Frost Like Night (21 page)

DON'T WAKE UP.

The camp had been quiet when we finally crept back last night, everyone safe and asleep in their various tents. Which made it far too easy to nod in passing at the soldiers and meander through the dusty paths, the tents the only audience as Mather and I . . .

We . . .

I'm fully awake now, a grin stretching my lips as I bury my face in the pillow. I lie facing the flaps of my small tent, and when I finally pull my face free, I thank last-night-me for her good sense to tie the flaps together, what with Nessa's propensity for diving in unannounced. The delicate, hazy light visible around the edges tells me it's not yet late morning.

My body cools, the iciness of magic reacting to my intense emotions, a sensation that roiled through me so
often last night that I all but went numb with wonder. I press a hand to my lips, memory drawing up the feel of Mather's hands on my waist, my fingers nestled in the grooves of his muscles, my mouth finding his.

My grin widens and I roll onto my back, head lolling to the side.

A pair of jewel-blue eyes meets mine.

His smile is just as wide, maybe even more so, and he props himself up on his elbow.

“Hi,” he says.

I dissolve into giggles, covering my mouth to mute the sound through the thin tent.

Mather's smile stretches. “What?”

“
Hi
? I don't know. It just feels a little too simple.”

“What would be better?” He wraps an arm around me and nuzzles into my hair. “
Good morning, my queen
?” A kiss on my shoulder. “Or
lovely to see you this morning, Lady Meira
?” A kiss on my jaw. “Or
I had the most indecent dream about you last night, Your Highness
?”

That does nothing to help my laughter. “Odd, I had a rather indecent dream about you too.”

He chuckles and goes back to lying on his propped elbow. The blanket tucked around us falls down to his waist, and despite everything, my cheeks flush at the sight of his bare chest.

“Oh?” he asks. “Maybe we had the same dream. What happened in yours?”

His mouth flutters in that smile he knows disarms me. But I can be just as disarming.

I roll over, burrowing against him, my fingers tracing every line of muscle honed from years of fighting, a few rough scars that knot his skin. “You know, I can't recall,” I say. “It must not have been very memorable.”

Mather howls and tackles me. I squeal, giving up on trying to stay quiet, and catch his lips with my own, our bodies aligning in a way that makes every touch from last night flash through me at once.

I knot my fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck and pull back to look at him. Another laugh spurts out, this one incredulous. “How did this even happen?”

Mather rolls back. “I can tell you
exactly
how it happened.” He squints in a rather overdramatic show of thinking. “About twelve years ago, a five-year-old girl pushed me down in the training yard and stole my sword. That incident was only the beginning—eleven years ago she talked me into painting a tent with ink, six years ago she stole a bottle of wine and got me drunk . . .” He trails off, his eyes drifting down to my smirk, and he beams. “I was too stupid to realize that I willingly sauntered into whatever crazy plan she concocted. It was only a matter of time before she got me
here
.”

“Oh, so this was my plan?” I lift up so I'm eye level with him. “You got all the dates wrong, though. The wine stealing was five years ago, and eleven years ago we were five.”

Mather's brows twitch. “I knew I should have reminded you.”

“Of what?”

“Our birthdays. Well,
yours
at the very least—it was a few months ago. You really missed it? You're seventeen now, Meira. We both are.”

I pause. “Snow above. We
are
seventeen.”

Mather laughs. “Afraid so.”

“Alysson and Dendera always warned me to wait until I was older.” I sigh. “So that makes me feel a little better about what happened.”

“Better?” He tucks a hand around my waist, his fingers drawing absurdly distracting patterns on my hip through the blanket. “Why would you feel at all bad?”

His hand stops abruptly as his eyes snap open so wide I see my reflection.

“Ice above,” he curses. “We . . . and I didn't . . .
damn it
.” He rocks back, hands over his face.

“What are you talking about?”

He peeks through his fingers, eyes still wide, and his attention drops to my stomach.

My own eyes stretch all the way open. “Oh.
Oh.
No. I can't—”

My mouth falls slack.

I can't . . . have children.

On that thought, Oana's sadness rises above my hazy delight. The dusty nursery she and Rares kept locked away,
waiting for the day it would be used.

I sit up, curling my arms around my knees. And just like that, last night really is over.

Mather slides upright. “You can't?”

I force a smile. “Being a conduit makes certain things impossible.”

Mather drops a hand around my bent legs. “I'm sorry I—”

“No.” I push back, angling enough to stay in his arms but look into his eyes. “Don't apologize, for anything. I wanted this.
Want
this.”

He smiles, but his eyes say he's slowly coming to terms with the night being over too. “You say that like it'll never happen again.”

I droop against him. But I can't make myself repeat all the things I said last night, how this won't last, how it'll hurt, how in a few days, he'll be alone.

He shakes his head and tightens his hold on me. “We'll figure out something, and we'll both come out of that labyrinth alive, and we'll have many,
many
more nights like this one.” After a breath, he smiles. “Besides, I need time to actually get
good
at it.”

I snort, gripping his arm. I know he sees the tears rimming my eyes—but I cling desperately to his joke. Maybe because I'm weak and can't bear the thought of . . . everything. Maybe because I'm strong enough to push past what scares me.

Either way, I bump him with my shoulder. “I thought you were pretty good already.”

He presses his forehead to my temple. “But who wouldn't want to improve?”

“What a goal to have.”

“I know it'll keep
me
inspired.”

I swing one leg out from under the blanket. “Well, we should get dressed at some point.”

Mather grumbles against my skin as he brushes my hair over my shoulder. “Clothes,” he mocks and lays kisses down the back of my neck. “That sounds like a bad idea.”

Shivers prickle down my spine. And though the rest of me would gladly melt back into bed for the foreseeable future, I stand.

Mather's hands drop against the blankets. I grab the nearest article of clothing—a white tunic from the stack of clothes the servants gave me—and tug it over my head. By the time I'm dressed, a belt cinching the tunic to my waist, the boots from Paisly tight over my knees, my chakram in place, Mather is up too, the blanket tangled around his hips.

He steps forward, one hand holding the ivory and green wool at his waist. A gust of wind flutters the tent flaps, a gentle whoosh against their ties, and the motion sends a sliver of light across his face, curving down his neck, heaving over his chest.

I lower my gaze. “I'm going to check on everyone else. You can—”

“I'll be right behind you,” he assures me. The tremble in his voice sounds like he's fighting to keep his tone level, and that undoes me even more, so much so that I undo the ties on the tent and get halfway out before I find myself looking back at him.

He's sitting on the bed now, hands in his hair and elbows on his knees.

This is breaking him, just like I knew it would, but I did it anyway.

The tent flaps tremble shut behind me. “I'm so—”

Mather stands, the blanket falling away as his hands dive to cradle my face. He slams his mouth against mine in a kiss that swallows my apology.

“You don't get to apologize either,” he tells me. “No apologies. No matter what happens, I will
never
, not in a thousand tragic outcomes,
ever
regret loving you.”

I loop my arms around his neck.

“I love you,” I tell him for what must be the millionth time since the ridge.

He pushes his face into my hair. “I love you too.”

The words press like brands into my neck, and I close my eyes, memorizing each letter as it lies along my body.

No matter what happens when I step out of this tent, when I go to Jannuari, when we reach the labyrinth, I have this.

I have
him
.

The area in front of the main tent still wears most of its decorations from last night. Unlit lanterns hang from the braided fabric, the fire pit sits black and charred. The food tables have been moved into the center of the ring, a few chairs gathered, and around the tables crowd most of the people from the celebration, all looking rather groggy.

Sir and Dendera chat at a table across the square, picking at plates of bread and fruit. At the table closest to me, Nessa slumps against Conall, yawning after every bite of food, and Ceridwen and Jesse shock me by being both here and awake. They're still wearing their celebration outfits, only drastically more rumpled, and as I slide into a chair across from them, I breathe a sigh of relief that I thought to grab new clothes this morning.

Ceridwen pops a blackberry into her mouth. “You certainly slept in,” she notes.

I take the nearest bowl of fruit. “And why didn't you, newlyweds?”

“Who says we slept at all?”

Jesse chokes on a grape. “Cerie!”

She bats her eyes. “Oh, everyone knows what we spent the night doing.”

Nessa straightens. “Why? What'd you do?”

It's Conall's turn to choke now. Jesse seems just as humiliated, but Ceridwen clucks her tongue at Conall in mock disapproval. Her eyes go to me and her brow lifts.

My lips tighten.

“Meira.” Ceridwen tips forward, and I think I'm about to be glad that Sir and everyone else chose to sit at a table farther away. “Tell me you know what I'm talking about.”

But even as she says that, her amusement recedes into shock.

“Do you? With your kingdom's fall, I guess you wouldn't have had time to—”

I clench my jaw, fiddling with an apple slice. “I . . . know,” I squeak. And I do—well, especially now, but before last night too. The memory of Alysson and Dendera explaining certain things is one I try not to relive. Mostly because Dendera's face was flame-red through it all, and Alysson kept saying
It's perfectly normal
over and over.

I manage a coy smile. “I know,” I repeat. “And I'm glad your wedding night was satisfying.”

Jesse clunks his forehead into his palm. “This is what will kill me. Not the war.
This.
”

“Ohhhh,” Nessa breathes, understanding turning her word into a song. She giggles, and Conall makes a sort of closemouthed screaming noise to his food.

“Good morning.” Mather drops into the chair on my other side. Though it's only been a few moments since we saw each other, the giddiness in my chest feels like it's been lifetimes, and I bite my lip to stop from smiling too obviously. Mather smiles back, holding my gaze.

For too long.

Ceridwen chirps. “Oh my. Was our wedding night satisfying for
someone else
?”

My face catches fire.

“What?” Nessa leans around Conall. “For who?”

Conall leaps up. “We have to go. Swords. Or something. Weapons. Nessa, come.”

“Wait!” she protests as he lifts her to her feet. “What? Why?”

They get a few paces away and I cave forward. “I feel the sudden urge to bury my face in the fruit bowl.”

Jesse lifts a goblet of water and tips it at me. “Try being married to her.”

“Look at you, Winter queen,” Ceridwen giggles. “You don't waste any time.”

“Okay, I think we're done.” I pivot toward Mather, expecting him to be as mortified as I am, but he's grinning. And not just an amused grin—a grin that screams confirmation as loudly as if he had stood on the table and shouted it into the air.

He reaches over to squeeze my fingers. “What?”

I fall back in my chair. “You want to talk about this, don't you? Snow above. Are you the Ceridwen in this relationship?”

Jesse laughs middrink and water sloshes down the front of his tunic.

Ceridwen angles toward Mather. “Yes, you are, because
I need details. I remember seeing you for the dancing, but only through the first few songs. When did you sneak off?”

“After that one song,” Mather says. “When everyone danced the same movements.”

“Ah, yes.” Ceridwen sits back. “But they played that at the beginning of the evening. And it's two or so hours until noon now? That means you've been gone for twelve hours. . . .”

For once, distraction works in my favor, coming in the form of a trio of Autumnian soldiers. My eyes snap to their entrance across the clearing, noting their travel-beaten wear with a jolt of recognition. More of Caspar's spies. Do they have word of Angra? Or news of the last group of refugees? Henn and the Thaw should be back by now.

Everyone at my table turns to see what has my attention, their expressions dimming like candles in a harsh breeze.

“Do you any of you have news?” I ask.

“We should be ready to march out by early afternoon,” Ceridwen says. “Once we decide on a location.”

“How many are staying here?”

“About a hundred soldiers to protect those who can't fight, which leaves just shy of three thousand to stand against Angra.”

I wither at the numbers, but it isn't meant to be a full-on war. Just a diversion.