Ice Like Fire (3 page)

I press into him and lift up, catching his lips on mine. He moans and sweeps his arms around me, curving along the bend of my body, returning my kiss with a passion that undoes me.

Theron runs a hand along my temple, over my ear, and down my cheek, his fingers brushing aside the hairs that curl out of their pins. I tip my head to the side, leaning into his palm, my own fingers encircling his wrist.

His scars are lumpy and misshapen under my touch. My heart—already beating erratically from the way Theron’s lips are rough yet his touch gentle, by the pang of need in my gut when he moans like that—spirals out of control.

I ease back, our exhales turning to frost. “Theron, what happened to you in Abril?”

The words barely come, but there they finally are, dancing through the snowflakes.

He hesitates, not hearing me for a beat, then he flinches, his face awash with horror that he smoothes it into confusion. “You were there—”

“No, I mean . . . before.” Deep breaths. “You were in Abril before I knew you were there. And . . . you can tell me. If you ever need to. I mean, I know it’s hard, but I—” I groan at myself, head dipping between us. “I’m not good at this.”

Despite everything, Theron chuckles. “Good at what?”

I look up at him and start to smile back before I realize how he swept over everything I said. “Good at . . . us.”

His lips explode in a smile that only reminds me of everything it covers. “You’re better at us than you think,” he whispers, freeing his hand from my grip to run his fingers the rest of the way down my face, my neck, until he cups my shoulder.

I offer a weak smile and shake my head. “The miners. I should get to them.”

Theron nods. “Yes,” he agrees. A burst of hope brightens his face. “Maybe this mine will be the one.”

Unlikely,
I almost say. We’ve started excavating more than half of Winter’s mines, and none of them have yielded anything beyond the usual resources. The fact that Noam believes we’ll find the place from which the Royal Conduits originated is infuriating. The magic chasm has been lost beneath the Season Kingdoms for centuries, and just because a Rhythm is now the one searching, he expects to unearth it?

These are Winter’s mines, and he’s forcing
my
people to use what little strength they have to dig them up. They spent sixteen years in Angra’s work camps; they should be healing, not chasing power for a man who already has too much.

My anger flares again and I turn, leaving the carcasses of my mock enemies behind.

Theron walks beside me in silence, and as we weave
around a few boulders, Gaos springs up before us as if the Klaryns had been keeping it hidden until my return. It looks much like Jannuari did when we first arrived, but at least parts of that city have been patched together since then. So few people have chosen to repopulate Gaos that we’ve only been able to repair the area closest to the mines, leaving most of the city in ruins. Cottages dilapidated from disuse line the streets; rubble fills alleys in hastily made piles. Snow coats everything, hiding some of the destruction under pure ivory.

I hesitate, just a twitch of a pause, when Gaos comes into view. But it’s enough to cause Theron to thread his arm around my waist, tugging my body to his.

“It will be better in time,” he assures me.

I peer up at him, still desperately clutching my chakram. His hand cups my hip, warm against Winter’s perpetual coolness.

“Thank you.”

Theron smiles, but before he can reply, another voice cuts him off.

“My queen!”

The sound of snow crunching under her feet follows Nessa’s cry, which is just as quickly followed by her brothers’ startled shouts. By the time I turn to face her, she’s halfway across the remaining stretch of snow between Gaos and me, her gown flapping around her legs.

She stumbles to a halt, panting between smiles. Months
of freedom are finally starting to show—there’s a healthy plumpness to her arms and face and a soft glow in her cheeks.

“We’ve been searching everywhere for you! Are you ready?”

My face morphs into something between a wince and a grin. “How angry is Dendera?”

Nessa shrugs. “She’ll be appeased once the mine is open.” She shoots an awkward bow at Theron and grabs my hand. “May I steal her away, Prince Theron?”

He brushes his thumb over the curve of my hip bone in a movement that sends a shiver up my skin. “Of course—”

But Nessa is already hauling me across the snow.

Conall and Garrigan meet us just inside the first street of the city, Conall with a glower, Garrigan with an amused smirk.

“You should have taken us with you,” Conall reprimands. He realizes who he’s reprimanding and clears his throat. “My queen.”

“She’s perfectly capable of taking care of herself,” Garrigan defends me. But at Conall’s glare he tries to hide his smirk behind a rather aggressive cough.

“That’s not the point.” Conall whips to me. “Henn hasn’t been training us for nothing.”

I almost repeat Garrigan’s words, almost lift my chakram for emphasis. But the lines of strain around Conall’s eyes make me tuck my chakram behind my back.

“I’m sorry I worried you,” I say. “I didn’t mean—”

“Where have you
been
?”

A trembling squeak catches in my throat as Dendera comes storming up the road.

“I leave you alone for
one minute
and you take off like—” She slams to a stop. I try to hide my chakram even farther behind my back, but it’s too late.

The look she gives me isn’t the furious glare I expected. It’s tired, drained, and as she closes the space between us, her forty-some years hang even heavier from her face.

“Meira,” she chastises.

I haven’t heard her, or Nessa, or anyone but Theron call me that in . . . months. It’s always “my queen” or “my lady.” Hearing it now is a burst of cold air in a stuffy room, and I gulp it in.

“I told you,” Dendera says, easing the chakram from my hand and passing it to Garrigan. “You don’t need this anymore. You are queen. You protect us in other ways.”

“I know.” I keep my jaw tight, my voice level. “But why can’t I be both?”

Dendera sighs the same sad, pitiful sigh she’s given me way too often these past three months. “The war is over,” she tells me, not for the first time, and probably not for the last. “Our people lived under war for too long—they need a serene ruler, not a warrior queen.”

It makes sense in my head. But it doesn’t make sense in my heart.

“You’re right, Duchess,” I lie. If I press too much, I’ll see the same expression I saw on her face a hundred times growing up—fear of failing. Just like with Theron and his scars, and Nessa too—if I catch her when she thinks no one is watching, her eyes become hollow and glassy. And when sleep brings her nightmares, she weeps so hard my heart aches.

As long as no one mentions the past or anything bad, we’re fine.

“Come.” Dendera claps her hands, all business again. “We’re late enough as it is.”

Meira

DENDERA TAKES US
to a square that opens mere paces from the Tadil Mine. The buildings here stand whole and clean, paths swept clear of debris, cottages repaired. The families of the miners already deep in the Tadil pack the square along with Cordellan soldiers, most bouncing from foot to foot in an effort to keep warm. An open-air tent caps the entrance to the square, our first stop as we file in alongside tables littered with maps and calculations.

Sir and Alysson bow their heads in quiet discussion within the tent. Their focus shifts to me, a genuine smile crossing Alysson’s face, a sweep of analysis passing over Sir’s. They’re just as sharply dressed as Nessa and Dendera in their gowns—while traditional Winterian clothing for women consists of pleated, ivory, floor-length dresses, most of the men wear blue tunics and pants under lengths of white fabric that wrap in an
X
pattern around their torsos.
It’s still strange to me to see Sir dressed in anything other than his battle gear, but he doesn’t even have a dagger at his hip. The threat is gone, our enemy dead.

“My queen.” Sir bows his head. My skin bristles at my title on his lips, one more thing I have yet to grow accustomed to. Sir, calling me “my queen.” Sir, my general. Sir, Mather’s father.

His name seizes me.

Mather, back in Jannuari, training the Winterian army. Mather, who hasn’t really talked to me since we sat on our horses side-by-side outside of Jannuari, before I fully took up the responsibilities of being queen, and he fully surrendered everything he thought he once was.

I’d hoped he just needed time to adjust—but it’s been three months since he’s said more than “Yes, my queen,” to me. I have no idea how to go about bridging the distance between us—I just keep telling myself, maybe foolishly, that when he’s ready, he’ll talk to me again.

Or maybe it has less to do with him no longer being king and more to do with Theron, who, even though our engagement has been dissolved, is still a permanent fixture in my life. For now, it’s easier not to think about Mather. To fake the mask, force the smile, and cover up the awfulness underneath.

I wish I didn’t have to force it away—I wish none of us had to, and we were all strong enough to deal with the things that have happened to us.

A tingle of chill blossoms in my chest. Sparking and wild, icy and alive, and I stifle a sigh at what it signifies.

When Angra conquered my kingdom sixteen years ago, he did so by breaking our Royal Conduit. And when a conduit is broken in defense of a kingdom, the ruler of that kingdom becomes the conduit themselves. Their body, their life force—it all merges with the magic. No one knows this, save for me, Angra, and the woman whose death turned me into Winter’s conduit: my mother.

You
can
help them deal with what happened,
Hannah prods. Since the magic
is
me, unlimited within my body, she’s able to speak to me, even after her death.

I’m not forcing healing on them,
I say, withering at the thought. I know the magic could heal their physical wounds—but emotional? I can’t—

I didn’t mean that,
Hannah says.
You can show them that they have a future. That Winter is capable of surviving.

My tension relaxes.
Okay,
I manage.

The crowd stills as Sir leads me out of the tent. Twenty workers are already deep in the mine, as every opening has gone the same way—they go in, I stay up top and use my magic to fill them with inhuman agility and endurance. Magic only works over short distances—I couldn’t use it on the miners if I was in Jannuari. But here, they’re only in the tunnels just ahead.

“Whenever you’re ready, my queen,” Sir says. If he senses how much I hate these mine openings, he doesn’t say
anything, just steps away with his arms behind his back.

I grind my jaw and try to ignore everything else—Hannah, Sir, all the eyes on me, the heavy quiet that falls.

My magic used to be glorious. When we were trapped in Spring and it reared up and saved us; when we first returned to Winter and I wasn’t sure how to help everyone, and it came flooding out of me to bring snow and fill my people with vitality. When I had no idea what I wanted or how to do anything, I was grateful for the way the magic always just
knew
.

But now I realize that if I wanted to stop it from pouring out of me, surging through the earth, and filling the miners with strength and endurance, I couldn’t. That’s what scares me most about these times—I can
feel
how boundless the magic is. It sparks and swirls up, and I know, deep in the throbbing pit of my heart, that my body would give out long before the magic would even consider stopping.

I’ve tried to harness the streams of iciness that whirl through my chest and turn every vein into crystallized snow. But reason clogs my certainty, knowing that my people need the very magic I’m trying to stifle, and before I can will myself to control it, it’s done whatever it wanted to do.

Like right now, the magic pours into the miners before I’m able to breathe. I stand in its wake, trembling, eyes snapping open to look on the expectant faces of the crowd. They can’t see it or sense it, unless I channel it into them.
No one knows how empty I feel, like a holster for arrows, existing only to hold a greater weapon.

I tried to tell Sir about this—and immediately choked it back when Noam came in the room. If Noam finds out that all he needs to do is have an enemy break his Royal Conduit and he would
become
his own conduit, he wouldn’t have to find the chasm. He’d be all-powerful, filled with magic.

And he wouldn’t need to pretend to care about Winter anymore.

I turn, hungry for a diversion. The crowd takes that as my dismissal and softly applauds.

“Speak to them,” Sir urges when I move for the tent.

I curve my arms around myself. “I’ve given the same speech every time we’ve opened a mine. They’ve heard it all before—rebirth, progression, hope.”

“They expect it.” Sir doesn’t yield, and when I take another step toward the tent, he grabs my arm. “My queen. You’re forgetting your position.”

If only,
I think, then immediately regret it. I don’t want to forget who I am now.

I just wish I could be both this
and
myself.

Alysson and Dendera stand quietly behind Sir; Conall and Garrigan wait a few paces off to the side; Theron made it here and converses with a few of his men. This normalcy makes it easier to notice how out of place Nessa suddenly looks next to her brothers. Her shoulders angle forward, but her attention is pinned on an alley to my right.

I shake out of Sir’s grip and nod in Nessa’s direction as I stride forward.

“They’re back,” she whispers when I reach her. Her eyes cut to the alley, and I can see from this angle that Finn and Greer stand at the edge of the light, motionless until my attention locks onto them.

Finn bobs his head and they move toward the main tent as if they’ve been in Gaos all along. They left Jannuari with us but split off soon after, creeping away before any Cordellans could realize that the queen’s Winterian council went from five members to three.

Sir guides me to the tent as if afraid I’ll refuse to do that too. But I push ahead of him, crowding around the table in the center with Alysson and Dendera. We all try to maintain a relaxed air, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to draw attention. But my anxiety splits into frayed strands that loop more tightly around my lungs with every passing second.

“What did you find?” Sir is the first to speak, his tone low.

Finn and Greer push against the table, sweat streaking through smudges of dirt on their faces. I cross my arms. Such a normal thing—the queen’s advisors returning from a mission. But I can’t get the gnawing in my head to agree.

I should have gone on this trip to retrieve information for the monarch—I shouldn’t be the monarch herself.

Finn opens his sack and pulls out a bundle while Greer removes one from his waist. “Stopped in Spring first,” Finn
says, his attention on the table. Only Conall, Garrigan, and Nessa look out of the tent, watching the Cordellans for any sign of movement toward us. “The early reports that the Cordellans received were correct—no sign of Angra. Spring has transformed into a military state, run by a handful of his remaining generals. No magic, though, and no warmongering.”

Relief fights to sputter through me, but I hold it back. Just because Spring is silent doesn’t mean everything is fine—if Angra survived the battle in Abril and wanted to keep his survival a secret, he’d be a fool to stay in Spring.

And since we haven’t heard a word from him since the battle, if he is alive . . . he definitely doesn’t want anyone to know.

“We passed through Autumn on our way to Summer—both are unchanged,” Finn continues. “Autumn was gracious, and Summer didn’t even realize we were there, which made poking around for rumors of Angra easier. Yakim and Ventralli, on the other hand . . .”

I jolt closer to the table. “They found you?”

Greer nods. “Word spread of two Winterians in the kingdom. Luckily when we said we were there on behalf of our queen, they seemed to soften toward us—but they didn’t let us out of their sight until we left their borders. Both Yakim and Ventralli sent gifts for you.”

He nudges the bundles toward me. I pick up the first one and pull back the matted cloth to reveal a book, a thick
volume bound in leather with black lettering embossed on the cover.

“
The Effective Implementation of Tax Laws Under Queen Giselle
?” I read. The Yakimian queen sent me a book about tax laws she enacted?

Finn shrugs. “She wanted to give us more, but we told her we hadn’t the resources to carry it all. She invites you to her kingdom. They both did, actually.”

That makes me pick up the other package. This one unrolls, spreading over the table to reveal a tapestry, multicolored threads weaving together to form a scene of Winter’s snowy fields overtaking Spring’s green-and-floral forest.

“The Ventrallan queen had that created,” Finn notes. “To congratulate you on your victory.”

I trace a finger down the twirl of silver thread that separates Winter from Spring. “We were in Ventralli and Yakim before Angra fell, gathering supplies and other such things, and people saw us, and never once did the royal families care. Why now?”

Greer’s age deepens in the way his wrinkles crease, his body slouches. “Cordell has its hands in two Seasons now—Autumn and Winter. With such a strong foothold here, they’d be able to take Spring easily too, if Noam chose to do so. Summer has trade agreements with Yakim, but no formal alliance. The other Rhythms know Noam is seeking the magic chasm, and they fear his ambitions.
They’re testing Winter’s allegiance to Cordell, to see if they can unseat Noam.”

“They were both most adamant that you visit them,” Finn adds. “Queen Giselle told us you are always welcome. Queen Raelyn said the same of Ventralli—she seems to be the one speaking for the king, though he was just as eager to meet you.”

I shake my head. “Did any of those kingdoms show signs of . . . him?”

I can’t say his name. Can’t force myself to feel it grating on my tongue.

“No, my queen,” Greer replies. “There was no sign of Angra. We didn’t go to Paisly—the trip through their mountains is treacherous, and after the attitudes we observed in Ventralli and Yakim, we didn’t think it necessary.”

“Why?”

“Because Paisly is a Rhythm too—they wouldn’t host an ousted Season king. Yakim and Ventralli were barely willing to host
us
. I don’t think . . .” Greer pauses. “My queen, I don’t think Angra is in Primoria.”

The way he says that makes me shut my eyes. When I first suggested that someone search the world for Angra, everyone thought I was being overly cautious. He vanished after the battle in Abril, but most believe that the magic disintegrated him—not that he escaped.

“He’s dead,” Sir says. “He is no longer a threat we should concern ourselves with.”

I stare at him, drained. He—and the rest of my Winterian council—still believes Angra was defeated, even after I told them that his Royal Conduit had been overtaken by the Decay, a dark magic created thousands of years ago, before the Royal Conduits were made. Then everyone had small conduits, but when they slowly began to use the magic for evil, that negative use birthed the Decay. With the creation of the Royal Conduits and the purge of all smaller conduits, the Decay weakened, but it didn’t die—it fed on Angra’s power until Mather broke Spring’s staff.

If Angra is alive, he could be like me, a conduit himself, unburdened by the limitations of his object-conduit. And the Decay could be . . . endless.

But if Angra is alive, why would he be hidden away? Why wouldn’t he have swept through the world, enslaving us all? Maybe that’s what makes Sir so certain he’s dead.

Everyone watches me, even Conall, Garrigan, and Nessa. My eyes shift past them and open wide. One second, no one watched the Cordellans for one second—

“Trouble?”

A Cordellan soldier ducks into the tent, flanked by three others. The moment their armored frames fill the space, my council yanks to attention, casting off any pretense of ease.