Page 60 of Frost Like Night
Sir pulls away from Mather. When he faces me again, every bit of softness is gone.
He nods to the floor below us.
I press back against the pillar but angle forward so I can see the floor. My gut aches when my eyes land on Ceridwen, hidden in an alcove by a fire pit, her eyes cutting every so often to the same second-floor balcony across from us.
“We have archers,” Sir whispers, nodding to the balconies above. “And swordsmen.” He points at his own weapon, then to two more bodies hidden on this same level, on balconies closer to the one that holds all attention. One of the swordsmen is Henn.
I pause. They haven’t yet been caught. They haven’t yet been consumed with Decay.
This . . . might actually work.
“What can we do?” I ask, a breath against the music below.
But Sir can’t answer—the moment I ask, a door opens on the main balcony. We all drop, crouching behind the thick sandstone railings and pillars.
The crowd pivots toward the open door. Their quiet whispering ceases, dead silence making the low-burning fire pits roar.
From the shadows of the opened door, Angra emerges.
Mather puts his hand on my knee. I grab his fingers, squeezing once, but the rest of my body has gone numb. I keep from looking at Ceridwen, knowing the pain that must be racking her. Angra is here, lording his power over her kingdom.
Summer is his.
Firelight cuts through the shadows around him, dancing off his black tunic and pale hair as he steps to the railing.
“Summer!” Angra bellows. The crowd shifts closer to him, drawn as flowers to the sun. “The world has transformed. I bring to each kingdom a chance at unity—a chance Summer has welcomed with great reception. . . .”
He drones on, a speech about unity and peace and things that set my insides on fire, so I ignore him in favor of studying him. Does he have the keys? They’re more a threat to him than the locket ever was, and he kept that around his neck. There’s no way he’d let those keys leave his person. So how do we get close enough to him without getting ourselves killed? Maybe, if Ceridwen’s archers get a good shot, it will stun him enough for us to make a move. Or—couldan arrow really assassinate him? Surely his magic wouldn’t let him die so easily. But it could definitely distract him.
“. . . will shift our world into a state of equality, where prejudices will die and new life will grow. Further”—Angra leans forward—“the Seasons and Rhythms will no longer hold to biased, childlike opinions. We are all equal, and as such, I, a Season king, present to Theron Haskar, a Rhythm king, a token of my trust and bond.”
Every bit of blood in my body rushes for my head, wrapping me in a dizzy fog.
I knew he’d be here, but I hadn’t let myself dwell on it, the same way I keep from looking at Ceridwen—I can’t think about him now.
Movement from two places in the room cuts my attention.
One comes from below, where two men start walking across the back of the room. They’re Yakimians, and I almost dismiss them as slaves—but they’re armed, and they walk with a sudden purpose that stands out in the quiet crowd. Slowly at first, their footsteps gain traction with each step, and it isn’t until they’re halfway across the room that Sir, on the other side of Mather, grunts low in his throat.
This isn’t part of the plan.
Another movement comes from the door behind Angra, the darkness unfurling around the figure of a man. He isn’t injured, not a bruise or a scratch or anything to indicatehe’s been ill-treated—which is almost more horrible. He’s whole and clean, dressed in a Cordellan military uniform, looking so normal that I have to squeeze my nails into my palms, the pain reminding me that this is real, not a nightmare.
Mather sucks in a ragged breath, his hand on my knee clenching tighter, grounding me.
Theron steps up to the railing. Angra reaches into a pocket on his black tunic to withdraw a chain from which two thick black keys hang.
I teeter forward, catching myself on the stone.
“These keys represent both our past mistakes and our future freedom,” Angra continues, and holds them out.
Below, the two Yakimians reach Ceridwen’s hiding place. She frowns at them.
I feel everything that happens next before it occurs, like the anticipation of watching a storm cloud roll in over the plains.
Theron takes the keys, opens his mouth to say something no doubt grand and rehearsed in response to Angra’s display.
But the Yakimian men start shouting.
