Frost Like Night (27 page)

TORCHES ILLUMINATE A
room that looks just as I remember it—the diamond-patterned floor; the moist condensation of magic in the air; the door with its elaborate carvings a few paces behind where I put us, just toward the front of the room beside the invisible barrier, our first obstacle to reaching the chasm.

The last time I was here, the world was a completely different place. Theron was with me, my ally instead of my enemy; I stood in front of this door with awe and apprehension, not determination and resolve.

The biggest difference now, though, is the soldiers who wait for us along the front wall.

I rip out my chakram and let it fly.

My blade is covered with blood before Mather and Sir have even oriented themselves in the room, a wave of magic again clearing their bodies of the effects of travel. They
turn, join the fight, and in seconds the Cordellans are dead, their bodies flooding the diamond-shaped carvings in the floor with thick scarlet rivers.

I sheathe my weapon and stomp toward the looming door, hands balled, eyes level.

Fingers grab my arm. “Meira, wait—”

“Don't,” I snap, unable to look at Mather. “If I stop to think, I'll fall apart. Please, Mather.”

I can't think about Theron's desires or Ceridwen and Caspar fighting my war or Conall and Nikoletta back at camp or Rares and Oana—snow, what are they even doing? Have they succeeded in gathering support? Did something happen to them?

Mather holds, grip softening.

“All right. How do we get in?”

I scrub at my eyes and reel to the door. “Together.”

Sir falls in on my other side, and where his silence would usually send me into a spiral of frustration, I'm unendingly grateful for it now.

The three of us line up, facing the door.

“Remember,” I whisper, “we have to be united in our desire to reach the chasm.”

Mather takes my hand, weaving our fingers together, and squeezes. “We're with you.”

Sir takes my hand too. “To the end,” he says. That's all. No
my queen
—just his support.

I know, then, that I made the right decision. There's no
one else I'd rather have with me.

We start walking, taking slow, deliberate steps across the room. Each draws us closer to the barrier, and I hold my breath, my body remembering the horrid sensation of the barrier shredding my nerves.

I fight to keep from wincing as we cross the middle of the room, the invisible barrier. But we keep walking, with no obstacles or pain, and the moment we pass, every particle of air seems to take a collective breath. The density of magic takes on a new aura—where it had felt present yet still, humidity choking the air with power, it sparks against my skin now, tiny bursts of alertness that flood me with an undeniable sense of purpose.

The labyrinth wants us here—the
magic
wants us here.

Maybe the whole time Primoria wanted to rediscover the magic chasm, the chasm wanted to be rediscovered itself.

We stop just before the door. Mather shivers next to me. “This is . . . incredible.”

Sir echoes his wonder with a breathy snort. “Now what?”

Always the pragmatist. I release their hands and slide forward another cautious step. The door stands a few paces away, but there's no knob that I can see, just those keyholes in the carvings of vines, books, and masks near the symbol of the Order of the Lustrate in the center.

I take the keys off the chain around my neck and hand one to Sir, one to Mather. They approach the keyholes on either side of the one I pick and lift their keys.

Does it matter which key fits which hole? I guess we'll find out.

“On three,” I say, and count it out. We plunge our keys into the holes, twist, and . . . wait. They all fit, but nothing happens.

I step back from the wall. “Maybe we need to—”

But my voice is ripped from my throat by a sudden onslaught of darkness.

Mather and Sir yelp. My body registers the weightlessness of falling as the torches' light fades above me. The fall makes my panic have to scramble to catch up with me as I smack into the wall of a tunnel sloping ever downward, careening me into the earth.

Mather and Sir aren't in this tunnel with me—not that I can tell, at least. By the time I catch my breath, the tunnel dumps me onto a smooth stone floor, the darkness giving way to harsh, bright light that's somehow . . . ancient.

I'm not sure there's a spot on my body that isn't bruised. A moan gurgles in my throat as I roll onto my elbows, head still spinning.

But that disorientation retracts on a burst of clarity when I turn over and find that the stone floor just
ends
.

I scramble back, heart galloping anew.

I'm on a ledge, at least seven stories in the air, over a long, rectangular room. The tunnel that dumped me here offers the only way off the ledge, but one glance at the smooth stone of the walls and I know climbing isn't an option.

I stand, one hand to a particularly nasty bruise on my temple. The residual panic from the fall leaves a metallic taste on my tongue. This has to be the first test of our worthiness. What did the Order's clue say?

Three people the labyrinth demands

Who enter with genuine intent

To face a test of leadership,

A maze of humility,

And purification of the heart.

To be completed by only the true.

This will be the test of leadership.

My arm drops. Rares said the Order wasn't told what the actual tasks would be, beyond this message, and I haven't wondered what they could be either. Partly because I had no idea where to even begin wondering, and partly because a piece of me didn't really believe I'd get here.

But I
am
here. In the labyrinth. A place no one else has reached in centuries.

I take a deep breath. I've come this far. I can make it through these tests too.

Roaring fire pits crown the room. A circular dais waits directly below me, too far to jump without receiving a number of broken bones, and beyond it, a wall rises halfway up, cutting the entire room down the middle.

I drop to my knees and bend over the edge, trying to
get a better view. Like the floor of the entrance chamber, this floor seems to be carved—but not into diamonds, into platforms. Mismatched shapes spread from wall to wall on either side of the divide, and the edges are carved deeper than normal, giving the illusion that each platform stands independent of the rest.

That would have been odd enough, but as I lean forward to get a better view, my fingers touch something cold on the ledge. I jerk back, hand tingling in a way I know all too well—conduit magic.

A small silver oval sits embedded in the rock, coated with the fine brown dust of years. I use the hem of my sleeve to wipe the dust clear—and laugh.

It's a mirror. At first glance, it looks like any other mirror, but as I tip my head to the side, the light catches and reveals a luminescent picture—the Order of the Lustrate's seal. Just like the one I found in Yakim's library. This one, though, is firmly planted in the stone; it's not a gear to be cranked as the one in Yakim was. I frown at it, then press my finger to its reflective surface.

Instantly the platforms below me start to softly glow—green, white, brown, red, maroon, silver, gold, and purple.

Snow above—these are the colors of the
conduits
. White for Winter, brown for Autumn, red for Summer, silver for Ventralli, gold for Yakim, and purple for Cordell. The green and maroon must be for Spring and Paisly.

Again my hand starts to tingle, and I know this mirrored
plate has been infused with magic as the keys were. When I touched those keys, they showed me visions of what I needed to do to reach the chasm. Maybe this plate will show me what I need to do next? It makes sense—if the Order created this labyrinth to keep unworthy souls out, they'd still want a worthy soul to pass it someday, to rid the world of magic, as was their original goal. But how to make sure a worthy soul would pass the tests when the time came?

I lower the barriers I have around my mind and open myself to whatever help the plate can offer.

A single scene flows into my mind—the platforms below me, the colors glowing brighter in pairs. One green platform on the left side; one green on the right side. And on and on, starting at the other end of the room and finishing below me, at the dais just under my ledge.

I pull back, confused. I'm not given long to think on it—shouting pulls me to my feet so I can peer down the length of the room. At the ends of both sides, small holes of black release two figures onto circular daises like the one below me. Mather and Sir tumble out, one on each side of the divide, separated from me by the long expanse of glowing platforms.

“Are you all right?” I call, my question echoing off the towering walls.

My voice jerks Mather's head up. “Yes.” He leaps to his feet, stumbles to the edge of the dais. “Are you?”

Sir rises too, his eyes darting over the room. When he
looks at me, he squares his body as though he expects a fight to come storming in at any moment.

“I'm fine,” I shout, ignoring every injury that says otherwise. “The labyrinth is testing us.”

I glance over the room again. Mather is on the left side of the divide; Sir is on the right. The vision of the matching platforms created a haphazard path from them to me.

Realization sparks like a wildfire.

“I think you have to get to me.” I point at the dais that sits where the divided wall ends below me.

Sir surveys the platforms. “This seems elaborate for such a simple task.”

But Mather shrugs. “I'm not just going to stand here.”

And he steps off the dais, onto a platform that glows silver. It drops under his weight. He stumbles, arms flailing, and as the floor sinks beneath him, the gaps around the platform release something that makes me shout a warning. Not that he needs the warning—the moment the flames burst around the platform, shooting up to his waist, Mather curses and stumbles back onto the dais, beating the fire that caught on his pants.

The platform returns to normal, the flames extinguishing as if they never existed at all.

I wobble forward, rocks skittering off under my boots and shattering on the ground below. I recognize this too. From where I found the key in Summer—the pit that opened up, the fire ring at the bottom. This is far more
severe, though, and falling into these pits seems like a quick way to get incinerated.

Sir paces his platform, attention cutting from me to the wall that separates him and Mather. “What? What happened?”

“Fire happened,” Mather shouts back. “It looks like we have to cross the room
without
stepping on the platforms.”

Sir crosses his arms, analyzing the rest of the space around him. “We could—”

“Wait!” I shout. “You have to step on the same platforms on each side. I'll guide you.”

Mather eyes me, hands still out like he expects the entire floor to give way. Sir looks equally pensive, but he steps to the edge of his dais. They both wait.

My heart sputters. This is the test—leadership. Testing my ability to lead, and their ability to follow.

Months ago—snow, even
weeks
ago—I would have shriveled at the thought of being the one to give orders and expect them to be followed. I'd have been weighed down by thoughts that Sir would be better than me in this situation, or Mather, and that I should have been the one following, the soldier meant to facelessly carry out missions.

But I can't afford doubt. Yes, I harbored fear the whole time, but being a competent, worthy leader doesn't mean being
only
competent and worthy—it means being so despite whatever emotions might arise.

I draw in a breath, my heart flapping until concentration
breaks away everything else.

“Mather—to the green platform. Sir—green, on your right. Mather—red, just ahead. Sir—jump over the brown platform and land on the other red one—”

My hands snap out to point at the corresponding platforms that I saw in the vision; my orders are clear and unwavering. Every muscle hums with adrenaline, every nerve flickers in alertness as I take stock of the platforms around them and calculate which ones they need to reach.

Mather and Sir hop from platform to platform, faltering as each one locks into place. They don't hesitate to listen to me, don't question how I know what they need to do, as if obeying orders from me is a natural state for them.

I hardly recognize the woman standing on the ledge over the room, spouting orders with all the confidence of a queen. Once, Mather lands on a platform a breath before Sir and the whole thing plummets down, fire bursting up around him in a spiral of orange and yellow heat. But I scream for Sir to jump, jump
now
, and he obeys in time so that both their platforms level out safely.

The fate of everyone I love hangs on me getting Mather and Sir through this.

And I know, above everything else, that I will not fail.

Finally, they leap simultaneously onto the circular dais below me. I drop to my knees, beaming at them as they share a relieved look.

I almost say something to them, but the labyrinth
doesn't allow us that luxury this time.

The ledge I'm on tips, along with their dais.

“Not again,” Mather groans as the three of us go plummeting into another tunnel—this time together, a tangle of limbs and sheathed weapons and shouts that get muffled in the dusty darkness of the labyrinth.

THIS TUNNEL SPIT
the three of them into a small square area enclosed by smooth walls. Torches flickered on three of the walls, casting enough light for Mather to sweep his eyes over Meira, checking for any injuries she might be hiding.

But she was the first on her feet, her hands absently beating her pants to remove the sheet of dust that had attached to every free space on all of them.

“That was too easy,” she breathed.

Mather checked that none of his weapons had come loose during the fall and stepped beside her. “What did you expect?”

Meira shrugged and finally looked at him, holding his gaze. Looking at him, really looking at him, like she had in Autumn.

Mather weakened.

She broke the look with a tip of her head. “The next test will be of humility,” she said, directing the statement to William as well, who walked deeper into the room with overly cautious steps. Two unexpected drops into mysterious tunnels had made them all a little distrustful of the floor.

“How did you know how to complete that test?” William asked her as he analyzed the room.

Meira too started looking around, though her gaze stayed on the floor. A moment passed, and she stopped, standing in the dead center of the room.

She crouched down and brushed away dirt. The torches caught whatever she had revealed—a mirror? And from this angle, Mather could see the symbol that had decorated Rares and Oana's compound carved into the reflective surface. The beam of light hitting a mountaintop.

Meira pressed her hand to the mirror and stayed there, body hard. Mather's gut cramped even tighter with anxiety. When she looked up, she shot William a steady gaze.

“The Order created the labyrinth to keep out anyone who would abuse magic,” she said. “But they eventually wanted someone worthy to reach the chasm to destroy all magic—so they left these plates, just like they left the keys I found.” She waved her hand when she saw both Mather and William's brows furrowed. “I never told you about that, but it doesn't matter—they're conduits, infused with enough magic to show a vision whenever a conduit-wielder intent on reaching the chasm touches them. The last mirror
showed me the path you needed to take to get across the room.”

“What did this one show you?” William asked. He accepted her explanation so easily. Not that Mather expected him to fight her; but Mather had to clamp his jaw shut to keep from making a lot of worthless statements, like
These people put a lot of faith in a pure conduit-wielder getting into the labyrinth
and
They're helping you die faster. I hate them.

Meira stood, frowning at the walls of the room. Mather followed her gaze—

And nearly leaped back into the tunnel.

This place did terrible things to his soldier's instincts—his every muscle was poised for attack, his every thought was about drawing his weapons. But so far, they had seen no physical enemies, just the itching sensation of an ambush coming with every breath.

If this was how they were going to go out, lured to some fantastic end with no enemy save for mystical tunnels and glowing platforms, Mather would go mad long before death.

What Meira was frowning at, what Mather had
sworn
wasn't there moments ago, were doors. Three of them in the walls now, beside each torch.

Meira neared the door on the left, her hands slung idly in the straps of her chakram's holster.

“There are three doors,” she said. “And three of us.”

Mather balked. “We have to split up?”

The refusal must have been clear in his voice, because
Meira's shoulders drooped a little. Mather bit back further retort. This was hard enough on her without him questioning her every thought—but what did she expect from him? That he'd wordlessly agree to every idea that drew her closer to death?

There were three tasks, though. This was only the second. They would get through this and still have one more before Mather had to figure out a way to save her.

And maybe this damn labyrinth would produce an answer on its own.

“Fine,” he conceded. “I'll take the middle one.”

He started toward it, but Meira intercepted him. Her body pressed against him, her mouth on his in a still, frozen kiss, like she wanted to simply absorb how it felt.

“This is a maze of humility,” she said. “We're on our own for it. That was all this plate showed me—a maze, each of us standing alone.”

Mather chuckled. “Why do I get the feeling you're worried for me?”

“Well, you aren't the most humble man I know.”

“My lady, I'm hurt that you have so little faith in me.”

As Meira let him go, her face wore the same look she had given them in the last test—confident and serious and fiercely attentive.

She glared at William, who lingered at the door on the right, watching them with an expression that triggered Mather's need to defend his relationship with her again.
But William just dropped his head in a reverent bow.

“We'll see you on the other side,” he told her. “Wherever that might be.”

Meira and William each lifted the torch from beside their door and took it with them, ducking into darkness that abated in a steady pool of light from their flames. Mather drew in a breath and waited, motionless, until both Meira's and William's lights had been swallowed by the blackness farther on. When neither screamed for help, Mather squared his shoulders and approached the door in the center, the light twitching as he lifted the torch. Iron formed the base for a knot of fuel, oil most likely, and he shuddered to wonder how it had come to be here after so many thousands of years.

The flame licked heat onto his fingers, and he stepped through the door, creeping forward in small increments. Walls rose around him, ending before the ceiling but still too high for him to climb, and a thick layer of rubble and dust coated the floor.

He'd taken only two steps inside when a whoosh of air assaulted his back. Mather ripped a knife free and turned, crouched low, his eyes flying over the wall behind him.

The
wall
behind him? The door, the opening that led back to the room they had been dumped in, was gone.

Mather hurled his shoulder against the newly appeared wall, knowing even as he did that it wouldn't budge. This test really had meant to split them up.

The flame in his hand flared brighter for a flash as he whirled back to face the hall, his breath tight in his throat. Nowhere to go, now, but forward.

His steps became less cautious the farther he went, meandering deeper into the maze. Turns opened every so often, halls branching off to the left or right, forks splitting the path in two, dead ends popping up at blind corners.

Mather slapped the wall of another dead end, his fifth so far. Now he knew why Meira had feared for him—he'd never been good at things like this, tasks that required patience and analysis and a keen, clever mind. Meira would have no trouble with this. William wouldn't, either. They were probably both right now waiting for him wherever this test dumped them, conspiring about how best to go into the maze and save him.

Great—he'd come on this journey to save Meira, and she'd be the one who would have to save
him
.

Mather pivoted, stomping back to the last place he'd made a wrong turn. No—he'd get through this damn maze. He'd figure out this labyrinth's secrets and resolve some way to make this all nothing more than an adventurous story they'd tell their children one day.

He shifted a knife out to scrape an
X
into the left side of the wall where he made a left turn. Now if he passed it again, he'd know he was going in circles and to turn right instead.

A few more steps, then he carved another
X
.

A branch of four halls. Right this time.
X
.

Mather shifted the pack that clung to his chest, the contents scraping against his back. Sweat crept down his spine and smeared in greasy streaks over his face, but he brushed his dirt-matted hair back with his wrist and carved an
X
as he turned right again.

Another branching hall. Mather made to carve a marker as he turned left—

But growled at the stone when an
X
already stared up at him. He
was
going in circles.

Mather flung himself backward, dove at the right hall, stopping only to carve a shaky
X
on this one. Right, right, left, straight—

Until he met a hall with
X
's carved at every turn.

“Damn it!” he swore.

Mather took off at a run, jogging straight, left, straight, taking the most directly forward path he could. No more circles, no more turns if he could help it—

Back again to the hall with
X
's at every corner.

If the labyrinth wanted to play it like that . . .

He tossed the torch to the ground, the flame flaring up as it clattered on the stone, but the light held. He didn't think about it extinguishing; he didn't think about much of anything beyond the frustration of these halls, the darkness stretching ever onward, the walls pressing around in stances that seemed almost mocking. Could walls mock him?
These
walls could, and as Mather attacked the one
closest to him, he swore he could hear it laughing.

His dagger chipped furiously at the stone, carving a rudimentary foothold. And another, slightly higher; still another, and another, until Mather had to lift himself up onto the first ones to carve more. Slowly he carved his way up, chipping rock in a flurry of projectiles.

Mather jammed his dagger into the wall about an arm's length from the top. One more foothold, and he'd be able to stand atop it and see this maze—at least as far as his light would show.

But as Mather wrestled to pull another chunk of rock free, the wall . . .
trembled
.

He stiffened, legs braced in his crude footholds, both his hands wrapped around the dagger embedded in the wall. A second shudder ran up the stone, this one more deliberate, and without further warning, every foothold Mather had carved vanished.

He scrambled against the now-smooth wall, only his knife remaining as support. But even that failed him as the wall seemed to eject it like an arrow from a bow. Mather dropped, his body bumping against the stone as he slid down at least twice his height before collapsing with a thud—

On his torch.

The light snuffed out beneath him, encasing the maze in darkness.

Mather had thought he understood darkness. The time
they'd spent in the Rania Plains had given new meaning to the word, when moonless nights would fall and their fires would go out. Storm clouds rolled in sometimes, casting gray hues to the blackness, and Mather remembered standing at the edge of camp, petrified, but forcing himself to endure the slithering feeling of being blind yet surrounded. Enemies could be right before his eyes but he, lost, disoriented, was unable to see them no matter how hard he strained.

That was what he feared most: being unable to perceive danger even if it was right before his eyes.

Like with Meira.

Mather leaped to his feet, fresh blades in both hands, ears straining to compensate for his lack of sight. Thoughts of her fueled his drive, urging him into a frenzy.

Yes, like with Meira. Like how, even as he lay next to her at night, even as he kissed her and touched her and had her
right beside him
, he couldn't see what danger possessed her. He couldn't protect her.

He couldn't protect her.

Mather slashed out at nothing.

“Damn it!” he screamed when he slammed into a wall, the stone tearing into his shoulder. “DAMN IT!”

He spun, stabbing, sweat pouring in waves down his body.

If he didn't get out of here, he wouldn't be able to protect her. She'd go on with William to the next test, and
after that, William would let her die. She'd walk into whatever end she had planned, one Mather couldn't see, an enemy crouched in darkness and stealth, waiting with eager, unforgiving hands to destroy the best part of his life.

“No!” One of Mather's blades caught the wall and twisted out of his hand, clattering into the darkness. His muscles ached, his throat burned with thirst, and he slumped against the wall, forehead to the dusty stone.

No. She wouldn't die.
She wouldn't die.
He would save her. He would get out of here—damn it,
he would get out of here—

Mather dropped to the ground, knees banging on the floor. He'd never felt this helpless, not even when Herod had captured Meira. Something about this place, this darkness, the looming threat of losing her, made every fear and doubt and hatred rear in his heart. Every bone in his body ached, and he caved forward, wanting to lash out, wanting to dissolve.

“You aren't the most humble man I know”
came a voice.

Mather exhaled, dust puffing in a cloud that coated his face.

“This is a test of humility. You aren't the most humble man I know.”

“Meira!” He launched to his feet, stumbling forward. “Meir—”

He stopped. It wasn't her—she had said that to him before they'd parted.

Mather gulped breaths to calm himself. Was he hallucinating?

A test of humility. The tests had been designed to ensure that only those who were worthy reached the magic chasm. And humility meant being able to acknowledge your own unworthiness and admit things like . . . defeat.

Mather's instinctual reaction to that was a rumbling
Never
. It went against everything he had ever been to admit that he couldn't do something, especially when that thing involved Meira. No—he'd figure out a way. He'd get out of this.
He'd save her.

Mather dropped to his knees again, hands open and empty on his thighs.

Humility.

“I can't . . . ,” he started, determination coiling around his words. He
could
, though. If he tried harder; if he could climb the damn walls; if, if, if . . .