WILLIAM’S OFFICE WAS by far the dreariest room in the palace, just off an open-air walkway. Anyone moving past it would see what had once been a garden around the back of the palace, gray stone fountains coated in ice, dead plants frozen beneath layers of flakes, and the snow-covered buildings of the southern part of Jannuari. A nice view, all for a windowless, dark room lined with empty bookshelves and two sad sconces holding up jagged clumps of candle wax. A desk sat surrounded by three chairs, every free surface covered in papers and scrolls. It had been just as disheveled each time Mather had been there.
The other people in the room—Brennan Crewe and an old woman named Deborah who had been the city master of Jannuari before the takeover and had fallen back into her role without a blink from anyone—seemed willing to stay away from him, something for which Mather couldn’t have been more grateful. Phil had gotten another few crates of ale from the Cordellans, letting all who had avoided the celebration a few nights ago relive that evening in the cottage every night since. Which was great fun during the drinking, but once morning came . . .
Mather pressed his fist against a throbbing vein that cut through the middle of his forehead. The ale left him feeling like he’d been dragged through a battle without armor, his eyes filled with bolts of pain, his body sagging from a raging headache. He leaned against one of the shelves, wincing to keep the bread he’d choked down for breakfast in his stomach. Thank the ice above that Meira’s departure had delayed the Winterian army’s usual training—Mather wasn’t sure he could hide another morning of being hungover from William.
Alysson swept into the room, her pale hands cupped around a goblet. She walked up to Mather without any of the pleasantries he expected, and before he could clear away the fog of his hangover, she shoved the goblet to him.
“Drink this,” she ordered.
Mather squinted at her, then at the goblet in his hands. “I . . . What?”
She placed her palm on his face, her skin cool against his clammy cheek. “Drink this,” she said again, this time in the patient, careful tone Mather was used to from her. The woman who mended their injuries and nursed them back to health and sent them off on missions with this same tender cheek pat.
Hating William was easy. Hating Alysson took more effort than Mather had.
Mather raised the goblet to his lips and downed a swig before the horrid taste hit him. Like eggs left too long in the sun, like meat gone rancid. He hacked and doubled over, one wrong breath away from reliving everything he had consumed last night in reverse.
He gagged. “What is this?”
Alysson squeezed his shoulder. “A remedy for your ailment. It will take away your headache and nausea, but remember this delicious flavor should you insist on drinking so much again. Which won’t be any time soon, will it?” Her tone pulled taut in a way that said she wouldn’t accept anything but agreement. She patted his cheek once more as he stayed bent before her, arms around his middle, stomach churning like an angry sea. “Drink up, sweetheart. Every drop.”
Mather collapsed onto the frayed carpet in a burst of dust. He looked up at her with hooded eyes as she scooted papers off a chair and sat next to Deborah, who shook her head at him disapprovingly. Brennan, on the other hand, leaned against the shelves and stifled a smile, no doubt enjoying Mather’s torment.
When he met Alysson’s eyes again, he knew this beverage was meant to be more of a punishment than a cure. Honestly, he was surprised he’d gotten away with four nights of such behavior—though he had expected the punishment to come from William.
Luckily the study door opened again and William entered. All attention swung to him, everyone rising straighter, but Mather merely sank more heavily onto the floor and sipped at the repulsive concoction in his hand. His cheeks puffed in an uncontrollable gag. This stuff was awful even in small increments.
William walked behind his desk, pulled out the remaining chair, and stopped, like he couldn’t decide whether to sit or run back out of the room. His forehead wrinkled, his pallor sullen, so like the William Mather used to know.
Mather set the goblet on the floor and stood, taking a single step forward in the silence. Before he could ask anything, William turned to them.
“Captain Crewe called this meeting,” William began. “Though I am surprised King Noam did not delay his trip to join us.”
Brennan shrugged. “As you might expect, my king is eager to secure the Tadil Mine and is already on his way to Gaos. He left me with explicit instructions to carry out regarding Winter’s future in the face of this most joyous change.”
Mather groaned. One thing he did not miss about being king was useless political maneuvering. How everyone in this room knew exactly what the magic chasm’s discovery meant—one more snare for Winter in Cordell’s trap—but no one could counter Brennan without defying Noam.
Brennan pressed on. “My king has decided that it is not in Winter’s best interest to train an army at this point in your rebirth. Cordell will continue defending Winter, and you will shift all focus to construction or mining, to benefit your economy and stability as a kingdom. You are to cease training, effective immediately.”
William ground his fingers around the back of his chair, the only outward sign of his anger. “This is not a change we can agree to without our queen’s approval.”
Mather almost laughed. “This isn’t a change we can agree to at all!”
Both Brennan and William shot him looks: Brennan, one of disdainful amusement; William, a narrow-eyed plea to be silent.
Mather frowned. Surely William would back him up in this. Surely he wouldn’t let Noam stifle them even more.
Brennan wiped an invisible speck of dust from his sleeve. “Your queen’s approval does not matter. On this issue my king is most adamant.” He lifted his gaze to William. “And after the ceremony incident, it would truly be in Winter’s best interest to comply. I must return to my men.” Brennan made for the door. “Thank you for your time.”
Silence coated the air after Brennan had left. Mather hesitated at the edge of the room, eyes fixed on William, waiting, hoping, needing for him to leap after Brennan and refute the orders.
But William only lowered himself into his chair, his body rigid.
Mather couldn’t take it any longer. “You know this is Noam’s way of keeping us weak.”
William broke out of his stupor. “Of course I know,” he barked. “Why do you think he waited until he and the queen had left to give the order? He didn’t want to face any possibility of our conduit rejecting him.”
Mather pulled back. “Our conduit? You mean Meira?”
William frowned at him. “That is how we must see her—as our connection to the locket. That is how the kingdoms of the world operate; their monarchs are links to magic, while a select few people truly run the government. We are a kingdom of the world now.”
“When Meira finds out about Noam’s order, she’ll kill him,” Mather countered. “She’ll never allow this. We should keep training, Noam be damned.”
William shook his head. “Acting against an explicit order will only hurt us after—” He paused, wincing at the memory of the ceremony four days ago. Mather had hated himself even more for leaving once he’d heard how Noam had reacted to Meira’s change of payment—he should have stayed, gone to her, given her more support.
He wanted this, though. What he had told her in her room—he was done being in her life.
“We will obey this request until we can regroup in a way that does not outright defy Cordell,” William continued. “Divvy up the trainees to aid with rebuilding or mining, but no Winterian is to lift a blade until I give the order.”
Mather growled. “You mean until Noam gives the order?”
William’s knuckles tightened on the arms of his chair. “You will not speak to me like that. I am the head of this kingdom in our queen’s absence, and as such you will obey me.”
Alysson and Deborah remained silent, and any rebuttal that Mather had was suffocated beneath his years of obeying William without thought. He wondered now if maybe he shouldn’t have obeyed this man so blindly. If he should have been more like Meira.
“Is that why you let her leave?” Mather felt his insubordination like a fist to the skull. He realized in the looming silence how badly he wanted William to lash out at him, to be angry and put Mather in his place—to be himself again.
But William said nothing, and as Mather’s eyes darted across his weathered skin, he felt everything Feige had said click in his mind. She was right, that demented girl. She was right about William carrying around his guilt so heavily that he refused to see anything that hurt. She was right about everyone around Mather being caught in a web of remorse.
That web would get them all killed.
“Of course not,” William finally responded. “Our queen went because that is what she must do now—form alliances. You of all people should understand politics.”
Mather grimaced. Yes, he should. But he only understood his own guilt at this moment, his own failings, his own pain, and how much he wanted to be rid of it all.
Every part of him trembled. “You’re ashamed of failing Winter sixteen years ago, but you should be even more ashamed that you don’t have the courage to face it. I won’t ignore it. I will not end up like you.”
He shoved past Deborah, who put her hands over her mouth, past Alysson, who watched him but said nothing. They let him leave, every one of them. Just like they had let Meira leave, because it hurt too much to focus on their problems.
The sounds of construction hummed outside, hammers and saws creating a steady tune. Mather hurried toward the training barn, darting past men carrying buckets of nails, women lugging wheelbarrows of scrap wood. For as tense as the air had been in William’s office, it was far too light in the city. People chatted, moved about their day as if they had always been this normal. As Mather got to the door of the barn, he paused, a sad thought flashing through him.
Were most Winterians like William? Did everything they do just cover up their scars?
Meira shouldn’t have left. If Mather had been more clearheaded, he wouldn’t have walked out of her room four nights ago. He wouldn’t have avoided her every day since, slumping back to join Phil and the boys each night. He would have sought her out, stayed with her as long as it took, demanding that she remain in Winter—for their kingdom. Not for him.
His mind flashed back to one of the last times Meira had left. He had watched in numbing horror as Angra’s general had lifted her body, sneering down at her with an expression that said more than any threat ever could. And Mather had done nothing but scream for her while Cordellan soldiers hauled him back toward Bithai.
He would not fail her again.
Mather caught his thoughts and growled. Winter. He would not fail Winter again. Meira wasn’t his to worry about anymore, beyond her status as queen.
Mather threw himself into the barn. Training should have started an hour ago; most of the men were pacing from having to wait so long. Except Phil, Hollis, Trace, Kiefer, and Eli—they looked perfectly happy with the extra moments of rest. Anger had forced Mather’s hangover away—well, that, or possibly the forsaken drink Alysson had given him—but they still looked frazzled and exhausted.
Mather shoved his hands into his pockets. “Cordell has ordered that training cease immediately.”
A murmur swept through the barn, a few grunts of displeasure. Mather opened his mouth to split the group into miners and construction, or even to explain why, to come up with a reason that made sense. But as he stared at the cracks in the worn wood floor, he couldn’t think of anything, and the longer he stood in silence, the more the trainees glanced at one another, until a few started to leave in clouds of confused muttering.
“What caused that?” Phil asked when they were alone.
Mather tore his eyes from the floor. “Denial.”
“Strange, isn’t it?” Kiefer interjected, his attention on a passing group of Cordellans who peered into the barn and scoffed because they knew how weak Winter was. How broken.
Trace pressed his face into his knees where he sat on a barrel. “What’s strange?”
Kiefer shrugged, shoulders moving against the wall of the barn. “We’re home, but it doesn’t feel much different from Bikendi. Scraping by, ruled by another kingdom.”
Phil flinched, his head popping up from where it had been hanging lifelessly against his chest. “That isn’t—” He choked, his mouth dangling open. “It’s better here. We’re free.”
“Shouldn’t have expected the queen to be any better than Angra. Just like royals, I guess,” Kiefer continued. “Care more about their cushy lives than their lowly subjects.”
“She’s not like that.” Mather regretted talking as soon as the words left his lips, but Kiefer perked up—clearly he’d been waiting for Mather to respond. Even at night when the ale made most of them relaxed, Kiefer glowered whenever Mather looked at him.
Mather couldn’t fault him for being angry. They all wanted someone to hate.
“Well, it seems she is,” Kiefer snapped back. “Where is she now? Off to be pampered by the good-for-nothings of Primoria’s other kingdoms while we’re feasting our days away, right?” Kiefer swept into a bow. “Once-King Mather, please direct me to the feasting tables. I do so desire a plate of our queen’s generosity.”
Blood roared in Mather’s head, the remnants of his anger with William adding fuel. “Stop it.”
Kiefer laughed. “Tell me you at least got a little of our queen’s generosity at some point.”
Trace jerked his face out of his knees, Phil shoved up from his crouch on the floor, even Eli blinked at his brother in shock. Hollis’s shoulders rose and one sweep of his body let Mather know he’d have support should he decide to tackle Kiefer.
Mather drew in deep breaths. It was just a weak outward sign of Kiefer’s inner struggle. They were all tired, all in pain, and fighting him would do nothing.
But it would feel so, so good.
“Leave Meira alone,” he tried. “You owe her your life.”
“Meira,” Kiefer echoed. “Using her first name. She didn’t even know she was the ruler when you were with her, did she? She thought you were the king. Mighty King Mather. She probably did anything you asked of her.”
“Quiet!”
“Admit it. It’d help knowing someone put her in her place while we were being put in ours.”
Mather didn’t remember consciously moving; all he knew was that he felt the smallest blip of relief that Kiefer had opened himself to this. Hacking at each other with practice swords worked out only so much frustration—real fighting, throwing true blows, released so much more, and as Mather’s fist smacked into Kiefer’s jaw, all his worries evaporated, if only for a moment.
Kiefer flew into the air, the force of Mather’s punch bouncing him off the barn wall and onto his stomach. Mather let him have two seconds to right himself before jamming his knee into Kiefer’s neck. Not hard enough to snap anything, and he dropped an elbow down on his spine. Kiefer flattened on a wheeze, the air knocked out of him, and Mather twisted so he had the boy’s arms locked behind his back.
“Stop it!” Eli shouted. A few feeble punches danced across Mather’s shoulders before another force swept Eli out of the way. The younger boy collapsed on the floor and stayed there, staring with terrified eyes at his brother and Mather and now Hollis.
“Stay back,” Hollis snarled, and the younger boy cowered.
Hollis grabbed Kiefer’s hair and yanked his head up, twisting it so forcefully that Kiefer cried out, the first sign of pain he had dared release. Mather admired him for being able to hold on so long, but then Hollis spoke, and anger flooded Mather’s body.
“You saw those Suns attack your mother,” Hollis growled, every word dark and horrible and so full of pain that Mather worried for Kiefer’s life, even as he kept the boy’s arms bent against his spine. “You saw them do that to more than just her, I know you did. How dare you wish that on the person who saved your pathetic life?”
Kiefer moaned, straining against the boys holding him, and when he did Hollis slammed Kiefer’s head into the floor before standing. Mather jumped up, releasing Kiefer’s arms and taking four steps back to put space between himself and the prostrate boy.
Eli scrambled toward his brother but snapped back when Kiefer snarled at him. Trace and Phil looked from Kiefer to Hollis to Mather, a gleam of pride in their eyes.
Mather ran a hand down his face. The rest of the former trainees might have eventually made good soldiers—but these boys would have definitely been successes. And now, who knew when Noam would lift the order? Or would he make sure Winter stayed crippled forever?
Mather’s eyes narrowed as he took in each of the boys. There were only six of them, including himself. Already they had managed four nights of sneaking off early and showing up hungover each morning—they could easily go unmissed in the bigger rush and pull of construction and mining now that training had been canceled.
“New orders,” he said, and the boys in front of him jerked to attention, drawn by the gravity in his voice or the brightness in his eyes or the way he smiled, really smiled. “We’re not listening to the other orders. We’re making our own.”