Snow Like Ashes(110)

Dismay overcomes me, so palpable it rushes in molten rivers through my body as all the last lingering pieces click and I fly forward, scrambling toward Mather.

“Mather, no!” I shout. “Stop!”

But he doesn’t hear me. He doesn’t know, doesn’t even think about it. No one did. No one would have thought the answer was so simple, the power so close.

The staff cracks against the earth in a glass-shattering burst. Darkness explodes out of it, a storm unleashed, a funnel of smoke that erupts in a shaft of black. The surrounding battle halts in the chaos, the wind whipping into screams, desperate fingers of sound that plunge through the crowd of watching soldiers. The column of black launches up into the sky where thick clouds have gathered, twirling around and around in a vortex that will destroy us all.

I throw my arms around Mather and pull him back from the shattered staff, the embodiment of all that has held us captive for so long. We collapse on the ground, my arms around his shoulders, his eyes twisted in confusion. Around us, everyone has stopped. Spring, Cordellan, Autumnian, Winterian—everyone casts aside their fighting to gape in unabashed wonder.

Everyone except Angra. His eyes meet mine, barely two steps from where I cling to Mather. The knife sticks up in the gap between Angra’s breastplate and arm piece; blood runs from a gash through his cheek. But his eyes flash, the pale green depths reflecting the whirring gale. The expansion of magic in the Royal Conduits that even he didn’t know about until he saw me, until he pieced together my use of the magic without the locket and realized what I am now. The magic and Decay that are locked in his conduit will join with him, feed into him, become one. He will be able to use his magic for evil at an unstoppable rate—without a staff or an object conduit, because he will become the magic’s conduit, and the Decay will grow more powerful than anyone can control.

The column of black sucks into a thin line and holds, waiting, ticking through time. On a great gust of wind it explodes, slamming into the ground and unfolding over us with a powerful burst of air and debris. Mather throws himself on top of me, both of us burying our faces in each other as the force tosses rocks through the air.

It’s over. Just like that. No final explosion, no departing scream of death. Just nothing, like it was never anything more than the shattered ball of glass and metal at Mather’s feet.

I push away from Mather, but I know what I’ll see before my eyes find it. The magic in me whispers it in the deepest, most open parts of my mind, a small, quiet nudge of knowledge.

Sir sits back on his heels, staring with wide eyes at the empty splotch of dirt under him. His knife still sits in the earth, poised vertically against the gentle current of wind.

But Angra is gone.




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 had been. 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, 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.