Frost Like Night (22 page)

A shadow falls over our table.

“If you're finished eating,” Sir starts, and angles his head toward the main tent.

“We're just about done, General,” Jesse says for us.

He nods, his eyes steady on me before he walks toward the main tent. The four of us stay seated for a beat longer, Mather's hand in mine, Jesse's arm around Ceridwen.

There's no room for emotions in war.

It's one of the many rules Sir beat into my head as a child. I see now that it's necessary. These are just numbers we're discussing; these are just fields we're mapping; these are just chunks of iron we're dividing. Not people, not battle sites, not weapons.

“My scouts put Angra's forces four days out from being fully gathered,” Caspar says, and points to a map of the Autumn-Winter border, against the Klaryns. “This valley runs from Autumn into Winter. We could thin out Angra's army and prevent him from surrounding us all at once. He'd only be able to send a fraction of his soldiers at us at any time.”

Ceridwen frowns. “But he could block us in. What if we need a retreat?”

“You won't,” I promise. “Once the magic is destroyed, no one fighting for Angra will have magic to use against you.”

Jesse slackens, his hand on Ceridwen's shoulder. “Angra's
entire army
will be able to use his Decay? I thought it was just a select group close to him.”

“I don't expect he'd hold back in a battle,” I say. “And . . .
there's a chance the Decay could infect you, too. If Angra is there, the only thing stopping him from sending his Decay to weaken you would be your own resilience—none of you have conduit protection. Even the Winterians will only have it as long as I'm there with them.”

Ceridwen darkens. “Now that I know what his magic feels like, there's no way he's getting into my head again. Years of repelling Simon's magic should pay off somehow.”

An idea flashes through me. “Wait—that's a good point. Maybe the principles you used to resist your brother's magic can help everyone else ward off the Decay. For a little while, at least?”

Ceridwen shrugs. “I can have the Summerians start teaching the methods we use, but I don't know how effective they'll be. It took us each years to be able to fully resist Simon, and I only lasted a few hours under Angra's influence in Juli.”

“It's better than nothing,” Caspar agrees.

No one else comments on this looming threat, the possibility of being swept up in Angra's war not by death, but by the Decay. Maybe it's something they've all considered, too. They've seen people fall to it—people who we already knew were dangerous, like Raelyn, and people who we never would have guessed could hurt us, like Theron.

We're all at risk, and they know that.

“How long is the march to this valley?” Sir interjects.

“With our army, three days.” Caspar scratches his chin.
“We could press for two, but we'll still beat Angra to any attack.”

“Three days,” Sir echoes before he shifts to me. “Let's move out.”

His face is weighted with the same awareness I feel digging into my chest.

We have a deadline.

I lean back from the table. “Yes. No time to waste.”

Everyone else moves, darting off to their various tasks. I duck out of the tent and hesitate long enough for Mather to sweep out after me. When he does, I throw my arms around his neck, kissing him. There's no hiding now—Dendera emerges from the tent behind us, followed by Sir. They see, and I don't care to notice their reactions. I have only a handful of days left for moments like this, and if I spend even a blip of that time not with someone I love, none of this will matter at all.

I pull back from Mather, who drops his hands to my waist.

“They're all standing behind me, aren't they?” he asks.

I smile. “Afraid so. I think I'll leave you to explain it to them.”

“So much for being a benevolent ruler.”

“Where's the fun in that?” But I'm already backing away. Mather turns to Dendera and his father, who no doubt have a few things to say about this development.

But I have other people to see, and I head for the area of
camp where the Summerians, Yakimians, and Winterians have set up their tents.

Nessa sits by a small campfire, a book in her lap and a group of wide-eyed children around her. Behind her, Conall fits a new string in his bow. His attention catches on me first and he rolls to his feet as I near, but he isn't able to say a word before Nessa leaps up too.

The children groan. “Finish the story!” one whines—Jesse's oldest, Melania.

Nessa flaps her hands at them. “Later! Go help with chores now—some of the soldiers will be leaving on their own adventure soon, so we must do our part to help them!”

The look on Conall's face as the children cheer and disperse is nothing short of disbelief. That his sister is someone capable of turning a march to battle into an adventure; that he was the one who raised the bubbly girl who bounds over to me, her smile sticking on her face as the children wave their good-byes.

“Meira!” Nessa says. “Someone said you were called into another meeting. Have more details been decided? When are we leaving?”

“Today,” I start, noting how her smile slowly hardens the farther away the children get.

Conall nods. “We can be packed within the hour.”

“No,” I tell Conall. “You two will stay here. You won't come with us to the battle.”

Conall's head tilts. He doesn't say anything, but his expression is resistant.

I soften. “I appreciate all you have done for me. All you've lost.” Emotions break through, squeezing around my throat. “But I need you to protect those who stay behind. Because if I fail . . .” I falter. “If this war ends badly, I can't think of anyone else I'd trust more to get those in this camp to safety.”

Conall's jaw clenches, and after far too long, he looks down at me with narrow eyes. He's angry, but he's my soldier.

“All right,” comes Nessa's soft agreement. I look at her, seeing an emotion I realize I expected. She's fine with staying behind—because she's found her place in this war.

I don't say anything, just step forward and wrap my arms around her neck.

“I don't want you to feel like you're alone in this, though. Like I'm abandoning you,” she whispers into my shoulder.

A laugh bursts through the knot in my chest. “You
have
made me realize I'm not alone. And it's hardly abandonment if I tell you to stay.”

Nessa pulls back. She looks older suddenly, like pieces of the innocent girl she was in Abril's work camp have splintered away over the past months. She takes Conall's hand and beams up at him.

Watching them together, I remember being in the Abril camp, meeting Nessa, Garrigan, and Conall, three survivors
far stronger than I could ever be. I remember Nessa loving me instantly, Garrigan treating me with wary concern, and Conall outright hating me. He was afraid I'd stoke Nessa's hope too high and it would shatter her when Angra killed me.

I swallow the sorrow that almost makes me confess the future to them. How my death will come, and how I hope it doesn't break Nessa like Conall feared it would.

But a look of confusion descends over Conall and Nessa's faces.

Then I hear it again. The noise that cut off my confession.

Shouting.

“MY QUEEN!”

I squint at the rider who races up the road, and when he stops beside me, I blink dumbly.

“Trace?”

Both he and his horse look one swift gust away from collapsing in exhaustion. My eyes scramble behind him, looking for the rest of the Thaw or Henn—they should all be together, leading in the final group of refugees.

But it's just Trace, and he drops off his mount. “I rode—ahead—to warn—”

I grab his shoulders, holding him in place. He meets my gaze, his eyes holding such sadness I wonder how he hasn't cracked to pieces.

“We were escorting the refugees back,” Trace says. “Three nights ago, we realized Phil had gone missing—”

“What?” I shake my head. “Missing? How?”

“Henn sent Phil to scout ahead—and he never came back. Hollis went out to search for him, but he was just
gone
.” Trace gulps in a breath, steadying himself more. “We think Angra's soldiers got him, because—”

“Where?” My voice is shockingly level despite the panic that itches at the back of my throat. If they were too close to Oktuber, the Cordellan soldiers stationed there under Angra's command could have—

But Trace cuts off my analysis. “There's more, my queen,” he says. “Hollis saw something when he went out searching. He came back with news of an army marching from Oktuber. Marching
here
.”

I jolt back from him. “What?”

“We still haven't found Phil,” Trace continues. “If the Oktuber soldiers got him—we don't know. We don't know, but they're coming.
Now
.”

Conall is already moving, loading up the weapons scattered around his tent. Nessa stays beside me, steady and quiet.

If soldiers are marching from Oktuber, they aren't Angra's full forces. They'll be Cordellan, mostly, but still heavily armed. How do they even know where we are, though? This camp should be hidden—

Memories of Paisly nearly send me to my knees. Of Phil, broken, frantic, apologizing for what he told Angra.

And now, if he's been taken again . . . it won't be hard at all for Angra's men to break him even more.

My heart turns to lead and drops into my stomach, gagging me with the force. But no, no, I won't piece together any theories, not until I know for sure.

“How long until they arrive?” I ask Trace.

He shakes his head. “They should already be here.”

My body goes cold. I take off running, Conall, Nessa, and Trace falling in behind me.

Screaming pulls at my awareness from the northeastern corner of camp. It's muffled at first, startled yelps that speak to the confusion in my own body—
too fast, this shouldn't be happening, how did this even happen?

The northeastern corner of camp is already a battlefield. Conall, a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other, plasters himself on one side of me, Trace on the other, Nessa panting behind us.

Soldiers stream in from the forest beyond, pouring between tents, slicing through fabric, attempting to form battle lines in the camp's haphazard streets. They take advantage of the element of surprise by hurling themselves into each skirmish faster than our soldiers can keep up. Autumnians race around me where I stand, stricken, in the middle of the dusty road not five paces from the edge of the battle.

The battle, the fight we needed as the distraction, it's happening
now
, right now, in the middle of a camp filled with innocents.

I grab my chakram and hurl it into the fray, the magic in
my chest leaping after it. That push encourages the blade faster, harder, slicing through enemies in a swift arc of defense. The first line of soldiers falls, their armor clanging as they drop, and my chakram returns.

More soldiers come, more and more.

I grab Conall and Trace. “We need help!”

They nod over the cacophony. Nessa, her face blank, squares herself alongside me, and I hate the irony of this situation—we had just resolved to be apart for the final battle, and now here we are, she at my side. I expect her to run off to be with the children in the other part of camp, but she stays, rushing alongside me as I holster my chakram and push on.

The main tent isn't far—so close to the fight,
too
close—and I angle inside just as Caspar and Sir fly out, fury in Caspar's black eyes, severity in Sir's.

“Queen Meira,” Caspar says. “Angra's soldiers have—”

“I know,” I cut him off. “But they aren't Angra's.”

Sir jerks to me, but one of Caspar's generals flies out of the tent and Caspar turns to him.

“What?” Sir presses me, his brow creasing.

“They aren't Angra's soldiers,” I say. “They're Cordell's. From Oktuber.”

Sir's face unravels and he whirls to grab Caspar's arm. Caspar turns with a startled frown, and when Sir repeats what I said, Caspar blinks at me, awareness registering on his face. He ducks back into his tent, shouting at more of
his commanders that it isn't Angra's full army.

Sir's eyes sweep up and down my body, the familiar examination for injuries, before he does the same to each member of my group. When he gets to Trace, he pauses.

But Trace sags against one of the tent posts, his face ashen. “I didn't get here in time,” he says to no one in particular.

We have scouts stationed all around camp who should have warned us of this attack long before Trace showed up. Someone would have seen such a large army coming.

This isn't right.

“Meira! Trace?”

Mather slides to a stop beside us. My eyes latch onto the bloody sword in his hand and all my instincts scream.

“The attackers,” he says, his confusion at Trace's presence retreating in favor of the threat of bloodshed. He nods at Sir, grim. “They're coming this way.”

This isn't right, this isn't right—

Sir already has a sword out by the time I feebly ask, “Here?”

My eyes go to the main tent, the clearing before it, filled with tables that will easily be overturned and wedding decorations that will easily be shredded. Of all the places in this camp, this offers the best chance at success—freedom to attack in larger groups, with the added benefit of being our command center.

How would the Cordellans even know this is here? This
camp is a maze of meandering streets and lopsided tents.

But it's too late for answers, too late to fix this, too late to do anything but gape at the soldiers who march down a street leading from the northeastern corner of camp, their Cordellan armor matted with signs of battle.

And at their lead stands someone the sight of whom makes Mather and Trace jolt forward.

“Phil!” they shout, warning him to get out of the way—but alarm flares so strongly in my heart that I all but gag.

Sir meets my eyes, and he knows too, and we stand there, sharing a look like we can both see an avalanche coming.

One who knew the exact location if this camp.

One who could have figured out the rotation of our scouts to let an attacking army avoid detection.

Phil stops, all the way across the square.

“Phil!” Mather screams again, less sure.

Trace comes to, and the look of rage on his face stabs grief through my stomach.

He grabs Mather's arm. “
He
did this.”

Mather shakes his head. But the proof solidifies as Phil raises his hand and points.

At me.

The Cordellan soldiers behind him need no further instruction. They tear into the clearing, weapons ready. The scream of their attack draws our own fighters to the area, rushing in from side streets and spilling in a wall of defense against the dozens of Cordellans.

Sir, Mather, and Trace crash into the fight. Mather and Trace are driven by a warped mix of determination and agony that makes their movements toxic. I remain in a state of shock near the main tent with Conall and Nessa.

This wasn't the first time Phil told Angra of my location—according to Mather, that was how they ended up in Paisly at all. But then, Phil had been terrified and mournful.

Now—now he is beaming, pride practically leaking out of him.

Familiarity crashes into me and I stumble back, Conall catching me under the elbows.

I've seen this before—Angra torturing someone, only to have that torture plant the seed of betrayal. Theron.

I whirl on Nessa. “Get to safety!” I shout as I shove into the battle, Conall plummeting after me in a whirl of blades. Chakram in one hand, I slice my way through, sending spurts of magic where I can. Bursts of strength to the Winterians who fight; a perfect angle on my chakram to protect a Summerian. The Cordellan soldiers move quickly, slashing and stabbing as if each move brings air and they're suffocating. But we have greater numbers than them, a slight advantage. How long it will hold, though, I don't know.

I couldn't save Theron from Angra—but I can purge Phil of the Decay. The attacking army will no doubt keep on with the battle, but I can save him at least. I have to.

Phil stands at the entrance to the road the Cordellans
came down, watching the frenzy with delight. Before he even sees that I've drawn closer to him, I sheathe my chakram and use both hands to channel magic at him, a spiral of ice that flies from my body. I can practically taste the darkness in him.

But I've constantly purified my Winterians any time we were exposed to the Decay.

Except for when Phil and Mather were captured.

Except for whatever Phil underwent at Angra's hand.

I'm hit with the memory of Theron in Angra's cell, the mental torture he inflicted on Theron until, on the floor of Rintiero's dungeon, Theron told me that he
wanted
this.

Angra's doing it all over again.

No, no . . .

Phil howls as my magic pummels him. I break free of the fight, a handful of paces from him with Conall beside me.

Phil looks at me, his gaze fuming. “I don't want your help!”

Again I fling my magic and he slides back, howling through clenched teeth.

“I've seen what your magic can do,” Phil barks. “It hurts everyone. You just keep fighting when it's been your fault all along—if you'd just surrender, we'd be free.
You
are the reason we were in those camps.
You
are the reason we all get hurt. I refuse to let you hurt us anymore.”

“I'm not hurting you, Phil,” I try, hands spread, my magic quiet. “I'm protecting you from Angra—he's the
reason you're doing this!
You're
the one hurting people right now!”

I wave at the battle. As I do, Sir and Mather stumble out, their faces streaked with dirt and blood. Mather's weapons hang limp at his sides and he faces Phil, posture defeated.

“Phil,” Mather tries, his voice coming like a gust of air from a punch. “Why?”

Behind him, a Cordellan turns from the fight and dives at us, but Sir intercepts, gliding back into the fray. His eyes cut to us when they can, a pinch in his expression I've only seen a handful of times: worry.

Sir is worried. For us.

I hold the tremor in my gut until it subsides.

Phil's fury boils over. “For
you
! For all of us! You got hurt, and she didn't care. You got hurt
again
, and she kept pushing on—she doesn't care about us. She doesn't care about anything but her stupid revenge! I won't let her hurt us anymore!”

He's screaming now, eyes bloodshot and crazed, skin stretched taut as though it can't contain the madness underneath.

My eyes flit to a movement behind Phil.

And my whole world dissolves.

Panic jerks me forward, one foolish burst of instinct, but that's all it takes to draw Phil's attention away from us to the figure who slips out from between two tents behind him. She raises a knife in her hand as though she
intends to stab him in the back.

“Nessa!” I scream now, because Phil sees her—there's no point hiding. “RUN!”

She doesn't move when Phil turns, both of them freezing solid to the road. I realize then—Phil's a Winterian. I should be able to stop him. But I'd be forcing something on him, bending him to my will. It would be a negative use of magic.

Mather, Conall, and I take off toward them, but Phil is too close to Nessa, both of them standing in the road leading away from the clearing, free of the battle. The clearing around us holds the worst threats, blades puncturing the air, dying screams rippling through the breeze. All attention is here, so as we sprint forward, we fumble through parlaying enemies and have to duck weapons, while Phil and Nessa have only each other to worry about.

I hear a shout. “Meira!”

But I don't turn. I feel Sir's panic from where he's locked in battle, unable to break free and help us—but I can't think about it. Not the way he's worried, and showing it—not the way his voice splits in my ears, ragged and harsh, and makes me swallow a cry.

I fumble with my magic. I used it to relocate the Winterians in Juli without touching them, but I was driven by pure instinct, and before I can let myself go enough to try with Nessa, a Cordellan howls and dives for me. Conall twists, blade clashing with the Cordellan's.

I break free again, but Phil hears us running, or feels the ground shake, or senses my panic drawing near.

He has no problem using magic against us—which merely confirms that the Decay is in him. He launches his hand back at me. A knot of inky shadow barrels out of his fingers, polluting the air until it slams into me. I rear back into Conall just as he dispatches the Cordellan. Both of us go down, and Mather pauses, growls, and pushes himself forward.

A horn sounds, and shouts fill the air, feet stomping in a thunderous wave. But it's the Autumnians fighting who scream in recognition as their countrymen pour into the area, more of our soldiers finally organized and called in. It won't be long now—our numbers will overwhelm the Cordellans. Even behind Phil and Nessa, Autumnians appear, running toward them with weapons poised. They'll save her—they'll stop this.