CHAPTER 31
THE WORLD IS wrong, tilted off balance, and when I stand on shaky legs I fall forward, scrambling in the air.
Sir catches me. He cradles me against his chest, his strong arms wrapping around me so tightly I know it must be a dream, and I expect him to call me his sweet girl and for Alysson to be just behind us, serving dinner to Nessa and her family.
But Sir is real. He is here. He is alive. And when I push back from him, look up at his face, the world stops tilting quite so much.
His lips part. “It’s over.”
My eyes fall behind him, to the empty expanse of dirt where Angra’s body was. Like the staff breaking destroyed him. Like it was just that easy.
Everyone thinks it was. Everyone including the Spring soldiers, who dropped their weapons at the disappearance of their king and magic, now cowering in reluctant surrender while their enemies rejoice. Green and gold and maroon and white bodies dance around the square, cheering at the cloudy sky.
I close my eyes, breathe in, focusing on the air flowing in and out of my lungs, on Sir’s arms around my shoulders. I focus beyond him, on the sound of the Winterians’ pure and shameless happiness turning this miserable city into a paradise just for a moment.
“Meira.”
I open my eyes to see Sir staring down at me, his face locked in an expression I’ve never seen on him before. It takes me a moment to realize it’s admiration.
“We decided long ago that I would be the one to tell you. The others who escaped, I mean,” he whispers. “I don’t know how Angra found out. I should have—”
My body goes cold, the swirling conduit-magic now awakened and wild. I inhale, trembling as I put a hand on Sir’s arm. “No.” I shake my head. “It was Hannah’s secret to tell, not yours.”
Sir frowns. “Hannah?”
I shrug, not sure how I can explain this, but Sir shakes it away. He takes a step backward and drops to his knees as he lifts a fist up to me. Dangling out of that fist is a silver chain.
“My queen” is all he says.
I flinch, hating the fear that blossoms at the title. I don’t want him to call me that, but the way he looks up at me is something I’ve wanted all my life. Like he sees me, truly sees me, no matter how I am. Covered in blood and dirt and dust, glowing with the potential of a renewed kingdom.
Like he sees all the sacrifices he’s made and doesn’t regret a single one.
I reach for the locket but another hand beats me there. My fingers pause, outstretched in the dusty air, lingering over Mather’s hand as he takes the locket from his father.
Mather unclasps the other half and slides it off his neck. He holds both halves out to me, his jewel-blue eyes glistening gray under the overcast sky. “Yours, my queen,” he says. His hands shake and he runs his tongue over his lips. Everything about him is strong, unwavering, but the look in his eyes speaks of a deeper fear. Fear of unbecoming, fear of all his many, many responsibilities shifting onto someone else’s shoulders.
I lift my hand. A hundred things push at me, a hundred different ways I want to apologize or grovel or cry. I’m sorry it’s me. I’m sorry his whole life was created to keep me safe, his entire existence shattered around this one simple lie. I’m sorry we had to grow up so abruptly. I’m sorry for everything.
But I don’t say any of that. I take the locket pieces from his hand, keeping my eyes on his, my mouth open like maybe, just maybe, I’ll find the right words.
Mather exhales when the locket leaves his skin. He rises, standing with the weight of all that has happened. His lips twitch into the pale beginnings of a smile but he stays there, suspended between happiness and shock.
“I am yours to command, my queen,” he whispers, and bows his head.
I place my palm on his cheek before I even realize I’ve moved, the cut on my shoulder making me cringe.
I wish we wouldn’t hurt. Not now. Not after all this.
Numbness shoots up my hand and my eyes widen. I didn’t mean to call on the magic, but it’s alive now, awakened, and the numbness climbs, grows, and surges from my palm into Mather’s cheek.
He gasps. My whole body goes cold, icy and brilliant, and a new light shines in Mather’s eyes. It chases away his exhaustion and fear, filling him with the same strength that filled the other Winterians. Nothing definite. Just a small ray to keep him going, to keep his uncertainty at bay until he finds the will to face it.
Is he relieved to have the burden of being king gone? Or is he just afraid?
Mather steps back, pulling out of my hand, and slides to the ground, mimicking Sir’s stance. Behind them, the cheering has dissipated into reverent awe, and every Winterian slowly slides to the ground. Their heads bow, their white hair smudged brown and red and black. My breathing tightens, and I can’t decide whether I want them to stop or not. They look so happy. So whole. And I can’t break that happiness, no matter how terrifying it is that I’m the reason they’re bowing. Me, the orphaned soldier-girl.
I spot Dendera near the gate with Henn beside her as they kneel, both of them locked in an embrace that’s tight and intimate and makes me nearly intoxicated with happiness. Greer and Finn lean on each other, a bloody gash through Finn’s left leg. Conall, and Garrigan, and Nessa, and even Deborah—everyone is happy, and here, and safe.
And Theron. Behind them all, Theron lingers beyond the gate, a contingent of his father’s battle-bruised men around him. His eyes meet mine across the expanse between us and he smiles, a slow, deliberate smile that echoes the reverence of this moment. He bows his head, mimicking the Cordellans, the Autumnians, absorbing the awe and wonder of a kingdom that isn’t theirs. All of them smiling under the relief that came when Angra’s body vanished.
Maybe Angra did die. Maybe the Decay disintegrated and ripped him down with it. So many maybes. So many years of thinking maybe they’ll come, maybe they’ll save us, maybe we’ll see our kingdom whole again someday.
I bend down to Mather and Sir and put one hand on each of their shoulders. They look up at me, tears making them look morbidly happy.
I exhale and smile. “Let’s go home.”
With Angra gone, the other three work camps fall easily. Spring dissolves into a panicked chaos without its king, which makes our merged army’s job even easier as we move through the kingdom, fighting off the soldiers who hold the other Winterians captive. Any exhaustion or fear or pain the Winterians felt in the camps is snuffed out beneath the roaring joy we bring when we save them. It’s something I never get tired of, seeing their faces alight with the knowledge that they are free.
Two weeks pass, two weeks filled with freeing the other three camps, tending to the wounds of my people, slowly feeding nutrients back into them. The Autumn army departs once the last work camp is free, but Cordell stays, a choice I try not to question. Theron is quick to offer food and supplies from his army, and I take what he gives before Noam can say anything to the contrary. The Winterians see a unified front, soldiers and food and medicine, not a queen who until a few weeks ago had no idea who she was, or a king who a few months ago wanted to dominate their land rather than save them. I will do everything I can to keep it that way, long enough for permanent healing to settle into their bodies and minds.
The permanent healing starts the moment we see Jannuari.
Winter’s capital sits just inside the border, a few hours’ ride from Spring. The vibrant cherry trees and emerald grass of Spring fade to Winter’s fields of white perfection, unbroken rolling hills of snow and frozen clusters of icy, ivory trees. The change is instant, sweeping over me in a rush of . . . right. This is right. The chill, the frozen forests, the way everything is white—the sky, the ground, the air. This is home.