Page 81 of Frost Like Night
“How many are staying here?”
“About a hundred soldiers to protect those who can’t fight, which leaves just shy of three thousand to stand against Angra.”
I wither at the numbers, but it isn’t meant to be a full-on war. Just a diversion.
A shadow falls over our table.
“If you’re finished eating,” Sir starts, and angles his head toward the main tent.
“We’re just about done, General,” Jesse says for us.
He nods, his eyes steady on me before he walks toward the main tent. The four of us stay seated for a beat longer, Mather’s hand in mine, Jesse’s arm around Ceridwen.
There’s no room for emotions in war.
It’s one of the many rules Sir beat into my head as a child. I see now that it’s necessary. These are just numbers we’re discussing; these are just fields we’re mapping; these are just chunks of iron we’re dividing. Not people, not battle sites, not weapons.
“My scouts put Angra’s forces four days out from being fully gathered,” Caspar says, and points to a map of the Autumn-Winter border, against the Klaryns. “This valley runs from Autumn into Winter. We could thin out Angra’s army and prevent him from surrounding us all at once. He’d only be able to send a fraction of his soldiers at us at any time.”
Ceridwen frowns. “But he could block us in. What if we need a retreat?”
“You won’t,” I promise. “Once the magic is destroyed, no one fighting for Angra will have magic to use against you.”
Jesse slackens, his hand on Ceridwen’s shoulder. “Angra’sentire armywill be able to use his Decay? I thought it was just a select group close to him.”
“I don’t expect he’d hold back in a battle,” I say. “And . . .there’s a chance the Decay could infect you, too. If Angra is there, the only thing stopping him from sending his Decay to weaken you would be your own resilience—none of you have conduit protection. Even the Winterians will only have it as long as I’m there with them.”
Ceridwen darkens. “Now that I know what his magic feels like, there’s no way he’s getting into my head again. Years of repelling Simon’s magic should pay off somehow.”
An idea flashes through me. “Wait—that’s a good point. Maybe the principles you used to resist your brother’s magic can help everyone else ward off the Decay. For a little while, at least?”
Ceridwen shrugs. “I can have the Summerians start teaching the methods we use, but I don’t know how effective they’ll be. It took us each years to be able to fully resist Simon, and I only lasted a few hours under Angra’s influence in Juli.”
“It’s better than nothing,” Caspar agrees.
No one else comments on this looming threat, the possibility of being swept up in Angra’s war not by death, but by the Decay. Maybe it’s something they’ve all considered, too. They’ve seen people fall to it—people who we already knew were dangerous, like Raelyn, and people who we never would have guessed could hurt us, like Theron.
We’re all at risk, and they know that.
“How long is the march to this valley?” Sir interjects.
“With our army, three days.” Caspar scratches his chin.“We could press for two, but we’ll still beat Angra to any attack.”
“Three days,” Sir echoes before he shifts to me. “Let’s move out.”
His face is weighted with the same awareness I feel digging into my chest.
We have a deadline.
I lean back from the table. “Yes. No time to waste.”
Everyone else moves, darting off to their various tasks. I duck out of the tent and hesitate long enough for Mather to sweep out after me. When he does, I throw my arms around his neck, kissing him. There’s no hiding now—Dendera emerges from the tent behind us, followed by Sir. They see, and I don’t care to notice their reactions. I have only a handful of days left for moments like this, and if I spend even a blip of that time not with someone I love, none of this will matter at all.
I pull back from Mather, who drops his hands to my waist.
“They’re all standing behind me, aren’t they?” he asks.
I smile. “Afraid so. I think I’ll leave you to explain it to them.”
