DENDERA TAKES US to a square that opens mere paces from the Tadil Mine. The buildings here stand whole and clean, paths swept clear of debris, cottages repaired. The families of the miners already deep in the Tadil pack the square along with Cordellan soldiers, most bouncing from foot to foot in an effort to keep warm. An open-air tent caps the entrance to the square, our first stop as we file in alongside tables littered with maps and calculations.
Sir and Alysson bow their heads in quiet discussion within the tent. Their focus shifts to me, a genuine smile crossing Alysson’s face, a sweep of analysis passing over Sir’s. They’re just as sharply dressed as Nessa and Dendera in their gowns—while traditional Winterian clothing for women consists of pleated, ivory, floor-length dresses, most of the men wear blue tunics and pants under lengths of white fabric that wrap in an X around their torsos. It’s still strange to me to see Sir dressed in anything other than his battle gear, but he doesn’t even have a dagger at his hip. The threat is gone, our enemy dead.
“My queen.” Sir bows his head. My skin bristles at my title on his lips, one more thing I have yet to grow accustomed to. Sir, calling me “my queen.” Sir, my general. Sir, Mather’s father.
The thought of him seizes me.
I haven’t really talked to Mather since we sat on our horses side by side outside Jannuari, before I fully took up the responsibilities of being queen, and he fully surrendered everything he thought he once was.
I’d hoped he just needed time to adjust, but it’s been three months since he’s said more than “Yes, my queen,” to me. I have no idea how to go about bridging the distance between us—I just keep telling myself, maybe foolishly, that when he’s ready, he’ll talk to me again.
Or maybe it has less to do with him no longer being king and more to do with Theron, who, even though our engagement has been dissolved, is still a permanent fixture in my life. For now, it’s easier not to think about Mather. To fake the mask, force the smile, and cover up the awfulness underneath.
I wish I didn’t have to force it away—I wish none of us had to, and we were all strong enough to deal with the things that have happened to us.
A tingle of chill blossoms in my chest. Sparking and wild, icy and alive, and I stifle a sigh at what it signifies.
When Angra conquered my kingdom sixteen years ago, he did so by breaking our Royal Conduit. And when a conduit is broken in defense of a kingdom, the ruler of that kingdom then becomes the conduit. Their body, their life force—it all merges with the magic. No one knows this save for me, Angra, and the woman whose death turned me into Winter’s conduit: my mother.
You can help them deal with what happened, Hannah prods. Since the magic is me, unlimited within my body, she’s able to speak to me, even after her death.
I’m not forcing healing on them, I say, withering at the thought. I know the magic could heal their physical wounds—but emotional? I can’t—
I didn’t mean that, Hannah says. You can show them that they have a future. That Winter is capable of surviving.
My tension relaxes. Okay, I manage.
The crowd stills as Sir leads me out of the tent. Twenty workers are already deep in the mine, as every opening has gone the same way—they go in; I stay up top and use my magic to fill them with inhuman agility and endurance. Magic works only over short distances—I couldn’t use it on the miners if I was in Jannuari. But here, they’re in the tunnels just ahead.
“Whenever you’re ready, my queen,” Sir says. If he senses how much I hate these mine openings, he doesn’t say anything, just steps away with his arms behind his back.
I grind my jaw and try to ignore everything else—Hannah, Sir, all the eyes on me, the heavy quiet that falls.
My magic used to be glorious. When we were trapped in Spring and it reared up and saved us; when we first returned to Winter and I wasn’t sure how to help everyone, and it came flooding out of me to bring snow and fill my people with vitality. When I had no idea what I wanted or how to do anything, I was grateful for the way the magic always just knew.
But now I realize that if I wanted to stop it from pouring out of me, surging through the earth, and filling the miners with strength and endurance, I couldn’t. That’s what scares me most about these times—the magic sparks and swirls up, and I know, deep in the throbbing pit of my heart, that my body would give out long before the magic would even consider stopping.
Pulled by some unspoken signal, streams of iciness whirl through my chest and turn every vein into crystallized snow. My instinct reacts with a choking burst of need to stop it, to rein it in, but reason clogs my certainty, since I know that my people need the very magic I’m trying to stifle, and before I’m able to breathe, the magic pours into the miners. I stand in its wake, trembling, eyes snapping open to look on the expectant faces of the crowd. They can’t see it or sense it, unless I channel it into them. No one knows how empty I feel, like a quiver for arrows, existing only to hold a greater weapon.
I tried to tell Sir about this—and immediately choked it back when Noam came in the room. If Noam finds out that all he needs to do is have an enemy break his Royal Conduit and he would become his own conduit, he wouldn’t have to find the chasm. He’d be all-powerful, filled with magic.
And he wouldn’t need to pretend to care about Winter anymore.
I turn, hungry for a diversion. The crowd takes that as my dismissal and softly applauds.
“Speak to them,” Sir urges when I move for the tent.
I curve my arms around myself. “I’ve given the same speech every time we’ve opened a mine. They’ve heard it all before—rebirth, progression, hope.”
“They expect it.” Sir doesn’t yield, and when I take another step toward the tent, he grabs my arm. “My queen. You’re forgetting your position.”
If only, I think, then immediately regret it. I don’t want to forget who I am now.
I just wish I could be both this and myself.
Alysson and Dendera stand quietly behind Sir; Conall and Garrigan wait a few paces off to the side; Theron made it here and converses with a few of his men. This normalcy makes it easier to notice how out of place Nessa suddenly looks next to her brothers. Her shoulders angle forward, but her attention is pinned on an alley to my right.
I shake out of Sir’s grip and nod in Nessa’s direction as I stride forward.
“They’re back,” she whispers when I reach her. Her eyes cut to the alley, and I can see from this angle that Finn and Greer stand at the edge of the light, motionless until my attention locks onto them.
Finn bobs his head and they move toward the main tent as if they’ve been in Gaos all along. They left Jannuari with us but split off soon after, creeping away before any Cordellans could realize that the queen’s Winterian council went from five members to three.
Sir guides me to the tent as if afraid I’ll refuse to do that too. But I push ahead of him, crowding around the table in the center with Alysson and Dendera. We all try to maintain a relaxed air, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to draw attention. But my anxiety splits into frayed strands that loop more tightly around my lungs with every passing second.
“What did you find?” Sir is the first to speak, his tone low.
Finn and Greer push against the table, sweat streaking through smudges of dirt on their faces. I cross my arms. Such a routine thing—the queen’s advisers returning from a mission. But I can’t get the gnawing in my head to agree.
I should have gone on this trip to retrieve information for the monarch—I shouldn’t be the monarch herself.
Finn opens his sack and pulls out a bundle while Greer removes one from his waist. “Stopped in Spring first,” Finn says, his attention on the table. Only Conall, Garrigan, and Nessa look out of the tent, watching the Cordellans for any sign of movement toward us. “The early reports that the Cordellans received were correct—no sign of Angra. Spring has transformed into a military state, run by a handful of his remaining generals. No magic, though, and no warmongering.”
Relief fights to sputter through me, but I hold it back. Just because Spring is silent doesn’t mean everything is fine—if Angra survived the battle in Abril and wanted to keep his survival a secret, he’d be a fool to stay in Spring.
And since we haven’t heard a word from him since the battle, if he is alive . . . he definitely doesn’t want anyone to know.
“We passed through Autumn on our way to Summer—both are unchanged,” Finn continues. “Autumn was gracious, and Summer didn’t even realize we were there, which made poking around for rumors of Angra easier. Yakim and Ventralli, on the other hand . . .”
I jolt closer to the table. “They found you?”
Greer nods. “Word spread of two Winterians in the kingdom. Luckily when we said we were there on behalf of our queen, they seemed to soften toward us—but they didn’t let us out of their sight until we left their borders. Both Yakim and Ventralli sent gifts for you.”
He nudges the bundles toward me. I pick up the first one and pull back the matted cloth to reveal a book, a thick volume bound in leather with black lettering embossed on the cover.
“The Effective Implementation of Tax Laws Under Queen Giselle”? I read. The Yakimian queen sent me a book about tax laws she enacted?
Finn shrugs. “She wanted to give us more, but we told her we hadn’t the resources to carry it all. She invites you to her kingdom. They both did, actually.”
That makes me pick up the other package. This one unrolls, spreading over the table to reveal a tapestry, multicolored threads weaving together to form a scene of Winter’s snowy fields overtaking Spring’s green-and-floral forest.
“The Ventrallan queen had that created,” Finn notes, “to congratulate you on your victory.”
I trace a finger down the twirl of silver thread that separates Winter from Spring. “We were in Ventralli and Yakim before Angra fell, gathering supplies and other such things, and people saw us, and never once did the royal families care. Why now?”
Greer’s age deepens in the way his wrinkles crease, his body slouches. “Cordell has its hands in two Seasons now—Autumn and Winter. With such a strong foothold here, it would be able to take Spring easily too, if Noam chose to do so. Summer has trade agreements with Yakim, but no formal alliance. The other Rhythms know Noam is seeking the magic chasm, and they fear his ambitions. They’re testing Winter’s allegiance to Cordell, to see if they can unseat Noam.”
“They were both most adamant that you visit them,” Finn adds. “Queen Giselle told us you are always welcome. Queen Raelyn said the same of Ventralli—she seems to be the one speaking for the king, though he was just as eager to meet you.”
I shake my head. “Did any of those kingdoms show signs of . . . him?”
I can’t say his name. Can’t force myself to feel it grating on my tongue.
“No, my queen,” Greer replies. “There was no sign of Angra. We didn’t go to Paisly—the trip through their mountains is treacherous, and after the attitudes we observed in Ventralli and Yakim, we didn’t think it necessary.”
“Why?”
“Because Paisly is a Rhythm too—they wouldn’t host an ousted Season king. Yakim and Ventralli were barely willing to host us. I don’t think . . .” Greer pauses. “My queen, I don’t think Angra is in Primoria.”
The way he says that makes me shut my eyes. When I first suggested that someone search the world for Angra, everyone thought I was being overly cautious. He vanished after the battle in Abril, but most believe that the magic disintegrated him—not that he escaped.
“He’s dead,” Sir says. “He is no longer a threat we should concern ourselves with.”
I stare at him, drained. He—and the rest of my Winterian council—still believes Angra was defeated, even after I told them that his Royal Conduit had been overtaken by a dark magic created thousands of years ago, before the Royal Conduits were made. Then everyone had small conduits, but when they slowly began to use the magic for evil, that negative use birthed the Decay, a powerful magic that infected everyone with the strength and need to enact their most awful desires. With the creation of the Royal Conduits and the purge of all smaller conduits, the Decay weakened, but it didn’t die—it fed on Angra’s power until Mather broke Spring’s staff.
If Angra is alive, he could be like me, a conduit himself, unburdened by the limitations of his object-conduit. And the Decay could be . . . endless.
But if Angra is alive, why would he be hidden away? Why wouldn’t he have swept through the world, enslaving us all? Maybe that’s what makes Sir so certain he’s dead.
Everyone watches me, even Conall, Garrigan, and Nessa. My eyes shift past them and open wide. One second, no one watched the Cordellans for one second—
“Trouble?”
A Cordellan soldier ducks into the tent, flanked by three others. The moment their armored frames fill the space, my council yanks to attention, casting off any pretense of ease.
I growl deep in my throat as Theron enters the tent too.
“I’m sure they’re discussing how best to proceed with the Tadil’s spoils,” Theron guesses, moving to stand beside me. He tips his head at his men. “No trouble here.”
The soldiers hesitate, clearly unconvinced, but Theron is their prince. They back out of the tent as Theron tucks his hand around my waist. The chill of magic palpitates through me, only marred now—I shouldn’t need someone from another land to sweep to my rescue. Especially to fend off the very men who are supposed to be protecting us.
“Thank you for interceding, Prince Theron,” Sir offers.
Theron bobs his head. “No need to thank me. You should be allowed to gather in your own kingdom without Cordellan interference.”
I cock an eyebrow at him. “Don’t let your father hear you say that.”
That makes Theron tighten his grip on me, drawing me closer. “My father hears whatever he wants to hear,” he says. “What were you discussing, though?”
Sir steps closer. My eyes flick to the side, noting Finn and Greer striding down the road, most likely heading to freshen up so as not to appear travel worn.
“We were discussing only—”
But whatever lie Sir might have been about to tell proves unnecessary. Theron unwinds himself from me and snatches the tapestry from the table.
“Ventralli?” he asks. “Why do you have this?”
Of course he would know where the tapestry is from. His mother was the aunt of the current Ventrallan king—Theron’s room in Bithai is stuffed with paintings, masks, and other treasures from his Ventrallan side.
I glance at Sir, who holds my gaze. The same emotion coats everyone else—Dendera watches me, Alysson grips the edge of the table. All waiting for my response.
All wanting me to lie.
Finn and Greer’s journey was supposed to be secret, one frail act of Winter in the face of Cordell’s occupation. Proof that we could do something, be something, on our own.
But lying to Theron . . .
Sir’s jaw tightens when I hang silent for a beat too long. “The rubble of Gaos,” he says. “We found it in the buildings.”
I don’t realize until the words leave his lips that Theron might find out the truth anyway—if Giselle and Raelyn welcomed Finn and Greer, news will spread. Noam will eventually hear that his Rhythm brethren had Winterian visitors.
I choke, but the lie has been told. Backtracking now would only look worse—wouldn’t it? I can’t very well ask Sir’s opinion on this—besides, he’s the one who lied. Maybe . . . it’s okay.
No. It isn’t okay. But I don’t know how a queen would make this okay.
“It’s beautiful.” Theron runs his fingers down the threads. “A Winter–Spring battle?”
He looks at me, expectant.
I actually manage a chuckle. “You’re asking me? You’re the one with Ventrallan blood.”
Theron cocks a grin. “Ah, but I’d hoped some of me had rubbed off on you by now.”
My cheeks heat, inflamed by the group of my advisers still watching us, by the way Theron straightens, tilting his head to me. I can’t tell if he knows Sir lied—all I can see is the look he gets whenever something artistic is around, a softening at his edges. Seeing him like this is such a nice change from his recent tension, balancing on the edge of fear and memories, that I almost miss where else I’ve seen it before.
I jolt with realization. It’s exactly how he looked at me on the fields outside Gaos, and every time he wants to kiss me—like I’m a work of art he’s trying to interpret.
My heart thumps so loudly I’m sure he can hear. If we were standing in his room, he the prince of Cordell, myself a soldier of Winter, I would have swooned without another thought.
But I look around the tent, at Sir, Dendera, Alysson. Even Conall, Garrigan, and Nessa. They all look at me with similar gazes—like they’ve only ever known me as the queen of Winter, a figure owed reverence and worship.
But I’m none of those things. I’m someone who just helped lie to one of her closest friends.
This is what Winter needs. This is who Winter needs me to be.
I hate who I am now.
A deep rumble bubbles up through the earth. The vibration catches me off guard, numbness washing over me while the world quivers in a violent cacophony of tremors and belching thuds. A few abrupt seconds and it all falls as still and quiet as if nothing happened.
But something happened. Something that makes the families of the miners, still in the square, scream in terror:
A cave-in.
Clarity hardens every nerve and I launch away from the table. My skirt tangles around my legs until I bundle it and push faster, but just as I angle across the square, someone grabs me.
“My queen!” Sir’s voice is his familiar tone of command. “You can’t—”
“There are miners down there,” I shout back. The people around me rush toward the mine entrance, crowding against Cordellan soldiers who fight to keep them in the square until decisions can be made. “My people. I’m the only one who can heal them, and I won’t let them stay down there!”
I knew we shouldn’t have opened this mine. And now, if some of my people have died because of Noam’s insistence on searching for something we will never find—I’ll kill him.
Sir’s grip tightens. “You’re the queen—you do not rush into collapsed mines!”
I almost scream at him, but nothing comes. Because over the ridge hurries one of the Cordellan soldiers charged with guarding the entrance to the mine.
“A miner!” he announces over the square to cries for details. “Coming up the shaft!”
Relief springs in my gut. The magic—it gave them endurance and strength. Maybe it let one of them escape to run desperately fast up the mine shaft.
Sir pushes through the crowd, letting me follow a beat behind.
When we make it to the ridge, the hill on the other side curves down before splitting around a path lined with boulders. The path leads to a cave that seems like any other—dark and fathomless. Sir and I sprint for it, and a trail of people—Conall and Garrigan, Theron, a few Cordellan soldiers—gathers behind us. As I focus on the entrance, I beg the darkness to relinquish the miner, for news that the cave-in wasn’t a cave-in, but something else—
Just as we reach the entrance, the miner stumbles out and falls to his knees. He’s so covered with grime that his ivory skin and hair are gray, and he hacks a funnel of dust into the sunlight. I drop before him, my hands on his shoulders. No thought, no chance to reconsider—the magic swells in my chest, a surge of frost that rushes down my arms and slams into the miner’s body, clearing his lungs, healing the bruises along his limbs.
All the air drains from me, leaving me to pant from the unexpected use of magic as the tension on the man’s face alleviates. Does he realize I used magic on him?
“A wall collapsed, my queen,” he coughs. “Weren’t expecting it, not there, but—”
Theron falls to the ground beside me, his attention boring into the miner in a frantic pull of pure, aching need.
“We . . . found it,” the miner says like he can’t believe his own news. He blinks at me, and I try with everything I have left to breathe, just breathe, keep breathing.
“We found it, my queen. The magic chasm.”