No.” I curl my hand into a fist. “This is what you’ve wanted all along, and we found it. So we’re going to these kingdoms, and we’re going to find the keys or the Order itself or whatever we need to find.” I glance at Theron, hating myself for the half-truths I’m telling.

  But he’s the reason we’re here at all.

  “We have to at least try,” I say. And it isn’t entirely a lie—I do want to try. But to get answers, not open the door.

  They don’t need to know that, though. Theron will go to these kingdoms—his passion won’t let him sit idly by, even if his father disagrees. And if Theron goes, I will too. I’ll be right there the whole journey, searching just as hard as him, and I will find answers. I’ll track down the Order, or I’ll find the keys before Theron does and in doing so, gain much-needed leverage over Cordell.

  Theron seems appeased by my agreement. He looks at me with something like awe, and I shudder. He thinks I’ve changed my mind about wanting to keep the chasm locked.

  Noam’s eyes fly over my face. His lips rise in a slow smile again, tinged with condescending amusement, like he remembered something that puts him back in control.

  “You propose to visit Summer, Yakim, and Ventralli,” he says. “Didn’t a few Winterians recently return from such a visit?”

  I shock myself by not reacting with anything but cool detachment. “What of it?”

  “I’ve been told Yakim and Ventralli extended invitations to you. You already have a relationship with Cordell and Autumn—it will be expected for you to seek introduction to the world, and it will give us cover to search for the keys. And if nothing presents itself in Summer, Ventralli, and Yakim, you’ll continue to Paisly. We won’t leave a single kingdom in this world unsearched.”

  Noam’s is the kingdom of opportunity. While Winter uses magic for strength and endurance to make its citizens the best miners in the world, Cordell uses its magic to make its citizens the best at analyzing a situation and coming out on top. That’s exactly what Noam has done—woven this into something advantageous to him.

  My heart heaves disgust, the same draining sensation as when my magic is used. Like I’m not human, not important, just some toy to be played with at the behest of stronger things.

  I may not be Cordellan, but I can manipulate a situation too.

  “It would seem that Cordell needs Winter as much as Winter needs Cordell,” I tell Noam.

  I’ll play along, you arrogant pig. I’ll pretend to be an obedient little queen until I can crush you.

  But with what? I thought I’d have more time to arrange a way to break Cordell’s hold over us. I thought we’d at least have a Winterian army, even a small gathering of fighters. But even if everything works perfectly—I get the keys before them and find information from the Order about controlling my magic—I have no way of forcing Cordell out of Winter.

  Or do I?

  Because Noam smiles as soon as I finish talking.

  “You’re quite right, Lady Queen. Cordell does still have need of Winter, and will until all payment has been issued. Speaking of—do we not have a celebration to prepare?”

  I level a gaze at Sir, whose face rests in the emotionlessness he wears so well. He could be terrified or curious or any number of things, and I’d never know.

  What I do know is that he didn’t help me at all. Either because he thought I could handle it on my own, or because he’s too shocked to intercede, I can’t tell.

  “I will ready for the ceremony while you and the Cordellans make the necessary travel arrangements,” I tell him, eyes on him in a way I hope he understands.

  Keep them here. Distract them.

  Sir straightens. “Of course. King Noam, if you please,” he says, waving Noam to sit.

  I exhale in relief and spin for the door before Noam can say anything else, before Theron can catch me and try to mend the tears in our relationship. I have travel arrangements of my own to make, ones involving our only other hope: our mines.

  Yakim and Ventralli don’t know that we’ve found the magic chasm—and if Noam has his way, which he most likely will, they won’t find out until he can open it. Which means they still want Winter’s mines to search on their own—and maybe Summer will be willing to offer support in exchange for payment, even if they have their own access to the Klaryns. While we search their kingdoms for the keys, I could forge an alliance based on a clearly defined trade, not this open-ended, deadly game that Noam plays.

  I have no control over whether or not I find the keys before Cordell, or if the keys are found at all, or if I’ll get answers on how to fix my magic—but even if the search turns up fruitless, at least Winter will come through this with something.

  I will not return from this trip without a way to keep my kingdom safe.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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  Meira

  THE CORDELLAN SOLDIERS who escorted us to the palace barely flinch when I dart out of the room. Only two people care, and their presence adds cool reassurance to my racing mind.

  Conall says nothing, simply falls in behind me when I turn right, deeper into the palace. Garrigan closes in after him, just as silent, his face strained and questioning where Conall’s is stiff and determined. They both probably wonder what happened, but for once, their station stops them from asking.

  I gather my skirt into my fists and keep walking, my back straight. I’m the queen, and I’m behaving exactly as a queen would—orchestrating political maneuvers.

  Luckily the Jannuari Palace enhances my illusion of being queen more strongly than anything else. The whole place feels regal—if I focus on the shell of what it could be, not on the ruin that it is.

  Before I even knew I was queen, Hannah showed me the palace through our shared connection to the magic. I saw the ballroom, the great square unfolding from the white marble staircase in a billowing cloud of such pure white that the entire room gleamed. She showed me the halls, each one taller than the last, lit by sconces that threw light onto the ivory perfection. Everything was white—carvings dug into the walls, sculptures in alcoves, moldings that danced in circles and squares along the ceiling. Everything was beautiful, and whole, and perfect.

  All those images conflict with what I see now, creating a collage of old and new, whole and broken. The memories of white statues in every alcove and candles flickering on tables and the white-paneled walls mesh with the half-destroyed palace that exists now, holes gaping in the walls and rubble swept into piles.

  A small flicker of longing sparks. Hannah showing me what Winter used to look like was one of the few good memories I have of her. Remembering it now . . .

  I’ll find a way to get her back. At least, I think I want to get her back.

  I yank open a door that leads to the basement. Garrigan and Conall follow me into the even more frigid air, the gray walls a startling contrast to the ivory halls above. We continue until we reach a hall, more stones forming a floor and walls that host heavy iron doors.

  Like the mines that run under the Klaryn Mountains, a labyrinth of rooms winds deep beneath the Jannuari Palace, the stone floors worn smooth from years of tread, sconces caked in dust yet still able to be lit into twitching orbs of fire. These halls once held offices or storage or even dungeons, but most of the rooms now remain closed and unused.

  Except for a few toward the end.

  I hurry on, footsteps tapping lightly on the stones. Right, left, right again, until I reach a short hall with three doors, all locked tight.

  Or . . . they should be locked.

  One stands open on my right, catching me in a brief spurt of worry before I compose myself. We just got back from Gaos—the soldiers haven’t yet finished depositing our newest resources yet. It’s only them.

  But when I step up to the door, everything drains out of me.

  “Mather?”

  He doesn’t rise from where he sits on the floor before a crate, a paper in one hand, quill in the other. The stones, still jagged clumps of rock coated in dirt, haven’t yet been polished into the multifaceted, brilliant pieces they’re meant to be. The sconces behind me reflect orange and yellow onto the spoils: eerie, dancing light that touches each piece and darts away.

  I didn’t expect him to be down here. And seeing him sends ripples vibrating through me, because aside from Conall and Garrigan, who linger down the hall a few paces, we’re alone.

  Mather looks up at me, his expression pinched like he expects me to be someone awaiting orders. But when he sees me, his face spasms. “You’re not a Cordellan.”

  I frown. “Should I be?”

  He collects himself, his eyes sweeping from my head to my feet so fast I could have blinked and missed it. “I—why are you down here, my queen?”

  I scoff. This is the closest we’ve been to each other in months—and that’s what he says?

  “Why are you down here?” I throw back.

  “Helping. You shouldn’t be here—it’s dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?”

  “You could be crushed.” He gestures to the stacks of crates around him.

  None are higher than my hip.

  His focus drops back to the paper and he scribbles notes, his hand shaking ever so slightly as he writes.

  “Dangerous,” I repeat. My jaw tightens. He stays quiet, feigning distraction, and the stillness lets the past hour—the past week, the past months—creep over me.

  “You’re worried about me?” I snap. “You’ll have to forgive me, since the only interactions we’ve had in the past three months have been in meetings with a dozen other people. So you can see why I might be confused that you think of protecting Winter’s queen, when for the past couple of months, you’ve acted as though you didn’t give a damn about her. But don’t worry, I have plenty of other people in my life who have perfected the ability to pretend to care. You don’t owe me any favors.”

  That wrenches his attention back to me. “I didn’t—and—what?” He gapes, glancing around the room like he’s trying to find an explanation in the crates. “I was just sitting here, taking inventory for your kingdom, when you come swooping in. What should I have said? Ice above, do you just need someone to yell at?”

  “Yes!”

  He flinches and my mouth falls open and all of my anger drops away beneath an onslaught of far stronger emotions.

  I miss him. So much my chest aches, and I can’t believe the ache hasn’t killed me yet. All I want is to say the right thing, to hear him laugh and joke about sparring with Sir. I need to talk to him, for us to be the way we were—two children standing together against a war. That’s how I feel now, but this time . . . I’m not a child. And I’m not standing with him—I’m alone.

  I stagger. “I shouldn’t have—”

  But Mather’s eyes close in a scowl before he sets down his quill and rises to his feet. Something about his demeanor breaks a little, and he widens his legs as if preparing for a fight.

  “Okay,” he says, arms crossed, the paper crinkling in his fist. “Yell at me.”

  I squint. “Yell at you?”

  Mather nods. “Yes. Do it. I’ve—” He stops, jaw clicking shut with an audible pop. He shifts away from me, back again, lips pursing in nervous frustration. “The least I can do is let you yell at me. We both know I deserve it. So,” he waves me on, “yell at me.”

  I square my shoulders, open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Yes, he does deserve it. But yelling at him won’t undo all the times I searched for him in meetings only to see him slouched in a corner, participating as much as would be expected from a newly titled lord of Winter, but not as much as would be expected from my friend. I don’t even think it would make me feel any better, because he’d end up just as beaten and forlorn as Theron.

  Mather lifts a white eyebrow. “You don’t have to actually yell, if you don’t want to. Slightly elevated whispering would be fine.”

  I sigh. “You’re not the one I should be yelling at.”

  “Someone deserves it more than me?”

  He’s trying for humor, but it tugs at my worries.

  “How did you do this?” I whisper, my chapped lips cracking in the room’s frigidness.

  Mather hardens. He doesn’t seem at all confused by what I asked. “I focused on my duty. I put Winter first, above everything.” The sudden heaviness in his eyes negates any advice he just gave. “But I think I messed up. Being king. I’d do it differently now if I could.”

  “What? How?”

  He shrugs, his words coming faster. “I wouldn’t focus on Winter as much. I’d let myself focus on . . . other things too. Winter isn’t everything.”

  “Yes, it is,” I counter. “You were right to focus on your duty. That’s what I’m trying to do, but I feel like I’m barely holding everything together.”

  “Did something happen?”r />
  Mather’s expression is familiar—but it isn’t what I expect.

  There’s no fear. No brokenness. Just strength.

  I’ve been waiting for him to heal on his own. Hoping and needing and wanting him to somehow resolve the issues of our lives so I could have my friend back.

  Has he figured things out? Has he accepted our new lives?

  Or is he just hiding his pain like everyone else?

  “We found the magic chasm,” I tell him, easing each word out in a test of his strength. “And Noam is sending us in search of a way to open it. We’re going to Summer, Yakim, and Ventralli, and I thought I’d—”

  “What?” Mather gags. “You found it? When? Where?”

  “The Tadil Mine. A few days ago.”

  He pulls back, his eyes distant as he thinks. “Noam wasn’t in Winter when you found it.”

  I shake my head.

  “So why in the name of all that is cold did you tell him?”

  “I didn’t want to tell him,” I snap. “Theron—”

  Oh, no.

  “No,” Mather wheezes. “Theron told Noam?”

  I say nothing, and my silence confirms it. After a pause, Mather looks at me, and I ready for a rant. This will be the moment that tells me where we stand now—how he reacts to Theron.

  But Mather just sighs. “That was wrong of him.”

  My breath catches and my throat wells tight in the unexpected comfort he offers.

  I cough, pulling out of the daze. “That’s not why I came down here, though. I need goods. Separate from the ones we’re to give Autumn and Cordell.”

  He squints. “You want goods? Why?”

  “Ventralli and Yakim invited me to their kingdoms before this trip was planned, and I want to make good on their interest in us while I’m there. Use some of the jewels as a goodwill offering to symbolize trading ownership of a few of our mines for . . . support.”

  Mather’s face lightens, his brows lifting as he grins. That whole-face, knee-quaking smile that constantly bombarded me as a child.