Snow Like Ashes(42)

It’s empty and a little dusty, its disuse proof that Bithai hasn’t seen a war in years. I pull myself over the railing and kick aside an overturned table. Finally one place Noam doesn’t keep pristine.

I can see why they built the tower here. It’s open on every side, giving a complete view of the city and the kingdom beyond. To the east, most of Bithai sleeps under a clear sky and a half-moon. To the west, farmlands roll off into the horizon, green and dark in the absence of city light. To the south …

I dig my fingers into the railing. To the south are the Seasons. Spring, with its brutality and blood, and Winter, with its snow and ice and coldness that never ends, with its queen who haunts my dreams through images of the refugees and baby Mather.

Mather.

I feel liable to explode, everything in me hot and heavy and choking off air. I hate him for caring, for making me think he liked me too, for giving me a flash of hope as small as a stone and a kiss on my jaw when both of us knew we could never, ever be more than what we are.

“You shouldn’t blame him.”

On a sharp breath, I yank my chakram into my hand and aim it at the shadow behind me.

Sir.

I tense my hand against my weapon. “You’ve got nerve.”

Sir steps away from the corner of the tower he just climbed up. “I couldn’t let the day end without you knowing the truth.”

I laugh. It’s hollow and makes a shiver dance down my back. “Well, it’s already tomorrow, so you’re a tad late.”

Sir surges forward, tears the chakram out of my hand, and tosses it to the floor. Before I can fight back, he rotates me to face the south and keeps a hand firmly on the back of my neck.

“Snow above,” he hisses. “You’ve never seen what’s down there. The closest you’ve come to Winter is the outermost towns in Spring, the aftermath of Winter’s fall. But you’ve never seen the Winterians in the camps. You didn’t see Angra lead them away; you didn’t look into their eyes as they realized what was happening, that Angra was going to use them until they died. Don’t snap at me like you know what’s at stake. You don’t know anything, Meira, and I’m sorry if this marriage is hard for you to accept, but it will happen. You wanted to matter to Winter? This is how Winter needs you.”

I jam my elbow into Sir’s stomach and rip his hand off my neck. He stumbles back, coughing, a look of shock falling over him.

“No.” I point a finger at him because I’m not sure what else I can do. I just elbowed him in the stomach. My arm shakes as I point at him, an outward sign of my inward roiling, rocking anger. “You do not get to lecture me like this is some lesson you’re trying to drill into my head. This isn’t our training tent. This is my life. You know this is horrible, Sir! You know everything, so if I don’t know anything, why don’t you tell me? Why doesn’t Mather tell me himself instead of sending you to do it for him?”

Sir stares at me for a moment, quiet, the rush of fight gone. His eyes are wet, hair frayed, body slowly caving in like he’s been beaten against the rocks one too many times. He was our rock, though.

I pull my hands through my hair, a moan escaping my lips. Something deep and hidden, urged on by the child in me who cries whenever Sir’s upset. “What happened, William?”

He hugged me, once. When I was six, still small enough to sleep in the tent he shared with Alysson, I woke up one night screaming. Drenched in sweat, crying so hard and loud my body ached for days. Sir was instantly at my side, alert and looking for an enemy.

“I saw them,” I whimpered.

“Who?” He was so concerned, his brow pinched, his eyes wide. Like he expected a Spring soldier to leap out of the shadows.

“My—” I couldn’t say it. Mother. Father. I didn’t even see them in my dream—I saw who I thought they were, who my mind created. Two loving people who were slaughtered in the street, their baby tumbling from their arms before Sir scooped me up.

In my dream, though, they were burning. Screaming at me from a building engulfed in flames while Angra stood outside, a monster of a man holding a staff. His conduit. Orange-and-red fire danced up and down the ebony surface of the staff and across the ground, feeding the inferno of the building. I stood behind him, screaming for him to stop.

Angra turned to me. “Not until you’re all dead.”

When I told Sir my dream, he stayed quiet for a long while, his face a war of emotions. Fear and regret and something deep—guilt, maybe. Or blame? But it flickered off his face and he wrapped his arms around me, nestled me against his chest, and let me lean into him.