Page 16 of Frost Like Night
Oana bats at her husband. “Nonsense—every woman likes to be told how lovely she is. You’d think after centuries of being married, you’d know that.”
I gape. I had to have heard her wrong.
“You didn’t think Angra was the only one gifted with long life?” Rares asks.
I study his face, then Oana’s. “You can’t be more than fifty.”
Rares smirks. “I have a grueling beauty regimen.”
When I don’t respond, he sighs. “Magic, in any of its most powerful forms—the Decay, orbeinga conduit—preserves its host. Death can still find the particularly reckless, and we age, but slowly—imperceptibly slowly. Which was right good fun for the first few centuries, but . . .”
“But I age normally,” I interject.
“You didn’t access your power until recently—your magic was dormant until you consciously knew about it.”
I marvel again at the ease with which Rares offers all this. Sir would have made me fight him formonthsto get this kind of information.
But I’m struck mute. Rares is like Angra. And this will be my fate too, now that I’ve awakened my magic from the dormant state it was in throughout my childhood. Whilethe thought of never dying might be a glorious relief, the consequences hit me too.
I could watch everyone I love die. I could fall into Angra’s hands and he could torture meforeverwith whatever horrible fate he wishes.
Rares bobs his head, his eyes on me. “This is why, before we continue with any training, I insist you speak to Oana. Not even the best teacher in the world can get a lesson to stick if you’re not ready for it. Go with her. She’ll help you. Consider it lesson three—and, truthfully, think of it as one of the most important lessons of all.”
Wariness hums in my chest. “What are we going to talk about? Magic?”
Oana shakes her head. “No, sweetheart.You.”
Me. We’re going to waste time talking aboutmewhen . . .
I clench my jaw to fight from glancing toward the wall and, beyond it, the waiting war. There are so many questions, so much to learn—what did I expect, though? To spend a few hours chatting with Rares and walk out of here a whole, strong queen capable of leading a victorious charge against Angra? That would be too easy.
And I know what happens when Winterian queens rush into things.
I take a deep breath and nod. I have to do this. Mather will keep everyone safe and my allies will keep Angra at bay while I myself become more capable, more skilled at controlling my magic so when I face Angra, I can get the finaltwo keys from him with as little bloodshed as possible, and stop his war before it has a chance to take any more lives.
Oana offers me her arm, and I take it. She makes sure to wrap her hand in her sleeve before giving my fingers a tight squeeze and leads me up the path toward the castle.
“I’m glad you’re here, Meira,” she says. “We don’t get many visitors.”
It feels like she’s grateful for more than my impending destruction of magic. The way she looks at me makes me feel . . . treasured. Valued.
I want to press her for more, but she flips her hand at the doors and the castle opens to us.
Inside, the iciness of the stones loosens some of the tension in my muscles. Chandeliers hang every few steps, casting yellow-white light on a décor just as warm and wild as Oana’s style—maroon accents and comfortable wooden furniture. Rooms open off this hall, and Oana stops before one, the clacking of our shoes halting in abrupt silence.
I realize then—there are no other sounds here. No servants bustling through chores; no soldiers marching in drills.
Oana smiles at me. “We don’t have much use for servants in Paisly.” She nods toward the nearest chandelier, and as I watch, she uses magic to make the candles fade before raging to life.
My shock isn’t as strong as it was before. But it spikes when I meet Oana’s eyes.
I never asked about their lack of servants.
Her hand hesitates over the knob as she looks up through thick black lashes. “Rares can only block your thoughts when he’s with you, sweetheart. No one can intrude on you through Paisly’s barrier from a distance, but up close . . .”
My eyes widen when I realize what she means. Is this part of lesson three? Her poking into my head?
Snow, I hope not.
