Page 53 of Frost Like Night
War may loom, but I’m not alone.
I put my hand in his and let him lead me on.
All noises cease the moment we enter the camp. Conversation and laughter snuff out like candle flames guttering in a windstorm; pots clang idly over campfires as their users gape in shock.
I pull my shoulders straighter as I walk between Phil and Mather down one of the many makeshift roads, the grass worn by foot traffic in patchy stretches. People stare as we pass, mostly Summerians with their flame-red hairand tanned skin, but also Yakimians, even a few citizens of Spring. A hodgepodge of blond hair, brown hair, dark skin, light skin—but one common feature links most: theSbrand of charred skin below every left eye.
We only make it past a few tents when the voices kick back up.
“Is that . . .”
“She’s wearing the locket—look!”
“It’s the Winter queen!”
I bite the inside of my cheek, trying with all my remaining strength not to wither under their assessments. I have no idea what these people think of me. What rumors have they heard? That I’m the girl who freed her kingdom only to have the same attacker come roaring back into the world? The girl who betrayed her only ally by seeking other allegiances behind his back? The girl who let these people’s own savior, Ceridwen, become imprisoned?
My hand tightens around Mather’s, drawing strength from the way he and Phil stay beside me.
More reactions come, echoing out from people as we pass. I stiffen, expecting the worst, but the people around us throw their hands in the air, shouting praise.
“Down with Angra!” they cry, and even more strongly, “We are Winter!”
That phrase hooks into my heart. These people have no reason to rejoice at my presence—their own problems have never intersected with mine. But that phrase—We areWinter—only two people I know could have taught them that.
I tear ahead of Phil and Mather, hurtling into the camp. My heartbeat tramples my lungs, more people catching the cheer—“The Winter queen is here! Down with Angra! We are Winter!”—until those shouts are all I hear.
I spin around one more tent, sweat slicking down my back.
In the middle of the road, sprinting toward me, is Nessa. Behind her, Conall follows at a slower clip.
A beaming grin overtakes my face.
Nessa sees me and pushes faster just as I do, both of us racing until we collide in a tangle of arms and laughter and questions.
“How did you get here?”
“How long have you been at camp?”
“Where have you been?”
“Are you all right?”
I pull back and survey her for any injuries. She’s fine—not even a bruise or a healing cut. Conall looks the same, and I tuck my arms back around Nessa.
“I’m so sorry,” I gasp to her and Conall. “I’m so sorry I left you.”
“You should be,” Nessa snaps, but when I jerk back again, she’s laughing. “You better have a good excuse for it.”
I smile. Even her threat sounds delighted to see me. “I do, I promise.”
“Meira!”
Dendera engulfs me, breaking her embrace only to give my shoulders a firm shake. “Don’t you ever do that again. Do you hear me?Never again.”
Her command sobers me. I wish I could promise her that I’ll never again leave without warning, but the lie gets stuck in my dusty throat.
“I missed you too” is all I manage.
