Snow Like Ashes (Snow Like Ashes, #1)(82)

Blood pools in my mouth. I’ve bitten clean through my tongue now, the sharp lucidity that comes from that pain the only thing keeping me from leaping at Angra through the aura of dark magic. I focus on the pain, not on the cloudy line of darkness, not on Angra’s lulling words. His gentle, pulsing voice that sounds so calm, so sweet, until the meaning of his words shines through. Beyond us, the black obsidian of the empty throne room reflects the sunlight, watching us like a bodiless audience.

“It is freeing, not having a choice. And after a while, people no longer need to be forced to do certain things. Like Herod, for instance—he has taken quite fervently to the choices I make for him. He’ll enjoy destroying you.”

Cold. Everything is cold. The world is ice, coated in thick, solid wonder, nothing but gleaming surfaces and clouds of frozen breath. I’m locked in it, a part of it, my limbs hardening into the jagged branches of an ice-covered tree, stuck in a suspended state of hibernation while the world freezes around me. My bones shift with a grinding sensation, moving against the ice, shattering it as my body heaves forward, fingers curled in claws, mouth opening in a bloody screech as I dive through the shadow at Angra’s face.

The moment the black cloud touches my skin, I realize my great mistake. Desperation opened my mind to him, and my defenses crumble as the shadow dissipates into my head, diving back into my skull and filling every crevice with a dusty and ancient evil. I pull to a stop, sucked out of the cold, cold, cold of the world and into my own heat-drenched torture. The shadow wiggles through my thoughts, dives into my memories, kicking around in my brain as I’m flung backward and forward uncontrollably.

A flicker of Angra’s smugness returns. His power is in me now, pushing around my mind, nestling inside me like ink in books.

You will tell me everything, I feel him say. The words are my own thoughts, greedy and deep, and I grab my ears as if I could pull him out of my head. Or I will let Herod have you first, then those slaves you were with, then every Winterian I own. I will make him kill them all.

No, he won’t. I’ll stop Herod; I’ll kill Angra before he ever does that to anyone else.

Faces and images from my past swirl as Angra sorts through my head—Mather and Sir, the Rania Plains, Theron holding me as we danced in Cordell. Snow falling, gentle white flakes dusting Jannuari’s cobblestone streets . . .

Cold sweeps over me, wondrous cold. I’m standing in Jannuari, bare toes digging into the mortar between the cobblestones as flakes stick to my eyelashes, making the world glitter. Why am I here? It’s so cold, every nerve in my body tingling with the wondrous iciness.

I know how to break you, comes Angra’s voice. I know how to break all of you who long so badly for what you cannot have. You show your weakness in your desperation.

No, I’m in Abril, not in Jannuari. I’m in Angra’s palace and the Winterians need me and Nessa will die if I don’t stay conscious. I’m not magic; I’m not anything special. I’m just Meira.

No, not just Meira. I’m—I’m something—

It’s so cold. I love the cold.

Tell me what you want most in life, Meira. I will use your weaknesses. I will warp your mind until you shatter in my hands. I control you, Winter, everything.

Angra reaches one hand up with agonizing slowness and rests it against my forehead. More snow, falling and falling, peaceful flakes lulling me into Jannuari where it’s quiet and calm and I’ve never felt so safe in my life.

The locket. Angra still wears half of the locket around his throat, the white snowflake on the silver heart. We’ve been looking for the conduit for so long.

I will break you now with what you want most. Your perfect world.





CHAPTER 26

ANGRA’S THRONE ROOM fades, the blackness disintegrating into a city. No, not just any city—the Jannuari from my patched-together memories.

AND IT’S SNOWING.

I turn, the cobblestones slick with ice, and the cold that shoots through my bare feet infuses me with euphoria. The earthy aroma of coal and refining minerals coats the air, turning everything a hazy gray. I belong here, in Jannuari. How could I have ever been anywhere else?

The skirt of my pale gray dress is tattered, stained with use and poverty. The thin cotton lets more cold rays wrap around my body as I stand in the street, smiling at a figure running toward me through the snow. Nessa.

“Meira, supper’s ready! Your mother sent me to fetch you.”

My mother. Something pushes at my mind. . . . I don’t think I have a mother.

No, of course I do. I’ve always had a mother.

“Meira, come on!” Nessa grabs my hand and pulls me up the street. She’s so happy, so healthy, filled with a life of love and safety, her eyes gleaming as snowflakes stick in her hair.

I lift my skirt in one hand and together we run up the street, passing Winterians tidying up displays in shop windows or hammering horseshoes in a blacksmith’s shop. Jobs they should be doing, not like—

They’re wrong too. Wrong like my mother. Nessa is even a little wrong, and this city is wrong, though I know it exists.

“He’s coming to dinner tonight,” Nessa whispers, her tone seasoned with joy and gossip.

“Who?”

Nessa laughs, the sound making the air glitter even more. She pulls me up a path to a small two-story cottage and throws open the door, warm firelight falling out into the snow-filled path. Yellow mixes with the gray of Jannuari, warmth meeting snow. It’s not a bad warmth, though—it’s perfect.