So I stand. I brush the stray pieces of grass off my pants and stare daggers into him on the ground, ignoring the frantic way my hand grips the stone in my pocket. “You are right, as always, Your Highness. I will try to be more understanding with Sir.”
Mather looks up at me, his mouth falling open like he wants the right words to tumble out. I’ve heard Sir tell him, too. You’re royalty, she’s not, and there’s too much riding on your future to squander it on someone who isn’t beneficial to Winter.
He stands, his eyes boring into my face. “Remember when I told you the world isn’t balanced?”
I hesitate, all the air trapped in a knot in my throat. “What?”
Mather’s fingers brush my hand, the one that isn’t desperately clutching the stone, gentle pricks of contact that make the knot of air in my throat tighten. He hooks a finger into one of mine, his breathing ragged. “I’ll find a way to restore the balance,” he promises.
I stare at him, unable to process his words. He doesn’t try to explain what he meant or do more than stand there next to me, watching me, waiting.
I know you two grew up together, but he’s our future king. He’s too important to allow anything more than friendship.
My pulse thunders as Mather’s words warp with Sir’s and all I can do is watch them, conflicting bits of knowledge that make me dizzy. Mather is too important to waste on me. But—
I ease my hand into his, his callused fingers swallowing mine. Like he’d been waiting for me to reciprocate.
No.
My fingers uncurl, slowly, and I slide my hand out of his. It’ll hurt too much when it ends. Not if—when. When he marries some foreign dignitary’s daughter. When he moves on.
I peel my eyes from him, unable to see whatever emotion flares across his face, if anything, when I pull away. Night throws a number of shadows onto the reaching, clawing fingers of scraggy trees and bushes by the stream, and a gust of wind makes a few of the shadows waver, bulks of darkness that swagger like shuffling boars—
I freeze.
Those aren’t shadows.
Everything in my body screams with warning and I curse Herod a million times over for stealing my chakram.
“Mather.” The strain in my voice pulls him out of the tension between us. I can feel when he sees them, his posture sharpening. The bodies in the trees move again, five of them—Spring scouts.
One of the men eases out from behind the tree, standing in full view. He knows we see him. He tips his head, body masked in the darkness of early evening, and I can imagine the smile tugging at his mouth. My master will be thrilled I found you.
The other scouts follow his lead, materializing from the grass and bushes until they stand before us, shoulder to shoulder, hands twitching at their waists. Waiting for us to move. One snaps his head toward the horse pen and back again so quickly I wouldn’t have caught it if I’d blinked. They’re going to steal our horses to get back to Spring; they probably abandoned their own a few hours back to avoid being spotted. They’ll try to kill some of us before they leave, to whittle our numbers even lower before they tell Angra where we are so he can stage the final strike. So he can be the one to kill Mather himself.
We can’t let them return to Spring.
We need weapons. We need to alert the others. We need to—
Mather makes a decision before I do, grabbing my hand and dragging me into camp. I flip one last look behind me. The five soldiers move, tearing over the grass toward the horse pen.
This is my fault. They tracked me. I led them here from Lynia, straight here, because Sir is right—I am just a child who shouldn’t be fighting in a war.
Mather pulls me faster and something bounces out of the collar of his leather breastplate. The locket half. It gleams in the setting sun’s light, faint and flickering in the shadows, yet embedded with powerful and fiery potential. It’s Winter’s essence in the form of a trinket.
I rip my hand out of his. “Warn Sir!”
Mather skids to a stop but I’m already gone, surging into my tent. His voice fades behind me as he starts running again, drawing closer to the others and farther from me.
“Scouts!” he shouts. “Scouts, five of them—”
Finn has a chakram too. I find it along with a holster as Sir bellows from the other end of camp.
“All right, new chakram,” I mutter. “It’s time to let Herod know we don’t appreciate being followed.”
7
MY WHOLE BODY coils like a tightly wound spring as I rush back toward the horse pen. In the dark I can barely make out the five shapes moving around our horses, throwing saddles and bridles and cursing at each other to hurry.