“Because Paisly is a Rhythm too—they wouldn’t host an ousted Season king. Yakim and Ventralli were barely willing to hostus. I don’t think . . .” Greer pauses. “My queen, I don’t think Angra is in Primoria.”
The way he says that makes me shut my eyes. When I first suggested that someone search the world for Angra, everyone thought I was being overly cautious. He vanished after the battle in Abril, but most believe that the magic disintegrated him—not that he escaped.
“He’s dead,” Sir says. “He is no longer a threat we should concern ourselves with.”
I stare at him, drained. He—and the rest of my Winterian council—still believes Angra was defeated, even after I told them that his Royal Conduit had been overtaken by the Decay, a dark magic created thousands of years ago, before the Royal Conduits were made. Then everyone had small conduits, but when they slowly began to use the magic for evil, that negative use birthed the Decay. With the creation of the Royal Conduits and the purge of all smaller conduits, the Decay weakened, but it didn’t die—it fed on Angra’s power until Mather broke Spring’s staff.
If Angra is alive, he could be like me, a conduit himself, unburdened by the limitations of his object-conduit. And the Decay could be . . . endless.
But if Angra is alive, why would he be hidden away? Why wouldn’t he have swept through the world, enslaving us all? Maybe that’s what makes Sir so certain he’s dead.
Everyone watches me, even Conall, Garrigan, and Nessa. My eyes shift past them and open wide. One second, no one watched the Cordellans for one second—
“Trouble?”
A Cordellan soldier ducks into the tent, flanked by three others. The moment their armored frames fill the space, my council yanks to attention, casting off any pretense of ease.
I growl deep in my throat as Theron enters the tent too.
“I’m sure they’re discussing how best to proceed with the Tadil’s spoils,” Theron guesses, moving to stand beside me.He tips his head at his men. “No trouble here.”
The soldiers hesitate, clearly unconvinced, but Theron is their prince. They back out of the tent as Theron tucks his hand around my waist. The chill of magic palpitates through me, only marred now—I shouldn’t need someone from another land to sweep to my rescue. Especially to fend off the very men who are supposed to be protecting us.
“Thank you for interceding, Prince Theron,” Sir offers.
Theron bobs his head. “No need to thank me. You should be allowed to gather in your own kingdom without Cordellan interference.”
I cock an eyebrow at him. “Don’t let your father hear you say that.”
That makes Theron tighten his grip on me, drawing me closer in a protective lurch. “My father hears whatever he wants to hear,” he says. “What were you discussing, though?”
Sir steps closer. My eyes flick to the side, noting Finn and Greer striding down the road, most likely heading to freshen up so as not to appear travel worn.
“We were discussing only—”
But whatever lie Sir might have been about to tell proves unnecessary. Theron unwinds himself from me and snatches the tapestry from the table.
“Ventralli?” he asks. “Why do you have this?”
Of course he would know where the tapestry is from. His mother was the aunt of the current Ventrallanking—Theron’s room in Bithai is stuffed with paintings, masks, and other treasures from his Ventrallan side.
I glance at Sir, who holds my gaze. The same emotion coats everyone else—Dendera watches me, Alysson grips the edge of the table. All waiting for my response.
All wanting me to lie.
Finn and Greer’s journey was supposed to be secret, one frail act of Winter in the face of Cordell’s occupation. Proof that we could do something,besomething, on our own.
But lying to Theron . . .
Sir’s jaw tightens when I hang silent for a beat too long. “The rubble of Gaos,” he says. “We found it in the buildings.”
I don’t realize until the words leave his lips that Theron might find out the truth anyway—if Giselle and Raelyn welcomed Finn and Greer, news will spread. Noam will eventually hear that his Rhythm brethren had Winterian visitors.
I choke, but the lie has been told. Backtracking now would only look worse—wouldn’t it? I can’t very well ask Sir’s opinion on this—besides, he’s the one who lied. Maybe . . . it’s okay.
No. It isn’t okay. But I don’t know how a queen would make this okay.
“It’s beautiful.” Theron runs his fingers down the threads. “A Winter–Spring battle?”
