Page 62 of Frost Like Night
Ceridwen had felt Angra’s Decay picking away at her mind the moment they set foot in Juli, but now, as he stood over her on the balcony, his magic pummeled her like raindrops beating against a parched ground.
But she had been parched for years—she had learned to live without rain.
She kept her place on the main floor, tucked on the outskirts of the quiet, waiting crowd. There was no denying Angra’s influence in Summer as she watched the normally vivacious upper class stand in solemn, whispering groups. The trip through Juli had been just as wrong, the streets silent, even the brothels still. Everything about her kingdom was wrong, like a fire Angra had doused with water—no more light, no more passion, no morelife.
Ceridwen shook her head and glared up at Angra. The archers above him were so well hidden that Ceridwen herself almost couldn’t spot them—but she knew they were there, waiting for her signal.
Angra droned on, but still Ceridwen couldn’t bring her hand to rise. He presented as good a shot as any.
Ceridwen clenched her fist.
Signal,she willed herself.Give the signal—
Her throat all but closed, her eyes glazing over in a sudden burst of dizziness. She staggered, tripping into a servant who held a tray of goblets for the crowd that hadn’t drunk a single drop of wine all night. Once, that would have made her rejoice, that her court could be sober at an event—but now she found herself wishing for them to indulge as they used to.
The servant scurried away, outfit soaked with spilled wine. The scent flooded Ceridwen’s mind with images of this room, memories of parties where wine had flowed and the courtiers had laughed, and drunk, and succumbed to Simon’s magic.
Ceridwen righted herself, dazed. She needed to signal . . . something. Feasting to start, maybe—but no, that had always been Simon’s duty. He loved announcing new festivities to the crowd.
Ceridwen shifted, turning to the tent he always erected in the middle of the room—
It wasn’t there.
On the balcony, Angra beckoned to someone behind him, and Theron stepped forward.
Angra—kill him. Focus, Ceridwen!
She scrambled forward, her mind clouded, the crowd so close that she could feel each heartbeat egging her on, united in this one clarifying goal: to kill Simon.
A cry fought for life in her chest. She planned to kill her brother? Why would she do such a thing?
Her mind burned, magic prickling across her scalp with dozens of tiny, determined fingers. Simon’s magic had never been this persistent—once she pushed it from her mind, it had seemed to sulk away as though even it was too drunk to press her more.
But Angra’s magic was determined, and heavy, and warm. It cocooned around her body, waiting for one small window of weakness through which it could climb. It whispered in her ear, words dripping honey,What do you want, Cerie?
No one had ever asked her that before.
Do you want to join the courtiers? You’ve always wanted to be like them—so easily able to forget their worries and give themselves over to stronger powers, powers that know better. . . .
Ceridwen turned, bumping into someone else—one of the Yakimians who had come with her, the leader Jesse had had to subdue. One of his soldiers flanked him, their brows furrowed.
“You haven’t given the signal,” the leader growled.
Ceridwen swayed toward him. “Signal?” she asked, hervoice soft in the general silence of the room—only one voice rang out, giving some kind of speech. “Where is Simon?”
“I was right from the beginning.” The Yakimian shook his head, lips peeling back as he bared his teeth. “You’re weak, and I should have killed you long ago—this mission should have been mine. This victory will go to Yakim! You are unfit to lead us! We never should have trusted you!”
His comrade ripped his blade from its sheath. “You deserve death!”
They leaped for her, all biting iron weapons and rock-hard fists. She dodged their blows thanks only to the vacancy of shock.
The Yakimians are attacking me. Who armed the slaves? Where is Simon?
The crowd broke apart into terror, shoving this way and that as they dove for exits and soldiers moved in. Angra’s magic seemed to dissipate from Ceridwen’s mind in the sudden chaos.
Angra—she hadn’t given the signal to attack. He was still alive, waiting for someone to kill him, just like when she had tried to kill Simon in Rintiero.
But no one else would come in and right Ceridwen’s wrongs this time.
