Page 29 of Frost Like Night
Rares cocks a brow at me. “Patience, dear heart. Do you know what happened to the magic chasm?”
Anxiety flutters in my stomach—three days here, four days since the takeover . . .
But I force my eyes to meet Rares’s.
“It vanished centuries ago. No one knows how.” I pause. “But I’m guessing you do.”
He grins. “If one were to dig deep enough into the Klaryns—in any Season, not just Winter—they would find the same door you did. The only reason you found it is because of Winter’s skill at mining; the Order originally constructed the door through Summer’s mountains, with it triggered to appear wherever anyone digs past a certain spot, anywhere in the Klaryns. But that is only the first of many obstacles to prevent the magic chasm from being easily accessed. You encountered one other such obstacle inyour search for the keys.”
Rares fusses with his collar and draws out the key on a long chain. He pulls it off his neck and extends it to me, and I take it, holding it delicately by the chain as he presses on.
“The keys were left in Summer, Yakim, and Ventralli as the creators of the chasm traveled down through those kingdoms from Paisly—and to separate the keys in order to make sure, further, that finding the magic chasm was not easy, and that if someone attempted to open it, the search for the keys would give the Order time to make sure it was someone wewantedto reach the chasm. But the next difficulty you will encounter, beyond getting the two other keys back, is the labyrinth that lies behind the door.”
A connection snaps into place. “The Order hid the magic chasm.Paislyhid it.”
Rares sighs. “We only meant to keep the wrong sort from reaching the magic until we could destroy it. We didn’t intend for your Seasons to take the blame for the chasm’s disappearance. But much happened that we did not intend, dear heart.”
ARhythmis responsible for the act that made the rest of the world despise the Seasons.
And while I could easily nurture this spark of anger, I don’t. I let it drift away, because it’s part of yet more things that have already happened. All I have room for, all I can see, is what lies ahead. The one goal around which all others fizzle: destroying all magic.
“This labyrinth,” I start, my fingers tight around the key’s chain, “I’ll need to use my magic for it too? But can’t you come with me? You will, won’t you?”
Rares whirls to a stack of books in the corner. When he turns back around, he holds an old, yellowed paper that looks one deep exhale away from fluttering into a million dusty pieces.
“The labyrinth was created by a small group of the Order’s most powerful conduits to protect the magic from being easily accessed—and if it is accessed, it was made so only those worthy can reach it. They kept every detail of it secret. Even when they created it, they—” His voice falters and he purses his lips. “Well. They took their secrets to their graves.”
My jaw tightens. I’m not the only one who sacrificed everything to protect Primoria. The Order of the Lustrate isn’t expecting me to do anything they haven’t done themselves.
“But”—Rares lifts an eyebrow—“they left us a clue.”
He extends the paper to me and I stand to take it.
Three people the labyrinth demands
Who enter with genuine intent
To face a test of leadership,
A maze of humility,
And purification of the heart.
To be completed by only the true.
I read it twice. Three times. And before I can stop myself, I’m hit with an aching thought:
Theron would know what this means.
I drop the paper on the desk. “A riddle.” I back up, legs bumping into the chair until I stumble and catch myself on the armrest. The key’s chain bites into my palm, the key itself smacking against my thigh. “Is that all? Because I—I need—”
This room is far too small. For all my progress, I can’t catch my breath, and I fall into the chair as I wheeze at the familiarity of reading ancient passages about magic. My memories of Theron rear high—sitting in his library, listening to him talk through that book,Magic of Primoria. I let myself dance with the idea of loving him because he was sweet, and kind, and we both wanted more of our lives. Even though it was an arranged marriage, even though it was political, even though I knew that I could never be the person I needed to be to love him.
He would always be Cordell’s heir; I would always be bound to Winter.
I press my free hand against my forehead, swallowing the icy bursts of magic that swirl up my throat. I don’t want to fight this guilt anymore, but I don’t know how to fix it—because I can’t save him. Everything that has happened to him will be with him forever, in the same way all Winterians still tremble from their years of enslavement.
So what can I do?
