Page 110 of Frost Like Night
Humility.
“I can’t . . . ,” he started, determination coiling around his words. Hecould, though. If he tried harder; if he could climb the damn walls; if, if, if . . .
If he admitted he couldn’t do this, what other declarations would come streaming out of his mouth?
I can’t save her.
I know I can’t save her.
She’ll die, and I’ll stand there helpless to do anything but watch her go.
Mather doubled over, forehead to his knees.
This test was seeping into his mind. He just needed to getout. He’d get out and—she would still die.
“I can’t do this,” he spit, fury boiling in his gut.
Nothing happened. Mather pulled himself up, glaringat the darkness. The magic here knew his heart. He had to be honest,humble.
Fine.
He might not be able to save her. But he wouldn’t let her do it alone.
He swallowed, willing his lips to move and release the words with intention, with submission.
“I can’t,” he said, muscles hard, “do this.”
The ground trembled again, a gust of air billowing coolness in a much-needed burst of relief. Mather’s tension sloshed away the moment he saw the door open in the wall.
White light seeped into the maze, glaring after the utter darkness of the halls. Mather leaped to his feet and plunged into it.
“Meira!” he shouted. “William—”
The names echoed back to him much too loudly, a rebound of noise that spoke of far smoother walls than the carved stone of the labyrinth so far. His eyes adjusted to the light, pain lancing through his head as he took in the room. A tiled floor of black and white squares spanned in a perfect rectangle with pillars of white guarding either side. The ceiling—there was none. Just those pillars stretching on and on, ending in a cloud of brilliant ivory light.
Mather’s instincts raged anew and he scrambled for more weapons. A dagger and one of the swords he wore across his spine. He spun, weapons raised, body yearning for a fightwhile his mind tried to speak rationally against his euphoria at having an enemy he couldsee.
Because . . . well, he could see this enemy.
And seeing it conflicted with every logical explanation Mather could dredge up.
Three figures stood in the room. One was Meira, a bit more dust-covered than she had been, but uninjured; another was William, hands free of weapons and face completely blank in a frightening, deathlike sheen that Mather couldn’t understand.
Until he recognized the last person in the room with them.
As a child, William had found a number of books on the Winter Kingdom, and in one, a portrait of Queen Hannah showed her as a small, pretty woman with long white hair and a serene stare. Mather had stolen glances at that picture whenever he could, desperate to feel some connection to the woman who, at the time, he thought was his mother.
Now that painting came to life before him, and he found himself staring at Queen Hannah Dynam.
“You’ve reached the end of the labyrinth,” Hannah said, smiling. “You’ve come so far.”
33
Ceridwen
THE CLOSER CERIDWENdrew to the Ventrallan queen, the quieter everything became. As if all her other senses demanded her attention more, drowning out her ability to hear anything but the echoingthump-thumpof her heart matching the cadence of her feet on the earth. The handles of her knives dug into her palms. The crisp, bitter air of Autumn met the frigid air of Winter, weaving into a blanket of iciness that burned Ceridwen’s lungs.
This was war.
