UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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17

SPRING IS HERE. In Cordell.

Noam flies out of the room, shoving past us, vanishing before anyone can say a word. Because if we were able to get a word in, we would have pointed out that all his machinations were for nothing. Spring is attacking him, which means there is no deal. Angra not only won’t agree to give him Winter, he won’t agree to anything.

All Noam’s playing with us, all his lying, was futile, because now Angra has betrayed him. Mather was wrong too—handing himself over to Angra wouldn’t have stopped anything. Angra won’t rest until all of Winter is his, completely, every last piece of it.

I inhale, breathing down a sudden surge of anxiety as the soldiers file out of the room after Noam. We’re alone, the Winterians standing in the hall and the Prince Heir of Cordell still hovering by his father’s desk.

Theron moves forward. He didn’t know about his father’s plan. He couldn’t have, not the way he looks at me now as he crumples the letter in his slowly tightening fist, his face a mix of regret, anger, and sympathy. I jump when Mather’s fingers move against mine and I realize I’m holding on to him like he’s the only thing in this palace keeping me from falling into a hundred different pieces. When did I take his hand? After Sir punched him? I still can’t admit that really happened. That Mather suggested, for the briefest of moments, dying for us.

My hand tightens on his, my chest pulsing with a medley of emotions. Fear for what he wanted to do; sorrow that, for a moment, I could have lost one of my friends; relief that Sir didn’t agree to his insane suggestion. But of all the emotions I feel, I’m most shocked for the ones I don’t feel. There’s no giddiness at holding his hand, none of the things I used to harbor for him. Mather is my king, my friend—my best friend—and I am his soldier. I’d hold Dendera’s or Finn’s hand the same way, if they needed it, if they threatened to let themselves die for us.

The reasons why I’m holding Mather’s hand changed so fast. But this isn’t about him, or anything that’s happened between us. This is about a soldier protecting her king. This is about what it’s always been about: Winter. And Mather is Winter.

Sir is the first to wake out of his shock. Of course he is. He starts spitting orders at everyone. “Finn, Greer, Henn, Dendera, Mather—to the armory. If any of the Cordellans give you trouble about getting gear, come find me. Alysson, stay with Meira. Neither of you are to leave this palace. Prince Theron—” Sir starts, then realizes he has no responsibility to order Theron about.

Theron looks at him, teeth grinding together. “Armory too.”

Sir turns to Mather. “I want you battle-ready in fifteen minutes.”

Mather nods, his face set in a mask that could hide a plethora of emotions. Fear. Anger. Regret. Everything. He drops my hand and jogs down the hall after Finn, Greer, Dendera, and Henn, not looking back at me or letting me know at all what he’s thinking. Maybe he’s not thinking, can’t think, after all this.

Sir points at me. “Meira—”

I grimace. “Stay in the palace—I know.”

His jaw clenches. “I was going to say be careful too.”

My mouth falls open. But Sir has already hurried down the other end of the hall, toward the front doors that Noam just exited.

Theron sets the letter on his father’s desk. “I didn’t know,” he promises when it’s just us and Alysson and a few soldiers down the hall.

I inhale, amazed at how hollow I feel. Like the chaos of the past few seconds has drained everything out of me. “It doesn’t much matter now, does it?”

Theron looks up at me, something working behind his eyes. A few quick steps through the study and he bursts into the hall, grabbing my hand. “Lady Alysson, would you please accompany us? I will place you under watch of my personal guards.”

Alysson gapes at him. “Your Highness—” she starts but Theron is already walking, dragging me down the hall. She follows, but soldiers come from around the corner to fall in behind Theron and me, cutting us off from Sir’s wife as they stand guard over their heir.

Theron pulls me closer to him and we stop at the entrance of the ballroom. “Shall we head to the armory?” he asks. His voice is low enough to be blocked from Alysson by his wall of soldiers.

I look up at him. He keeps his eyes on me, a strange light glowing behind them.

“But Sir—” My voice falls out from under me as the gleam in Theron’s eyes intensifies. In the aftermath of all that happened, in the midst of all that is happening, it’s such a warm relief that I smile back.

Theron shakes his head. “Wants you to stay in the palace? You and I both know that’s not where you’ll do the most good.”

I stare at him, letting his words roll over me. “You’ll let me fight?”

“Once we get to the gate, whether you fight or return to the palace is up to you. But I’m not going to hold you back, if that’s what you mean.”

“Why?”

Theron’s mouth twitches. “Because I’ve been at my father’s disposal my entire life,” he whispers. “And I will not stand for this game monarchs play. These are our lives. I will not let my father or William or even Angra continue to tell us that they aren’t.”

His poem rushes back to me, his jerky handwriting on the parchment in the library. Theron cocks up a corner of his mouth, studying me in a way that doesn’t feel possessive or condescending. It feels equal.

Warmth gathers in my stomach when I smile back. It’s hardly the time for smiles and lingering gazes, but I can’t help it. It kicks away a small bit of the anxiety of facing Herod, as if having Theron beside me will keep me safe through this. Not as a protector—as an equal. I’m not the only one caught in this. I’m not alone.

My mind flashes to the last time someone helped me like this, when Mather faked an injury so I could be the one to go to Lynia and get the locket half. Mather did it because he knew I wanted it, but Theron is doing this because he knows he would want it.

I look up at Theron. They’re so similar. And yet so not.

Theron nods at the soldiers behind him. “Escort Lady Alysson to safety.”

“Yes, my lord,” one of them says and turns. Alysson starts to walk away with them, assuming we’re somewhere in the hodgepodge of men. The moment her back is turned, Theron and I slip in the opposite direction, diving through a door and into the servant’s halls.

I know what I have to do to prove that I can be useful as both a future Cordellan queen and myself—fight in this battle. Protect this city and the Winterians. Sir will hate it.

At this point, I couldn’t care less.

We wait for Mather, Greer, Henn, Finn, and Dendera to get their gear and leave before we enter the armory. But it turns out Cordell doesn’t have armor suited to my small stature, so an extra layer of padding later, I’m marching beside Theron out of the armory with one of the beautiful metal crossbows strapped to my back. Too few of Cordell’s soldiers use the Autumnian weapon, and I’d stand out in the ranks of the army. The longer I go without Sir noticing me, the better.

“Don’t you look battle ready?”

I don’t turn as Mather jogs up beside us. He’s outfitted in armor that matches Theron’s—everything from breastplates down to greaves, chain mail clinking under it all. He’s got just as many weapons too, a sword and knives and even an ax strapped to his back, and the bruise on his cheek is a flaming purple-red now.

Mather eyes me but I refuse to look at him. “You’ve never listened to William, have you? Not when we were children and not now.”

I don’t respond, even as I realize that Theron is on my left, Mather my right. Both of them are wound as tight as I get before I launch my chakram through the air, and shooting looks as sharp as knives at each other.

We’ll deal with that later. I just hope later isn’t after Bithai’s been ransacked by Spring and we’re scrounging through debris.

The closer we get to the main entrance to Bithai, the more hectic the crowds are. Soldiers run toward the gate while citizens run away from it, dragging carts or livestock laden with whatever valuables they can hold. Residents of Bithai’s outer villages, most likely, come to take shelter within the city’s stone walls.

“There’s a tower by the gate. My father will be there along with your general,” Theron says. He looks at Mather like he’s trying to decide what else to add.

Mather nods. “How many men do you have in the city?”

“Five thousand. Not nearly the bulk of our army, but enough.”

“Conduit?”

Theron cocks one corner of his mouth up, letting slip the smallest bit of pride. “My father may be known for pouring his conduit magic into agriculture, but he also gives much of his power to defense when needed. I think you’ll be pleased, King Mather.”

Theron’s smile does nothing to ease one out of Mather. He stares at Theron, through him, and nods. “I hope for Bithai’s sake that you’re right.”

The streets leading up to the front gate may have been busy, but the gate itself is chaotic. Citizens pour in from the land beyond, cattle bleat, babies wail. A few soldiers try to instill some sort of order, but the overall feel of the area is to get in as fast as possible, in any way possible.

The tower Theron mentioned looms on our left, spiraling high above the wall to give those within a view of the surrounding area. A few captains linger around the door and as we draw closer, the muffled shouting of their fearless leader makes even the air feel nervous.

Captain Dominick is one of the few by the door. His dark hair hangs in sweaty strands and when he turns to us, his tense face loosens almost imperceptibly.

“My prince, a messenger reported that Spring’s current speed puts them at our gate by late afternoon.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Theron says. He shoots a look at Mather, hard and daring. “Shall we?”

Finally, finally, Mather lets his mouth twitch in a small grin. “Your kingdom, you first.”

Theron tips his head and darts into the tower, his armor clanking as he twists up the spiral staircase. Mather starts to follow so I trot behind him, nearly smacking into him when he slams to a halt.

“You can’t come like that,” he snaps down at me.

My lip twitches in a snarl. I was prepared to hide somewhere in the tower to avoid Sir, but Mather owes me at least his silence, doesn’t he?

“If you send me to the palace I’ll just sneak out and you won’t know where I am or be able to keep track of me. Trust me, this option’s better for everyone.”

Mather cocks an eyebrow. “I know.”

“What?”

He sighs and waves over a running soldier. “Your helmet, please.”

The man pulls off his helmet. Mather takes it in one hand and wraps my braid in a knot at my neck to slide the helmet over my head. The visor is still up and I feel like I’m looking at him, hazy and distant, through a tunnel, memories overlapping this moment with all those times I sparred with him. All those practice fights when it was just us, two children pretending to be soldiers. Or two soldiers pretending to be children.

“Don’t speak,” Mather says. “Don’t draw any attention to yourself. If William realizes it’s you, you’re on your own.”

“Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”

That makes him pause, one hand on each side of the helmet. I think maybe he wants to say something else, but he just drops the visor down with his thumbs.

“When it starts, stay near me or so help me, Meira, I will march you back into Bithai myself.”

I nod, the hollow core of the helmet clanking back and forth. It smells like sweat and old iron in here. Iron that was probably mined out of the Klaryns, that makes me feel ever so slightly more at home.

Mather vanishes into the tower without another word. I hope my disguise is convincing enough, Spring’s approaching threat distracting enough, that Sir doesn’t notice the slightly skinny soldier-boy in the room. I’m not sure what I fear more: Sir’s wrath or Angra’s.

I squint through the narrow eye slits and trail Mather up the stairs.

Seven stories later, Noam’s screaming flies at us through an open door. The great circular room is the highest in the tower, surrounded by views of the southern land beyond Bithai. High-ranking generals scatter throughout, leaning over maps or trying unsuccessfully to avert their eyes from their wailing king.

Spit flies from Noam’s mouth, his arms wave, armored body pacing nervously. His conduit sits in a metal belt at his hip, its usual place of honor.

“Damn you, William! Damn you and every single one of your white-haired nuisances. I knew I should never have let you cross my borders, let alone sacrificed my son in all of this. Damned Seasons. Good-for-nothing barbarians who refuse to surrender to stronger forces—”

I file along the wall next to two other guards. They nod at me like I’m supposed to be there. So far, so good.

“Your kind is too beyond reason to negotiate,” Noam continues. “I should have seen it before. But no, I tried to give you mercy, debased my kingdom by joining with a Season, and this is how I am repaid? Now Angra marches on me! Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t hand all of you over to Spring right now?”

The tantrum I threw hours ago seems like nothing compared to the way he stumbles around, back talking and fumbling his reasoning. Noam truly believes he was doing us a favor? He thinks we should be grateful to him. That nothing he did brought this upon us, as though he wasn’t the one who tried to negotiate with the Shadow of the Seasons.

Sir doesn’t react to any of this, leaning against the far wall and massaging the skin just above his nose. He’s never lowered himself to respond to screaming or threats—not that I have firsthand experience with that or anything.

Theron trudges into the middle of it, already tired though the true battle is hours away. “Father, stop—”

Noam whips toward him like he forgot his son would be here. “Yes! Of course, son. Break it off. Break it off now. We’re done with Winter. The engagement is dissolved.”

“No,” Theron growls, a low noise that shakes awareness into everyone in the room.

Noam frowns at him. “What?”

“No,” Theron repeats. “I meant stop making yourself look like an ass, Father.”

Sir flips his head up, hand still held absently before him, eyes wide in a shocked amusement.

Noam rears back. “Don’t tell me you—Spring is coming—they did this, they brought them here—”

“No, you brought them here. When you wrote that letter, you told Angra exactly where they were. What did you think would happen?” As Theron shouts, madness flickers in his eyes, something waking up after years of watching his father in silence. The men around him stare in wonder, clearly shocked at seeing their prince yell at their king. “That Angra would bow down to you? That he would negotiate and trade and act fairly? Angra wants to kill them. He will stop at nothing to get what he wants, and negotiating has never worked with him. You think Winter didn’t try to negotiate before it fell? You think Autumn hasn’t tried to strike a deal with him since Spring turned on them? You’d know how truly vengeful he is if you ever bothered to go to Autumn.”

I frown. Noam has never even been to Autumn, the home of his sister and niece, the place where he sends thousands of his men to fight?

“You cannot speak to me like that.” Noam throws a hand up to silence him, but Theron shoves it away.

“I can. You’ve wasted too much time already. Our men need a leader right now, someone to tell them how to survive the approaching army, not a blabbering idiot. Your great plan failed, Father. Own up to it.”

Noam’s mouth drops open. As does mine. As does every single mouth in the room.

From the trembling light in Theron’s eyes to the way his hands quake ever so slightly at his sides, he seems to be realizing how far over the edge he’s gone. “You have to do this.” His voice drops to a hiss. “I’d take that dagger from you right now if I could, but you’re still the oldest living male heir of Cordell. So act like it.”

Noam looks every bit the cornered dog, stray and wild, desperate for an escape. After a few long minutes, he relaxes, pulls his shoulders back, and looks his son in the eye.

“You’ll make a fine king. Someday.” He adds the last word like a threat.

Theron bows his head.

Noam turns to the nearest general and puts a hand on his dagger. “Your regiment will be our left flank. Have them ready. And you—right flank.”

He spouts commands like nothing happened. Like he purposefully staged his little outburst as some odd pre-battle ritual.

Theron’s shoulders slump when his father turns away, but Sir steps up beside him and murmurs something that makes Theron beam.

Mather steps up too. “That was brave.”

Theron wipes a hand down his face. He looks drained, as if he might fall over and sleep for a week. But there’s something else in his eyes now, something roaring beneath the surface.

“And should have been unnecessary.” Theron turns to Sir. “I’m sorry. For everything. Cordell is far better than—” His eyes flick to Noam. “I apologize, King Mather. General Loren.”

Sir waves him off. Behind them, Noam points at the field beyond and orders something at one of his generals.

“I agree with one thing he said,” Sir offers. “You will make a fine king, Prince Theron.”

Compliments from Sir and Mather in the span of five minutes. If it were me, I’d pass out with gratitude, but Theron just stares at the stone floor.

Sir plows right on past it too. I’ll never understand men. “For now, Mather and I are needed with our people.”

Theron nods. “Of course.”

Sir jogs down the staircase, Mather a beat behind him. As Mather passes me, he meets my eyes, and mouths, Try to stay here.

It is one of the safest places to be. Unless Angra’s cannons rip through the tower, in which case it’s a long, slow tumble to the ground.

I swallow and stand a little straighter. Noam is busy channeling power into various regiments by willing the conduit’s magic to pour into men here, officers there. The hum of the tower has switched drastically, no longer buzzing with concern or anxiety. Amazing what a calm leader can do to a group of men.

But it isn’t only Noam’s magic that’s calming them. Theron moves around the room, talking with each general, sending some off to prepare their soldiers. His serenity eases them into submission whereas his father uses brute force. Theron’s steadiness, his certainty, reminds me of someone.

He reminds me of Sir. They have the same solemn surety when faced with life-or-death situations. The same boulder-in-the-ocean stance.

Halfway across the room, Theron glances at me. Does he recognize the overstuffed armor he helped force me into?

A moment passes and a small smile uncurls his lips—not gleaming enough to arouse suspicion, just a small token that says, I’m watching out for you too.

I smile back even though he can’t see.