FROM JANNUARI, IT’S two days of sailing down the Feni River to Juli, the capital of Summer.
The Feni stretches wide enough to provide an easy mode of transportation between the western Langstone River and the eastern Destas Sea. And Cordell, as the only Rhythm Kingdom bordering the Destas, has quite the navy—Noam travels to and from Winter on his own well-equipped frigate. But growing up on the run from Angra didn’t provide many opportunities for me to experience sailing—the closest I’ve come to a boat was standing on a dock in Ventralli a few years back while Finn haggled over a barrel of salted fish.
The ship Noam arranged for us is a small schooner with only eight crew members, and adding our numbers makes the ship cramped. But the lack of space allows for an easier patrol of our crates of Klaryn stones, stores every Cordellan soldier eyes with amusement. They know exactly why the crates are here, that they’re my feeble attempt at unseating Noam while we search for the keys, and every time I see the soldiers’ snide expressions, my stomach knots.
Though that could also be due to the putrid stench of the river and the ebbing, rocking motion that makes Dendera vibrantly green. Every particle of air hangs heavy with the scent of fish and the moldier stench of stagnant water trapped at the river’s edge. The palpitation of the wind filling the sails dances with the way the deep river licks the narrow boat in snapping waves, bobbing us back and forth, back and forth.
Just when my stomach—and Dendera’s—can’t take it any longer, the ship docks us on the northeastern tip of Summer, about half a day’s ride from Juli, leaving us at the largest Summerian port on the Feni so we can buy supplies before trekking into the kingdom.
The abrupt shift from the bobbing schooner to the solid dock makes me falter. Theron grips me from behind, his fingers curving into my hips in a way that could be just to steady me, but could be something more.
I lurch forward, pulling out of his arms even as I see the small flash of hurt on his face. “I’m fine,” I stammer, but he smiles knowingly.
“You’ll be unsteady for a bit,” he says. “Sailing can do strange things.”
The ship’s rhythm is only a small fraction of my problem, though, and as I watch Nessa, Dendera, and the rest of the Winterians disembark, I see the same suffering descend over them.
I’ve never been to Summer, but the Rania Plains, where we spent so much of my childhood, were often sweltering and miserable, enough that I assumed I’d be able to deal with intense heat if I ever had to come to Summer.
I realize now how utterly wrong I was.
The heat ripples up from the earth itself. Sandy structures adorned with dried wood doors comprise the port city, but beyond it, the stark landscape stretches like the withered, cracked hands of a beggar, unfolding and reaching into the blue sky for even the smallest drop of water. When four of Theron’s two dozen men return from the city with two enclosed carriages for the Klaryn goods and horses for us, I almost weep with relief. My Winterian blood couldn’t handle walking through this kingdom—my body aches for cold as if each waft of heat drains the life out of me. Anything that lives here has to be just as harsh and determined as the sun, born of a fiery stubbornness that is either extremely brave or extremely stupid.
I only know a few things about Summer beyond its climate. Its male-blooded conduit is a turquoise stone set in a gold cuff, inherited by their current king, Simon Preben, after his father died four years ago. Biggest export: wine. Biggest import: people.
Their economy is all too similar to Angra’s work camps, only Summer uses some of its own citizens in addition to people from other kingdoms. I saw a few Summerian collectors on trips around Primoria, relentless human-hunters who scooped up living purchases. Only Yakim and Spring sell to Summer—the rest of Primoria’s kingdoms find the practice of slavery repulsive.
Anxiety balls tight in my gut. Why did the magic chasm have to lead us here? I won’t be able to see what Summer does to its people, to its property, without drowning in rage . . . and memories of my own slavery-filled past. Let alone the fact that Summer buying people from Spring indirectly supported Angra.
Maybe I’ll find the key or the Order quickly, and not have to be here long. But what am I even looking for? The chasm’s clue was only vines on fire. Am I looking for an actual vine on fire? That seems too literal. Then just a vine? Or just a flame?
This is something I’d normally 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, minuscule particles that turn into daggers and 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 my 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 pouf 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 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 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 wish 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.”
“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. Yet 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, each holding a dagger, plaster their horses on either side of Nessa and me. 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 was 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 uninterested 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 says 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. I groan at myself for having to hear the lieutenant laugh at the word collect to figure out what has been happening the whole trip.
These soldiers are Summerian collectors. And their wagons hold people.