“No,” I breathe. We can’t run. Angra’s herding us. He’ll take us all away, imprison us—
“NO!” I scream it over and over, clawing at the people around me. But they don’t budge, don’t hear me, terror locking them behind impenetrable walls of need.
Then I’m safe.
It happens so fast—the change—that I fall back and smack into the wall of the room I’m in now. A small, cozy study, lit by a warm fire pit on the left. The earthy musk of burning coal instantly relaxes me, the smell of memories that aren’t mine. The window across from me is open to the night, letting in the occasional snowflake.
The people in the room don’t notice me. They’re too focused on a woman standing by the door, a woman who can’t be older than thirty, with flowing waves of white hair and the softest, calmest face I’ve ever seen. Like nothing, not even Angra’s cannons, can shake her.
There’s a locket around her neck. The conduit.
Hannah.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, tears spilling over her cheeks. “I can’t tell you—”
“No!” Sir flies up. Sir. And Alysson’s next to him, and Dendera behind him, and Gregg and Crystalla. Alive. They’re all here, alive—
A scream starts to rip from my throat before a hand clasps firmly over my mouth. In the dimness Sir glares at me, his own mouth pressed into a grimace behind his white stubble. The dream leaves fogginess in its wake, and I blink in confusion, my pulse settling back to a normal beat. I’ve dreamed about Jannuari before. I’ve even dreamed about Hannah before. Everyone has, I’m sure—Winter dominates every moment of our waking lives, so why not our dreams too? This is nothing to be concerned about.
But I can’t get the uneasy feeling to leave me, especially when Sir nods to my right, drawing my attention to hoofbeats.
Horses thunder across the plains, sending vibrations running up my palms as I lie flat on the ground. Sir lowers his hand from my mouth when realization shudders through me.
Spring? I mouth.
He shakes his head. “Coming from the southwest,” he whispers. “Going northeast.”
I squint. Clearly Sir expects me to know who the galloping army is, but I’m at a loss. The kingdoms southwest of us are Summer and Autumn. Summerians only leave their kingdom to send collectors to fill their brothels, but rarely do they travel so far beyond their corner of the world, especially when Yakim and Ventralli are much closer and just as full of potential slaves. Autumn has its own collapsing-kingdom problems; they had been without a female heir for two generations before their current king bore a daughter, but she’s only one. Due to the nature of conduit magic, bearers aren’t able to fully use it until they are at least teenagers. They need to be able to consciously push magic here and there, and children aren’t able to harness the amount of magic within a Royal Conduit, or control what they’re able to summon.
But Autumn does have one powerful ally—Cordell. King Noam’s sister married the king of Autumn two years ago. It was her marriage to the Autumn king that bore his female-blooded kingdom a daughter in the face of Angra’s attacks—once Winter was assimilated into Spring, Spring turned its greed to the weakened, heirless Autumn. Their attacks increased after the birth of Autumn’s princess in an effort to conquer them before she grows into her power. And with Noam linked through blood and marriage to Autumn, one of the most powerful Rhythms was forced to care about a Season for reasons other than its proximity to the Klaryns.
That’s why Sir wants us to go to Cordell. Noam has to help stop Spring now—either has to help or let his sister and niece get slaughtered by Angra. If those hoofbeats are any indication, he’s already helping.
I pound the ground in excitement. “Cordell!” I squeak. “They’re Cordellan? Riding back from Autumn?”
Sir touches his nose in a sly, I-taught-you-well way before he leaps up from the grass and blows out one long, ear-piercing whistle. The sound echoes in the dark and the hoofbeats, dozens of them, stop.
My chest thuds. I really hope they are Cordellan. And that at least a few of them have sympathy for travelers, Season or not. Because if they cling to the Rhythm-Season prejudice or if they’re Spring—
But Sir doesn’t make mistakes like that. I hope.
I stand too. The shadowy mass of the army looms a few paces ahead of us. One shadow, the darkened figure of a mounted rider, pulls out of the mass and canters forward. As he gets closer, his Cordellan gold-and-hunter-green uniform—and the medals that dangle from it, marking him as an officer—become visible. He’s got a sword in one hand, reins in the other, so he can keep riding and impale us if needed.
The officer halts far enough back for us to see his face. “Identify yourselves or—” He stops and his eyes open so wide their whites gleam in the darkness. “Golden leaves,” he swears, and I start at the words. It must be a Cordellan reference. “Winterians?”
I run a hand through my white hair, pulling it over one shoulder, and swallow the lump of anticipation that wedges in my throat. This is the moment when either he’ll spit on us and say something derogatory about the barbaric Seasons or he’ll help us.
Sir steps forward. “William Loren, general of Winter. And this is Meira”—he waves at me—“also of Winter. Our camp was attacked by Angra and we are on our way to Cordell.”
The officer lowers his blade and my body relaxes slightly. “Anyone seeking refuge from Angra is most welcome in Cordell. I am Captain Dominick Roe of Cordell’s Fifth Battalion.”
Apparently Dominick lowering his blade signaled an all-is-well to his men, for they instantly put away their own weapons. They’re not going to spit on us—they’re going to help us. I smile.
“You are offering a warm welcome for us in Cordell?” Sir presses.
Dominick points at two of his men and they obediently push through the crowd, both pulling riderless horses beside them. His face flashes with a grimace—though, in the darkness, it might have been just a trick of moonlight. “All I can truly offer is an escort to Bithai.”
Bithai, Cordell’s capital. We can’t ask for better; an entire regiment of soldiers led by a captain who clearly dislikes Angra and doesn’t hold to the Season-Rhythm prejudice. Sir must’ve spent his watch making wishes.
“We accept,” Sir says. “Your generosity will be repaid.”