I take a deep breath, gathering my remaining strength to face Sir, and plunge inside. The giant oak table has been pushed aside to make room for a cluster of pillows, their threadbare brown fabric stretched taut over stuffing of wool and prairie grass. Two bowls—one holding steaming vegetables, the other cradling a handful of frozen berries—wait inside the pillow ring. The cushions surround something else that makes my breath catch on the velvetiness of the warm air: a circular iron fire pit, far enough back so as not to set the pillows aflame but close enough to let the earthy smell of burning coal absorb into the fabric.
Steam rises off wild turnips and onions, twisting into an aroma of savory sweetness. But it’s the berry bowl that makes my stomach do a little dance of excitement as I drop onto a pillow. I haven’t had frozen berries since my last birthday, seven months ago, and seeing the bowl of frosted black and red orbs makes more than hunger twirl through me. Alysson makes them for special occasions, or tries to, when enough ice can be found to freeze the berries solid. They’re a Winterian delicacy, something all the other refugees eat in revered solemnity.
Speaking of Winterian delicacies …
The coals shift, sending up a cloud of warmth. Sweat breaks out across my forehead and my nose tingles with the smell of the heat. It isn’t for warmth that we have this fire pit—I think I speak for every Winterian when I say we’d rather be frozen solid than near any kind of spark—it’s for memory. It’s for the same reason I have a fistful of slowly melting berries in my palm.
Last year, Finn and I bought food in a small market on the outskirts of the Kingdom of Ventralli, one of the Rhythms. While there, he found this pit buried in a pile of iron knickknacks a blacksmith was melting down. When he spent half of our measly savings on it, I expected Sir to beat him with it and make him try to sell it back. But the look on Sir’s face when Finn lugged it all the way back to camp launched a pang of helplessness through my body. The gentle, sad pull of wanting.
Winter made this. Or, rather, Winterians mined the coal and the iron that went to other kingdoms like Yakim and Ventralli, which made the fire pit itself. But the coal and iron still came from Winter, a part of our kingdom ripped from the mountains and molded afar.
To improve their kingdoms’ economies, rulers use Royal Conduit magic to enhance certain areas of expertise that their kingdoms developed based on geography or the natural talents of their citizens. If a certain kingdom showed an interest in education, the ruler used magic to make their people excel at learning; if another kingdom showed an aptitude for fighting, the ruler used conduit magic to make their soldiers more lethal. Winter sat atop the richest part of the Klaryns, so our queens enhanced our ability to find minerals and to grant us endurance and courage in the bottomless, dark places of the earth.
Spring has their own mines in their section of the Klaryns, but theirs produce only deadly powders that fuel their cannons, the only mines in the world that harbor it. That’s what we thought the war was about—Spring wanted to expand their mine holdings. But when they won, they didn’t tear into our mines. They just boarded it all up, like their goal was simply to destroy Winter piece by piece, spirit by spirit, by making us sit back and watch Winter’s most valued possession fall into decay.
Once Angra kills us all, he’ll probably reopen our mines. But as long as we live, it’s more valuable to dangle our useless mines in our faces, taunt us and distract us into making mistakes, getting caught, falling into his open hands. Or at least, that’s what we tell each other, to make it feel less like the war was all for nothing.
I pop a berry in my mouth and stare at the orange and dusty black of the burning coals. The berry numbs my tongue, makes ribbons of ice crawl up my teeth, but its chilly sweetness is suddenly not as enticing. I reach one finger out and put it on the edge of the fire pit, farthest from the heat, and hold it there until the burning sensation creeps up my whole hand. The others set up all this because they want me to know that what I did was important—important enough to burn coal.
But it doesn’t feel important. Not like it should.
I’m reminded now, watching the coals burn, of why I never feel like I truly belong to Winter. I want to understand all this as deeply as Sir and Alysson and everyone else, a reminder of a time when everything was how it should be, but all this is wasted on me, someone whose only connection to Winter lies in stories told by others. I thought that if I had a hand in saving Winter, I’d feel like I deserve it, the kingdom everyone else remembers. I thought I could fill the void left by my lack of memories with purpose. That’s what I’ve always told myself: if I matter to Winter, Winter will matter to me. And today I mattered to my kingdom.
Then why don’t I feel anything more for the fire pit than the slight burn on my finger?
The tent flap rustles behind me, a whisper of noise that could almost be dismissed as the hiss of coals or the wind. My muscles tighten, the hairs on my arms rise. But I don’t flinch, don’t react, just spear a chunk of turnip with a fork.
A breath later, fingers touch the base of my neck where a blade would go if this attacker were truly an attacker. I shiver, but not from the coolness of my wet hair pressing to my skin.
“You’re dead,” Mather says, laughter in his voice.
When I first started learning to fight, he would sneak up on me in the weapons tent or the training yard, slinking noiselessly until he touched my neck and whispered that joking threat. And no matter how many times he did it, it still left me screaming like Angra himself had snuck up on me. Sir, of course, did nothing to stop it; he just said I needed to get better at paying attention to my surroundings.
I look up at Mather and pause mid-chew. He drops onto the pillow across from me, his broad face stretching in a grin.
“Dead? I let you sneak up on me,” I snort. “All this future-king-of-Winter stuff has gone to your head, Your Highness.”
Mather’s face twitches at his title. “You always say you let me sneak up on you. Too scared to admit you’re not as good as everyone thinks you are?”
I swallow. “Aren’t we all?”
Mather drops his gaze to the fire pit, the orange glow pulsing in his azure eyes. “William showed me the locket half,” he breathes.
My hand tenses around the fork, and I open my mouth to say something, but all I can think of are the same illusion-shattering questions I asked him before I left. Things that make our veil of happiness evaporate like drops of water on a bed of hot coals. So I just stay quiet, and in the silence he looks up at me, one corner of his mouth cocked curiously.
“It’s strange to think that the last time any Winterian saw it, it was around my mother’s neck.” His eyes focus on something beside my head, something hovering in the patched-together memories everyone has told him too. Memories of his mother, Queen Hannah Dynam. Memories of how Angra himself marched into the Jannuari palace, killed her, and broke the conduit in two.
I recognize that look. Mather’s face takes on the same aura of disappointment whenever he misses a target in practice, or when Sir beats him at sparring, or when I asked him how he’d use magic if he could. Disappointment in himself, in his inability to do what he set out to do, even when it’s far out of his control. He runs a hand over his face to brush it off, and there’s that emotionless veil again, hiding his true feelings behind a smile.
I shake my head slowly. “You’re insane.”
His eyebrows pinch in the suggestion of a smile. “Am I?”
“Yes.” I stab another turnip and leave the fork there, hovering vertically in the air. “We got the locket half. You shouldn’t be feeling anything other than happiness right now, real happiness, not your fake smiles, Mr. Heir of Winter.”
Mather’s face grows solemn. He pauses, his hands open in his lap like he’s holding all of his worries. “I didn’t feel anything,” he murmurs, a slow, absent thought. “When I saw the locket half. It was the only thing I’ve ever seen of my mother’s. I should have felt something.”
I figh
t to steady my breathing, and my eyes drop for a beat to the fire pit. Wasn’t I just worrying about these same things? I forget sometimes how similar Mather is to me—how we’re both young enough to feel separated from Winter in the same ways. Mather’s lack of feeling is a bit more pressing, though. After all, he’s Winter’s king.
But I don’t have any way to reassure him, any wise words to soothe his fears—if I did, I’d be able to fix my own problems too. “It’s just half of a necklace right now,” I try. “Maybe you’ll feel something when it’s a whole conduit again.”
Mather shrugs. “I’m not supposed to have any connection to it though, remember? I’m just her son.” His face flashes with shame and he shakes his head. “I’m sorry. You’re right; this is supposed to be a happy day. You got the locket half. Thank you.” He leans forward, his eyes intent. “Really, Meira, thank you.”
My face spasms with confusion, but I can’t do anything to smooth it out. I didn’t know he’d put so much weight on the locket half, that he wanted so badly to have a connection to his mother. I don’t remember my parents or even know who they were, but it never occurred to me that Mather would hurt so badly for people he’d never met either. Does he miss his father too? Hannah’s husband, Duncan, was a Winterian lord before he became king. Does Mather wish he knew him if only to talk to someone in the same situation—king of a female-blooded kingdom?
A heaviness settles in my stomach, filling me with a choking mix of guilt and anxiety—wanting to help Mather, but knowing it’s as out of my power as using Winter’s conduit is out of his.
Thankfully at that moment, the tent flaps part around Sir. He takes in the absent food, my wet hair. I hold my breath, remembering why I’m really here—to tell Sir what happened.
Sir sits next to me, silent. He doesn’t reprimand me for being so casual with our future king, doesn’t berate me up and down for my informality and poo-covered entrance.
Uh-oh.
He withdraws the box from his pocket. “So,” he begins. “Would you care to explain?”
Suddenly I feel like the misbehaving child who first begged Sir to let me help out with the resistance. The child who waved swords around like awkward steel wings and showed absolutely no promise in fighting until I tried ranged weapons like my chakram, and it turned out I could be deadly too. The child he always sees when he looks at me.
The chakram. My heart drops. Snow above, I have to tell Sir I lost another throwing disc. With the decline in Primoria’s iron production due to the disuse of Winter’s mines, weapons have become expensive. And being a Winterian refugee isn’t exactly a lucrative career.
I grab a berry, avoiding Sir’s eyes. “Isn’t anyone else coming? Finn maybe?”
He shakes his head. “Just us. Now talk.”
It’s an order. He’s angry about something, but I have no idea what.
My stomach starts to burn, churning around all the food I’ve shoved into it. Sir has no right to be angry or disappointed. I retrieved half of the locket. I did what he couldn’t do, even after he doubted me. The only thing he should be feeling is awe.
Is that why he’s upset? Because I finally proved that he needs me?
I glare up at him. “It was exactly where you said it was. In the Keep. That’s all.”
“You’re telling me,” Sir begins, “that you were able to waltz into Lynia’s stronghold and retrieve this locket piece with no arrows fired, no men killed, no bloodshed? Because that bruise on your cheek and the lingering stench in here says otherwise. What happened, Meira?”
The wrinkles in Sir’s face deepen. He wears his age more heavily all of a sudden, his naturally white hair ivory from his fifty-some years, not his Winterian heritage. He fingers the box before popping it open and showing me the locket half.
It’s the first time I’ve seen it. A silver chain snakes around the back half of a heart-shaped locket, gleaming though it’s more than a few centuries old. Half of Winter’s conduit. I exhale, my shoulders slouching. I still can’t believe it’s here, a hand’s breadth from me.
The moment Sir opens the box, Mather’s whole body stiffens. My eyes swing to him, and I want to continue his conversation from moments ago. I want to apologize for earlier, for asking what he’d use magic on, for bringing up the biggest weakness in his life like it was nothing more than a discussion of the weather.
My breath catches against those questions again, the things no one ever dares ask aloud.
Will this be enough? Will reuniting our conduit halves restore our magic, or will Winter forever be the only kingdom in Primoria without magic to make it whole? If so, how will we defeat Spring, a kingdom steeped in magically induced strength, when all we have are eight refugees and a pretty necklace? Will another kingdom even ally with us once we have the locket whole again, if our only heir is unable to use it?
It’s possible to live without magic. We’ve been doing it for sixteen years—barely, but we have. We grew a small garden in the Rania Plains. We train our bodies to be strong. But it will never be enough when all the other kingdoms in the world have something that transcends human limitations, when Spring is able to wipe through our strongest soldiers, when the Rhythms are able to do the same.
Mather was right: Primoria may seem balanced, but it’s too easy to throw balance into chaos.
Sir closes the box with an abrupt click and I flinch. I was quiet too long. He stands, shaking his head, and a gut-wrenching certainty forces me to stand too.
“It was too dangerous,” he says. “When we start looking for the other locket half, you’re not to argue your assignments, do you hear me? You’re back on food-scouting missions.”
“No!” I shout. Sir turns but I grab his arm. I’m starting to feel the effects of traveling—legs wavering, head spinning. But I will not let him take this from me. I earned my keep today, a hundred times over, and I’ll be damned if he casts me aside so easily again.
“I brought you half of the locket!” I shout. “What else do I have to do?”
Please, tell me what I have to do to feel like I belong.
Sir looks at me so severely that I drop my eyes from his face and my hands from his arm, blood roaring through my head. I’m so tired, exhausted to the point where I’m not certain this is happening. I can’t deal with this right now. I need sleep; I need to collect myself and stop feeling like what I did wasn’t significant.
I stomp out of the meeting tent, ignoring whatever Sir or Mather calls after me, and run to my own tent. The size of our camp doesn’t allow for dramatic stomping sessions though, and I fly into it in less than a few seconds. Unfortunately my tent isn’t only my tent, so when I shove inside, Finn and Dendera look up at me with wide eyes.
Dendera refocuses on patching a hole in one of her boots. “Just once I’d like to see you leave a meeting with William like a lady, instead of a panting bull.”
I snarl and flop onto my bedroll. Finn retorts something about me not being a lady, which makes me smile, but it makes Dendera spit her women-can-be-ladies-and-warriors rant. I bury my face in my pillow and tune them out.
Dendera once told me that she had been a member of Queen Hannah’s court. She was respected for her opinion and her mind, and no woman under Hannah’s rule was allowed to feel small. I’ve asked her, and everyone, about Winter so often and heard so many tales that their memories are my memories now, and I can trick myself into feeling like I remember it. The frozen berries and iron fire pits. The mines in the Klaryn Mountains. The thick, earthy aroma of refining coal hanging over every city.
If I close my eyes and cover my ears and block out everything else, I can see the court Dendera described. I can see the city Sir told me about. Jannuari’s great white palace stands above me, its sprawling courtyard filled with ice fountains. It’s so cold that foreigners have to wrap in layers of fur to walk from building to building, while our natural Winterian blood keeps us warm even in the worst conditions. And snow is everywhere, always, so much that the grass beneath it is wh
ite from lack of sun. An entire kingdom wrapped in an orb of eternal winter.
But here is where my made-up memory always crashes around me. The cold and snow dissolves into explosions. The screaming starts, pushing over the palace complex like a wave, and I’m running. Running through gray streets choked with smoke as hordes of people run too, more explosions corralling us into Angra’s grasp. That’s what they’re doing—corralling the Winterians like sheep so they can lead them to a life of slavery and pain.
Except for us. The seven who still live with Winter’s future king. Originally twenty-five refugees who kept Angra up at night, reduced to eight.
But no matter how dire our situation, how desperate Sir gets, he will never see me as an asset. Just the overexcited child he had the misfortune of raising.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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6
THOUGHTS OF OUR kingdom’s destruction aren’t exactly fodder for restful dreams. Only a little while after falling asleep, I’m shaken awake by nightmares of a shadow engulfing Jannuari’s desolate streets, a darkness so complete and absolute that all buildings and people disintegrate into oblivion. I fly up, gasping on my nightmare, thankful that the tent is empty. The only noises come from the fire crackling on the distant edge of camp. It must be suppertime.
I stand, still fully clothed, and pull my white hair into a braid. The sun is just starting to set when I step outside, casting the Rania Plains in the gray-yellow haze of a day about to die.
To my left, the flap of the meeting tent swishes, and my muscles tighten. I have no desire to face Sir yet unless his face is apologetic, which is less likely than the Kingdom of Summer freezing over. So as the tent opens I hurry away from it, running until I reach the southern edge of camp and crest the hill.