Page 85 of Frost Like Night
I’ve seen this before—Angra torturing someone, only to have that torture plant the seed of betrayal. Theron.
I whirl on Nessa. “Get to safety!” I shout as I shove into the battle, Conall plummeting after me in a whirl of blades. Chakram in one hand, I slice my way through, sending spurts of magic where I can. Bursts of strength to the Winterians who fight; a perfect angle on my chakram to protect a Summerian. The Cordellan soldiers move quickly, slashing and stabbing as if each move brings air and they’re suffocating. But we have greater numbers than them, a slight advantage. How long it will hold, though, I don’t know.
I couldn’t save Theron from Angra—but I can purge Phil of the Decay. The attacking army will no doubt keep on with the battle, but I can save him at least. I have to.
Phil stands at the entrance to the road the Cordellanscame down, watching the frenzy with delight. Before he even sees that I’ve drawn closer to him, I sheathe my chakram and use both hands to channel magic at him, a spiral of ice that flies from my body. I can practically taste the darkness in him.
But I’ve constantly purified my Winterians any time we were exposed to the Decay.
Except for when Phil and Mather were captured.
Except for whatever Phil underwent at Angra’s hand.
I’m hit with the memory of Theron in Angra’s cell, the mental torture he inflicted on Theron until, on the floor of Rintiero’s dungeon, Theron told me that hewantedthis.
Angra’s doing it all over again.
No, no . . .
Phil howls as my magic pummels him. I break free of the fight, a handful of paces from him with Conall beside me.
Phil looks at me, his gaze fuming. “I don’t want your help!”
Again I fling my magic and he slides back, howling through clenched teeth.
“I’ve seen what your magic can do,” Phil barks. “It hurts everyone. You just keep fighting when it’s been your fault all along—if you’d just surrender, we’d be free.Youare the reason we were in those camps.Youare the reason we all get hurt. I refuse to let you hurt us anymore.”
“I’m not hurting you, Phil,” I try, hands spread, my magic quiet. “I’m protecting you from Angra—he’s thereason you’re doing this!You’rethe one hurting people right now!”
I wave at the battle. As I do, Sir and Mather stumble out, their faces streaked with dirt and blood. Mather’s weapons hang limp at his sides and he faces Phil, posture defeated.
“Phil,” Mather tries, his voice coming like a gust of air from a punch. “Why?”
Behind him, a Cordellan turns from the fight and dives at us, but Sir intercepts, gliding back into the fray. His eyes cut to us when they can, a pinch in his expression I’ve only seen a handful of times: worry.
Sir is worried. For us.
I hold the tremor in my gut until it subsides.
Phil’s fury boils over. “Foryou! For all of us! You got hurt, and she didn’t care. You got hurtagain, and she kept pushing on—she doesn’t care about us. She doesn’t care about anything but her stupid revenge! I won’t let her hurt us anymore!”
He’s screaming now, eyes bloodshot and crazed, skin stretched taut as though it can’t contain the madness underneath.
My eyes flit to a movement behind Phil.
And my whole world dissolves.
Panic jerks me forward, one foolish burst of instinct, but that’s all it takes to draw Phil’s attention away from us to the figure who slips out from between two tents behind him. She raises a knife in her hand as though sheintends to stab him in the back.
“Nessa!” I scream now, because Phil sees her—there’s no point hiding. “RUN!”
She doesn’t move when Phil turns, both of them freezing solid to the road. I realize then—Phil’s a Winterian. I should be able to stop him. But I’d be forcing something on him, bending him to my will. It would be a negative use of magic.
Mather, Conall, and I take off toward them, but Phil is too close to Nessa, both of them standing in the road leading away from the clearing, free of the battle. The clearing around us holds the worst threats, blades puncturing the air, dying screams rippling through the breeze. All attention is here, so as we sprint forward, we fumble through parlaying enemies and have to duck weapons, while Phil and Nessa have only each other to worry about.
I hear a shout. “Meira!”
But I don’t turn. I feel Sir’s panic from where he’s locked in battle, unable to break free and help us—but I can’t think about it. Not the way he’s worried, and showing it—not the way his voice splits in my ears, ragged and harsh, and makes me swallow a cry.
