Page 84 of Frost Like Night
“They aren’t Angra’s soldiers,” I say. “They’re Cordell’s. From Oktuber.”
Sir’s face unravels and he whirls to grab Caspar’s arm. Caspar turns with a startled frown, and when Sir repeats what I said, Caspar blinks at me, awareness registering on his face. He ducks back into his tent, shouting at more ofhis commanders that it isn’t Angra’s full army.
Sir’s eyes sweep up and down my body, the familiar examination for injuries, before he does the same to each member of my group. When he gets to Trace, he pauses.
But Trace sags against one of the tent posts, his face ashen. “I didn’t get here in time,” he says to no one in particular.
We have scouts stationed all around camp who should have warned us of this attack long before Trace showed up. Someone would have seen such a large army coming.
This isn’t right.
“Meira! Trace?”
Mather slides to a stop beside us. My eyes latch onto the bloody sword in his hand and all my instincts scream.
“The attackers,” he says, his confusion at Trace’s presence retreating in favor of the threat of bloodshed. He nods at Sir, grim. “They’re coming this way.”
This isn’t right, this isn’t right—
Sir already has a sword out by the time I feebly ask, “Here?”
My eyes go to the main tent, the clearing before it, filled with tables that will easily be overturned and wedding decorations that will easily be shredded. Of all the places in this camp, this offers the best chance at success—freedom to attack in larger groups, with the added benefit of being our command center.
How would the Cordellans even know this is here? Thiscamp is a maze of meandering streets and lopsided tents.
But it’s too late for answers, too late to fix this, too late to do anything but gape at the soldiers who march down a street leading from the northeastern corner of camp, their Cordellan armor matted with signs of battle.
And at their lead stands someone the sight of whom makes Mather and Trace jolt forward.
“Phil!” they shout, warning him to get out of the way—but alarm flares so strongly in my heart that I all but gag.
Sir meets my eyes, and he knows too, and we stand there, sharing a look like we can both see an avalanche coming.
One who knew the exact location if this camp.
One who could have figured out the rotation of our scouts to let an attacking army avoid detection.
Phil stops, all the way across the square.
“Phil!” Mather screams again, less sure.
Trace comes to, and the look of rage on his face stabs grief through my stomach.
He grabs Mather’s arm. “Hedid this.”
Mather shakes his head. But the proof solidifies as Phil raises his hand and points.
At me.
The Cordellan soldiers behind him need no further instruction. They tear into the clearing, weapons ready. The scream of their attack draws our own fighters to the area, rushing in from side streets and spilling in a wall of defense against the dozens of Cordellans.
Sir, Mather, and Trace crash into the fight. Mather and Trace are driven by a warped mix of determination and agony that makes their movements toxic. I remain in a state of shock near the main tent with Conall and Nessa.
This wasn’t the first time Phil told Angra of my location—according to Mather, that was how they ended up in Paisly at all. But then, Phil had been terrified and mournful.
Now—now he is beaming, pride practically leaking out of him.
Familiarity crashes into me and I stumble back, Conall catching me under the elbows.
