That’s why Sir wants us to go to Cordell. Noam has to help stop Spring now—either has to help or let his sister and niece get slaughtered by Angra. If those hoofbeats are any indication, he’s already helping.
I pound the ground in excitement. “Cordell!” I squeak. “They’re Cordellan? Riding back from Autumn?”
Sir touches his nose in a sly, I-taught-you-well way before he leaps up from the grass and blows out one long, ear-piercing whistle. The sound echoes out in the dark and the hoofbeats, dozens of them, stop.
My chest thuds. I really hope they are Cordellan. And that at least a few of them have sympathy for travelers, Season or not. Because if they cling to the Rhythm-Season prejudice or if they’re Spring—
But Sir doesn’t make mistakes like that. I hope.
I stand too. The shadowy mass of the army looms a few paces ahead of us. One shadow, the darkened figure of a mounted rider, pulls out of the mass and canters forward. As he gets closer, his Cordellan gold-and-hunter-green uniform—and the medals that dangle from it, marking him as an officer—become visible. He’s got a sword in one hand, reins in the other, so he can keep riding and impale us if needed.
The officer halts far enough back for us to see his face. “Identify yourselves or—” He stops and his eyes open so wide their whites gleam in the darkness. “Golden leaves,” he swears, and I start at the words. It must be a Cordellan reference. “Winterians?”
I run a hand through my white hair, pulling it over one shoulder, and swallow the lump of anticipation that wedges in my throat. This is the moment when either he’ll spit on us and say something derogatory about the barbaric Seasons, or he’ll help us.
Sir steps forward. “William Loren, General of Winter. And this is Meira,” he waves at me, “also of Winter. Our camp was attacked by Angra and we are on our way to Cordell.”
The officer lowers his blade and my body relaxes slightly. “Anyone seeking refuge from Angra is most welcome in Cordell. I am Captain Dominick Roe of Cordell’s Fifth Battalion.”
Apparently Dominick lowering his blade signaled an all-is-well to his men, for they instantly put away their own weapons and move forward. They’re not going to spit on us—they’re going to help us. I smile.
“You are offering a warm welcome for us in Cordell?” Sir presses.
Dominick points at two of his men and they obediently push through the crowd, both pulling empty horses beside them. His face flashes with a grimace—though, in the darkness, it might have been just a trick of moonlight. “All I can truly offer is an escort to Bithai.”
Bithai, Cordell’s capital. We can’t ask for better; an entire regiment of soldiers led by a captain who clearly dislikes Angra and doesn’t hold to the Season-Rhythm prejudice. Sir must’ve spent his watch making wishes.
“We accept,” Sir says. “Your generosity will be repaid.”
The two men Dominick pointed to offer us the horses. I settle onto one and catch Sir’s eye as he adjusts on his mount. His shoulders unwind and he slumps a little in his saddle, looking relaxed for the first time since I got back from my mission to Lynia. Because since then—
My chest aches and I close my eyes. I can’t afford to think about what has happened. Can’t afford to wonder or worry about who got away, who made it to Cordell. Not until we get somewhere safe—or at least as safe as we’ll ever be.
Turns out sleeping upright while straddling a horse isn’t as easy as I’d hoped—every bump makes my head lash back and my teeth clank together. I surrender to being awake, my vision swirling in the shadows of night.
The waves of creamy prairie grass vanish around midmorning the next day. I pull up straighter in my saddle, eyes wide as I take in the vibrant change of scenery. I’ve never been to Cordell. We’ve had no reason to go to a kingdom Sir hates, when there are others who will sell us food and supplies. But now I wish we had come before. It’s beautiful.
The grass beneath the horses’ hooves is such a vibrant green that my eyes hurt. Hills roll around us, gentle and sloping, with perfectly placed maple trees just starting to turn orange and gold. We pass a farm and are engulfed by a flowery, airy scent—lavender, one of Cordell’s most popular and pricey exports. Some soldiers wave to a farmer and his workers, who drop their tools and buckets to wave back.
We continue on, leaving the workers to their effervescent purple fields. The soldiers, drawn by the green and the sun and the aroma of lavender, whoop and holler with the renewed joy that comes from being home.
Sir doesn’t seem invigorated by the men’s excitement. He surveys each farm we pass, each speck of a village, more than likely taking count of how many lavish buildings there are, how many fields seem a tad too plentiful. His face doesn’t change and in that not-changing I see the same anger he gets whenever he rants about Noam.