Snow Like Ashes(104)

“What’s next,” Theron says, “is we join my father’s army and free your people.”



29


THERE’S NO TIME to find proper battle gear or steal something from Angra’s armory, so we divide the weapons in Herod’s room between us and I take clothes from the wardrobe. Theron busies himself with strapping knives to his shins while I peel out of my blood-soaked clothes and put on Herod’s too-big shirt and pants. There’s a black leather vest I tighten around the shirt and a thick belt that keeps the pants up. It’s ridiculous for a battle, far too baggy and loose and about as protective as running around stark naked. And it belongs to Herod, which makes my stomach roll with the same nausea I get when I feel his blood drying on my skin.

When my chakram settles in its familiar holster between my shoulder blades, I’m able to breathe for the first time in weeks. Like I’m never truly whole without it. Coupled with the knife and dagger I strap to my waist, I’m as prepared for war as I can be.

Theron hefts a sword in one hand, a dagger in the other. “Ready?”

I nod. He approaches the door to Herod’s chamber and opens it a crack, surveying the hall beyond. I take one determined step after him, keeping my eyes on Theron’s back and the two crisscrossing knives strapped over his spine. Not on the body still in the center of the room, the unmoving mass of darkness and blood that pulls at my mind like an anchor on a boat.

Theron looks back at me. He is an anchor too. Something to hold on to when all other things drag me down.

I nod again. “Let’s go.”

The hall is empty. No soldiers, no frantic, running servants. It’s quiet and desolate, as if we’ve already won and Spring has fled.

Theron creeps ahead of me, his blades ready, while I slide the chakram into my hand. The farther we get from Herod’s room, the more chaos bubbles up. Clumps of outfitted men sprint between rooms, servants bustle down hallways and keep as out of sight as possible. Theron and I duck under wall hangings, hide behind statues and plants, as we weave our way out of the darkness.

After what feels like a lifetime of this hide-and-run through the palace, we reach a narrow servant’s staircase that shoots down, doors open to reveal the entryway to the palace. We slide down the stairs and pause behind the open door, listening for movement in the hall.

Theron’s hand gropes for mine in the dim stairwell, the hilt of his knife pressing into the back of my hand when he squeezes. “We leave the palace,” he whispers. “Wherever my father approaches, we run in the opposite direction. Abril’s wall will be less patrolled there and we can—”

“Leave Abril,” I finish, my voice trembling.

Theron looks back at me, his face dropping like he knows what I’m going to say next. “We will free your people, I promise you. But you’re no good to them if you’re dead.”

I shake my head and pull my hand out of his, heart pumping ice through my veins. I start to protest, tell him I have to go to the Winterians, have to help them because I’m their conduit and it’s my duty. I start to tell him again. I’m Winter’s queen, all this time. I’m—

But Theron shifts his attention for a beat to the hall, where a stomping group of soldiers files past, into the throne room. The hall quiets in their wake, empty, and he pulls back to me, not seeming to care about anything beyond the way his eyes lock on mine with a gentle intensity.

“I never wanted to be a king.” Theron’s voice is low and quick, cutting through me with urgency. “I wanted to sit in my library and write until the sun fell from the sky. But you—this—the Winterians, your entire kingdom, gone in a heartbeat—it’s made me realize how I would feel if Cordell ever fell like that, if I ever lost something so much a part of me. I don’t want myself anymore. I want to be someone worthy of my kingdom. I want to be someone worthy of you.”

My whole body lights up with a wondrous chill that amplifies when Theron slides his hand around the back of my neck. He draws my face up to his and pauses, some of his certainty fading in the realization of what he’s doing and how close we are to each other. His fingers curl against the back of my neck and I stare up at him, waiting, unable to move or breathe or think beyond the way his lips part in an exhale, so close to mine.

Then he falls into me, his mouth collapsing over my own. A moan eases out of my throat as I grab at the emotions that fly through my body like flurries of snow in the wind. Fear we’ll be caught by Angra’s men; ecstasy at the burst of comfort and need that swirls off his lips; and a steady flicker of shock that this isn’t at all shocking, that I’ve been waiting for this to happen all along—our lips and tongues and his fingers pulling in my hair, desperation exploding out of us in a few too-short seconds of needing each other.