Page 38 of Frost Like Night
I’ve seen him injured before, after missions in our refugee camp; after particularly brutal sparring sessions. But through all those injuries, he winced and cried out in pain, but he was never unconscious. He was always able to look at me, and I never realized until now how necessary that was for my heartbeat to remain steady.
Oana touches my shoulder. “We need to get him inside, sweetheart,” she pleads, and I realize I’m blocking Rares and Alin from lifting Mather out of the cart.
I leap back near Phil, who sobs, and when I turn, he’s standing. His arms wrap so tightly around his torso that I fear he may snap himself in half.
“What happened?” My question slams into Phil, making him stagger.
“No . . .” He covers his eyes, the heels of his palms pressing deep. Each moment he doesn’t speak lets possibilities thud in me. Images of Mather climbing the mountains in pursuit of me and falling; images of him trying to escape Rintiero and getting attacked by Angra’s men—
Phil mumbles something into his wrists.
“What?”
He drops his hands. Looks at me. Then at Mather, now hanging limp between Alin and Rares as they haul him toward the castle.
“I had to make the voices stop,” Phil whispers.
My body goes hot. “Angra?” I guess.
Phil moans softly and nods.
“I told them—where we were going,” he says, gagging between words. “I told them—where you were—and they took us to the mountains—and Angra, he didn’t come. He said—he said we’d be enough to make you come back. He had his men beat Mather to show you what Angra will do to everyone who stands against him.” Phil doubles over, hands on his knees. “I told them where you were to make the voices stop, but they beat him in front of me, and I’d . . . I’d rather have the voices. . . .”
The door to the castle opens and Rares backs in, Mather’s head lolling against his stomach.
I swallow Phil’s words, my own agony, anything that makes me teeter on the edge of falling apart.
Through all I have to do, the sacrifice I have to make, my life is the only one that will be taken. I refuse to lose more people to this.
I throw that need deep into the magic, let it spread through the void.
Mather will live. Do you hear me?
He will live.
Rares and Alin put him on a cot in a narrow room with tables, a washbasin, blankets, and candles. Alin murmurs his apologies as he leaves, returning to his post, and Rares and I hover in the doorway, quiet enough that we can hear the muffled words of Oana caring for Phil a few rooms down.
Rares crosses his arms over his chest, and for the first time since I met him, I can’t find a hint of levity anywhere in his demeanor.
I talk before he can. “Angra didn’t come to Paisly.”
Rares pulls his eyes away from Mather. “He knows he can’t survive a direct attack—at least, not without the rest of Primoria’s armies on his side. Which he’s well on his way to having.”
I look back at Mather. The blood on his head, pulsing fresh and bright.
“He won’t heal without your help,” Rares says.
“No.” I shake my head. “I can’t—I willnotrisk his life by hurting him more than he—”
Rares grabs my arms and the sorrow in his eyes undoes me. “The best I can do is make him comfortable while he slowly passes on. He’s lost too much blood, the wound is too deep—the only way he will survive this is with Winterian magic.”
One breath is all the time it takes—less than that, actually. One glimpse of Mather, broken, bleeding, out of the corner of my eye.
“I’ll keep you from losing control,” Rares assures me, but I’m already nodding. “It’s the same as drawing objects to you. Relax your mind and let your choice echo out.”
I push into the room until I slam to a halt just beside the cot. Mather’s skin tone is gray instead of the vibrant, healthy gleam it should be. His chest moves almost imperceptibly,and my own aches in tandem with his tremulous breaths.
The cot squeals as I sit on it and take Mather’s hand. Clammy sweat beads on his palm, but I weave my fingers with his, unrelenting against his limp grasp.
