Snow Like Ashes (Snow Like Ashes, #1)(15)

His eyebrows pinch in the suggestion of a smile. “Am I?”

“Yes.” I stab another turnip and leave the fork there. “We got the locket half. You shouldn’t be feeling anything other than happiness right now—real happiness, not your fake smiles—Mr. Heir of Winter.”

Mather’s face grows solemn. He pauses, his hands open in his lap like he’s holding all of his worries. “I didn’t feel anything,” he murmurs, a slow, absent thought. “When I saw the locket half. It was the only thing I’ve ever seen of my mother’s. I should have felt something.”

I fight to steady my breathing, and my eyes drop for a beat to the fire pit. Wasn’t I just worrying about these same things? I forget sometimes how similar Mather is to me—how we’re both young enough to feel separated from Winter in the same ways. Mather’s lack of feeling is a bit more pressing, though. After all, he’s Winter’s king.

But I don’t have any way to reassure him, any wise words to soothe his fears—if I did, I’d be able to fix my own problems too. “It’s just half of a necklace right now,” I try. “Maybe you’ll feel something when it’s a whole conduit again.”

Mather shrugs. “I’m not supposed to have any connection to it, though, remember? I’m just her son.” His face flashes with shame and he shakes his head. “I’m sorry. You’re right; this is supposed to be a happy day. You got the locket half. Thank you.” He leans forward, his eyes intent. “Really, Meira, thank you.”

My face spasms with confusion, but I can’t do anything to smooth it out. I didn’t know he’d put so much weight on the locket half, that he wanted so badly to have a connection to his mother. I don’t remember my parents or even know who they were, but it never occurred to me that Mather would hurt so badly for people he’d never met either. Does he miss his father too? Hannah’s husband, Duncan, was a Winterian lord before he became king. Does Mather wish he knew him if only to talk to someone in the same situation—king of a female-blooded kingdom?

A heaviness settles in my stomach, filling me with a choking mix of guilt and anxiety—wanting to help Mather, but knowing it’s as out of my power as using Winter’s conduit is out of his.

Thankfully at that moment, the tent flap opens to reveal Sir. He takes in the absent food, my wet hair. I hold my breath, remembering why I’m really here—to tell Sir what happened.

Sir sits next to me, silent. He doesn’t reprimand me for being so casual with our future king, doesn’t berate me up and down for my informality and poo-covered entrance.

Uh-oh.

He withdraws the box from his pocket. “So,” he begins. “Would you care to explain?”

Suddenly I feel like the misbehaving child who first begged Sir to let me help out with the resistance. The child who waved swords around like awkward steel wings and showed absolutely no promise in fighting until I tried ranged weapons like my chakram, and it turned out I could be deadly too. The child he always sees when he looks at me.

The chakram. My heart drops. Snow above, I have to tell Sir I lost another throwing disc. With the decline in Primoria’s iron production due to the disuse of Winter’s mines, weapons have become expensive. And being a Winterian refugee isn’t exactly a lucrative career.

I grab a berry, avoiding Sir’s eyes. “Isn’t anyone else coming? Finn maybe?”

He shakes his head. “Just us. Now talk.”

It’s an order. He’s angry about something, but I have no idea what.

My stomach starts to burn, churning around all the food I’ve shoved into it. Sir has no right to be angry or disappointed. I retrieved half of the locket. I did what he couldn’t do, even after he doubted me. The only thing he should be feeling is awe.

Is that why he’s upset? Because I finally proved that he needs me?

I glare up at him. “It was exactly where you said it was. In the Keep. That’s all.”

“You’re telling me,” Sir begins, “that you were able to waltz into Lynia’s stronghold and retrieve this locket piece with no arrows fired, no men killed, no bloodshed? Because that bruise on your cheek and the lingering stench in here say otherwise. What happened, Meira?”

The wrinkles in Sir’s face deepen. He wears his age more heavily all of a sudden, his naturally white hair ivory from his fifty-some years, not his Winterian heritage. He fingers the box before popping it open and showing me the locket half.

It’s the first time I’ve seen it. A silver chain snakes around the back half of a heart-shaped locket, gleaming though it’s more than a few centuries old. Half of Winter’s conduit. I exhale, my shoulders slouching. I still can’t believe it’s here, a hand’s breadth from me.

The moment Sir opens the box, Mather’s whole body stiffens. My eyes swing to him, and I want to continue our conversation from moments ago. I want to apologize for earlier, for bringing up the biggest weakness in his life like it was nothing more than a discussion of the weather.

My breath catches against those questions again, the things no one ever dares ask aloud.

Will this be enough? Will reuniting our conduit halves restore our magic, or will Winter forever be the only kingdom in Primoria without magic to make it whole? If so, how will we defeat Spring, a kingdom steeped in magically induced strength, when all we have are eight refugees and a pretty necklace? Will another kingdom even ally with us once we have the locket whole again, if our only heir is unable to use it?