Ashes of Snow

Chapter 11

I'M A PAWN they used to create an alliance with Avellia.

My tongue sticks in my throat, choking me as I stand there, staring at Perrin. This has to be a figment of my overly active imagination, because the king of Avellia would never agree to wed his son—the heir of one of the richest Rhythms—to a mere peasant from a Season. I'm wrong. I have to be.

"Tell me Lucien linked us to Avellia through a treaty, or something. A meaningless piece of paper," I beseech him. "Tell me this isn't... what I think it is."

But Perrin doesn't say anything, which only feeds my panic more. His mouth opens absently, but he just sighs, his eyes flitting over me in silence.

I grip my stomach, the fabric of the gown smooth against my fingers, and swallow the tight knot in my throat. Lucien did this. My chest swells with a new emotion—betrayal. How could he—why did he—no. No. I will not lose my mind over this, because it still doesn't make any sense. Why would Avellia agree to take me? There has to be something Lucien and Sir didn't tell me.

Well, obviously there's a lot they didn't tell me, but they're down at the ball right now. And I will make them talk.

"Are you all right?" Perrin finally speaks, but he doesn't try to touch me again. This would be easier if he was horrible, if he didn't care if I was all right. But he looks hurt. Is he just a pawn too?

Remembering the poem he swiped off the floor— probably.

"I'm sorry," Perrin says. He looks at the railing, motions toward the ball. "I know this is sudden, but this ball is for you. Me. Us."

Us. It sounds like a foreign word.

I pry myself away from the wall, my roaring determination to march down to that ball and face Lucien and Sir and demand answers now replaced with dread. Because when I see Lucien and Sir, they'll see me with Perrin. Lucien will smile and congratulate me and try to explain why this is the best thing for Winter. That the only good we can do for our kingdom is marry to create an alliance because we're useless children. That the kiss before we left camp was a good-bye, nothing more.

That even though I've never seen Winter or its enslaved people or set foot on its soil, I'm expected to sacrifice everything, because until Winter is free I don't matter.

I instantly hate myself for thinking that. Other Winterians suffer enslavement while I'm engaged to the crown prince of Avellia—someone bring out the sympathy parade, poor Aerin is engaged to a handsome prince.

My life could be worse. A lot worse.

Then why does the thought of taking Perrin's outstretched hand make me feel empty?

My fingers are stuffed into my pocket, grasped tightly around the piece of lapis lazuli. I yank my hand free, fighting the urge to hurl that stupid rock as far away from me as possible. I don't want any of it. I don't need Lucien or Sir. I never did.

I place my hand in Perrin's, and his warm fingers tighten around mine as we move toward the staircase. Having him hold on to me gives me strength I didn't expect. Something infinitely more powerful than the fake strength of the blue stone, still weighing heavy in my pocket.

We're there. Staring over the railing at all the many Avelliaans who wait below. Dignitaries mostly, the men wearing hunter green and gold-trimmed uniforms like Perrin's, the women wearing gowns in reds and blues and purple jewel tones like mine. And in the far back corner, the Winterian delegates, dressed in what I assume are borrowed outfits too—sharp green suits for the men, billowy gowns for the women. Sir and Selene and Doreah and Bran and Robin and Pete and Lucien.