Frost Like Night Page 8

  After scrubbing my skin, I open the trunk against the wall and find clothes within. Robes; thin, airy pants; soft leather boots that stretch up past my knees; long scarves knotted into belts in a rainbow of colors. I sort through until I find a sky-blue robe with navy swirls on the sleeves and collar, the tones matching my one accessory, the locket. A silver belt completes the outfit, and as I stand in the center of the room, eyes closed, I allow myself a few moments of steady, silent breathing.

  For the first time in months, years even, I can breathe. I can feel things beyond crippling doubt, beyond the consuming effort of keeping my emotions in check.

  A knock on the door echoes at the edge of my awareness.

  “You’re ready for the next lesson,” comes Rares’s voice, and I know he means more than the fact that I am awake and dressed.

  “Yes,” I start, smiling. “I am.”

  It turns out, I slept for days. Three days, to be exact. No matter how good my body feels, my mind throbs with guilt at the thought of how much time I wasted.

  I remember Angra’s vision, his plan for the world. Is he still in Rintiero? Or has he moved on, spreading his fear and darkness to Yakim, Summer, Autumn . . . ?

  I hurry after Rares, expecting him to lead me to the training yard I saw out front so we can dive into the sort of training I know I’ll need against Angra. When he takes me into a room not far down from mine, I hover in the doorway, confused.

  It’s small, half the size of my room, with a cluttered desk spilling papers and books onto the floor. Maps cover the walls—maps of Summer, Ventralli, and Yakim; maps of Winter and Spring. Lines trace paths from Abril to Jannuari to Juli to—

  “You were tracking me,” I say, breathless.

  Rares steps forward. “Once the Order knew Hannah was on the right path, we hoped someone in your line would come to the decision to get rid of magic entirely. I only kept an eye out for you to come into your power. Which you did, here.” His finger goes to Abril on the map. “And here is where you found the door in the Tadil Mine”—he slides down to Gaos—“and here is where—”

  “Okay, I get it.” I slap his hand off the map. “You’re a centuries-old magical man who’s been using his spare time to spy on a teenage girl.”

  Rares chortles. “Someone got her fire back! But no, I haven’t been spying—I was tracking. The only thoughts I ever got from you were magic related, and the occasional worry about war. Need I remind you that certain members of the Order have been tracking Primoria’s monarchs for thousands of years, waiting for one to decide what you did.”

  I drop into a padded chair, all the others serving as more space for books and papers.

  “Well, it’s still strange.”

  He shrugs. “I’ll let you take it out on me later. Until then . . .”

  I lean forward, eagerness clearing my mind. Yes, training—no time to waste.

  Rares takes a seat on the edge of his desk, moving a stack of books to the side. One catches my eye—Magic of Primoria.

  “That book!”

  Rares glances down at it before shooting me a grin. “You’ve seen this before?”

  I nod, my eyes darting over the familiar gold lettering. This copy is just as worn as the one I read in Bithai months ago. The Order wrote it; it makes sense Rares would have a copy.

  I shift in the chair, ready, waiting, desperate.

  I slept for three days. It’s been four days since Angra overtook Ventralli.

  Be calm. I’m here. I’m doing what I need to be doing.

  I square my shoulders and look up at him. “What’s the next lesson?”

  Rares’s eyes brighten.

  My lips unfold in the barest smile. “Have I surprised you?”

  He laughs. “Have you surprised yourself?”

  His question throws me and I shrug. “I’m . . . tired, mostly,” I admit. “I’m tired of fighting every single thing in my life. I’m Winter’s conduit; I’m Winter’s queen; I’m the only one who can stop Angra and the Decay. Not that I’ve accepted my fate, I’m just done denying it. I’ve spent years analyzing every choice and resisting every change. I don’t like who that’s made me. That’s not the person I want to be.”

  “Who do you want to be?” he asks, the one question I’ve been avoiding for weeks.

  I didn’t think it mattered. I told myself it didn’t matter so I wouldn’t crumble under how far I was from who I truly wanted to be. But I’ve already come so far, let go of so much, that maybe I can let go of my self-inflicted barriers too.

  So I level a look at Rares. “I want to be enough.”

  His smile is soft. “You already are, dear heart. Feeling like you’re enough has nothing to do with actually being enough—you choose whether or not you are.”

  Another choice. That eases me back to the matter at hand, and I clear my throat, casting off this topic for an equally stifling one.

  “The next lesson?” I try again, and Rares waves his hand in agreement.

  “Yes, lesson four—do you know what happened to the magic chasm?”

  I squint. “Aren’t we ready to move on to magic use?” That’s how Angra will be defeated, after all. He’s too powerful to be taken down with a mere sword—I’ll have to counter his Decay with magic, and block any of my people with magic, and save the world, with magic.

  Rares cocks a brow at me. “Patience, dear heart. Do you know what happened to the magic chasm?”

  Anxiety flutters in my stomach—three days here, four days since the takeover . . .

  But I force my eyes to meet Rares’s.

  “It vanished centuries ago. No one knows how.” I pause. “But I’m guessing you do.”

  He grins. “If one were to dig deep enough into the Klaryns—in any Season, not just Winter—they would find the same door you did. The only reason you found it is because of Winter’s skill at mining; the Order originally constructed the door through Summer’s mountains, with it triggered to appear wherever anyone digs past a certain spot, anywhere in the Klaryns. But that is only the first of many obstacles to prevent the magic chasm from being easily accessed. You encountered one other such obstacle in your search for the keys.”

  Rares fusses with his collar and draws out the key on a long chain. He pulls it off his neck and extends it to me, and I take it, holding it delicately by the chain as he presses on.

  “The keys were left in Summer, Yakim, and Ventralli as the creators of the chasm traveled down through those kingdoms from Paisly—and to separate the keys in order to make sure, further, that finding the magic chasm was not easy, and that if someone attempted to open it, the search for the keys would give the Order time to make sure it was someone we wanted to reach the chasm. But the next difficulty you will encounter, beyond getting the two other keys back, is the labyrinth that lies behind the door.”

  A connection snaps into place. “The Order hid the magic chasm. Paisly hid it.”

  Rares sighs. “We only meant to keep the wrong sort from reaching the magic until we could destroy it. We didn’t intend for your Seasons to take the blame for the chasm’s disappearance. But much happened that we did not intend, dear heart.”

  A Rhythm is responsible for the act that made the rest of the world despise the Seasons.

  And while I could easily nurture this spark of anger, I don’t. I let it drift away, because it’s part of yet more things that have already happened. All I have room for, all I can see, is what lies ahead. The one goal around which all others fizzle: destroying all magic.

  “This labyrinth,” I start, my fingers tight around the key’s chain, “I’ll need to use my magic for it too? But can’t you come with me? You will, won’t you?”

  Rares whirls to a stack of books in the corner. When he turns back around, he holds an old, yellowed paper that looks one deep exhale away from fluttering into a million dusty pieces.

  “The labyrinth was created by a small group of the Order’s most powerful conduits to protect the magic from being easily accesse
d—and if it is accessed, it was made so only those worthy can reach it. They kept every detail of it secret. Even when they created it, they—” His voice falters and he purses his lips. “Well. They took their secrets to their graves.”

  My jaw tightens. I’m not the only one who sacrificed everything to protect Primoria. The Order of the Lustrate isn’t expecting me to do anything they haven’t done themselves.

  “But”—Rares lifts an eyebrow—“they left us a clue.”

  He extends the paper to me and I stand to take it.

  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.

  I read it twice. Three times. And before I can stop myself, I’m hit with an aching thought:

  Theron would know what this means.

  I drop the paper on the desk. “A riddle.” I back up, legs bumping into the chair until I stumble and catch myself on the armrest. The key’s chain bites into my palm, the key itself smacking against my thigh. “Is that all? Because I—I need—”

  This room is far too small. For all my progress, I can’t catch my breath, and I fall into the chair as I wheeze at the familiarity of reading ancient passages about magic. My memories of Theron rear high—sitting in his library, listening to him talk through that book, Magic of Primoria. I let myself dance with the idea of loving him because he was sweet, and kind, and we both wanted more of our lives. Even though it was an arranged marriage, even though it was political, even though I knew that I could never be the person I needed to be to love him.

  He would always be Cordell’s heir; I would always be bound to Winter.

  I press my free hand against my forehead, swallowing the icy bursts of magic that swirl up my throat. I don’t want to fight this guilt anymore, but I don’t know how to fix it—because I can’t save him. Everything that has happened to him will be with him forever, in the same way all Winterians still tremble from their years of enslavement.

  So what can I do?

  I could do what I’ve recently done with everything else. Acknowledge it, feel it, and let it bob out into the abyss, a constant presence, but not a crippling one.

  Rares hasn’t moved from his position beside the desk, giving me room, letting me breathe. And when I look up at him, he nods but stays quiet. Letting me heal on my own.

  “What does this mean?” I wave at the paper, my voice croaking.

  “For one thing, it means only two people can accompany you. The labyrinth accepts only three at a time, to limit those who can gain access to the magic.”

  “So you can come with me?”

  “The door and the labyrinth were made so only the worthy reach the magic chasm. You noticed the barrier that repels anyone who tries to approach the door? The only way to pass that is for three people to cross together, all believing in their worthiness to reach the magic—the second part of the riddle, Who enter with genuine intent. A united effort. Simple enough, yes? But not entirely. For once you pass through the door, the labyrinth will make you prove that belief. It will test all three of you in ways that measure this worth—leadership, humility, and heart. I don’t know what the tests are precisely, beyond the clues in the riddle, but when you face them, you should be as prepared as possible. Of all the people in the world, which two would you want at your side as you face such trials?”

  Faces flash into my mind. Mather and Sir.

  I frown. Mather, yes. Sir, though . . . there’s a rift between us. But I do know that, if it came down to it, Sir would defend me with his life.

  “Once you complete the labyrinth and reach the chasm, you will have only a few seconds to destroy it,” Rares continues. “When the creators built the labyrinth, they started by forming an exit that opens only when someone accesses the chasm. A way for any worthy souls who reach the magic to leave. But the amount of magic needed to seal off this exit was tremendous, and the moment it opens, every conduit in Primoria will feel it. They will know where it is, and they will be able to access the magic too. You cannot hesitate in your mission, dear heart.”

  My mission. Dying.

  I swallow. I can’t think about it—can’t give myself time to weaken.

  “But to successfully complete the labyrinth’s tasks, you will need what you came here for: control of your magic.” Rares whips his hand out and a cabinet across the room opens. A dagger whizzes out, the hilt barreling into Rares’s palm. He curls his fingers around it, beaming.

  The noise I make is absolutely pathetic, somewhere between a squeal and a whimper.

  I want to understand the ways in which he can control his magic—not only so I can face Angra and protect those I love, but because I had no idea I could use this infuriating energy so gracefully. Magic has done far more bad than good—but as Nessa pointed out in Putnam, we need all the weapons we can get. Any tool I can harness is valuable.

  “Oh, dear heart,” Rares says, his enthusiasm contagious. “You haven’t yet learned the meaning of the word valuable.”

  9

  Meira

  AT LONG LAST, Rares leads me out to the training yard. The late-morning sun shines bright on the stables and the dirt rings worn into the earth. The grass billows in the cool air, infusing me with the smells of hay and crisp old wood—aromas that crafted so much of my childhood. All that’s missing is the earthy tang of prairie grass and Sir shouting at me about my stance.

  My heart knots and I survey Rares as he stops in the middle of the widest ring. Months ago, I wouldn’t have questioned my instinct to want Sir with me in the labyrinth. But uncertainty wears a hole in my belly. So much has changed. My relationship with Sir isn’t what it used to be—or what I want it to be. But what is it now?

  Rares eyes me, ignoring my thoughts, and folds his hands behind his back.

  “There are weapons in that crate.” He bobs his head toward a wooden box. “Get one.”

  I hook the key’s chain around my neck and tuck the key itself into my robe, between it and my undershirt to avoid skin contact. When I touched the other keys, I got powerful visions of what I needed to know in order to access the magic chasm. Whatever this key might show me, I don’t want it right now—I want to learn how to control my magic, to get one step closer to leaving and helping my friends.

  No more distractions, no other lessons, no more emotional breakdowns. Only actions.

  I start to walk toward the crate when Rares clucks his tongue.

  “No,” he chastises. “Without moving from that spot. You treat your magic with confusion, uncertainty, and fear, and as such it responds with chaos. To use conduit magic, you have to know what you want. You have to believe unswervingly that you want a sword from that box—just as, when you face the door to the magic chasm, you must know unswervingly that you are worthy. Confidence is essential to mastering magic, and you’ve already used your magic in such a way when you saw into Angra’s mind. You used your magic to touch him—it was a channeled will. You’re capable, dear heart. Trust yourself.”

  I roll my eyes. “Trust myself. You have met me, haven’t you?”

  Rares chuckles. “You can do it. And if you lose control, don’t worry—I’m more than capable of reining you in.” He waves around the compound. “This is the one place in Primoria where you don’t need to fear using your magic.”

  I square myself into a more solid stance and look at the crate, the warped lid that sits cocked open on top. I can do this. Even if I mess it up, Rares is right—this is the one place where I’m free to make mistakes. There aren’t any Winterians around I could harm.

  Or could I accidentally affect Rares and Oana somehow, since they are conduits too?

  “Don’t overthink,” comes Rares’s sharp reprimand. “Just want.”

  I exhale, long and slow, and stretch out my hand.

  I want to be able to face Angra and get those ke
ys. I want to be able to protect Winter. I want to be able to stop this, all of this—

  I want to survive.

  In doing this, I’ll protect everyone I love. I’ll steal back the keys and get through the labyrinth and save the world from becoming a fearful prison ruled by Angra. But Mather will come with me into that labyrinth. He won’t hesitate if I ask him, and he’ll be there until the end. That is not the end I want for us.

  I don’t want an end with him at all.

  I cup my hands over my face.

  I want Sir there with me too. But will he come? I honestly don’t know anymore. Last I spoke to him, I was so hurt—where do his loyalties lie now? I want—

  I want, I want, I want—

  With a tight snarl, I snap my hand out straight. The top on the box creaks open. And as my eyes widen, a sword comes hurtling out. The hilt smacks into my hand, but my shock is so consuming that I forget to grab it and the blade clanks against the dirt.

  Rares applauds. “Took you a bit to get there, and your finish needs some work, but it’s a start.”

  I stare at the sword, then at my hand. My fingers prickle, cool and stiff, with the magic that shot down my arm on my unspoken command.

  It’s a start.

  Here I am, flopping swords around a training yard, when out there, beyond Paisly, the world could be burning.

  “Not good enough,” I snap and straighten my hand out over the sword. How did I do it? It wasn’t even a thought, but it came on the back of emotion like all the other times I used my magic. What emotion?

  Mather, Sir, the labyrinth, my fate . . .

  I don’t look away from the sword. “Have you received any word of Angra? The Order is still monitoring him, right? Have you received word from them about what he’s doing?”

  Rares realizes what I want and clears his throat. “The Order’s barrier has kept him out of Paisly, and it appears he’s given up attempting to break through—his magic has stopped prodding at our defenses. Which is good, but also worrisome. He knows you’ll reemerge eventually, so for now he has turned his attention to the rest of the world. In the four days since the takeover, his forces have secured Ventralli, with Raelyn overseeing the kingdom in his stead. She’s readying her army, presumably to join him—he’s heading toward the Seasons with Theron, most likely to solidify their hold over Summer or—” Rares hesitates. “Or Winter.”