13
W hen Clarion awoke, her pillow was damp with melted snow. If it weren’t for that, she might have believed she’d dreamed her excursion into Winter. But then: there was the coat shoved into the very back of her closet. All of it had been real. A library carved from ice. Riding a wolf through the snowy thickets. A book describing talents long gone. And a white-haired boy who ferried her through the cold.
I think you’re capable of far more than you know.
Maybe dream-talent magic lives on in you.
It seemed too much to hope for. But tonight, she would find out for certain whether she could seal the barrier and wake her subjects from their slumber. They weighed heavily on her mind this morning. And so, as soon as she readied herself, she asked Artemis to escort her to Feverfew Fields, where the healing-talents performed their work. It was one of the most peaceful corners of Summer, a meadow carpeted with feverfew and dotted with clear springs. Drinking from them had a calming effect, so the healers always kept vials of their water on hand.
Clarion couldn’t help feeling a twinge of relief that it was still untouched. Not all of Pixie Hollow was so fortunate. Yesterday, a swarm of Nightmare-aphids had descended on Autumn’s pumpkin patches and Cottonpuff Fields, draining the very life from them. She had not seen it herself, but Artemis had relayed the rumors she’d overheard from the other scouts.
By the time the sun peered above the horizon, Clarion and Artemis had arrived at the clinic, a space nestled into the hollowed-out trunk of a maple. They landed on one of the toadstools that served as the clinic’s front porch, which was cluttered with an assortment of rocking chairs. Lights burned in the window, even at this early hour. Healing-talents took shifts at all hours to ensure they were always available to help fairies in need.
Clarion hesitated in front of the door, breathing in the bitter-citrus smell of the feverfew. A terrible mixture of nerves and guilt roiled in her stomach. She had not come to visit Rowan or the others since they’d been attacked, and she did not know if she could face them.
“Ready?” Artemis asked gently.
Her voice and steady presence grounded her. Ready was perhaps a strong word. But she could do this. Clarion nodded.
She knocked, and a healing-talent opened the door. She wore a fluted white gown of calla lily, and her black hair was tucked into a nurse’s cap. Only a few wavy strands escaped and settled against her ochre skin.
“Good morning,” she chirped, then visibly startled when she registered exactly who was standing on her doorstep. “Oh! Your Highness. I wasn’t expecting you as well. What brings you here?”
“I’d like to visit the Minister of Autumn.” Although she already knew the answer, Clarion couldn’t help asking, “Has there been any change in his condition?”
The healer’s wings drooped, as did her smile. “No, sadly. I’m sorry to not have better news. We’ve been working hard on an antidote, but I—”
“I know you’re all doing your best,” Clarion said gently. “Will you take me to him, please?”
With a bow of her head, the healer led her and Artemis to the sick ward, past a curtain of string-of-pearl succulents. Clarion stopped dead in the doorway as nausea threatened to overtake her. She had never seen this room so full. Eleven cots, dressed with moss and milk thistle seeds, were laid out on the floor with eleven too-still bodies on them. The eerie silence of the room settled over her like the chill of Winter.
“I’ll leave you two to visit,” the healer said.
Clarion moved quietly through the rows, her glow tracing the haunted features of each fairy they passed, until she stopped at Rowan’s bedside. His brow was furrowed as he dreamed his troubled dreams, and his auburn hair fell in a messy spill across his pillow. The sharp lines of his cheekbones looked even more prominent. The sight of him like this made her heart squeeze. It frustrated her as much as it pained her, to feel so helpless.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
When she closed her eyes, something brushed against the very edges of her awareness. She couldn’t place the sensation, exactly. It was as fleeting and inexplicable as a shudder in broad daylight—a sense that something was amiss, even when nothing appeared to be. With each passing moment, it—whatever it was—swirled into focus in the theater of her mind. A wisp—cold and dark, giving off little sparks of sinister light—wound itself around Rowan’s mind.
Was this the magic that bound him in his slumber?
When she focused her attention on it, she reeled back with shock. Chills erupted over her skin, and her lungs emptied in a rush. Her ribs constricted, so tightly she felt she could not draw another breath. Clarion had never known what his fear had looked like, but she imagined it felt something like this. She stumbled back a step from the minister.
“Your Highness.” Artemis was beside her in an instant, steadying her by the elbow. Her gaze was fixed warily on the minister. “Are you all right?”
It took a few moments for Clarion to find her voice. “I think so.”
Slowly, Artemis eased her hold on Clarion’s arm. “What happened?”
“I don’t know, exactly.” Clarion rubbed her temple. With some distance between them, terror eased its grip on her—enough for her to think more clearly. She’d been able to see the Nightmare’s lingering power, like a knot or heavy chains binding him into the realm of his nightmares. Could this confirm the Keeper’s theory? However small, she had some connection to the dream-talents’ faded magic. She just had to hope it was enough to repair the fraying barrier they’d left behind.
For all their sakes, she could not fail tonight.
“You’ve come to visit.”
Clarion startled, and Artemis bowed her head with a murmur of “Your Majesty.”
Elvina had emerged from a back room with a healer, her hands folded and her expression solemn. The succulent curtain rustled softly behind her. Here in the early-morning light, Clarion noticed just how exhausted the queen looked.
“Yes,” Clarion said. “I wanted to check on them.”
Elvina only nodded. They’d had the same idea, after all. It struck Clarion that this, at least, connected them; no matter how their ideas differed, they shared both grief and love for their subjects.
After a moment of silence, Elvina said, “You have a meeting with the Minister of Summer tomorrow.”
Clarion sighed at the reminder of her schedule. “I do.”
“Later that day, you’ll have a consultation for your coronation ball gown—and the final fitting for your coronation gown. You’ve only two more weeks before—”
“I know,” Clarion cut in, with a touch of impatience.
Elvina stared at her, stunned.
When it occurred to her that she had interrupted the Queen of Pixie Hollow, she lowered her gaze deferentially. She hadn’t intended to be so rude, but the thought of ball gowns and menus and ceremony…She could not bear it, not when she was surrounded by all the fairies she had failed to protect. But what else could she do but pretend? “I mean…Yes, I’m aware. Thank you.”
Elvina composed herself and gestured out over the sickroom. “It is good of you to worry for them, but I want to ensure your focus is on your coronation—and mastering your magic before then. I am handling the Nightmares.”
“I have been focused—”
Elvina arched an eyebrow. “The Minister of Spring told me you seemed distracted when she saw you last.”
“It’s only nerves.” Clarion hesitated, crossing the room so that she floated beside Elvina. “And I can’t help worrying some. Even if your plan succeeds, it won’t awaken these fairies.”
Elvina’s expression darkened, but she laid a hand on Clarion’s shoulder. “We will find a way. In the meantime, we will ensure no one else falls. My plan is progressing. Our royal tinker has been assisting me.”
“Petra,” Clarion said, half on reflex. Elvina seemed incapable of remembering her name. “Right.”
Rationally, she knew she should not have felt disappointed. It wasn’t as though Petra could disobey the queen so easily—not when her position as the royal tinker could be taken from her. And yet, it still stung.
“That’s good,” Clarion managed. “She is very talented.”
Elvina seemed to relax some at that. “Then try not to trouble yourself too much. I am handling this.”
“Of course,” she said.
But all she could think was, No. I am.
Just before sunset, Clarion threw her coat, mittens, and boots into a bag. She pushed open her balcony doors and stepped into the golden-hour light. Sunshine trickled thick as syrup through the branches of the Pixie Dust Tree, patterning the earth with dappled shadow. The leaves sighed softly in the breeze, as if wishing her farewell.
“Off again, Your Highness?”
Artemis sat in her usual perch, leafing through a book. Already, Artemis had grown so accustomed to their routine, she could not be bothered to glance up from…whatever it was she was doing. Clarion squinted at the cover; the title looked suspiciously like The Love Language of Flowers .
Clarion snorted. “What are you reading?”
“Nothing.” Artemis snapped it shut and glared. Then, recovering her decorum, she cleared her throat and added, “Please do not stay out too late.”
“I won’t.” She smiled innocently. “She likes daffodils, by the way.”
Artemis flushed. Clarion waved, then took flight toward Winter.
By the time she arrived, Milori was already waiting for her—and he wasn’t alone. A snowy owl, twice as tall as he was, stood beside him. Her blood ran cold with apprehension. Ever since she was a new arrival, it had been drilled into her that birds of prey were among the greatest threats to fairykind. And here was Milori, patting it as though it were as docile as a mouse! Truly, winter fairies feared nothing.
“What,” she said, “is that?”
“This is Noctua,” Milori replied, as though that were a perfectly comprehensive answer to her question. After a moment, he added, “She’s a snowy owl.”
He had told her he was partial to owls. “You weren’t joking.”
The owl’s yellow eyes gleamed in the gathering dark. She moved with the cagey erraticism Clarion had never much trusted in birds, her head swiveling unnaturally on its neck. She was tethered by one of her terrifyingly clawed feet; Milori held the end of it like a leash.
“I would never joke about owls,” he said solemnly.
“Then you’re mad.”
Milori only smiled. “Would you like to meet her?”
Clarion swallowed her groan of dread. “Oh, yes. I’d love nothing more.”
She dropped her bag and retrieved her winter gear. Once she’d fastened the last button on her coat, she stepped over the border and let the cold of Winter flow over her like water. As she approached, she couldn’t help thinking Milori looked the warmest in the setting sun, with his wings shot through with shades of burnished gold and faintest red. And now that she forced herself to look closely, she could not deny that Noctua was a beautiful creature. Her feathers gleamed as white as the snow—as white as Milori’s hair. A crystal charm dangled from a cord wound around her neck; reins hung down her back.
“We’re going to ride her, aren’t we?” Clarion asked, as cheerfully as she could manage.
“Well…” Milori took hold of the reins and untethered Noctua’s leg. “It will be faster than walking.”
“Are you sure about this?” Clarion asked.
“You’re about to face Nightmares willingly,” he said, “and you’re afraid of an owl.”
She resisted the urge to smack his arm. “I’m not afraid of her.”
He gave her a wry half smile, as if to say, Right . To his credit, he only asked, “Shall we?”
“If we must,” she muttered.
With a resigned sigh, Clarion climbed onto the owl’s back. Noctua swiveled her head 180 degrees to fix her with an inquisitive yellow stare. Clarion considered immediately throwing herself to the ground again. If this beast took off with Clarion still on her back, she would plummet to her death with her wings bound down as they were. Never had a fairy been afraid of heights until now.
Fortunately, Milori soon joined her. “Hold on.”
Clarion locked her arms around Milori’s waist. He nudged the owl onward; without hesitation, Noctua took flight. The wind buffeted her face. Her stomach lurched. Clarion held in her scream as they soared toward the darkening sky. She pressed her forehead between his shoulder blades, if only to keep herself from watching how quickly they were leaving solid ground behind.
“I hate this!”
Milori laughed, a warm sound that almost made it all worth it. Almost.
When she finally allowed herself to look, the view was spectacular. They’d flown high enough that Clarion felt as though she could reach out and pluck the pale moon from the sky. Noctua’s wings cut through the low-hanging clouds, dragging trails of white behind them. Then, they dove. Her hair whipped wildly around her, dancing among the thickening flurries.
Milori guided Noctua to a branch and slid off her back. Then, he offered Clarion a hand and helped her down into the snowbanks. Clarion spun in a slow circle, drinking in their surroundings with a mounting dread. In this section of the Winter Woods, the trees grew strange. Their pale trunks rose in straight, stark lines, and their bark was whorled and knotted with dark shapes that looked like eyes. The branches overhead clawed at the sky—and just ahead, she could see a break in the trees.
A shudder worked its way through her, and something deep in the back of her mind said, Run. It was the same voice she’d heard when she’d been confronted with the Nightmare in Autumn, towering over her with its horrible violet eyes.
Something about this place was wrong .
“Where are we?”
“A place few go,” Milori said grimly. “Follow me.”
When they emerged from the shadow of the birches and into a clearing at the foot of the mountains, it took a moment for Clarion to process what exactly she was looking at. A vast lake stretched out before them, frozen solid and glaring up at the moon like a solid black eye. Everything in her balked at it.
Run.
“This,” Milori said, “is the Nightmares’ prison.”
When he stepped onto its surface, Clarion reluctantly followed him. Faint protective magic glimmered and winked within the ice, but she could vaguely make out the churning of dark waters beneath. The empty, void-like depths unsettled her more than she cared to admit. And then, a flash of something —a violet eye, she realized, fixed balefully on her—caught her attention and made her blood run cold. No, that wasn’t water.
Whatever was underneath the ice was alive .
“The Nightmares are beneath the lake.”
“Yes,” Milori said. “That’s right.”
Clarion’s heart twisted at the bitterness in his voice. She could not imagine the burden he carried. Not only did he need to worry about his subjects—but also these creatures he was utterly powerless against. What would it be like to know you were responsible for them? To spend your days listening, watching, waiting, for something you could not prevent?
“Milori…” She trailed off. What could she truly say to comfort him?
He looked toward her, his lips parting as though he meant to reply.
But just then, it felt as though every Nightmare in the lake turned toward her. The awareness of them prickled along her skin. That instinctual desperation to flee rose up within her again and sent a racking shiver down her spine. She mastered it as best she could and followed Milori toward the center of the lake. With each step, the Nightmares seethed. They seemed to shrink away from her every footfall.
“Here we are.”
Instantly, Clarion saw the problem: the ice was fissured. In the daylight, it would hardly be noticeable. But here in the darkness, it was seamed with a sinister glow, as though whatever was contained beneath was beginning to bubble up. She crouched beside the shattered surface to examine it more closely. She could make out the golden threads of the dream-magic barrier. Here, it had grown as thin and tattered as an old quilt. A few Nightmares had slipped through the magical barrier and pooled just beneath the ice like a spill of ink, hungrily gnashing their teeth.
Terrible understanding unfurled through Clarion. “They’re going to shatter it.”
“Exactly,” he said. “I’ve tried to seal the cracks with ice, but each time I return, it’s as though I did nothing.”
It didn’t surprise her to hear that. Although the larger ones remained trapped beneath the net of dream-thread, these would persevere until they created a gap wide enough to escape through. The others only had to bide their time until the magical barrier deteriorated enough to let them through as well.
Unless, of course, she could fortify it.
Clarion closed her eyes and concentrated on the frayed, ancient fibers of dream-talent magic. She could see them, bright as starlight, shimmering in the darkness behind her eyelids—the same way she’d been able to detect the Nightmare’s power in Rowan’s mind. When she imagined closing her fingers around that golden thread, happiness bloomed within her. She wanted to draw it around herself like a sweater, to nestle into its comforting warmth. It really did not feel so different from her own magic. But she could also sense how faint this dream’s power was now.
If she could weave starlight into the holes time had worn into it…
She called on her magic. As golden light emanated from her skin, a hiss—muffled beneath the thick layer of ice—rose up beneath her. Cold sweat gathered on the back of her neck as she focused her energy into her hands.
Her first thought was not control but protect .
Her magic threaded itself into the tapestry of dream magic. As the Nightmares howled in rage, her power illuminated all the world in gold. Milori stared at her with open awe, his lips parted softly. She had to tear her eyes away from him to maintain her focus. Once she finished stitching the threadbare segment of the barrier, Milori could freeze over the shattered ice.
Something rumbled deep within the prison. The ice shuddered beneath her feet. Her magic flickered like a guttering candle, and she felt her work unraveling like a row of knit stitching pulled loose. A jolt of panic shot through her.
“Can you hold on?” Milori shouted.
“I think s—”
A resounding boom echoed through the clearing as a Nightmare threw itself against the barrier. Clarion wobbled, then lost her footing on the slick ice. Her stomach bottomed out as her feet slipped from beneath her. The connection with her magic snapped, and she landed hard on her back. Her breath whooshed out of her, and a sharp pain radiated through her wings. It hurt . And yet, all she could dwell on was the frustration. She’d been so close. All that remained of her attempt was a fine layer of pixie dust on the moonlit ice, its glow fading like a dying ember. The shadows swam menacingly underneath her, exuding a palpable malice.
“Clarion!” Milori called. “Are you all right?”
Before she could respond, there came the low sound of splintering ice. Just behind Milori, a dark shape rose like smoke from the depths of the lake. It swirled, then expanded like a drop of ink in water. Clarion could make out the shape of wings; they unfurled and blocked out the meager light of the moon.
“Milori,” she whispered.
All the color drained from his face. Slowly, he turned to face it.
The smokelike form of the Nightmare writhed and bubbled until it took recognizable form: a raven. One by one, ten violet eyes blinked open on its body; all their pupils rattled, as if struggling to focus. Its talons flexed experimentally. Then, it beat its wings—once, twice—sending a fetid gust of air their way. It rose higher into the sky, with all its eyes fixed on her. The Nightmare-raven shrieked, then dove toward her.
She did not think. She rolled. A bright pain seared through her, but the Nightmare’s talons drove into the spot where she’d been lying only moments before. The beast recovered almost instantly, rounding on her again. Her heart pounded so loudly in her ears, she could scarcely hear the sound of her own ragged breaths. Its very presence was skin-crawling, muddying her mind with nothing but the steady refrain of run, run, run .
The Nightmare launched itself at her. The terror she’d tried to suppress simmered far too close to the surface. She couldn’t stop it. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t—
A blast of frost knocked it off course. The raven landed in a heap on the ice, dissolving into smoke before it re-formed, more horrific than before. Its wings sprouted, many-jointed and dripping viscous shadow as it took to the skies. It let out another cry, so piercing that Clarion felt it resonating in her very bones. It dove, its talons outstretched toward Milori.
“Noctua!” he shouted. “Now!”
Noctua screeched, a sound of pure fury. She descended on the Nightmare like a snowstorm, all thrashing wingbeats and rending talons. They tore across the sky, a scrabbling tangle of black and white. Clarion watched with her heart in her throat until Noctua managed to free herself, with a trail of smoke dripping from her beak like blood.
Clarion decided that perhaps she would have to revise her opinion of owls.
The Nightmare seized its opportunity. With a beat of its crumbling wings, it ascended until it was silhouetted by the pale face of the waxing moon. Then, with a final cry, it dove and vanished into the woods.
Clarion crumpled to her knees, then drove her fist into the ice with a shout of frustration. How could she have been so inept ? She’d had it, and then she’d let it escape. As the adrenaline wore off, she began to shiver all over with nerves. Her heavy breaths misted in the air.
“Clarion.” Milori kept his voice level, but Clarion recognized strangled panic when she heard it.
“I’m so sorry. I never should have—”
“Clarion,” he repeated, more firmly this time. “You’re bleeding.”
She glanced down. A stain of red blossomed on her arm. Now that she’d noticed it, the pain—and the cold—flooded in. She clutched her wound to stanch the bleeding but shivered at the sensation of her wet skin already cooling. “Oh.”
Her coat sleeve had torn.
Don’t panic. Clarion blew out a steadying breath. As long as her wings remained insulated, she wasn’t in any danger.
Milori soared over the short distance between them. “Are you all right?”
“It’s only a scratch,” she said hastily. A deep one, yes, but it wasn’t life-threatening. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t able to do it.”
“No. I’m the one who should be sorry.” Milori’s expression was agonized. “I put you in danger.”
Milori carried far too much guilt already. She refused to let him add her to his ledger. She jabbed a finger at him. “ You didn’t do anything. I put myself in danger, and as the soon-to-be Queen of Pixie Hollow, I won’t hear otherwise.”
He looked very much like he wanted to press the matter, but he’d thought better of it now that she had pulled rank on him. “I’m going to repair the damage they did to the ice. After that, we should get you to a healer.”
Clarion clutched her forearm tighter, shuddering at the feeling of blood weeping through the gaps in her fingers. “Yes, I think that’s a good idea.”
Milori hesitated, as though she would keel over if he looked away for even a moment. With a frown, he turned away. Clarion watched the rise of his shoulders as he drew in a deep breath. Swirls of ice crystals poured from his extended hands like mist, sparkling in the moonlight. Frost bloomed across the ground in fractal patterns, then crystallized over the shattered ice, like broken ceramic repaired with gilt.
When he finished, he whistled for Noctua. The owl came to him immediately, hooting softly in acknowledgment. As soon as she landed, he leaned his head against her beak and murmured, “Thank you.” Noctua fluffed out her feathers contentedly. Seeing the bond between them—and just how quickly Noctua had leapt to protect him—hit Clarion somewhere tender.
“She’s incredible,” Clarion said softly.
Milori brightened. Even Noctua seemed to preen.
“She really is.” Milori’s smile faded after a moment. “Can you get on? I’ll have her take us to the healing-talents.”
“I think so.” Clarion clambered onto Noctua’s back as gracefully as she could. When she steadied herself, she frowned down at her arm. “I might have a hard time holding on, though.”
“I’ll make sure you don’t fall,” he replied without hesitation. Never had Clarion met anyone in the habit of making such solemn oaths so readily.
She couldn’t dwell on it, for when Milori joined her, he wrapped an arm securely around her waist. A flush crawled up her neck at his sudden closeness. No, she supposed she wouldn’t fall. The scent of pine and cold water and the promise of snowfall radiated gently from his skin. His presence blunted the skin-crawling sensation of the Nightmares’ wrath boring into her. Like this, she could almost believe she was safe. Without thinking, Clarion turned her face into the crook of Milori’s neck and tried not to notice the way his breath hitched.