Ashes of Snow

Chapter 17

SPRING IS HERE. In Avellia.

Theon flies out of the room, shoving past us, vanishing before anyone can say a word. Because if we were able to get a word in, we would have pointed out that all his machinations were for nothing.

Spring is attacking him, which means there is no deal. Lorgen not only won't agree to give him Winter, he won't agree to anything.

All Theon's playing with us, all his lying, was futile, because now Lorgen has betrayed him. Lucien was wrong too—handing himself over to Lorgen wouldn't have stopped anything. Lorgen won't rest until all of Winter is his, completely, every last piece of it. I inhale, breathing down a sudden surge of anxiety as the soldiers file out of the room after Theon.

We're alone, the Winterians standing in the hall and the Prince Heir of Avellia still hovering by his father's desk.

Perrin didn't know about his father's plan. He couldn't have, not the way he looks at me now as he crumples the letter in his slowly tightening fist, his face a mix of regret, anger, and sympathy. I jump when Lucien's fingers move against mine and I realize I'm holding on to him like he's the only thing in this palace keeping me from falling into a hundred different pieces. When did I take his hand? After Sir punched him? I still can't believe that really happened. That Lucien suggested, for the briefest of moments, dying for us.

My hand tightens on his, my chest pulsing with a medley of emotions. Fear for what he wanted to do; sorrow that, for a moment, I could have lost one of my friends; relief that Sir didn't agree to his insane suggestion. But of all the emotions I feel, I'm most shocked for the ones I don't feel. There's no giddiness at holding his hand, none of the things I used to harbor for him. Lucien is my king, my friend—my best friend—and I am his soldier. I'd hold Selene's or Bran's hand the same way, if they needed it, if they threatened to let themselves die for us.

The reasons why I'm holding Lucien's hand changed so fast. But this isn't about him, or anything that's happened between us. This is about a soldier protecting her king. This is about Winter. And Lucien is Winter.

Sir is the first to wake out of his shock. Of course he is. He starts spitting orders at everyone.

"Bran, Robin, Pete, Selene, Lucien—to the armory. If any of the Avelliaans give you trouble about getting gear, come find me. Doreah, stay with Aerin. Neither of you are to leave this palace. Prince Perrin—" Sir starts, then realizes he has no responsibility to order Perrin about.

Perrin looks at him, teeth grinding together. "Armory too."

Sir turns to Lucien. "I want you battle ready in fifteen minutes."

Lucien nods, his face set in a mask that could hide a plethora of emotions. Fear. Anger. Regret. Everything. He drops my hand and jogs down the hall after Bran, Robin, Selene, and Pete, not looking back at me or letting me know at all what he's thinking. Maybe he's not thinking, can't think, after all this.

Sir points at me. "Aerin—"

I grimace. "Stay in the palace—I know."

His jaw clenches. "I was going to say be careful too."

My mouth falls open. But Sir has already hurried down the hall, toward the front doors that Theon just exited.

Perrin sets the letter on his father's desk. "I didn't know," he promises when it's just us and Doreah and a few soldiers down the hall.

I inhale, amazed at how hollow I feel. Like the chaos of the past few seconds has drained everything out of me. "It doesn't much matter now, does it?"