20
E lvina descended on them like a falling star, her glow blazing bright with the force of her anger. Milori did not let go of Clarion immediately; his fingers curled almost protectively around her upper arms. As much as she appreciated it, she would have much preferred to vanish entirely. To dissolve and be carried away like dandelion seeds on the wind.
This could not be happening.
When Elvina landed on the edge of the riverbank, Clarion nearly shrank back from her. Over the years, Clarion had seen many sides of Elvina; although she was an understated fairy, Clarion had come to understand and anticipate the subtle shifts of her emotions. Far too many times, she had seen her disappointment—but never anything like this. Her face was contorted with barely leashed fury, all the planes of her face carved in stark shadow and orange light.
But what stung even more was the sight of Petra and Artemis behind her. Petra hovered a short distance away, halfway concealed behind a blueberry thicket. Even so, Clarion could see how distressed she looked: her hands knotted together, her hair pulled loose from its elegant updo, her lip bitten raw.
Clarion cut her gaze to Artemis, who gave a subtle shake of her head. Clarion read her meaning: I had nothing to do with this.
There was no doubt in Clarion’s mind what had happened, then. After their fight at the ball, Petra had told Elvina where Clarion had gone. Mortification had churned sickeningly within Clarion. But now, betrayal seared through all her humiliation, all her indignation. As much as it wounded her, it did not surprise her.
“What are you doing here?” was all Clarion could think to ask.
This, apparently, was not the expected or desired reply. Elvina’s aura flared brighter with outrage. “Am I to understand that this is what has consumed you over these last few weeks? This is what has made you so curious about Winter? I expected better of you, Clarion.”
“This is my responsibility,” Milori cut in. There was no trace of coldness in his voice—only an unbearable earnestness. Despite the diadem around his brow, he seemed willing to kneel.
Clarion shot him a disbelieving glare. Of course he would attempt to take on the brunt of Elvina’s wrath himself. “It is not —”
“I sought her help in remedying my mistake,” Milori continued, undeterred. “Everything she has done has been at my behest. Forgive me, Your Majesty.”
Elvina stared at him as though he were little more than an insect, far beneath her notice. The disgust on her face made anger spark bright within Clarion. Now that she knew what Elvina believed of winter fairies, she knew it was pointless to argue. No matter what he said, it would never satisfy or convince her.
Still, Clarion could not allow Milori to accept the blame for this. He could not martyr himself any longer; he had already done so in a hundred different ways. He was meant for so much more than that. For too long, winter fairies had been ignored and maligned for something they had nobly volunteered for. Clarion could not stand here and be complicit in it any longer. The burden the Wardens of the Winter Woods had taken from the Queens of Pixie Hollow was immense; they deserved to be honored for it.
“You’re wrong about him.” Clarion stepped in front of Milori, as though she could shield him from Elvina’s open disdain. “About all of them. The Winter Woods are nothing at all like we believed.”
“We will discuss this at home,” Elvina said through clenched teeth. “Come with me. Now.”
“No.”
Her voice rang in the silence, and the stars above seemed to punctuate it, flaring brighter with the force of her emotion. Elvina reeled back. She looked almost baffled, as though she hardly knew what to do or what petulant creature had replaced Clarion, her collected and controlled heir. Clarion herself hardly knew where she’d summoned the nerve from.
“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice,” Elvina said.
“He’s been working with me to stop the Nightmares! If you would just listen to me—”
“Clarion,” Elvina said warningly.
“Everything I have done has been to protect Pixie Hollow. Can you say the same?”
Elvina recoiled as if slapped. “Excuse me?”
Clarion’s hands shook with the sudden rush of adrenaline. She barely recognized herself. This righteous anger felt as though it would incinerate her. But it burned like a wildfire, and she could not very well stop it now. “You have had no regard for your subjects in Winter. You planned to turn your back on them and leave them with an impossible task! Governing-talent magic is the only thing that can stop the Nightmares, but you have been completely uninterested in—”
Elvina let out a single note of humorless laughter. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I do,” Clarion insisted. Now that she had begun, she would not be silenced. “Winter fairies have too long been the victims of our incomplete understanding of history, and I will not see it stand. Mil—the Warden of the Winter Woods is not what you thought him to be.”
“No,” Elvina said darkly. “He is young. He hasn’t yet had a chance to grow into what he might become: ambitious, like his predecessor, or corrupted by the beasts that poison everything they touch. You are not safe with him.”
Beside her, Milori winced.
So that was it? She would disregard everything Clarion had said? “I have never been anywhere safer.”
Elvina advanced toward her. By the look in her eyes, it seemed she was ready and willing to drag Clarion off this bridge herself. “He’s already turned you against me.”
“No, you have turned me against you!” The words slipped out before she could stop herself, halting Elvina in her tracks. Her voice trembled. And yet, it was the truth she had not wanted to admit. “I have tried to live up to the standard you have set, all in the hopes that I would be worthy of the crown. I have tried so hard to be just like you. But I’m not. This is what Winter has taught me.”
Her magic flared within her, rising with the tide of her emotions. She was made luminous with the force of her conviction. Even through her coat, the radiance of her wings washed Elvina’s stunned face a pallid white.
“No. You are certainly not,” Elvina said—but it was not horror in her voice. It was something like wonder.
“I don’t mean to interrupt,” Petra said quietly, peering out from the thicket she’d hidden behind. Her face had gone ashen. “But I think there’s something wrong.”
She pointed, and Clarion’s gaze followed the path she’d indicated to the sky. Now that she mentioned it, something did feel wrong. Sometime in the last few minutes, the darkness of night had deepened.
The clouds hung low and threatening, clotting over the full moon and all its attendant stars. Energy crackled through the air and prickled along her arms. The weather-talents had said nothing about a rainstorm, but…No, this wasn’t the promise of lightning. It felt worse, almost sinister. She shuddered.
And then, something shot across the sky: a gold streak of pixie dust, impossibly bright against the thickening gloom. As it drew closer, Clarion realized it was a scout-talent from Winter, hurtling straight for them.
Although the sparrow man was still dressed in his finery, he clutched his bow in his white-knuckled hand. His chest heaved, and his eyes were wild—and glassy, as though still staring out at something not truly there.
“Milori,” he choked out at last. “There’s been an attack.”
Milori’s studiously calm expression splintered. “What?”
“The Nightmares,” the scout wheezed. “They’ve flooded the festival—more than we’ve ever seen. My unit is leading as many fairies as they can to the Hall of Winter, but…”
Clarion felt his pause like a physical blow. She felt as though she were free-falling, plunged into a mire of confusion and guilt. This shouldn’t have happened. But wasn’t that what she’d believed about the fairies still locked in their eternal slumber? What she and Milori had accomplished was nothing more than a handful of sand shored up against the rising tide. They hadn’t accomplished anything at all.
This is all your fault, her self-doubt hissed.
Just how many had they lost to the Nightmares’ spell this time?
Resurfacing from her shock, Clarion demanded, “How could they have broken free again?”
Understanding broke open Elvina’s stupor. “You attempted to seal them away.”
“I…I don’t know.” Milori shook his head. Clarion had never seen him so rattled, but he gathered his resolve enough to speak steadily: “I have to go.”
Clarion seized hold of his elbow and held his gaze. “I’m coming with you.”
The gratitude that lit Milori’s eyes knocked her nearly breathless.
“Clarion.” A pleading note knifed into Elvina’s voice. “Don’t do this.”
Clarion spared only a glance backward. Her gaze landed on Petra, whose eyes were wide open and shining with an emotion she could not place. Perhaps she and Elvina were right: her feelings for Milori had made her reckless. But with this protective, righteous fury burning within her, she’d never felt more attuned to her purpose.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I have to.”
Turning her back on her friends and her mentor, she followed Milori into the bitter chill of Winter.
Please don’t let us be too late.
Clarion clung to that plea like a lifeline as they soared toward the festival grounds, as tightly as she did to Milori. He held fast to Noctua’s reins, guiding them through the brewing storm. This high up, the clouds—a near black in the dark—drifted over her vision like a smear of wildfire smoke. Heavy snowfall buffeted her, clumping heavily in her eyelashes and stinging her face like volleys of ice. Every gust of wind knocked them off course, and Clarion could have sworn she heard a voice carried on it.
Fall, it whispered.
For the first time in all her crossings of its border, Winter felt hostile.
A flicker of shadow in the corner of her vision snagged her attention. Clarion whirled toward it—only to see something hurtling toward them: a winged shape, traced in the violet glow of the Nightmares’ power.
“Milori!” she called. “Look out!”
His head snapped toward the Nightmare. A flash of lightning split open the sky, illuminating the beast for one terrible moment.
He jerked the reins, and Noctua veered out of the Nightmare’s path. Milori flattened himself against the owl’s back to maintain his balance, dragging Clarion along with him—just in time to avoid the creature’s talons reaching toward them. She pressed her forehead against his shoulder blades and let out a tremulous breath, horrified at how close she’d come to losing both her seat and her head. Staying astride Noctua for a casual flight was one thing, but combat was quickly proving to be another entirely.
Clarion looked up to see the Nightmare circling around again. It had contorted itself into the shape of an owl: a grotesque mockery of Noctua. Its beak curved over a set of unsettlingly human teeth, which were bared in an empty smile. Worse, just beyond the shadow of its wingspan, she spied a dark cloud moving toward them with alarming speed. A chittering sound, distant at first, swelled to a high-pitched shriek that resonated through her very bones. No, not a cloud—but a group of Nightmares, carried on insects’ wings. Even from here, Clarion could feel their hunger.
Fear skittered over her. They’d never survive if the swarm reached them. There had to be hundreds of them. Had all the Nightmares broken free?
“We need to land,” Clarion shouted over the wail of the wind. “Now.”
Milori stared out at the encroaching Nightmares, a muscle feathering in his jaw. “All right. Hold on.”
Clarion obeyed. With that, Milori gave Noctua the reins. The owl tucked her wings into her body and dove headfirst toward the forest below.
Clarion’s eyes watered as the bitter claws of the wind and cold tore at her. Milori’s hair streamed behind him, lashing against her face, as they plummeted. In a matter of seconds, Noctua broke through the canopy of the forest, knocking loose snow and knife-sharp icicles as she went. Branches snared Clarion’s coat and hair viciously, but she hardly felt a thing through the sheer rush of adrenaline. Just a few feet from the ground, Noctua beat her wings to slow their fall.
By the time they landed, Clarion’s heart was beating wildly in her throat. None of the Nightmares had followed them this far, but she could sense them, shifting just beyond the latticework of branches overhead. She remained frozen in place until the horrible drone of the insects faded. The slivers of sky she could see were still stained a baleful shade of gray—but nothing glared back at her. Breath by shallow, shaking breath, terror eased its grip on her, and the skin-crawling sensation of the Nightmares’ presence lifted.
For now, they’d escaped.
She and Milori slid off Noctua’s back. When they were safely on solid ground, she turned to face him. He’d lost his diadem at some point during their flight, and chunks of hail and snapped twigs were caught in his hair. But mercifully, he seemed whole and relatively unharmed. A thin scratch had opened on the side of his face.
She cupped his jaw, smearing away the blood that had welled up with her thumb. “Are you all right?”
“I am,” Milori replied. His eyes roved over her, searching her for injuries. He apparently found none, for she saw some of the tension drain from him. “Are you?”
“I think so.” On trembling legs, she spun in a slow circle to get her bearings. Nothing felt familiar to her anymore. “We should keep moving.”
Milori nodded. He led their grim trudge, deeper into the forest, deeper into the storm; his glow, shining faintly silver in the gloom, guided her path. She carefully fit her boots into the shape of the footprints he left behind. Through the darkness and the thickening flurries, she could hardly see her own hand an inch away from her face. Every branch that pierced the curtain of snow reached toward them like claws, and her growing unease made bared, dripping fangs of the icicles hanging from the trees. How she hated to see her beloved Winter Woods transformed into such a haunted place.
It was always quiet here, all the sound muffled by heavy snowfall. But this was an unnatural sort of quiet, as if all the forest were holding its breath, too terrified to move. Their footfalls crunched too loud in the crust of ice that glittered coldly over the snow.
Then, she heard it: screams.
Clarion’s blood turned to ice. Neither of them said a word; they did not have to. Spurred on by that sound of terror, they broke into a run. When they burst through the cover of beeches and firs, Clarion drew up short.
The wreckage of the festival lay before them. The booths they’d wandered among not long before were completely destroyed—nothing but skeletons of splintered wood. Embers smoldered on their remains, having caught fire from candles that had never been extinguished. Jagged shards of ice sculptures were scattered on the river’s surface, glinting among the trampled mess of flower petals and wreaths.
But Clarion could not look away from the dark shapes of slumbering fairies sprawled on the ice. They looked like statues: perfectly still amidst so much destruction. Snowfall had already begun to accumulate over them.
Here was evidence of her failure laid bare.
Nightmares pooled around the fairies like spills of oil, bubbling as they struggled to take shape. They swirled through the air, as dark as smoke. Others prowled in their animal forms, riddled with arrows. Dimly, Clarion watched as another arrow sank into the eye socket of a misshapen bear. It roared in outrage, spittle—no, she realized, venom—flung from the lethal points of its fangs.
That brought Clarion back to herself.
Scouts zipped overhead, their bows drawn and voices raised in battle cries. Although they couldn’t fight the Nightmares off, they were risking their lives to save as many fairies as they could. A few goaded Nightmares into pursuing them, dodging and weaving through streaks of darkness, while their comrades ushered civilians toward the Hall of Winter. Clarion’s heart lurched to see such selfless bravery.
A low growl rumbled behind her.
Clarion gasped, whirling around. She stood face to face with a twisted version of Fenris: a wolf, its mouth bristling with too many teeth and a second set of eyes mounted above the first. Before she could move—before she could even open her mouth to scream—the beast went sprawling across the ground in a spray of snow and writhing shadow. It lay motionless on its side, pierced through with an arrow. Viscous black liquid oozed out around the shaft, and smoke curled slowly up from it as though it had been singed. A faint golden light glittered around the edges of its wound.
Slowly, Clarion turned—and what she saw nearly brought tears to her eyes.
Petra stood a few yards away, brandishing some kind of weapon Clarion had never seen before. The look on her face was caught somewhere between triumph and horror. Her hair was bloodred under the cover of night, with snow gathered like a smattering of stars in her curls. Artemis stood beside her, a slash of darkness against the expanse of white, one hand resting on her hip.
“Nice shot,” she said. She looked begrudgingly impressed. “And good reflexes.”
Clarion could hardly believe they were really here. Had her mind not been otherwise occupied, she might have been concerned about innocent bystanders catching a stray arrow. She did not think Petra had ever aimed a weapon in her life. But right now, she could feel nothing but overwhelming gratitude.
“Go,” Milori said softly. “I’m going to help the others find their way to the Hall of Winter.”
“I’ll be right behind you.” She held his gaze, seized with a sudden bolt of fear. If anything happened to him…No, she could not even think about it. “Be careful.”
Milori nodded tightly. “You, too. I’ll see you soon.”
He turned, the fabric of his cloak snapping behind him, then took flight. Clarion could not completely swallow down the knot of anxiety in her throat as his glow was muted by the heavy snowfall. Milori could handle himself, she assured herself. She’d be at his side again soon enough. Tearing her gaze away from where he’d vanished, she ran through the snow to Artemis and Petra.
“What are you doing here?” After a moment, something more pressing occurred to her. “ How are you here?”
Petra let her weapon drop to her side. As if it were the most obvious thing, she said, “We weren’t going to let you do this alone. As for the how…my prototype coats might be ugly, but they get the job done well enough.”
Clarion drank them in. The two of them did look ridiculous; they were drowning in fabric. The coats were oversized patchwork monstrosities, clearly made of whatever Petra had found lying around Tinker’s Nook. Clarion couldn’t help laughing through the burn of tears at the back of her throat.
“She also wanted a chance to test her other prototype.” Artemis stared covetously at Petra’s weapon. She lifted her own, which—while otherwise more or less identical—looked held together with a dream rather than anything concrete. To Clarion’s untrained eye, it seemed to be a scout’s bow nailed into a thin wooden block. A long groove ran down its center, where an arrow would be nocked. The bowstring, once pulled taut, was held in place by a mechanism released by a trigger. “Or at least, mine is a prototype.”
“That’s why you need to stay close to me,” said Petra, with an almost roguish smile. “All my efforts have finally paid off.”
“Your efforts to ruin a perfectly good bow and arrow,” Artemis muttered, with no real heat behind it. “It takes all the artistry out of it.”
Petra jabbed an accusatory finger at her. “There is artistry! You just don’t appreciate—”
“Wait.” Clarion’s stomach twisted into a knot. “ This is what you’ve been working on? Not the sword?”
Artemis and Petra fell silent. The tension fizzled in the air between them.
“Of course.” Petra gave her a wobbly smile. “I would have told you earlier, but I never exactly got the chance.”
Clarion flinched at the reminder of their fight, but before she could speak, Petra barreled onward. “I mean, I was working on Elvina’s sword, too. But after a certain point, most of my time was spent making it look convincing.”
Clarion furrowed her brow. “Convincing?”
“It doesn’t work.” It burst out of Petra, a confession of guilt she could no longer contain. “If she finds out—”
“She’s not going to find out,” Artemis interjected, a little wearily. This had the air of a conversation they’d had at least twice before.
“—then I’ll be exiled for real this time!”
“It doesn’t work ?”
Petra paused to consider it, collecting herself. “Well, I suppose it works insofar as sunstones channel sunlight. So it’s not a stretch to think it would work on the starlight governing-talents wield….” The mention of governing-talents, evidently, reminded Petra of her more immediate concerns. “The point is, it won’t do what Elvina wants. I was going to tell her, but you seemed to think you knew what you were doing, and—”
The rest of her sentence fizzled into nonsense. All Clarion could latch on to was this: “You lied to Elvina?”
Petra’s face went very pale, then vaguely green. “I guess I did.”
But Petra never lied. Clarion could hardly process it. “Why did you do that?”
“I don’t know.” Petra dragged her hand down her face. “By the time I’d done it, it was too late. And now, when she finds out—”
Artemis sighed. Diplomatically, she said, “We both believed in you.” She slid her gaze pointedly to Petra. “Even when we worried about you.”
Guilt chased away Petra’s panic. “I’m sorry about earlier. I shouldn’t have been so…”
“Judgmental?” Clarion supplied.
“Right. That.” Petra winced. “I’m sorry for involving Elvina when I knew that was the very last thing you wanted. I panicked, just like I always do. I worried you would do something foolish. I didn’t want you to get hurt.”
“I know. And I suppose you weren’t wrong,” she choked out through a laugh. Clarion could have wept then and there—from relief or regret, she wasn’t entirely certain. There were still so many things knotted up between them, but for now, this was enough. It had to be, when she did not know if they would make it through the night. “I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have—”
“We’ll talk later,” Petra said softly.
“Later, then.” Clarion did her best to swallow down the sudden wave of emotion. She gestured vaguely at the weapon Petra was holding. “What exactly is this thing, anyway?”
Petra brightened. “Oh, this?”
Apparently, it was some sort of Nightmare-vanquishing contraption. At least, that was what Clarion gleaned from the enthusiastic—and very technical—description Petra had launched into.
“I’ve decided to call it a T-bow. Or maybe an X-bow? I’m still working on the finer details, but you can load it with pixie dust–infused arrows. Obviously, it isn’t quite as potent as governing-talent magic, but I hypothesized…” Petra trailed off, her face going pale. “You know, I don’t think the science behind it matters right now.”
The end of her sentence broke off in a squeak. Clarion turned to see the Nightmare Petra had shot earlier beginning to knit itself back together. Its mist-like form collapsed and bubbled as it attempted to rise to its feet. They didn’t have much time before it could strike again.
“What’s the plan?” Artemis asked, ever pragmatic.
“Most of the winter fairies have taken shelter in the Hall of Winter,” Clarion replied. “We need to ensure their safety first and foremost. We’ll meet Milori there, secure the entrance, and regroup. Understood?”
Artemis saluted. “Understood, Your Highness.”
Petra loaded another arrow and locked the string taut. The tip of it sparkled, filling her eyes with golden light. Her face had taken on that familiar, eerie calm; she’d entered the same mindset as when a deadline loomed so close, it left no space for panicking. “Let’s do this.”
Standing between them and the Hall of Winter was a veritable sea of Nightmares. They would not reach it without a fight. But as Clarion looked back at Artemis and Petra, their eyes blazing bright with determination, she decided it felt like one they could win.