Snow Like Ashes(76)

I’m able to bite back a scream as the first few ribs crack, but it falls out of my mouth as Angra snaps the rest. The scream turns into a pathetic whine as the pressure rises, ribs reshaping and knitting back together with agonizing slowness.

“How, exactly, did a child manage to evade me?”

My ribs heal again. Sweat trickles down my face, and words come in broken gasps. “Two … children … escaped … actually.”

He twists his hand again. Quick this time, every bone snapping at once and knitting together in less than a few seconds. Stars flash over my vision, darkness and swirling light.

Angra glares up at Herod. “Where is the boy?”

I choke on Herod’s pause. “My men are pursuing him.”

The hope in those words makes it impossible to breathe. As long as Mather lives, there’s still hope for Winter.

Angra grabs my hair, forcing me to stare up at him. “Your resistance is crumbling. It’s only a matter of time before I kill Hannah’s son myself.”

The hope in my chest flares against his threats. You’re wrong, Angra, because Mather is alive. There is still hope.

But it snuffs out as quickly as it came, as thoughts collide in my mind—Sir is dead, and this war is worse than we thought.

Angra beams. “I thought so.”

His hand trails down my horrible, traitorous face, giving away my emotions. As his fingers touch my skin, his image swirls. His face contorts, darkness pulls in, and the blackness of his throne room fades to a milky white. As it did when Hannah touched me, my mind’s eye pulls me into a memory not my own.

A field of snow stretches into the distance, frozen white perfection beneath a clear night sky. The moon, a sliver against the speckled black of night, sheds light on a small gathering of men and horses. One holds a lantern that casts light onto the black sun breastplates of Angra’s guards. And Angra himself, his appearance unchanged from how it is now, sits on a thick warhorse in front of his men. He wears a heavy, black cloak, and his staff sits in a holster on his saddle….

Angra tears his hand off my face. “What did you—”

I stare at him, mouth half open. A voice in the back of my mind urges me to reach out, and I grab Angra’s hand with a strength I didn’t think I still had. The image returns, stronger now, as though I’m standing next to Angra on one of Winter’s fields.

Hooves beat in the distance as three riders come toward us. They stop, the field around us empty but for snow and this clandestine meeting of Spring and Winter.

Hannah pulls her horse forward and dismounts. She wears nothing over her gown but a blood red cloak, the flow of scarlet on snow a shocking contrast. “Thank you for meeting me.”

Angra’s horse dances under the unspoken tension on the air. The guards behind Hannah hold weapons, ready to leap to their queen’s defense, while Angra’s men look furtively at their king for any sign to attack. But Angra just swings one leg over his saddle and dismounts.

“How could I resist, Highness? Especially after your enticing message.” Angra steps forward, black cloak swishing through the snow. “You said you had a deal I couldn’t refuse.”

Hannah folds her hands beneath her cloak and looks up, blue eyes shining in the weak moonlight. “I will lay down my life for my people.”

Angra’s face flashes with shock. “No riddles. What do you propose?”

The locket pulses white from Hannah’s neck before she speaks, her voice steady and sure. “I will let you destroy Winter’s conduit, and I will let you kill me.”

“If?” Angra’s tone is mocking.

“If Spring’s army never sets foot in Winter again.”

Angra sneers, making my skin crawl. “This doesn’t have to do with how few men you have left? I know that our last battle left Winter weakened, but I never thought it would drive you to such desperation. Do you plan to make good on your end now?”

Angra pulls a dagger out of his belt and shoves it against Hannah’s throat so quickly I barely see it happen. Her guards fly forward, swords out, and Angra’s men ready their weapons. But neither monarch moves, frozen knife to neck with each other.

Hannah waves a hand at the men behind her and they back up. “Yes,” she whispers, and a gasp ricochets through them. Yes? She’s going to let him kill her now? But Hannah’s face doesn’t betray any fear, even with Angra’s knife moments away from slashing through her throat. “Does this mean we are in agreement?”

“We are. But I wonder, Highness, how far your deal extends.” Curling the knife into his palm, he backs up. His eyes slide down Hannah’s body and linger on her stomach, his face radiating amusement. “You don’t know yet, do you?”