DENDERA GIVES MY hair a final pat. “You’re ready.”
Nessa squeals and claps her hands over her mouth. My eyes flick to Dendera’s reflection, heartbeat hurtling back and forth in my throat. Her enthusiasm is almost as palpable as Nessa’s, if not as vocal.
I close my eyes, back straight, face impassive. When I look, I will see someone capable and composed, a warrior and a leader all in one. I can be both Winter’s queen and the orphaned soldier-girl, as my act of defiance tonight against Noam will show.
I open my eyes.
My hair, half pulled behind my head in an array of braids, half curling around my shoulders, shines the most radiant white. My gown has silver clasps at the shoulders that leave my arms bare and a belt that curves tight around my waist. At my throat, nestled against the ivory of my collarbone, sits Winter’s Royal Conduit, the silver, heart-shaped locket with the single white snowflake etched on the center.
I smile, trying out an expression the same way Dendera made me try on different gowns. The pretense cracks and my stomach tightens with the ever-lingering knot of worry that this is a mistake. That I’m wrong for what I have planned, that I need to not be reckless or impulsive or do things I know are dangerous.
But I hold that smile on my face until it aches.
I smooth the pleated skirt and follow Dendera and Nessa out of my room.
Conall and Garrigan drop in behind us, along with Henn, who takes Dendera’s hand. I sneak a grin at her, but she’s too absorbed in Henn to see.
My entourage and I weave our way through the palace, looping around to enter the ballroom through the door closest to the rear. I know what awaits us beyond it—a dais, along with Cordellan soldiers, Noam, Theron, the Autumnians, and my people, all excited for the ceremony.
I should be excited too. But a sudden surge of music makes everyone around me stiffen, as if no one is sure they’re hearing what they think they’re hearing. I tell myself to move through the door linking this hall to the ballroom, but I can’t.
This music. It’s airy and delicate, bouncing off the walls around me in a swell of unassuming perfection. If I could put notes to the sound of flakes falling, of water crystallizing into ice, of snow gusting on the wind, this would be it.
This is what Winter sounds like.
Dendera squeezes my arm, a dreamlike smile on her face. “The instruments are lyres, a discovery salvaged from the palace. It appears Angra did not destroy all of our treasures.”
Yet, comes my instinctual reaction, shattering the trance of the music. But no—he’s dead. Finn and Greer brought back no news of him. And even if he comes back somehow, I’ll have allies united to stand against him. He can’t hurt us anymore.
A door opens on our left, letting a flurry of musty air waft up from the stone halls below. Sir emerges, trailed by Greer and Finn, each with at least one crate in their arms. The goods I designated for Cordell and Autumn.
Sir narrows a look at me. “My queen, are you certain you wish to go through with this?”
I teeter on the brink of changing my mind. “Yes.”
He shifts the crates he holds, his uncertainty reeling on his face. “I trust you, my queen. We all trust you to make the best decisions for our future, but I—”
I put my hand on his arm. “Please, William. Let me do this. Let me just try.”
That silences him, and he holds my gaze in the stillness like he’s searching for something in my eyes. But he says nothing more, and Nessa takes my hand to lead me toward the end of this ivory hall. I’m dragged back to all those times in Abril when she held on to me for strength or out of some dire need to make sure I was there.
My fingers tighten around hers, and Dendera opens the door.
The celebration unfolds around us, cupped inside a half-destroyed ballroom. The south side of the ceiling is completely gone, only a fraction of the wall remaining, which lets in snowflakes and the gray evening sky. A marble staircase against the far wall leads to the wing that houses my room and a few dozen more. The other walls tower three stories in the air, lined with the same ivory moldings and silver accents as the rest of the palace. Cracks run like jagged snakes through the walls; bits of mortar crumble from the broken ceiling in bursts of shattered rain.
But as I step inside, I couldn’t have guessed that the ballroom had ever been anything but whole.
Everyone is here. Every resident of Jannuari, the Autumnian visitors, a few Cordellan soldiers, all mingling under the lyre music and snow-cloud sky. And every Winterian has managed to find at least some small piece of white clothing to wear in honor of our kingdom—a shirt or a scarf or a gown with white patterned over gray. Hundreds of white-haired heads in white outfits, twisting and moving like so many flakes of snow. Winter’s blizzard.
The dais sits to the right of the hall I just exited, adorned by tufts of white silk and bundles of Winterian plants, evergreen sprigs and milky snowdrops. The fresh scent of pine and the honey-sweet floral aroma mix with the crispness of the air drifting through the ceiling, creating an atmosphere that saturates my every nerve with thoughts of Winter.
The atmosphere cracks a little when I see who waits on that dais: Noam, Theron, and two Autumnian royals.
I’ve managed to avoid Theron since our meeting earlier, keeping to my room or the basement. Now I meet his eyes, and I see there a question laced with concern wrapped in need.
My attention leaps from him to his father, both of them straight-backed in their green-and-gold Cordellan uniforms. Entirely normal, as if we didn’t find the magic chasm’s entrance at all.
Focus. Breathe.
Unlike Noam, the Autumnians have had the decency to remain in their own kingdom since Winter’s rebirth to give us time to collect ourselves—which means I haven’t met them yet. King Caspar Abu Shazi Akbari, whose line holds the connection to Autumn’s female-blooded conduit, stands beside his queen, Nikoletta Umm Shazi Akbari, Noam’s sister, whose marriage produced the female heir Autumn needed after two generations without a daughter.
Caspar watches me so intently that I’m worried about tipping over backward. He has the shoulder-length black hair, warm umber skin, and deep, black eyes of Autumn. His tunic of glistening gold over ruby-red pants seems too simple for a king, but the thin strand of interlocking gold leaves in his hair proclaims his station.
Nikoletta, by contrast, beams at me. Gentle waves of dark blond hair ripple over her shoulders, far lighter than the black-as-night hair of her Autumnian subjects. On her head sits a crown of rubies that hosts an array of dangling beads. Red fabric pours out of the back of the crown, blending into her bloodred gown, which is overlaid with golden flowers and more rubies.
“It is my deepest honor to present . . .”
I jump. Dendera has moved to the dais, her voice urging a hush over the music and chatting voices. Everyone turns to face us.
“. . . the savior of Winter . . .”
Nessa tugs on my hand, bouncing in her excitement, but I can’t join her. At the edge of the crowd, on the other side of the dais, Alysson grins up at Dendera, one arm tucked into Mather’s. But he stares straight at me, eyes unblinking. His mouth opens like he wants to say something, but he catches himself in the heavy silence of the ballroom and hesitates. Trapped between those three months we went without talking and our interaction earlier.
Before anything can happen, Dendera’s voice bursts out into the ballroom with such force that I expect the rest of the ceiling to crumble.
“. . . Queen Meira Dynam!”
The crowd switches from watchful to cheering, a frenzied explosion that overwhelms the lyres as they start up again. Nessa eases her hand from mine and I move toward the dais with cautious steps, the cheers of the crowd ringing in my ears. My people, applauding.
No matter what happens, this ceremony was worth it, if only to hear my people so happy.
I draw their voices into my heart, lock them away deep inside me, and climb the dais, putting Noam, Theron, Nikoletta, and Caspar on my right. They’re close enough that I know they can see me trembling, can probably hear me gagging on air.
The crowd’s excitement ebbs until silence hangs heavier than any cheer. All eyes on me.
“We are here today . . .” Mouth dry, I push out loud words. “We are here today to pay our thanks for the brave acts of Cordell and Autumn.”
I wave Sir, Greer, and Finn forward, each still carrying the crates. “These past months have allowed us to reopen our mines, signifying that Winter is a viable, living kingdom again.”
The last part I say to Noam, staring at him though my voice carries around the room. His eyes flicker as my men flank me on the dais.
I motion Finn and his two crates forward. “To Autumn, the first of much that is owed.”
The crowd breaks into a reverent applause as Finn lays the goods at Caspar’s feet. Caspar bows his head in wordless thanks and Nikoletta applauds softly. Neither of them seems put off by the small offering—in fact, they simply seem grateful to be here at all.
I wave Sir and Greer forward. “And to Cordell. The first of many payments.”
Noam eyes the three crates that they lay at his feet before glancing at me, at Sir, and even farther back, at the hall door. No one else moves to bring forward the rest of the payment.
His face twists. The glow around the dagger at his hip wrenches from delicate lavender to heavy indigo. “You must be mistaken.” His words are soft, just for those on the dais.
Sir and Greer back away, joining Finn at the edge of the stage. I smile as serenely as I can, ignoring the way Theron watches me, silent, evaluating.
“Winter owes Autumn and Cordell much,” I say, keeping my voice elevated. “And we will continue to pay both until our debts are cleared. We thank these kingdoms for their service and sacrifice.” I start a heavy clap that catches and spreads, signaling the end of the ceremony.
The din of cheers and applause rises again, as does the lyre music, kicking up in a post-ceremony celebration. The guests turn into it, swaying in chatting groups, everyone pleasantly distracted as Noam grabs my arm before I can duck off the dais.
“This is far from over,” he growls, his fingers bruising my bare skin.
I look up at him, but I don’t see him. The stronger pull of conduit magic living in my body connects to Noam’s magic through skin-to-skin contact, and memories pour from his head into my own, the same I’ve seen before: Noam, at his dying wife’s bedside, but something about his remorse is . . . off.
A flood of violent emotions hits me, overpowering everything else.
I will destroy her, Noam thinks. I will not be denied what is mine by a child.
Sir pushes Noam back. “None of that here,” he growls through clenched teeth.
A movement on the edge of the dais says the Cordellan soldiers have readied themselves, waiting for Noam to give the order. Beyond them, the laughter and music of the party doesn’t dwindle, no one besides us noticing the tension.
I lean close to Noam. “We will repay what we owe you, but Winter never agreed to the things you demand.”
Noam eases forward, his hot breath bursting across my face. “You cannot win against me, child-queen. I will raze this kingdom as brutally as the Shadow of the Seasons if I have to.”
Theron grabs his father’s arm. “You don’t mean that?”
Noam doesn’t turn away from me. “I do.” He tips his head, his anger lighting in a new expression: scorn. “What do you intend to do with the resources you kept? Go ahead. Use this trip to negotiate aid for your pathetic land. But know this—” He jabs a finger at me and I lurch back, shock making me pliable. He knows what I intend to do? “No number of allies will save you from my wrath. You think I fear the other Rhythms? No, Lady Queen—this is the final act of impudence I will tolerate. I will stay in Winter while you search the world, and if you return without a way to open that door, I will forcibly take your kingdom. No more games, no more stalling; Winter will be mine. Prove to me that you are useful. Make me glad I let you live.”
Theron shoves his father back, teetering him toward the edge of the stage. “Stop.”
But Noam is too far gone for intervention. His top lip flickers in a snarl and he catches Theron’s arm in an unrelenting grip. “Don’t think I don’t know where your heart is, boy. This trip isn’t just a test for Winter—prove to me that you are worthy to be my heir. I will tolerate no more games from any of you.”
My mouth closes, muscles cramping so all I see, feel, think is a pulsing, reverberating panic that starts in my gut and spreads through my body. The magic rises up into a swirling, threatening gale, pushing higher and higher for the surface.
I swallow, choking. No, not now—
Before I can add more proof of my weakness to Noam’s crusade, I rush off the dais, hand against my chest, trying and failing and begging the magic to compress back inside me.
I did this. Of course Noam would figure out my plan—it was stupid to think he wouldn’t. And we have a deadline now.
Should I have let him bleed my kingdom dry? Should I have not fought back? No, of course not. But not like this. Not like . . . me.
The magic sputters, knocking the air from my lungs. I stagger through the door and dump myself back into the hall, the noise of the celebration muffling in the high, narrow walls. Someone says something to me, distant and fogged, and my knees crack as I drop to the ground. But I will not use my magic—I am not weak, I am not afraid, I am the queen.
“My queen!” Sir kneels in front of me.
I brace myself against the floor, gritting my teeth. “I . . . I did that. . . .”
Sir’s face softens. Softens. “You tried, my queen. You understand now, though.”
I blink at him. His words sink into my mind like stones plummeting into a pool.
He let me do this. And he isn’t angry—he’s expectant. Like he allowed me this one flash of who I used to be as a test of my growth. Hannah would have done the same—let me plunge ahead, knowing I’d realize my folly and come limping back to what was right.
I do understand. I always understood, but I thought—I hoped—that I could handle this as me.
But only a queen can handle running a kingdom, not an orphaned soldier-girl. No one else can deal with their past; why did I think mine would help us?
Around me, Nessa, Conall, and Garrigan hover, faces twisted with concern.
Sir remains kneeling beside me, expressionless. “Are you all right, my queen?”
“No,” I growl. I hate him for not believing in me; I hate myself for believing in me. “But I swear, I will be.”