Though all work had been packed away for the night, the air reeked of sawed wood and sweat, and snowflakes stuck to everything in sight. Mather dug his hands into his pockets and tried not to analyze the cottages they passed. William would want that one to have a new roof—that one still needed a sturdier door—the windows on that one were salvageable.
Phil nudged Mather’s shoulder. “You’ll feel less pitiful when you’re surrounded by people who feel the same way.”
“Really?”
“No. But everyone else will be excited to meet the swordsman who pulverizes them on a daily basis.”
Mather chuckled.
A few streets later, Phil jogged up to a cottage and rapped on the door. Laughter could be heard inside, sounding out of place in the damaged house. Repairs hadn’t yet touched this area—warped gray wood wove into an ancient front door, the windows on either side hid behind jagged burlap. Every building on this street was vacant, with only the laughter coming from within this lone cottage acting as a barrier to the sadness.
The door opened to a boy, slightly younger than them, who burst into a grin and punched Phil in the shoulder. “You’re late! We started without you.”
Phil mock-grabbed his shoulder like the punch had actually hurt him. “As long as you Suns didn’t drain the barrels yet. Eli, Mather. Mather, Eli.”
Eli narrowed his eyes. “Once-King Mather?”
Mather’s brows rose. He’d never been called that, but it had probably been thought in his direction more than once. It startled him in how it didn’t hurt. “Just Mather now.”
Eli didn’t seem convinced, but he disappeared back inside, shouting as he went that they had two more for the table. Phil moved to follow when Mather tipped his head. “Suns?”
Phil glanced back. The happiness on his face flickered, his smile breaking for the first time. “I guess you’d never have heard that, huh?”
Just as Mather waved his hand to brush it off, Phil spoke.
“You know how Spring soldiers have black suns on their breastplates? That got to be what we called ’em, in the Bikendi camp, at least. ‘Suns are coming, better be quiet!’ It’s a joke now, among those of us from Bikendi.” Phil winced every time he said the camp’s name. He shrugged toward the people within. “They’re all ‘Suns.’ Like worthless, you know? Unwanted. Sounds ridiculous explaining it, but there it is.”
An invisible hand wrapped cold fingers around Mather’s throat. Phil dove inside like he hadn’t just pointed out the one biggest difference between Mather and everyone here.
Mather had been free while everyone else had been separated into four Winterian work camps in Spring—Abril, Bikendi, Zoreon, and Edurne. Would they hate him for it? Would his presence serve to remind everyone of how they had spent their childhoods cowering from Angra’s men while Mather had spent his childhood with his family?
Mather stomped into the cottage and slammed the door behind him. The room sat in near blackness, lit only by a few candles and holes in the ceiling, columns of hazy moonlight and barrages of snowflakes pouring over the single table in the center of the one-room cottage. Five of the younger boys from the training sessions, including Phil, crowded around the table, goblets in their fists, puddles of ale dyeing the wood dark brown. Another person sat away from the table, huddled in a back corner on a stool. A girl, her knees pulled up to her forehead, her hands working furiously at something as bits of wood flew about her. Whittling?
The door’s slam reverberated through the room. The boys paused in their alcohol-encouraged laughter to survey the newcomer.
“Mather.” Phil waved his hand in introduction from his spot at the table, pointing out people as he said their names. “Trace, Kiefer, Hollis—and you already know Eli. Kiefer and Eli are brothers. The ghost in the back of the room is Feige, Hollis’s little sister.”
Feige shot Phil a glare that would have unnerved the hardest soldier. “I am not a ghost.”
Phil rolled his eyes. “Keep telling yourself that, little one.”
“Leave her alone,” Hollis said in a voice that, while soft, shot into everyone like an order from a general. He was a huge boy, broad shouldered, the oldest of the lot, probably twenty or twenty-one. He had his chair positioned so he could see everyone in the room, and kept glancing at his sister as if to make sure she hadn’t vanished.
Phil shrugged at Mather. “They’re all in denial. But I guess that’s what this is about, eh? Liquid denial.” He took a swig from his glass.
Trace chuckled into his goblet. He was older than Mather, but not by much, with the lean muscles of someone who could be molded into a fantastic close-combat soldier. Knives perhaps, something easy to carry, a weapon that victims only saw when he wanted them to.
“Don’t sound so righteous.” Trace peered up at Mather as he spoke, though his words were still directed at Phil. “You’re denying it just as much as the rest of us.”
Mather plopped into a chair between Phil and Eli and grabbed the nearest goblet. “Denial has nothing to do with it. There’s no way to handle it at all.”
That wasn’t true. William handled it, and Alysson, and everyone else who clung to the joy of “At least we’re in Winter again.” Somehow, they’d been able to accept being back in Winter as enough to heal their pasts. He wished it could be that easy for him, but it wasn’t. Which was why he didn’t care what repercussions William might dump on him for drinking his problems away—and worse, for condoning other Winterians’ drinking their problems away too.