Page 3 of Frost Like Night
He is the one person in my life fully capable of standing on his own.
What about Theron?
The question makes me stumble as Rares and I sprint out of the city, wiggling between two bright, lopsided buildings and into the lush forest that borders Rintiero to the north.
That question. It wasn’tme. It sounded almost like—
I slam to a halt, Rares making it a few paces farther before he realizes I’ve stopped. But the voice in my head holds me captive, and I brace my hands over my temples.
A terrible fate, isn’t it, being part of the same magic? If only you were stronger.
My vision blurs until all I see is Angra’s face in my mind.
“No!” I scream, buckling, my knees slamming into the moist earth. Angra could hear my thoughts when we were both in the Donati ballroom, but he’s nowhere near me now. How is he able to talk to me,withinme? I should be able to stop him—
But you can’t stop me, can you, Highness? My soldiers are coming for you. Winter is finished. Spring has come.
A single word ekes out in response.Why?
I’ve already asked that question, back in the ballroom of the Donati Palace, surrounded by the carnage—the Summerian king’s head, Garrigan’s and Noam’s bodies. But the only answer I got was the reason why Angra sought to destroy Winter’s mines—he fears pure conduit magic countering his Decay, which is why he spent every moment he could working to undo that threat. That was why he attacked Winter for so long; that was why he turned on anyone who tried to open the chasm.
But what I ask now isn’t even a conscious question—it’s a whimper in the darkness as his face fills my mind.
Why is this happening . . . ?
I’ve seen my friends murdered for this war. I’ve watched my kingdom burn for this. I’m running for my life now for this, and after all these years, I still don’t knowwhy. What does he want?
Hands cover mine where I grip my head.
I open my eyes. Magic spreads down my limbs, cooling and deep and pure, turning my fear to shock.
Rares is pumping his magic into me.
His face tightens, beads of sweat breaking along his forehead. “Fight him!”
My heart knows I don’t have to submit to Rares’s magic,shouldn’tsubmit to him, but everything else in me wants to,fear and panic coiling in a whip that tears apart my insides.
Fight!I will myself to stay open to whatever help Rares may offer.
A shock sends me flying backward. I slam against the ground, leaves sticking to my clothes, my head ringing as though someone has struck a bell inside my skull.
I see Rares mouth my name.
“You . . . ,” I think I say. “What did you . . .”
Pain flares behind my eyes and it’s all I can do not to vomit on the soggy undergrowth. But Rares puts his hand over mine again, even when I glare at him through the agony that turns everything a vibrant scarlet.
Rest now,a voice says. It isn’t Angra—it’s Rares, in my head.Rest, and trust me.
Trust you? What did you do? You haven’t told me anything!
But even as I try to fight it, unconsciousness comes, lulling me like the tempting aromas that waft from a feast. I’m half aware of Rares lifting me, of the jostling sway of being carried at a run through the forest.
You’re more like Sir than I thoughtare my final words before everything goes dark.
2
Mather
