Snow Like Ashes (Snow Like Ashes, #1)(4)

“William!” Alysson’s shriek precedes her by a few heartbeats as she hurls herself at her husband, injuries be damned. Seeing Sir wrap his arms around her, hold her tiny body off the ground, is like watching a bear clutch a rag doll—power and might alongside fragility and meekness. They fold into each other in a rare moment of vulnerability.

Sir sets down his wife. “It’s in Lynia. Got there the day we left.”

Finn lowers the handful of bandages he pressed against Greer’s leg. Mather looks up from where he holds a small water sack for Dendera as she drinks. I suck in mouthfuls of the hot, heavy air, my mind whirling.

We’ve been searching for the locket throughout Primoria since Winter fell, but only a handful of times have we gotten leads on where one of the halves would be. Angra keeps half of it moving, bouncing from cities in Spring to remote settlements in the unclaimed areas of Primoria—the foothills of the Paisel Mountains, ports on the sea—to make it harder for us to get both halves back.

Now we’re close. My chest swells with the same excitement that I know everyone is feeling, or felt before they ended up here, broken and bleeding. Sir will send someone back for it. Fresh and rested people make for the best soldiers, so he won’t send anyone who just returned. Which means—

I rush toward Sir as he looks Mather up and down, then does the same to Finn. “You two, leave now,” he says. “They’ll move it again soon, since they know we escaped.”

I stop. “They’ll need everyone. I’ll go too.”

Sir looks at me like he forgot I’d be here. He frowns, shakes his head. “Not now. Mather, Finn, I want you ready to leave in fifteen minutes. Go.”

Finn scurries off, his bulk swaying around him as he hurries back to camp. Obedient without thought, like everyone always is.

I stare up at Sir with my jaw clenched. “I can do this. I’m going.”

Sir grabs his horse’s reins and starts walking it toward camp. Everyone falls in behind him—except Mather, who hangs back farther, watching us, his eyes calm.

“I don’t have time to argue this,” Sir snaps. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Too dangerous for me but not for our future king?”

Sir looks at me as I walk alongside him. “Did you beat Mather in sparring?”

I grimace. Sir reads that as my answer.

“That’s why it’s too dangerous for you. We’re too close to take any chances.”

Prairie grass pushes against my hips, my boots tearing into the dirt with every step. “You’re wrong,” I growl. “I can help. I can be—”

“You do help.”

“Oh yes, that bag of rice I bought in Autumn last month saved our kingdom.”

“You’re most helpful where you are,” he amends.

I grab his arm to make him stop. He turns to me, his face streaked with dirt and blood through his white beard, frizzled strands of ivory hair sticking out around his face. He looks tired, hovering between taking one more step and collapsing.

“I can do more than this,” I breathe. “I’m ready, William.”

I called him Father once. In the wake of his stories about my real parents dying in the streets of Winter’s capital, Jannuari, as Spring overtook it, and how he scooped baby-me up and rescued me, it seemed logical to an eight-year-old that the man raising her should be called Father. But he turned such a shade of red that I feared he’d start spitting blood, and he growled at me like he’d never done before. He was not my father and I was never, ever to call him that again. I was only ever to call him by his name, or a title, or something to show respect. But not Father. Never Father.

So from then on, I called him Sir. Yes, Sir. No, Sir. You are not my father and I will never be your daughter and I hate that you’re all I have, Sir.

Now he ignores me, pulling his horse onward. His decisions are final, and no amount of arguing will change his mind.

Like that’s ever stopped me. “This isn’t enough! And while I can’t fault you for caring about the most efficient ways to save our kingdom, I know I can do things for Winter too.”

A few paces behind me, Dendera moans, still hanging off Henn’s neck. “Meira,” she says, her voice worn. “Please, dear, you should be grateful you aren’t needed.”

I whip to her. “Just because you’d rather be patching dresses doesn’t mean all women should want that.”

Her mouth drops open and I pinch my eyes closed. “I didn’t mean it like that,” I sigh, forcing myself to look at her. She leans more heavily on Henn now, her eyes glistening. “I just meant that you shouldn’t be forced to fight when you don’t want to, and I shouldn’t be forced to not fight when I want to. If Sir let me go, maybe you wouldn’t have to go on missions. Everyone would win.”

Dendera doesn’t look any less hurt, but she glances at Sir, a quiver of hope hidden behind her pain. She used to be like Alysson, tending to camp, until Sir got desperate—he started needing her for missions just as he started letting me help with food scouting. She’s never argued with him, not when he makes her train or when he sends her out on missions like these. But one look in her eyes and I can see how much this life terrifies her, how badly she’d rather be back at camp. She’s as uncomfortable with weapons as I’d be in a gown.