This is something I’d talk to Theron about. Ask for his help regarding interpretation.
But I can’t bring myself to trust him again just yet.
We lock our cargo inside the enclosed carriages and start south, making for Juli more slowly than I’d like. Each lurch of the horse leaves me shifting awkwardly, finding a new place where my pleated ivory dress clings to my skin. Thankfully Dendera let me change out of the starchy, high-collared monstrosity I wore for our departure from Winter—just the thought of being confined to wool and long sleeves in this heat makes black spots flutter before my eyes. But my bare arms are only a relief for the first few minutes before the unobstructed sun finds my fair skin, and I swear I can hear the rays chuckle with delight at such a tasty meal.
The heat would be bad enough, but after about an hour of riding, Theron’s soldiers scramble in their saddles and start passing out thick cloaks. I sag when one falls into my lap.
“I’m not going to like what these are for, am I?” I ask Theron, who whips his cloak around his shoulders.
One soldier uncoils a length of rope and passes it back, connecting everyone in our caravan by looping it around the pommels of our saddles.
“No,” Theron says, and his tone makes me tug my cloak into place.
Moments later, a gust of wind slams into us, giving a brief burst of relief against the heat before a greater threat swoops in—sand. Billowing, raging clouds of grit thrash and swirl around us, turning the minuscule particles into daggers that send me burrowing deeper into the cloak. The horses seem as accustomed to the sandstorm as any Summerian would be, trudging on with the help of the connected rope. I wrap the cloak across my nose, keep my eyes closed and head bowed against the unrelenting storm that screams windy fury in my ears.
By the time it ebbs, I know what it would feel like for a Summerian to experience a blizzard. The complete and horrible opposite of everything one’s body is made for and, as I unfurl the cloak, sand cascading off the fabric in trickling rivers, I narrow my eyes at Theron.
Orange sand streaks across his face and he accepts my glare with a shrug. “I assumed you knew about Summer’s sandstorms.”
“I did—but I didn’t think we would have to worry about one on our short trip. Some warning would have been nice.”
He scrubs the sand off his cheek and shakes out his cloak as a soldier passes by, winding the rope back up. “No visit to Summer is complete without one, or so I’m told,” Theron says, his grin fighting to cancel out my annoyance.
It works, and I roll my eyes in resignation. “As long as there are no more surprises—”
But I barely get the wish out before all my instincts scream.
The fading sandstorm reveals the measly shade of a forest around us. Scraggy, sharp trees cut into the sky like scars, tangled bushes reveal thorns as long as my finger—and raiders perch high in the trees, waiting for unsuspecting travelers to get disoriented by the storm.
Just as I shout alarm, the attackers lunge down like the sand particles, sporadic yet deliberate. Knives flash in the sun, throwing sharp beams onto the raiders’ sand-colored clothes—orange scarves tied around their heads, dusty red shirts, billowing auburn pants that poof around the raiders’ knees but wrap tightly against their ankles. In a few seconds we’re surrounded, our men holding weapons ready, the raiders staring up at them, knife to knife.
My fingers flex for a weapon, but I hold steady, keeping myself calm and rigid. A queen wouldn’t fight—she’d face this threat logically, diplomatically.
“Hold!” one of the raiders shouts. From where I sit, high up on my horse, I can see over the shoulder-to-shoulder Cordellan men around me, all facing the raiders. The one who spoke stands near me, her voice cracking out in a sharp, biting command. Her brown eyes flick over us, the only part of her visible beneath her beige head scarf.
Her eyes stop on me and widen.
“Who . . .” Her surprise twists in the air, and as she lowers her weapon, all of the raiders ease down theirs as well. “Winterians,” she growls after a beat.
She glances down the road, her brow tightening.
A caravan rolls up behind us, turning from a road that runs south. Three wagons pulled by oxen, their lumbering bulks kicking up dust and mud into their long, hairy coats. The wagons are completely enclosed just like ours, boxes on wheels with two drivers each, surrounded by a dozen Summerian guards on horseback, clomping steadily down the road toward us.
The girl curses. By the time she pulls my attention back, her raiders have disappeared. I frown but she doesn’t react to their absence, just reaches up and tugs the scarf off her head, revealing tightly coiled red curls that spring around her face. Like Winterians, Summerian hair is vibrant, to say the least—it’s as if they dipped each strand in the setting sun itself and came away with the most blinding scarlet I’ve ever seen.
Once her scarf is gone, the girl smiles up at me. Her demeanor completely shifts, any flicker of anger buried beneath that smooth smile. “Queen Meira, yes?”
“What’s going on?” Henn snaps from his position next to me. “Who are you—”
“Forgive me,” the girl interrupts. “Bandits run wild in these parts, and I’ve taken it as one of my duties to rid my kingdom of them. I am Ceridwen Preben, sister of Simon.” She drops into a short bow, whipping back up so quickly that her curls dance around her head.
Her eyes flit to the caravan still approaching us, almost within earshot. Her face shows the briefest worry, but it disappears so swiftly I don’t have to time to wonder about it.
Theron turns in his saddle next to me. “I’m Prince Theron of Cordell. I come as an escort of Winter, who is most eager to make their kingdom known to the world. Your brother should already be aware of our visit.”
I gape at him. Do I sound that confident when I lie?
Theron presses on. “I believe we’ve met before, in Ventralli? You were an ambassador there under King Jesse a few years back, weren’t you?”
Now I know Ceridwen’s face falls. She swivels away from Theron just as the caravan reaches us, her lips breaking into a stiff smile.
“Ah, here we are,” she says, swinging a hand to the nearest Summerian soldier. “Lieutenant, escort our guests to Juli.”
The soldier blinks at her, clearly surprised at seeing her, or at her order, or at our presence in Summer at all. But he nods, surveying us with careful precision. He stops on me and his eyes flash wide, but not with confusion—with pleasure.
“Yes, Princess,” he says, still watching me. “Our king will be eager to speak with them.”
Ceridwen waves her thanks and starts to disappear into the grove of spindly trees, but the lieutenant turns his too-pleased smile on her, and my skin itches.
“Princess,” he calls, “your brother gave us orders that if we were to see you on our journey, you should accompany us to Juli. You can help us watch out for bandits, can’t you?”
Ceridwen pauses before turning, and when she does her face is placid. “Of course, Lieutenant,” she tells him, and strides forward. “I’ll be needing your ride, though, I’m afraid.”
The lieutenant’s grin falls. But he relents, sliding off his horse seconds before she hops up onto it and pushes her new mount forward.
“Juli is a four-hour trip, but you’ll have beds and food when we arrive,” she calls to us.
Our caravan moves again, with Ceridwen at the lead and the Summerian cluster at the rear. I cut my eyes to Theron.
“You know her?”
He makes a noncommittal grunt. “Not well. I went to Ventralli a few years ago to visit my cousin. She was there as an ambassador, and I remember being fascinated to see a Season accepted in a Rhythm court. I didn’t get a chance to speak to her, though—I wish I had, at least to learn how she convinced Ventralli to host her for so long.”
“Maybe you’ll be able to ask her now,” I say. Sir never mentioned Summer sending ambassadors to other kingdoms. Rhythms sent ambassadors to other Rhythm
Kingdoms on occasion, but war usually made it difficult for the Seasons to do such things. But somehow, Ceridwen of Summer convinced a Rhythm to host her as a political equal.
Ceridwen can’t be much older than me—eighteen or nineteen at the most—yet she found a way to overcome the stereotypes and prejudices of her kingdom. She’s even found a way to lead raiding parties against bandits despite being the king’s sister. She’s a Season and an ambassador, a princess and a soldier all at once.
I squint into the horizon, trying to make out which of the moving silhouettes is her.
Maybe Summer can help me more than I thought.
By the time night fully envelops the kingdom, we’re passing through the tight clusters of outlying towns that surround Juli. Taverns buzz with music and laughter, but no one wanders among the buildings, everyone remaining shut within halos of light. At first it feels like they’re simply tucked away for the night, but as Ceridwen gradually drifts back from her position at the lead, her dark eyes flicking periodically to the Summerian soldiers behind us, I wonder if it isn’t the night that the Summerian citizens hide from.
Juli is drastically different from the smaller villages. No wall encircles the city, just a disorganized array of sandstone buildings leaning against one another on the bank of a tributary in the Preben River system, a collection of southeast-branching offshoots of the Feni, all of them too narrow to provide docking for the ship we rode in on. Fires burn in giant rooftop pits, and in roaring bonfires in squares, and even in the mouths of fire-dancers, keeping any rays of inky black night from encroaching on the never-ending party of Juli.
That’s what this city is: a celebration. Each street we weave down is packed with people, their hair as red and wild as the fires they tend, their skin the same creamy tan as Ceridwen’s. They stumble from building to building, giggling to friends, beseeching stall vendors for wine, the ruby liquid sloshing over the rims of goblets and staining the roads like puddles of blood. Women in corsets and lacy skirts lean against the doorways of buildings each in more disrepair than the last—glassless windows, gaping holes through sandy walls that show tables hosting card games and bowls for dice throwing. Like the party can’t be stopped long enough to fix the city.
Conall and Garrigan plaster their horses on either side of Nessa and me, each holding naked daggers. Not that anyone tries to interrupt our travels—if anything, everyone seems to avoid us, not wanting to be involved in whatever has brought another Season and a Rhythm to their kingdom.
And what has brought us here makes me analyze the buildings we pass with more urgency. The key or a clue to the Order could be anywhere. What if one of the people we’re riding past knows something? What if that dilapidated building has been around for centuries and holds a key in its depths?
Where do I even start?
Ceridwen remains stoic, guiding her horse through the ocean of people like she doesn’t see them. She stays just ahead of the Summerian soldiers, which puts her close enough to me that I can see the way the skin around her eyes tightens with every cheer from the people around her, every distant, muffled laugh, every time one of the Summerian soldiers whistles at the women leaning in the doorways.
Summer’s kings have been famous for using their conduit with little regard for the true welfare of their citizens. They don’t control their people as completely as Angra did, forcing them to enjoy murdering and torturing enemies, but they do force a similarly damaging emotion: bliss, so much that their army is apparently a joke, their cities sit mostly in ruins, and their economy functions solely on the profits they gain from wine, gambling, and brothels.
When Sir taught us about Summer, my reaction had been similar to Conall’s and Garrigan’s now as they growl at every passing Summerian. How dare they sit in this fog of happiness when so many in the world suffer?
If the city of Juli is a party, the palace is its hub. We pass through an open gate, the soldiers on duty throwing us disinterested glances from where they slump against the wall. A courtyard opens around us, a wide, dusty area with a stable on our right, a cluster of the same dilapidated, sandy buildings as the city, and before us, rising up in a mess of creeping green vines, stubborn spiny plants, and crumbling sand bricks, is the palace.
Ceridwen swings off her horse and passes it to a stable boy. “Welcome to Preben Palace,” she tells us, waving her hand at the building. Her eyes linger on it, her face pulling with the same emotions I experienced when I first saw the Jannuari Palace. Worn down, dejected, and above all, tired. But she shrugs it off before it stays too long. “I will arrange rooms for you.”
“King Simon will want to meet them as soon as possible,” the lieutenant says.
Ceridwen’s eyes flick over each of us in turn before she shoots a glare at the lieutenant. “I’d hate to interrupt my brother’s revelry with political matters,” she snaps before turning back to us. “No, introductions can wait until tomorrow. I’ll be along around midday to collect you.”
The lieutenant laughs again, an abrupt crack of noise alongside the continuing choruses of shouts and drumbeats. His laughter makes me harden, and I groan at myself for having to hear the lieutenant laugh at the word collect to figure out what had been happening the whole trip.
These soldiers are Summerian collectors. And their wagons hold people.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
Meira
THE INSIDE OF Preben Palace is no different from the outside—dusty, cracked, unkempt. The heat here is less intense, whether from the temperature decrease at night or the way the sandy stones are able to retain some coolness. Conall and Garrigan do a good enough job being annoyed about the similarities between the intentionally ruined Preben Palace and our war-ruined palace that I don’t have to, holding my anger at bay so I can focus on meeting the king of Summer—and figuring out where to start looking for the Order and the keys.
Most rulers love showing off their kingdom’s treasures, especially to visiting dignitaries as displays of power—Noam proved that with his absurd golden trees. Maybe Simon will be willing to give us tours of Summer’s oldest, most treasured places, things that could have endured time and allowed a mysterious Order to have hidden clues or small relics in them.
But getting into such places will require being nice to the Summerian king, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to hate him as much as I hate Noam, if not more, based on what I’ve seen of his kingdom so far. Which doesn’t make preparing to meet him any easier, and when morning comes, I have to consciously restrain myself from checking for my chakram. Using it for those few moments in Gaos awakened my need to have it, and that, coupled with the lightness of the pleated gown I slip on, makes me feel naked without it. But taking a weapon to a political meeting . . .
Even I know that isn’t a good idea.
My room is far nicer than the palace first appeared in the shadows of night. Flames crackle on a pile of logs in a pit in the corner, lit by servants despite the brightness of the morning, and bristly fire-red-and-orange blankets drape across a canopy bed. The tables and chairs spaced around the room are carved in dramatic swirls and sunbursts, curling in on themselves and shooting back out in works of functional art.
Dendera comes into my room shortly after I finish dressing. I expect her to be proud of how I chose a proper queenly outfit, but when she sees me she stops and sighs.
“Duchess?”
Her eyes flash. “Henn, Conall, and Garrigan will be with you, but—” She stops and turns to the trunk, the one she and Nessa packed full of my clothes. After a moment of shuffling through it, she pulls up with a white shirt and coarse black pants, her face pinched as if she hates what she’s about to say.
“Wear these. And take a knife, at least. Something small that you can hide.”
I gape at her. “Is it my birthday?”
“What? No. I—” She
groans and shoves the clothes at me. “I don’t trust this kingdom.”
“I’m sure I can find a chakram here somewhere.” I grin.
“A knife,” she corrects, waving her arms. “Fine. You don’t listen to me, anyway. A chakram, a knife, a broadsword—snow above, why don’t you just go in full body armor?”
I laugh and the softest smile rises to her lips. If it were at all possible to capture a moment, tuck it safely away in my empty locket, I know that the magic it would emit would be far, far stronger than anything from that chasm.
After helping me out of the gown, Dendera leaves me to dress myself. I change quickly, pausing with my hand over the knife she set out for me, something borrowed from Henn.
The queen of Winter, armed. But if Dendera, master of all things proper, thinks it’s all right for me to take a weapon, just a small one, maybe . . .
I grab the dagger. It settles in my palm, a metallic weight that pulls up memories of an even deadlier weapon. As I slide it into my sleeve, I realize I missed an opening to ask Dendera where my chakram is. But if it’s still back in Winter, it can’t help me now.
Regardless, I have a weapon and I’m wearing my old clothes for the first time in months.
As I near the bedroom door, I can’t help but breathe easier. Suddenly Summer seems a bit less suffocating.
Without much prodding, Dendera and Nessa agree to remain in their room. I would have been happy to have them with me, but Conall and Garrigan look stressed enough at the thought of having to guard me in this kingdom, let alone Nessa too—she’ll be far safer in the room than parading around with us. So Dendera stays behind to keep watch over her while Henn, Conall, and Garrigan gather in the hall with me.
A few Cordellan soldiers stand at attention outside a room just down from ours, guarding the spoils of the Klaryns locked within. The door to the room next to it opens and Theron eases out, eyes closed, fingers digging small circles into his temples.