Page 131 of Frost Like Night
The gate squeals shut behind me, cutting through the melody of the golden leaves hitting their golden branches.Every tree I pass has carvings on the trunk, names and dates and bits of poetry. No—one poem in particular, one I heard long ago, from dying lips that ring through my memory.
Cordell’s poem. Sir recited it on the battlefield outside Bithai before I thought he died the first time, before I was captured, before my life changed in ways I’m still discovering.
“Cordell, Cordell, if we must leave
To battle, travel, or to die,
Let those who do not come again
Forever in your presence lie.”
And beneath those lines of poetry, the phraseHere liesproclaims that Cordell buries its royal dead under golden maple trees. Such a place exists in Jannuari, only with simple markers for the bodies we burn. Sir has a marker there. And Nessa, and Garrigan, so many stones carved with snowflakes.
So I know where Theron is, whose grave he’s standing over, before I reach him. I know whose grave I’d be standing over, where my heart would go.
And when I turn down the row of saplings with the freshest mounds of earth, he’s there.
One arm crosses over his chest, the other cups the back of his neck as he bows his head, his eyes closed where hestands before two golden saplings in dirt mounds. One, older; the other, far too fresh. Lanterns spaced along the pathway shine light onto us, but shadows still seep in, warping details. He doesn’t move at my approach, and it gives me time to study him.
His once long hair has been cropped short, feeding into a beard that roughens his face. His Cordellan uniform bears more medals than when last I saw it, and the material is finer, a weave of deep-emerald velvet with gold accents.
All in all, he looks far more like his father, in only the best ways. Noam’s surety and confidence and control, but none of his harshness or pomposity.
I stop two paces back from Theron, clinging to handfuls of my skirt.
Breathe, Meira.“Nikoletta said you’d be here.”
Theron, eyes still closed, smiles, but it doesn’t stay when he looks at me.
“She’s become far too protective,” he says. “Did she send you to check on me?”
“It was heavily implied.” I try to smile. “But I’ve been wanting to speak to you anyway.”
Theron drops his gaze back to one of the trees. Noam’s sapling, his name showing in the hazy light. Theron stays silent, massaging the back of his neck, before he pulls upright and drops his thumbs into the belt that holds a decorative sword at his waist.
“Well, as I told Nikoletta, and Jesse,andmy advisers,I’m fine.” He meets my eyes again. “You owe me nothing, Your Highness. I’m pleased simply that you have come to participate in the world’s unification.”
“Theron.” The bite in my voice rumbles up from the complicated tangle in my gut. “You don’t have to treat me like that.”
His laugh is bitter. “I said something similar to you once. Do you remember what you said in return?‘You are Cordell, just as much as I am Winter. You’ll always have to choose your kingdom over me.’Well, my lady—you have chosen correctly.”
I don’t respond, opening the silence like a door flooding light into a dark room.
Theron keeps his eyes on me, the hard laughter slipping off his face in favor of a broken grunt. He licks his lips, shaking his head at me, at himself, at the graves before us.
“I remember everything,” he starts, a soft whisper. “And I’m so sorry, Meira. I don’t know where to begin with apologies. That’s part of why I invited everyone here—I helped destroy this world, so I will help rebuild it. But you—golden leaves, I owe you so much more than that.”
“I didn’t come here for an apology.” My voice breaks. “I came here to . . . well, to apologize toyou, for not coming sooner. For not checking on you. This war began as Winter’s problem, and I pulled you into it,Iput you in Angra’s path, and—”
“Angra.” Theron practically sobs the name, a violent wince making him fold his chin to his chest. “You may haveput me in his path, but I chose to walk down it.”
My heart sinks into my stomach. I’ve feared that from the start, that the things Theron did were more him than Angra. But the look in his eyes chases away my concern.
“The Decay made me want things I never dared let myself admit. It was so freeing.” He stops, folds his arms over his chest. “Until Angra . . .”
His tears break free. He scrubs at them, laughing at himself, eyes on the darkening sky.
“I killed my father because of him. I did terrible things because of him. And yet I admired him. I worshipped him. He was so strong, and I had felt weak for so long.”
