Page 33 of Frost Like Night
And this time, it isn’t something I can let go, because the thought of Mather, unconscious, grows more unbearable with each heartbeat.
10
Mather
WHEN MATHER WASa child, he could train every day in weaponry; he could listen with undivided attention to William’s lessons on war strategy, economy, and history; he could be kind and fair and just. But not a single one of those things made him the female heir Winter needed, and through every lesson, he always felt that nagging pull in the back of his mind that whispered of his true worth—which was, at the time, merely to someday carry on the female lineage of his kingdom.
And in the dark, quiet nights, when the whole camp slept in their haphazard tents in whatever location William had selected, Mather would find himself wishing an impossible wish. One he didn’t dare voice aloud, not when his kingdom’s salvation depended on it:
He wished for magic to disappear. He wished for a worldfree of it, where worth was based on a leader’s true self, not on gender.
Mather had harbored this wish until Angra was overthrown and Meira revealed as the true heir. Then, it seemed almost as if magic might be good after all—it had saved their kingdom. So he’d pushed that wish aside, and tried to accept the world as it was.
But when Phil’s screams turned to wails that weren’t so much heard as felt, Mather wished more than he ever had that magic didn’t exist.
Mather was held on the ground through every tortured wail, unable to even see what they were doing to his friend. And when silence finally came, a bag was tugged over his head, his wrists shackled, his legs bound, everything tight and suffocating andpain.
He was thrown alone inside something wooden, the air tainted with the smell of mildew, telling him that either they were on the Langstone River or he was in some kind of box that had been on a ship. The rocking, reeling motion of his crate was too haphazard to guess whether he was being tugged along by wagon or boat. But they traveled, and traveled, and traveled some more, and just when Mather thought he might pass out from the improperly ventilated box, they stopped.
The heave of his crate sent him tumbling into one of the walls. His shoulder only connected with the wood for half a breath before the wall vanished, a door that openedand sent him plummeting out. Though Theron had shoved Cordell’s conduit back into Mather’s belt, he’d been unable to bend at the necessary angle to reach it, and therefore had been unable to get the manacles off during the trip. He had nothing to break his fall as he slammed into the ground.
Rocks. Gravel, mostly. No grass.
Where were they?
Hands lifted him by his upper arms, and after so long being bound, he hissed in pain at the further contortion. It would take weeks for his muscles to forgive him.
Such thoughts were all he’d let himself think during the journey. Anything else . . .
Mather squared his jaw.
His captors tore the bag off his head, cut the binding on his legs, even unlocked his manacles. The freedom died even before it had time to blossom—if they felt comfortable undoing his bonds, he had to be seriously outnumbered.
“Ice above,”he cursed, and bowed his head to his chest, his eyes watering at the stabbing intrusion of light. But he blinked, clearing his vision, and snapped his head up to take in his surroundings.
He had been in a wagon, for this part of the journey, at least. Cliffs loomed all around, and a bright-blue sky contrasted against the grim gray stones. If he hadn’t known any better, he’d have said they were in the Klaryns, but they hadn’t been traveling that long.
Athumppulled Mather’s attention back to the wagon.Some of the soldiers—ten in total, and neither Angra nor Theron among them, which was both a relief and horrifically unnerving—had opened another compartment near the back, out of which they dragged Phil.
Shockingly, no one stopped Mather as he scrambled to his feet, then dropped, knees folding with disuse. But determination won out, letting him half drag, half throw himself at Phil, who buckled on the stony ground without so much as a moan.
Mather held Phil upright, hands digging into his shoulders. One of Phil’s eyes was swollen shut; the other blinked away blood that trickled from a cut over his brow.
But that was it. There were no other wounds that Mather could see, and Phil didn’t favor any limbs or hold his hands over any gashes.
“What did they do to you?” Mather demanded.
Phil looked at him, tears welling. “I . . . told them . . . where she went. . . .”
Phil’s face flashed with dread as the soldiers grabbed Mather and heaved him back, tossing him against one of the many boulders that lined the clearing. His hands were coated with the chalky grime of stones, and as he spun, he clenched his fists, legs in the best defensive stance his still-unsteady body could muster.
Phil only had three soldiers standing over him—the final seven had gathered around Mather.
One of the soldiers tossed something at Phil’s feet.Mather blinked. Was that . . .
Phil frowned at it, looked up at the soldiers, then at Mather.
It was Meira’s chakram.
