CHAPTER 11
I’M A PAWN they used to create an alliance with Cordell.
My tongue sticks in my throat, choking me as I stand there, staring at Theron. This has to be a figment of my overly active imagination, because the king of Cordell would never agree to wed his son—the heir of one of the richest Rhythms—to a mere peasant from a Season. I’m wrong. I have to be.
“Tell me Mather linked us to Cordell through a treaty, or something. A meaningless piece of paper,” I beseech him. “Tell me this isn’t . . . what I think it is.”
But Theron doesn’t say anything, which only feeds my panic more. His mouth opens absently, but he just sighs, his eyes flitting over me in silence.
I grip my stomach, the fabric of the gown smooth against my fingers, and swallow the tight knot in my throat. Mather did this. My chest swells with a new emotion—betrayal. How could he—why did he—no. No. I will not lose my mind over this, because it still doesn’t make any sense. Why would Cordell agree to take me? There has to be something Mather and Sir didn’t tell me.
Well, obviously there’s a lot they didn’t tell me, but they’re down at the ball right now. And I will make them talk.
“Are you all right?” Theron finally speaks, but he doesn’t try to touch me again. This would be easier if he was horrible, if he didn’t care if I was all right. But he looks hurt. Is he just a pawn too?
Remembering the poem he swiped off the floor— probably.
“I’m sorry,” Theron says. He looks at the railing, motions toward the ball. “I know this is sudden, but this ball is for you. Me. Us.”
Us. It sounds like a foreign word.
I pry myself away from the wall, my roaring determination to march down to that ball and face Mather and Sir and demand answers now replaced with dread. Because when I see Mather and Sir, they’ll see me with Theron. Mather will smile and congratulate me and try to explain why this is the best thing for Winter. That the only good we can do for our kingdom is marry to create an alliance because we’re useless children. That the kiss before we left camp was a good-bye, nothing more. That even though I’ve never seen Winter or its enslaved people or set foot on its soil, I’m expected to sacrifice everything, because until Winter is free I don’t matter.
I instantly hate myself for thinking that. Other Winterians suffer enslavement while I’m engaged to the crown prince of Cordell—someone bring out the sympathy parade, poor Meira is engaged to a handsome prince.
My life could be worse. A lot worse.
Then why does the thought of taking Theron’s outstretched hand make me feel empty?
My fingers are stuffed into my pocket, grasped tightly around the piece of lapis lazuli. I yank my hand free, fighting the urge to hurl that stupid rock as far away from me as possible. I don’t want any of it. I don’t need Mather or Sir. I never did.
I place my hand in Theron’s, and his warm fingers tighten around mine as we move toward the staircase. Having him hold on to me gives me strength I didn’t expect. Something infinitely more powerful than the fake strength of the blue stone, still weighing heavy in my pocket.
We’re there. Staring over the railing at all the many Cordellans who wait below. Dignitaries mostly, the men wearing hunter green and gold-trimmed uniforms like Theron’s, the women wearing gowns in reds and blues and purple jewel tones like mine. And in the far back corner, the Winterian delegates, dressed in what I assume are borrowed outfits too—sharp green suits for the men, billowy gowns for the women. Sir and Dendera and Alysson and Finn and Greer and Henn and Mather.
Mather stares up at me, and even from all the way across the ballroom, his face ripples like he’s grinding his teeth. When I meet his gaze, hold it, he looks away.
The music glides to a halt, violins fading in gentle whines. Below us and to the left a platform has been erected for the orchestra, but Noam now stands on it too, one hand upraised triumphantly toward his son and me.
“Ladies and gentlemen, honored guests,” he begins. He’s so happy. Exuberantly happy. “May I present Prince Theron Haskar and his bride-to-be, Lady Meira of Winter!”
Bride-to-be.
I gasp, drawing in breath after breath, unable to get any air into my lungs. It’s real. This. Theron.
The crowd pulls back as if Noam announced that he was stripping them of their titles, their delight at the ball turning to shock. Clearly Noam’s arrangement isn’t something all of his courtiers welcome with open arms. Somehow, knowing that makes me feel a little better. Not much, but enough that when the crowd breaks into halfhearted applause, I’m able to wave slightly at them all.
Mather sees my reaction and turns to Sir, who snaps something to him before they both move toward the great glass doors on the right side of the ballroom. Doors that open to manicured green hedges, cobblestone walkways, bubbling fountains under a nighttime sky.
So that’s how they want to play it.
As Theron and I reach the ballroom floor, a herd of nobles attacks us, blabbering questions that sound innocent but are at the core insulting. Questions such as “I thought you and my daughter had gotten along so well, Your Highness” and “Won’t you dance with my niece? She so enjoyed your company last winter. I mean, not Winter. Our season. Our normal season.”
Theron’s mouth hangs open, unable to get in a word. The fat duke whose niece had such a nice time last winter grabs his arm, persistence making his blubbery face pink.
“I insist, my prince!” he says, and drags Theron into the crowd. Theron looks at me, eyes darting to the duke and back. Should he fight it? Should he stay with me?
I shake my head and wave my hand in front of my face to mimic being hot in here. Theron returns my wave with a single head bob. He understands.
Once he’s gone, the rest of the courtiers eye me, their narrow gazes examining me like I’m some mythical being come to life. I drop a curtsy and turn away from their assessments, making for the terrace doors. Let them think whatever they like. Let them conspire and say horrible things about me. This isn’t my kingdom. At least, it shouldn’t be.
I throw open a door. Stars glitter in the black sky above me, small twinkling eyes that watch as I slam the door shut and dive into the fantastic nighttime chill of Cordell’s autumn. The pureness of the cold hits me, threatening to pull out the scream I’ve been holding in for the past ten minutes.
“Meira.”
I pivot toward Mather and Sir, standing in the entrance to a hedge maze. Half of me wants to run to them and cry and beg to leave, half wants to start throwing rocks at their heads.
But I’m a soldier. A Winterian soldier. And apparently a future queen of Cordell.
So I pick up a handful of rocks from beside the path and hurl the small stones at them as I step forward.
“You—giant—awful—traitors!” I stumble to a halt a breath from Mather. The last rock hits him in the shoulder and he flinches back, rubbing the bruise.
“Meira, calm yourself,” Sir says, putting his hand on my arm.
I grab his wrist and slam him back into the hedge, my other hand going to his throat before I know what I’m doing. I’m pinning Sir to a wall of shrubbery. I never thought I’d be in this situation.
“Why?” I growl at him. “Why would you do this to me?”
Sir doesn’t fight; if he did, I’d be on the ground with a few broken fingers. “We had no choice.”
“No,” I spit. “I have no choice. You forced this decision on me. Why?”
“I did it,” Mather answers.
My whole body convulses. No, he didn’t. He couldn’t. Because Mather of all people knows what it’s like to have Sir say he’ll be married off to some random royal he’s never met because that’s all he’s useful for. Didn’t Mather tell me he knew how horrible it felt to be valued for the wrong things?
Didn’t I mean anything to him?