Page 52 of Frost Like Night
“Left,” I say. “Have to start somewhere.”
Mather nods and swings his hand toward the horizon. “Lead on, my queen.”
I squint. “Don’t you dare.”
“Don’t I dare what?”
“Keep calling me that.”
“What else should I call you, my queen?” Mather’s voice lightens.
Phil stands, adjusting his travel pack. His horror seems to have retreated, at least as he eyes Mather. “I can think of a few things you want to call her,” he mutters.
Even in the dark, the blush that creeps over Mather’s face is the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. And this is the first bit of levity Phil’s shown since he appeared in Paisly.
Mather bumps Phil’s shoulder as he passes, trudging through the grass.
“Come on,” he says. “We should cover as much ground as we can tonight.”
I grin, nearly bursting with how good it feels. “As you wish, Lord Mather.”
That makes him roll his eyes, but he smiles, slow and small, and keeps marching to the left. Phil starts after him, and I fall in behind.
We spend two days walking, foraging for resources, and sleeping. We split into shifts to keep watch, one of us always alert for approaching enemies or lights on the horizon, signaling a camp.
Back in Paisly, for however brief a time, it didn’t feel like the world was falling apart. Rares told me what Angra was doing, but I could still remove myself from it—here, though, each step I take draws me closer to war. Who knows what Ceridwen endured under Raelyn? I still don’t know the state of Winter. And Theron . . . Angra has him.
Why would Angra ally with him at all, though? Cordell does have one of the most powerful armies in Primoria. But Angra wouldn’t need Theron for that—the Decay’s influence could sway anyone. Keeping Theron alive is a far bigger threat to Angra, because yet another person remains who is connected to pure conduit magic—the only way he can be defeated.
I haven’t asked Mather what happened to Theron’s conduit. Last I knew, Mather had taken it after Theron tossed it away in Rintiero’s dungeon, but I doubt very much Angra let him keep it once they were captured again.
But that still poses the question—why would Angra want Theron at all? Angra loves having puppets to carry out commands for him—Herod was proof of that, Raelyn too. Is he planning to use Theron that same way?
My heart sinks. There’s only one thing I can think of that Angra might need Theron for: me.
Theron knows things that could weaken me. Theronhimselfcould weaken me, just by being who he is—someone I care about, possessed by the one thing I hate above all else.
And Angra knows that.
I wipe a bead of sweat from my forehead. Grass tangles around my boots, the sun beats down on me, but of all the emotions I could feel now—discomfort; fatigue; racking, consuming, fiery guilt—I only let myself wallow in one: acceptance.
This war will force me to confront Theron. I’ll have to face whatever Angra made him into—someone just as cruel as Herod, just as dark as Angra. And I’ll have to be ready.
Phil makes anoofas I bump into him. But he looks ahead, gaze fixed on the horizon.
Ahead of us, tucked around a bend in the line of trees, stand hundreds of tents in yellow, brown, and earthy greento camouflage against the plains and forest. Tendrils of smoke lift from campfires, movement shifts within, and the hum of voices hangs light on the air.
Mather spins to us. “That looks like a camp, right?” But he’s already walking backward toward it, relief chasing off his discomfort at the plains’ sweltering heat.
Phil throws his fist into the air. “Civilization! Well, sort of.” He rushes forward, legs pumping over the grass.
Mather keeps walking steadily backward. My eyes roam past him to the camp, but I can’t seem to make myself move.
“We’re here,” I say, throat dry. I grip the straps of my chakram’s holster.
SuddenlyWe’re heresounds more like a threat than the relieved statement it should be.
Mather steps toward me, his hand out.
