Last year, Finn and I bought food in a small market on the outskirts of the Kingdom of Ventralli, one of the Rhythms. While there, he found this pit buried in a pile of iron knickknacks a blacksmith was melting down. When he spent half of our measly savings on it, I expected Sir to beat him with it and make him try to sell it back. But the look on Sir’s face when Finn lugged it all the way back to camp launched a pang of helplessness through my body. The gentle, sad pull of wanting.
Winter made this. Or, rather, Winterians mined the coal and the iron that went to other kingdoms like Yakim and Ventralli, which made the fire pit itself. But the coal and iron still came from Winter, a part of our kingdom ripped from the mountains and molded afar.
To improve their kingdoms’ economies, rulers use Royal Conduit magic to enhance certain areas of expertise that their kingdoms developed based on geography or the natural talents of their citizens. If a certain kingdom showed an interest in education, the ruler used magic to make their people excel at learning; if another kingdom showed an aptitude for fighting, the ruler used conduit magic to make their soldiers more lethal. Winter sat atop the richest part of the Klaryns, so our queens enhanced our ability to find minerals and to grant us endurance and courage in the bottomless, dark places of the earth.
Spring has their own mines in their section of the Klaryns, but theirs produce only deadly powders that fuel their cannons, the only mines in the world that harbor it. That’s what we thought the war was about—Spring wanted to expand their mine holdings. But when they won, they didn’t tear into our mines. They just boarded it all up, like their goal was simply to destroy Winter piece by piece, spirit by spirit, by making us sit back and watch Winter’s most valued possession fall into decay.
Once Angra kills us all, he’ll probably reopen our mines. But as long as we live, it’s more valuable to dangle our useless mines in our faces, taunt us and distract us into making mistakes, getting caught, falling into his open hands. Or at least, that’s what we tell each other, to make it feel less like the war was all for nothing.
I pop a berry in my mouth and stare at the orange and dusty black of the burning coals. The berry numbs my tongue, makes ribbons of ice crawl up my teeth, but its chilly sweetness is suddenly not as enticing. I reach one finger out and put it on the edge of the fire pit, farthest from the heat, and hold it there until the burning sensation creeps up my whole hand. The others set up all this because they want me to know that what I did was important—important enough to burn coal.
But it doesn’t feel important. Not like it should.
I’m reminded now, watching the coals burn, of why I never feel like I truly belong to Winter. I want to understand all this as deeply as Sir and Alysson and everyone else, a reminder of a time when everything was how it should be, but all this is wasted on me, someone whose only connection to Winter lies in stories told by others. I thought that if I had a hand in saving Winter, I’d feel like I deserve it, the kingdom everyone else remembers. I thought I could fill the void left by my lack of memories with purpose. That’s what I’ve always told myself: if I matter to Winter, Winter will matter to me. And today I mattered to my kingdom.
Then why don’t I feel anything more for the fire pit than the slight burn on my finger?
The tent flap rustles behind me, a whisper of noise that could almost be dismissed as the hiss of coals or the wind. My muscles tighten, the hairs on my arms rise. But I don’t flinch, don’t react, just spear a chunk of turnip with a fork.
A breath later, fingers touch the base of my neck where a blade would go if this attacker were truly an attacker. I shiver, but not from the coolness of my wet hair pressing to my skin.
“You’re dead,” Mather says, laughter in his voice.
When I first started learning to fight, he would sneak up on me in the weapons tent or the training yard, slinking noiselessly until he touched my neck and whispered that joking threat. And no matter how many times he did it, it still left me screaming like Angra himself had snuck up on me. Sir, of course, did nothing to stop it; he just said I needed to get better at paying attention to my surroundings.
I look up at Mather and pause mid-chew. He drops onto the pillow across from me, his broad face stretching in a grin.
“Dead? I let you sneak up on me,” I snort. “All this future-king-of-Winter stuff has gone to your head, Your Highness.”
Mather’s face twitches at his title. “You always say you let me sneak up on you. Too scared to admit you’re not as good as everyone thinks you are?”
I swallow. “Aren’t we all?”