Page 37 of Frost Like Night
“I always knew you were worth fighting for,” Jesse moaned. “I was just never worthy of fighting for you.”
“I always knew you weren’t worthy of me. I always knew you were weak, Jesse, and I don’t want to have to put you together.” The accusation cut into her own insecurities. “You are weak, and broken, andyou are alone. Why did you ever think anyone would help you? You are nothing, and that’s why you’re alone, that’s why you’ve failedso many times—because there was never anything in you to begin with.”
The ground caught her as she dropped to her knees.
She was alone, in ways she couldn’t entirely fathom. Her mother probably still lived, but what use had she ever been? Simon was dead, and honestly . . . what had she expected him to become? For him to wake up one day and realize how dangerous he was? No, there never would have been a happy resolution for her brother. Not for Summer, not for herself.
Arms stretched across her back. Tentative, shaking arms that eased her forward, rocking her into Jesse’s chest. She knew this chest so well, every tense line of muscle, every expanse of skin. And he knew her body, too. He knew where to clasp his fingers around her arm, past the point on her left shoulder where a long-ago injury still ached if touched. He knew to stroke his thumb across the base of her jaw, just under her ear, steady, rhythmic caresses that rippled across her whole body.
She knew him, and he knew her, and he washere.
Ceridwen’s body went limp.
“I don’t trust you,” she whispered.
“Don’t,” he said. “Let me prove myself. I owe you a lifetime of penance, Cerie.”
A lifetime of penance could have meant any number of things. But what Ceridwen saw was her brother’s head snapping on his neck. His lifetime had ended, so quickly, before she’d gotten a chance to tell him that she loved him, despite everything he had done, because he washers, part of her kingdom, part of her family, and she couldn’t help herself.
If she knew she would live a safe, long life, Ceridwen would be able to rationalize and convince herself that she needed better than Jesse. But now, this life she led—she knew how fragile it was, how she would most likely die too young in battle. In this kind of life, there was only time for wants, not needs. And she wanted Jesse.
She wanted him because she didn’t want to wake up alone every morning. She didn’t want to know he was out there and not hers when she could have him now. That was greedy, yes—it was also dangerous and careless and stupid.
But that was what war did. It made people realize the importance of stupid things.
A cot groaned under her. Jesse’s lips brushed her forehead, his hands smoothed back her hair, and before she could piece together any words, she was gone.
12
Meira
THE TENSION INthe compound makes breathing impossible. All I can do is stand and stare at the wall, as Oana rushes out and threads an arm around my shoulders. Rares remains poised next to me, head tipped as if he’s listening.
Rares can communicate with Alin—so should I be able to communicate with Mather and whoever came with him? They’re not conduits, but rulers can use their magic to channel will and strength into their people, so maybe I could . . . what? Channel a random burst of strength into them? Or I could travel there and use my magic to bring them back to the compound instantly—but adding dizziness and vomiting to their injuries won’t help anything.
I stagger closer to Rares. “Where are they? Did something happen?”
Rares opens his mouth and lifts a finger simultaneously.After a beat, he points at the gate. “Now.”
I send it slamming into the wall above as I sprint forward, eyes trained on Alin, who perches on the driver’s seat of a wagon. By the time Rares and Oana guide the cart all the way into their compound and drop the gate, I’m already swinging around the cart.
Blue eyes blink up at me, one buried in a swelling mound of purple and red, the other under a cut that runs across his brow. He’s one of Mather’s Thaw, his white hair dangling around his face in matted clumps.
“Phil?” I guess.
He nods, trembling like a dog cowering from his master.
“My . . . my queen . . . ,” he mumbles, and saying that breaks him. He flies out of the wagon, hands over his head and knees trembling until he drops, huddling in a ball on the ground.
“I’m sorry . . . I didn’t want to . . . I tried so hard. . . .”
I watch him, unable to breathe.
Whathappened?
At the edge of my mind I hear Oana’s soothing voice, the donkey bleating into the air, the wind hissing in my ears. It all fades to a muted hum when my eyes pin on Mather.
He lies in the bed of the cart, curled on his side as if they hauled his body in and drove off as fast as possible. Blood cakes the whole right side of his head, darkest near a wound on his temple. A saturated bandage hangs around his forehead and his chest rises in clipped breaths.
