Page 42 of Frost Like Night
Angra wanted to break me.
But he only made me unbreakable.
13
Meira
I STAND ATthe edge of the sparring circle, hands in the pockets of my robe. The overcast sky trickles soft light over Oana, Rares, and me, and as the clouds grumble, my heart joins in.
I’d assumed the final lesson would be fighting with magic, but the swirling gray storm clouds end at the edge of the compound, a perfect cluster over us and us alone. Another whisper of thunder rolls across the sky, moments away from releasing a deluge over the yard.
Rares made this storm.
Across the circle, he takes a relaxed stance, but I stiffen, even more alert.
“Your magic—it feels cold to you, yes?” he asks.
“Isn’t it supposed to?”
Rares starts pacing, shifting around the circumference of the training ring, though I remain just outside. Oanawatches from a bench at the edge of the yard. The amused quirk of her lips only makes me more confused, so when Rares stops directly in front of me, I’m practically humming with wonder.
“To me, magic feels . . . warm,” he says. “Not hot, not cold, but a neutral, tingling sensation. To a Summerian, it feels the opposite of how it feels to you—raging heat. To an Autumnian, encroaching chill; to a Spring, rising warmth. I’ve always wondered why that is—why, through monitoring the monarchs of the world, I’ve sensed such drastic differences in how they perceive the magic. All Rhythms feel the magic as I do—as a neutral tingling. Why are the Seasons more extreme? Why doyoufind yourself swarmed with ice?”
I shrug. “I never considered it before.”
Rares smiles. “I have a theory, dear heart. The Seasons are the only kingdoms that stand directly atop the magic. Their monarchs are the only ones whose blood is saturated with power, so much so that it affects their physical affinity for certain climates. What if the Seasons have more of a connection to magic than any other kingdom? What if they have the potential to be the strongest wielders of the Royal Conduits? For me, there is no natural magic—it takes equal effort to conjure rain as it would snow. But for you, I suspect it would be frighteningly easy to summon a blizzard, yes?”
I fiddle with the locket at my throat, the cold metal onlyone more spot of chill on my body. The swirl of iciness in my chest is so constant by now that I almost don’t notice. It makes sense for the Winterian monarch to be more adept at controlling winter weather. Our whole kingdom has a stronger affinity for it, so that talent should bleed over into me.
“But the Seasons have always been weak. We’re stagnant while the Rhythms evolve.” I quote the stereotype perpetuated by most of the Rhythms.
Rares’s lips tighten. “That is in our nature, I believe. To recognize a threat and squash it, whether or not we consciously know why it is a threat. I think the Rhythms fear you. Or they would, if all the Seasons truly came into their powers. One already has, and he controls the Decay in a terrifying way—and you, dear heart, will be the next Season to change the world.”
At that, Rares lifts his hands into the air and rain begins to slosh down onto us in heavy sheets. I’m drenched in seconds, my shoulders hunching against the drops.
Rares crouches into a stance I’ve seen enough now to know by instinct, and my muscles react by pulling me into a fighting pose too, hands up, legs stiff, shoulders relaxed.
“This lesson will be a culmination of everything I’ve begun teaching you. But we’ll start first with a simple sparring session,” he says. “You can use magic only as a defense in fighting. Using it to attack, with intent to harm, feeds the Decay. So attack me—without magic.”
He waits. I purse my lips at the storage bin and call asword. Once armed, I swing at him.
Rares moves, hurling his body toward me. Confusion makes me hesitate—he’s not using a weapon?
But no—he does have a weapon. And seeing it draws a startled chirp from my lungs.
A rope of water snaps against my blade, nearly cutting into my cheek. At Rares’s command, the drops from the rain coil into a whip that tears the sword from my grasp and flings it across the yard.
Keeping magic within an object allows Royal Conduit–wielders to control weather and other elements needed to run their kingdoms; unlimited magic in a person-conduit lets them manipulate these things with greater accuracy. But understanding this doesn’t stop my panic, and as Rares’s whip snaps toward me again, I scramble back, terror shocking a reaction from me.
I lift my hands. A chill launches out of me and the water droplets of his whip crystallize into shards of ice that fall at our feet.
Rares’s eyes sparkle. “Very good!”
My body vibrates with a mix of pride and power. Can I do it again? What else can I do?
Thunder explodes in an echoing pop and I plunge forward. Rares is right—snow, cold, and ice are my natural state, and I let myself feel all that. Every knot of chill I always kept so tight in my chest, afraid to use it, afraid to lose control. But for the first time since I found out what Iam, I succumb to it, welcoming it as part of myself. Because itispart of myself—I am a Winterian. I am ice through every part of me.
Rares kicks my sword up into his hand and charges at me. Rain drips from each strand of hair, each piece of clothing. His gray robe hangs heavy, wool soaked through with rain, and one jerk of my fingers turns the wet edge into a solid block of ice, adding water in layers that drag him down. He stumbles, flailing for balance, and as I spin to get in one solid kick that will send his blade flying—
