Snow Like Ashes(65)

Mather vanishes into the tower without another word. I hope my disguise is convincing enough, Spring’s approaching threat distracting enough, that Sir doesn’t notice the slightly skinny soldier-boy in the room. I’m not sure what I fear more: Sir’s wrath or Angra’s.

I squint through the narrow eye slits and trail Mather up the stairs.

Seven stories later, Noam’s screaming flies at us through an open door. The great circular room is the highest in the tower, surrounded by views of the southern land beyond Bithai. High-ranking generals scatter throughout, leaning over maps or trying unsuccessfully to avert their eyes from their wailing king.

Spit flies from Noam’s mouth, his arms wave, armored body pacing nervously. His conduit sits in a metal belt at his hip, its usual place of honor.

“Damn you, William! Damn you and every single one of your white-haired nuisances. I knew I should never have let you cross my borders, let alone sacrificed my son in all of this. Damned Seasons. Good-for-nothing barbarians who refuse to surrender to stronger forces—”

I file along the wall next to two other guards. They nod at me like I’m supposed to be there. So far, so good.

“Your kind is too beyond reason to negotiate,” Noam continues. “I should have seen it before. But no, I tried to give you mercy, debased my kingdom by joining with a Season, and this is how I am repaid? Now Angra marches on me! Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t hand all of you over to Spring right now?”

The tantrum I threw hours ago seems like nothing compared to the way he stumbles around, back talking and fumbling his reasoning. Noam truly believes he was doing us a favor? He thinks we should be grateful to him. That nothing he did brought this upon us, as though he wasn’t the one who tried to negotiate with the Shadow of the Seasons.

Sir doesn’t react to any of this, leaning against the far wall and massaging the skin just above his nose. He’s never lowered himself to respond to screaming or threats—not that I have firsthand experience with that or anything.

Theron trudges into the middle of it, already tired though the true battle is hours away. “Father, stop—”

Noam whips toward him like he forgot his son would be here. “Yes! Of course, son. Break it off. Break it off now. We’re done with Winter. The engagement is dissolved.”

“No,” Theron growls, a low noise that shakes awareness into everyone in the room.

Noam frowns at him. “What?”

“No,” Theron repeats. “I meant stop making yourself look like an ass, Father.”

Sir flips his head up, hand still held absently before him, eyes wide in a shocked amusement.

Noam rears back. “Don’t tell me you—Spring is coming—they did this, they brought them here—”

“No, you brought them here. When you wrote that letter, you told Angra exactly where they were. What did you think would happen?” As Theron shouts, madness flickers in his eyes, something waking up after years of watching his father in silence. The men around him stare in wonder, clearly shocked at seeing their prince yell at their king. “That Angra would bow down to you? That he would negotiate and trade and act fairly? Angra wants to kill them. He will stop at nothing to get what he wants, and negotiating has never worked with him. You think Winter didn’t try to negotiate before it fell? You think Autumn hasn’t tried to strike a deal with him since Spring turned on them? You’d know how truly vengeful he is if you ever bothered to go to Autumn.”

I frown. Noam has never even been to Autumn, the home of his sister and niece, the place where he sends thousands of his men to fight?

“You cannot speak to me like that.” Noam throws a hand up to silence him, but Theron shoves it away.

“I can. You’ve wasted too much time already. Our men need a leader right now, someone to tell them how to survive the approaching army, not a blabbering idiot. Your great plan failed, Father. Own up to it.”

Noam’s mouth drops open. As does mine. As does every single mouth in the room.

From the trembling light in Theron’s eyes to the way his hands quake ever so slightly at his sides, he seems to be realizing how far over the edge he’s gone. “You have to do this.” His voice drops to a hiss. “I’d take that dagger from you right now if I could, but you’re still the oldest living male heir of Cordell. So act like it.”

Noam looks every bit the cornered dog, stray and wild, desperate for an escape. After a few long minutes, he relaxes, pulls his shoulders back, and looks his son in the eye.

“You’ll make a fine king. Someday.” He adds the last word like a threat.