Page 88 of Frost Like Night
“Meira,” Sir says again, crouching before me. He reachesfor Nessa. “We have to—”
“No!” I snarl. Sir flinches.
I can’t blame him. I want to cower from myself, too.
Ceridwen is standing behind Sir. And beyond him, Autumnians, Summerians, and Yakimians alike work to clean up the carnage of the area. Caspar watches me, and Nikoletta, and Dendera—they all stand nearby with looks of sympathy.
A few steps away, Mather crouches over a body on the ground. The Thaw, Henn, and the remaining refugees got here sometime during the fight, so Hollis, Kiefer, Eli, Feige, and Trace surround Mather now. Some of them weep, some of them sit silent and ashen-faced around Phil’s body.
My grip on Nessa tightens.
Someone else drops to his knees next to me. Conall. When did he leave?
He bends over Nessa, and I don’t fight him off when he runs a hand down her gray face. His fingers shift over her arm, and he lifts it, slides something between it and her chest.
A book.
“I’ve been . . .” His voice cracks. “I’ve been writing down the engravings from the memory cave.” He closes his eyes, and when he opens them, his gaze shifts to me. “It was supposed to be a gift for her. So she could carry Winter with her wherever she went. I wanted her to have a piece of our kingdom with her. I wanted her to . . .”
But he doesn’t finish the thought. His blue eyes, mottled with tears, dart over my face, and the unhidden grief he shows destroys me.
“I’m so sorry, Conall,” I hear myself say. It sounds weak, the blubbering apology of someone who failed. “I should have used my magic sooner. I should have stopped Phil, whatever the cost. I should have—I’m so sorry—”
Conall wobbles forward and yanks me to him, his forehead to mine. “Meira, don’t.”
That shocks me into silence more than anything he could have said.
He didn’t call memy queen.
“They’ll burn her,” I whisper.
He swallows, nodding. “I know.”
But it will be an Autumnian ceremony. For Nessa, the girl with the book of Winterian memories in her arms, the girl who should have gone on adventures all over the world and gathered pieces of herself from every kingdom in Primoria . . . it’s fitting.
Conall eases his hands down, rocking his sister’s body from my arms to his, and I let him take her. He stands, careful to keep the book on her chest. His eyes hook onto mine in one last look of understanding. Of pain—aching, disintegrating pain.
The moment he steps away, Sir pulls me to my feet. My legs crack from being huddled on the ground for so long, but he keeps me up, supporting me under one arm.
Weakly, I try to pull away. “You should be with your son.”
He says nothing, just holds me up as I stare at Mather, kneeling over the body of one of his best friends.
The hand I used to push away Sir sits on his chest, and my fingers bend, clawing into his shirt. I push him again, or maybe hold him here, my throat so swollen with grief that I gag and sway, pushing and pulling Sir. He catches my other arm, pinning me to the ground, and I am pushing him now, beating on his chest.
“Let me go,” I say, but it doesn’t match the ferocity with which I hit him.
I still, open hands settling on his arms.
“Let me go,” I repeat, a broken plea that I send to the dirt. “We could. We could go. We could leave, right now, before we lose anyone else. . . .”
The words bubble out of me, jagged wishes that shred my heart even as I utter them.
Sir’s fingers tighten on my elbows. He’ll yell at me now. He’ll reprimand me for this kind of talk.
I clamp my eyes shut, bracing for the onslaught of guilt from him. A queen should be strong and resilient. A queen should face tragedy with hope.
But I have Nessa’s blood on my body. I have the image of her death in my head. I have Mather’s scream in my ears, when he saw Phil die. And we haven’t even gotten close to defeating Angra yet.
