Snow Like Ashes(66)

Theron bows his head.

Noam turns to the nearest general and puts a hand on his dagger. “Your regiment will be our left flank. Have them ready. And you—right flank.”

He spouts commands like nothing happened. Like he purposefully staged his little outburst as some odd pre-battle ritual.

Theron’s shoulders slump when his father turns away, but Sir steps up beside him and murmurs something that makes Theron beam.

Mather steps up too. “That was brave.”

Theron wipes a hand down his face. He looks drained, as if he might fall over and sleep for a week. But there’s something else in his eyes now, something roaring beneath the surface.

“And should have been unnecessary.” Theron turns to Sir. “I’m sorry. For everything. Cordell is far better than—” His eyes flick to Noam. “I apologize, King Mather. General Loren.”

Sir waves him off. Behind them, Noam points at the field beyond and orders something at one of his generals.

“I agree with one thing he said,” Sir offers. “You will make a fine king, Prince Theron.”

Compliments from Sir and Mather in the span of five minutes. If it were me, I’d pass out with gratitude, but Theron just stares at the stone floor.

Sir plows right on past it too. I’ll never understand men. “For now, Mather and I are needed with our people.”

Theron nods. “Of course.”

Sir jogs down the staircase, Mather a beat behind him. As Mather passes me, he meets my eyes, and mouths, Try to stay here.

It is one of the safest places to be. Unless Angra’s cannons rip through the tower, in which case it’s a long, slow tumble to the ground.

I swallow and stand a little straighter. Noam is busy channeling power into various regiments by willing the conduit’s magic to pour into men here, officers there. The hum of the tower has switched drastically, no longer buzzing with concern or anxiety. Amazing what a calm leader can do to a group of men.

But it isn’t only Noam’s magic that’s calming them. Theron moves around the room, talking with each general, sending some off to prepare their soldiers. His serenity eases them into submission whereas his father uses brute force. Theron’s steadiness, his certainty, reminds me of someone.

He reminds me of Sir. They have the same solemn surety when faced with life-or-death situations. The same boulder-in-the-ocean stance.

Halfway across the room, Theron glances at me. Does he recognize the overstuffed armor he helped force me into?

A moment passes and a small smile uncurls his lips—not gleaming enough to arouse suspicion, just a small token that says, I’m watching out for you too.

I smile back even though he can’t see.



18


AS THE SUN hovers a few hours past noon, I find myself with my back to Bithai’s most outlying buildings. The ones the citizens were all frantically running away from, seeking shelter within the city’s high stone walls while soldiers took up their stations on the sweeping fields of green.

Noam, Theron, and a few high-ranking generals stayed in the tower by the gate while the rest of the men, myself included, were pulled down to add numbers to the field. The sea of soldiers stretches so far around me that I can’t see the green of Bithai’s grass, just silver armor and dark weapons and ready, waiting bodies. Cavalry take up the outer flanks, rows and rows of infantry fill the center, and two long lines of archers stand at the back on the sloping edge of Bithai’s plateau. Which is where I am, the metal crossbow loaded in my grip.

The past few hours have been filled with preparations, getting lined up and making sure everyone had proper gear. Now that everything is set, it all has time to catch up to me. I inhale, exhale, my breath heating up the helmet, my pulse hammering in my ears and echoing around the metal that encases my head. The waiting is the worst part—with food-scouting missions, I never had time to get nervous. They were so fleeting that by the time they were over, I hadn’t even realized I was supposed to feel more than a rush of adrenaline. But now, listening to my heartbeat and watching the horizon and waiting, waiting, waiting for battle—it’s horrible.

The rest of the Winterians stand behind the archers in their own group. Noam can’t help us with his conduit, can’t pour strength or will into us because we aren’t Cordellan and, therefore, remain unaffected by his magic—the same way we couldn’t affect any of his people if our conduit was whole. And we’re the reason why Spring is attacking—if we all die, it becomes a bit of a lost cause, regardless of Noam’s empty threat to hand us over to Angra.

Mather made sure to position himself a few paces behind and to my right, mounted on a horse should he need to swoop in. He hasn’t moved to make good on his own threat either, and I breathe a little easier every time I see that he hasn’t vanished to surrender to Angra. I look back at him, desperately wanting to rip off my accursed helmet. Iron smell or no iron smell, this thing’s nothing but an airless metal oven, and no Winterian likes heat.