He’s exhausted.
“He didn’t . . . save her . . .” Theron pants, sweat glistening down his neck. How long has Angra been torturing him?
And torturing him with what?
Angra reaches forward and cups Theron’s cheek in his palm. I lurch back, shoulders smacking into the stone wall. Angrahesitated. Before he touched Theron. The rarest beat of a pause, as if he was uncertain.
Angra is—WAS—never uncertain or careful. About anything.
“What is this?” I shout, though neither Angra nor Theron pay me any heed.
“He could have saved her,” Angra whispers, and his usual malice is gone. His voice sounds wrong without it, deflated, a flower without petals. “He had all the power. He could have sent her back to her kingdom—he could have helped her heal. But he didn’t. And many like him exist in this world, many who don’t deserve power.” Angra leans closer. “Who does deserve power, Prince Theron? Who?”
I stumble, slipping on the dusty stones of the cellar, just as disoriented as Theron was in the—vision? Memory? Idon’t know. I don’twantto know—but I do.
This happened to him. These scenes are Theron’s memories, however repressed or hidden by Angra’s magic. The Order’s key, the first of the three to open the door—it’s a conduit? Or it has magic, at least, magic like the barrier.
Snow above. Theron took it. Somewhere in my distracted state, he took the key from me.
I surge back to him, but he studies the key, rolling it through his fingers, unaware of my panic. He doesn’t see anything when he touches it—he’d react in some way if he did.
In the darkness of the cellar, sweat glistening on his skin, he looks almost like the Theron in the vision. Broken, scared,small.
I can’t find it in me to yank the key away from him—and I don’t want to risk touching it and seeing more of the poison Angra pumped into him. Theron doesn’t remember it; whatever his mind is doing to deal with what happened, he needs it. And right now, he needs this key, needs it in the way he grips it in his fist and sighs like some of the weight on his shoulders has slid right off.
“You found it,” he says. “Where?”
My body goes numb, afraid to move, afraid anything unexpected might shatter him. “In a wine cask.”
A part of me doesn’t want to lie to him, doesn’t want to hide the truth.
But the other part of me, the logical queen part, jolts warning:He’ll know you went looking without him. You could have said you stumbled on it.
Of course, that isn’t unbelievable at all.
Arguing with myself. I shake my head, and Theron presses on, not dwelling on anything bad. As usual.
But as he starts talking, some of his men return with Summerian slaves who move to care for the dead man. Will they try to find out who killed him? This kingdom is dangerous. It could have been anyone, especially with the crowded party upstairs.
“I know you don’t like Summer,” Theron says. “But we’ll need a unified front before—” He stops, tugs his voice to a breathy whisper. “Before the magic chasm is opened. My father won’t willingly disperse magic equally—Iknowthat. I know he’ll fight. Which is why I’m doing this. We need a unified world to force him to submit.”
I step back, eyes roaming over him. The set of his jaw, the sharp angle of his shoulders. Something in the most recent vision itches at the edge of my mind. Power—Angra kept saying that, over and over.He had all the power.
This is what Theron wants more than anything, isn’t it? To not be powerless.
But while Theron’s goal could be glorious, all I can see are the holes in it. The way magic will eventually be abused; the way we may strive for peace between every kingdom, butthere will always remain differences that can’t be glossed over with smooth words.
The goal I have is far different—magic used as infrequently as possible. No risk of the Decay being created; no fear of unstable leaders losing control of their magic and hurting innocent people; no fear of evil kings enslaving entire kingdoms with inhuman power.
I can’t bring myself to lie more. “Don’t you find it odd that Simon agreed so easily?”
Theron shakes his head. “It’s the Rhythms who will need convincing—the Seasons have always been desperate for peace. I never worried that we wouldn’t be able to sway them.”
His assertion scratches at me. But of all the kingdoms in the world, the Seasons have been the ones most predisposed to war. That doesn’t explain why Simon agreed so quickly—his kingdom, though Season, has always been on the edge of any conflicts, happily drunk at the outside of the war, only involved to make occasional purchases from Spring. They are also the only other Season to have a standing alliance with a Rhythm, however hidden or unofficial. So why would Summer even care about uniting everyone, when their place in the world is secure?
I press a hand to my forehead, questions adding wooziness on top of my ever-growing fatigue. Without another word, I head for the staircase. Should I go after Ceridwen?Finding her down here . . . I’d never be able to navigate it. She can, though. She’ll be fine. I hope.
With Theron on one side and Garrigan on the other, I leave the cellar.
