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. 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.
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 my pleated gown, 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 out 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, fingers digging small circles into his temples.
“Tell me you didn’t try any of Summer’s wine last night,” I say, and he winces up at me but manages a weak grin.
“They didn’t leave a bottle in your room too?” His grin broadens and he wipes a hand down his face. “I just didn’t sleep well. Thinking too much, I suppose.”
I almost ask him what he thought about, but I know. The treaty. Meeting Simon. Finding the keys. Everything that loops through my mind too.
Theron blinks through the strain as his eyes glide over my wardrobe. “Good,” he exhales.
I snort. “Thanks. That’s what every girl wants to hear.”
He shakes his head, shrugging toward the rest of the palace and, somewhere in it, King Simon. The cacophony that greeted us last night has ebbed now, the halls empty of music or laughter or drumbeats. The quiet seems uncomfortable in this kingdom, more a pained, flinching silence than a relaxed, still silence.
“No,” Theron amends. “I just meant that no event in this kingdom will be . . . normal. Gowns aren’t the best idea.”
Henn’s pale eyes flash in the firelight from a basin not far away. “He means Summer has the same appreciation for personal boundaries that General Herod Montego did.”
I lurch back, blinking at Henn as he leans casually on the wall like he said nothing of great importance. His focus flicks around, surveying everything, and I realize he didn’t say anything of great importance—he’s just giving me the facts of our situation, simple and straightforward. But the name of Angra’s general leaves an itch on my skin.
Theron nods toward the room his men guard. “It’s also probably best if we don’t let word of our goods spread around the kingdom. Unless you feel Summer will make a worthy ally for Winter.”
I bend closer. “And what of our other reason for being here?”
But Ceridwen appears at the end of the hall before he can respond, dressed so differently from the raider we met last night that I almost mistake her for as nothing more than one of Summer’s court ladies. Orange fabric wraps around her legs, twisting up her torso to loop around her neck in two pleats. A leather corset hugs her stomach, matching the sandals that lace up to her knees.
She stops beside me, annoyance radiating off her before she even speaks. “My brother took his party outside the palace last night, and he has asked that you meet him in the city.”
Theron straightens. “Of course. Thank you, Princess,” he adds, stretching for formality through her apparent indifference. Well, not indifference, but . . . displeasure.
Ceridwen’s scowl hardens. “Come on. Carriages are waiting.”
Theron raises an eyebrow at Ceridwen’s tone, but she strides away without waiting for us to respond. The rest of us—Conall, Garrigan, Henn, Theron, a handful of Cordellan guards, and I—hurry after her, having to keep a near-jogging pace to follow. She leads us down fire-lit halls, the orange glow making the sandy walls of the palace warm and closed in. We rush down two sets of stairs and take three lefts before Ceridwen comes to a halt.
Luscious pink hibiscus flowers sit in vases on tables along the walls, leading to a wide archway that reveals the courtyard outside. The light of day shows a few clusters of scraggly trees, stable hands running about, dust puffing up in clouds of orange. And beyond the wall, Juli rises, its buildings as sandy as the palace complex.
Ceridwen turns to us just inside the archway. “Prince Theron, if you will give me a moment with Queen Meira, I would like to congratulate her on reclaiming her kingdom. You will find the carriages awaiting you just beyond.”
Theron’s eyebrows pinch as he turns to me, putting his hand on my hip, but I squeeze his arm. I have reason to talk to Ceridwen too—and alone might be best. “I won’t be long.” I include Henn, Conall, and Garrigan. “I’ll be all right for a few moments.”
They seem unconvinced, but Henn’s attention flickers from me to the otherwise empty hall. “We’ll be just outside,” he tells me. Conall and Garrigan follow him, and after a pause Theron trails them with his own guards.
Ceridwen turns to me once they leave, glaring with the same disapproving frown Sir always cast my way—brow tight, jaw crooked, eyes set to roll at the slightest threat.
“A Rhythm prince?” she hisses, so low that I barely catch the words.
My face falls. “What?”
She shakes it off, folding her arms. “Queen Meira,” she starts again, raising her voice like nothing happened. “Your conduit was difficult to come by.”
I instinctively touch the locket. “Princess, what—”
“Your kingdom as well,” she continues, keeping a fake smile on her face. “And your people. I should think a ruler such as yourself would be well aware of their value.”
“Of course,” I agree slowly, not sure what she’s saying.
Ceridwen straightens, gazing at the hall around us like she can see through the walls, to the kingdom beyond. “Summer’s rulers have never placed much value on their citizens or others. My kingdom has been branded by this shame, but where some see a brand as a scar, others see it as a fashion accessory.”
I nod. “I am well aware of Summer’s dealings.”
“Are you?” Ceridwen steps closer to me. Gold paint rims her brown eyes, swirls along her temples in tight spirals that glitter as she moves. “That is why my brother has arranged to meet you where he is this morning, to show you how far Summer’s dealings stretch. He will ask if you are willing to contribute to our”—she pauses, her lip coiling—“economy. Do you? Wish to contribute?”
It only takes a beat for me to understand the meaning of her words. I pull back, my mouth dropping open. “He—what? He wants me to sell some of my people to him?”
Ceridwen smiles. “I am glad to see where you stand, Queen Meira. The world is full of people who do not value the same things as you and I. And we do value the same things, don’t we?”
“Yes.”
“My brother can be persuasive. I only hope your resolve holds.”
“You have no idea how stubborn I can be.”
“If stubbornness were all that was needed to be a good queen, I’d rule the world.” She pivots toward the courtyard.
I stomp forward. “You were waiting to raid the caravan, weren’t you? To free those people?”
She stops, the muscles in her bare shoulders bundling sharply. If she had intended to free those slaves, she’d want to keep her actions secret—but if she’s someone who feels such repulsion for her brother’s practices, maybe she’s someone I can trust: someone who rises against opposition; someone who would sympathize with my plight and help me find the key—or the Order of the Lustrate itself—before Cordell does.
Before Theron does.
I flinch at the words I can barely stand to think.
Ceridwen twists back to face me, half of her face bathed in the archway’s shadow, half in the courtyard’s light. “She’s smart too,” she murmurs, and closes the space between us to jab something against my abdomen.
A dagger.
Where did she even hide a dagger in that outfit?
“Not everyone in the world has the power they deserve,” she growls. “Do not misuse yours.”
I clamp my hand over hers on the dagger, a slight pressure that grinds her fingers against the hilt. “I have no intention of misusing my power, Princess. I only wanted to offer my support. I know what it’s like to fight for your kingdom’s freedom.”
She blinks at me, her face flashing with shock, then horror, then a cold, harsh smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. She rips out of my grip and folds the dagger back into her palm. “We’ll see, Queen Meira. As I said, enjoy Summer.”
She’s gone, dipping under the archway. The moment she slips through the door, Theron takes her place, flanked by my guards.
“What happened?” he asks.
I smile. “I think I just made a friend.”
Wherever Simon wants to meet us isn’t far. Two roads later, we stop in front of a four-story building that rivals the palace in terms of age. The sandstone exterior and brittle wood accents tell of years in Summer’s harsh climate, but decorations drape from balconies, attempts to hide the dilapidation behind braids of crimson silk and bundles of vibrant orange and red flowers. It’s these decorations that give the building more of a grand feel, an air of importance and stateliness, where the palace felt more forgotten.
The walls that looked run-down on the outside are perfectly kept inside, smooth panels of cream-colored stone with gold molding winking from every corner. A hall stretches down the center of the first floor, polished tiles glittering in a rainbow of colors on the floor and drooping plants keeping guard outside dozens of curtained alcoves.
I blink, certain I have to be seeing wrong. Every other part of Summer has been in a state of near collapse—but not this place? Why—and what is it?
An answer appears when one of the curtains to the alcoves shifts and a woman swaggers out, making her way to a staircase at the far end of the hall.
My eyes open so wide I feel them try to pop out of my skull.
She’s completely naked.
Garrigan gags on his shock. Conall lurches toward me, realizes there is no immediate danger, and settles for tight-lipped glowering. Theron blushes so dark his skin turns a deep purple-red, such an odd expression for him that I almost laugh.
Ceridwen doesn’t react at all, however. She marches down the center hall, throwing a nod at a man who rushes out to greet us. My contingent stumbles after her, silenced by our varying levels of shock and discomfort. The alcoves birth a few more people, curtains fluttering back to reveal the types of women we saw on our way into the city last night, the ones clad in very little, along with men dressed just as scantily. Most lounge on chaises, beds, their limbs strewn, hair askew, and outfits more so. And, usually, they aren’t alone. The customers who populate their alcoves range from people in the tattered, dirty garb of peasants to the fine silk wraps of the upper class.
This place is a brothel. And apparently feeds Summer’s economy regardless of class. How tolerant of them.
I suck in a breath and thank every piece of luck I’ve ever had that Nessa didn’t come. I don’t even want to imagine what Conall and Garrigan would have done, had their innocent, sheltered sister been thrust into a place like this.
Heat overwhelms me, makes sweat bead over my forehead and spread across my spine, waves of it dripping from the lack of ventilation and the way the noon sun heats the exterior of the building. This brothel feels more like an oven, and as we plunge farther down the hall, Theron next to me, Conall and Garrigan pressed against my back while Henn lingers behind, I half expect the sleeping men and women around us to start sizzling like they’re being cooked.
Ceridwen leads us to an alcove in the back right corner. There, flimsy curtains part around silk-covered pillows that glisten as the people sprawled on them writhe in sleep.
She waves within. “Here you are,” she snaps, and shoves back between us, leaving us standing there, blinking in shock between the alcove and her retreating form.
Theron’s brows rise. “I’m getting the feeling we’re not welcome here,” he whispers.
I smile at him. “Maybe you, Rhythm prince.”
He rolls his eyes and flickers a small grin at me before turning to the alcove. Five people sleep within, from what I can tell—they all overlap in a tangle of hair and limbs, shimmering satin and glinting gold jewelry.
“King Simon?” Theron tries.
No one moves.
Theron’s jaw tightens. “King Simon Preben,” he tries, louder.
Out of the hodgepodge of bodies, a head pops up. Even knotted in a web of pillows and other people’s limbs, he’s obviously young—not quite as young as Theron or me, but no older than his midtwenties. Scarlet hair cuts in a tangle across his eyes, one of which he cracks open with a rumbling groan before touching something at his wrist. After a moment, he sighs in relief and refocuses on us.
Did he just use his conduit to cure his hangover?
Simon surveys Theron, lifts a brow, and shifts his attention to me.
“Burn me to a crisp! Is it morning already?” His face lights up as he springs to his feet. The movement rocks consciousness into the people woven around him, eliciting moans of displeasure that he brushes off as he stumbles over the bodies to teeter before us.
At which point I make a noise halfway between a gag and a scream and duck my head to avoid seeing far more of the Summerian king than I ever wanted.
He’s just as naked as the woman we saw moments ago.
Simon either misses my reaction or ignores it. “Queen Meira! I have been most looking forward to this—”
Theron clears his throat, not at all gracefully, and Simon barks laughter.
“Oh!” he says like he’d honestly forgotten. “Terribly sorry—one moment.”
There’s shuffling and a few more grunts from the still-sleeping courtiers in the alcove, and after a moment Theron nudges me, presumably because Simon has put away his . . . um . . .
The first time I ever see a man naked, and it’s the tactless Summerian king. Lovely.
I risk a look up at him to see that he’s draped a bundle of scarlet satin around his waist, and while he’s still not exactly dressed, I’ll take it.
“Queen Meira!” he tries again, and swipes a goblet from a table in the alcove. “It has been far too long since I’ve had the pleasure of a Winterian in my kingdom.” He waves the goblet around, encompassing the brothel. “Which is why I thought it best to make introductions here. I don’t imagine you’ve ever seen any of Summer’s splendors. A true shame, but one we will quickly remedy. Today you will have the whole of Madame Tia’s staff at your disposal—tonight, you will join me for a true Summerian celebration at the palace. We will have food, we will have drink—”
As my mind scrambles through his words to realize he intends to make us stay here, all day, Simon thrusts the goblet at me, wine sloshing over his hand. Some of the dark liquid coats a bracelet on his wrist, a thick gold cuff with a turquoise stone in the center, surrounded by a steady glow of scarlet light. Summer’s conduit.
I want to tell him exactly what he can do with that goblet, but I manage some semblance of rationality through my fog of shock. He hasn’t done anything threatening—and honestly, he’s been hospitable. Just not the kind of hospitable I need.
Be nice, Meira.
A weak smile cracks my lips. “Thank you, but isn’t it a bit early for all this?”
He downs the goblet’s contents before chucking it into the mess of people and winking at me. “Not if you believe in yourself.” His focus shifts over us, more analytical, and he visibly wilts. “Cerie didn’t come with you? Flames on that girl. She used to be so fun. Did she even introduce herself? My sister, the most un-Summerian Summerian I’ve ever met, but when she does loosen up, guard the wine! Girl is a nasty drunk. In that regard, I suppose she’s very Summerian.”
“King Simon,” Theron cuts in, angling between us. I bite back a sigh of relief. I don’t even know Ceridwen that well, but I assume she doesn’t take too fondly to her brother calling her a “nasty drunk.” “We come with a proposition for you. May we plan somewhere to speak? Somewhere away from the bustle of the city?” He pauses, features angling. “I hear Summerian vineyards are most glorious to behold.”
I frown. A vineyard?
Whatever link to the magic chasm or the Order of the Lustrate might be in this kingdom has to be somewhere that has survived the test of time—something important to Summer, or something at least as old as the door.
That’s why Theron wants to go to their vineyards. Some of them have been around for centuries, and if any clues to the Order or the keys could have survived the trials of time—they could be at a vineyard. The carving of the vines on fire makes a little more sense.
My eyes lock on the tiles under our feet. The pride that wells on Simon’s face.
“I don’t imagine you’ve ever seen any of Summer’s splendors.”
Vineyards aren’t the only thing Summer values enough to keep preserved for centuries, though. And maybe the carving wasn’t supposed to be so literal.
My nose curls. Snow above, if I have to search Summer’s brothels for the Order . . .
Simon stumbles out of the alcove and hooks his arm around Theron’s neck. “Quite glorious indeed! We’ll make the trip tomorrow. Today, though—” His bloodshot eyes pin on me and he whistles, releasing a cloud of acidic breath. “I would very much like to get to know the new Winterian queen. Not that I’m not honored to host the heir of Cordell, but we Season monarchs have to stick together. Solidarity.”
The scent of the wine on his breath makes me choke.
We’re guests in his kingdom. We need to be here peacefully.
He hasn’t done anything wrong. He hasn’t done anything wrong.
But no matter how many reasons I stack like bricks in a wall, my impulses batter through.
We’re guests in a kingdom built on slavery.
We need to be here peacefully—which is basically saying that we endorse his kingdom’s treatment of people.
He hasn’t done anything wrong—to me. But who else has he hurt? How many of the people here are slaves?
As if in response to my thoughts, one of the people in Simon’s alcove sits up. She’s dressed, thankfully, but her hair sticks out in the matted array of slumber, spiraling black locks that plaster to her tawny skin.
She isn’t Summerian. She’s Yakimian.
Heavy lines of gold paint around her eyes have bled down her cheeks and across her forehead. She pats her hair, and when she feels me watching her, she lifts hooded eyes.
I lock my jaw.
The smears of gold paint over her face almost make the small mark on her cheek unnoticeable. An S branded below her left eye, the skin singed but old, healed, something that she’s lived with for a while. Maybe forever.
I flick my attention around the hall. Servants sweep up messes and straighten chairs; a few more of the scantily clad people in the alcoves are awakening. Most of them are Summerian, their hair spilling in tangled clumps of fire red around their tan skin, their liquid brown eyes; only a few people from other kingdoms move about. All are branded, their marks just as old as the girl’s.
Summer brands its slaves. The servants who showed us to our rooms last night—were they branded? In the darkness, it was hard to see much of anything—and honestly, making sure the stones from the Klaryns got locked away distracted me. I focused on the things a queen would, not on the things a soldier would. The safety of our key to obtaining alliances, not the details of my whereabouts.
My body jolts with remorse. I should be glad that I acted like a queen—but all I can feel now is disgusted. How can I not remember whether or not the servants had brands? Or even if they were Summerian? But the Yakimian slaves here move around the brothel exactly the same as the Summerian slaves, with no inclination to fight back or strain against the life Simon chose for them. No matter how much he is able to make Summerians accept their lives, no amount of magic could enable him to affect someone he bought from another kingdom.
Have these Yakimians lived this life so long they don’t know to fight back? Where are the people who don’t accept this fate? Those have to be kept away from newcomers, so as not to spoil the illusion of pleasure. So anyone who visits sees the same fake perfection that made Spring keep its Winterian work camps inland, away from its interactions with the outside world.
That’s it. That’s all I can handle.
I whirl away from Simon, still wound around Theron’s neck, and dive for the door, at the end of the long hall lined by the other alcoves. My guards follow, and I can’t help but think they all sigh with relief to be leaving.
Ceridwen leans against the door, her arms folded and her eyes pinched. A Summerian slave appears beside her, whispers something in her ear. By the time I reach her, she shoves off the doorframe.
“Forgive her, brother,” Ceridwen calls back down the hall. “She complained of the heat last night—our climate is a bit harsh for Winterians, you know.”
I don’t look back, and honestly, I’d run right out of the brothel if Ceridwen didn’t catch my arm and hold me in place. From behind me, Simon chirps.
“Cerie!” Rustling, a solid bump as he slams into the wall beside his alcove at the end of the hall. “I thought you weren’t yet back. You must come tonight as well! I miss you, sister.”
The expression on Ceridwen’s face makes it hard to tell whether or not he’s sincere. She doesn’t say a word, letting the silence stretch until Simon regains himself.
“But, yes, take a moment, Winter queen! Get some air.”
A growl ruptures in my throat, and Ceridwen angles her head at me.
“Don’t be stupid,” she hisses.
I rip out of her hold. “You have no idea what—”
“I don’t?” Her lips tighten and her voice dips lower than a whisper. “No, you’re right. It’s not like I’ve lived here for nineteen years. I have no idea what my kingdom is like. For instance, I have no idea that if you visibly act out against my brother, he’ll retaliate. Unless you want him to start forcibly taking slaves from Winter, don’t let him know you despise him.”
“What?” All air drops out of my lungs. “He wouldn’t dare.”
Ceridwen snorts. “And what’s to stop him? A few years back, King Caspar reacted to my brother as you did. Storming off, opposing him outright. Weeks later, I found a group of Autumnians secretly put in a slave house south of Juli. So, I reiterate, don’t be stupid.”
I stagger, muscles coiling. “Did Caspar find out?”
This building feels too open yet too small all at once, and I have no idea if Simon can hear us. I glance back, briefly, to see him and Theron in conversation by the alcove. Theron dips his eyes to me once and offers a small smile.
He’s distracting Simon.
My chest cools, gratitude nudging away some of the hurt I still feel toward Theron.
Ceridwen draws my attention back. “They were freed soon after,” she says, neither confirming nor denying that she was the one to free them. “But those whom Summer brands don’t have much of a life afterward. Don’t risk your people. Tolerate my brother—put up with his antics.”
I pause next to her, forcing my brain to process her words through this stupid heat, through my hatred of Simon, through my desire to tear out of this brothel and flee back to Winter.
She’s right, though. I do need to put up with his antics—for now. Didn’t I just wonder if this place holds any clue toward the Order or the key? I can’t leave. Not yet, anyway.
My stomach roils with nausea and I keep my focus on the light gleaming through the front door as I raise my voice. “When I return, King Simon, I’d like a tour of this . . .” I can’t say it. “Establishment.”
So I can scour every surface for clues from the Order of the Lustrate and then run away.
Simon cheers behind me. “Excellent! Of course!”
Ceridwen smiles.
My face pinches and my voice drops again. “Why are you helping me?”
Her eyes flick to the slave who had spoken to her, hovering outside the brothel. He nods and ducks out of the courtyard, into the street.
“As my brother said, Queen Meira,” she says, edging toward the door. “Solidarity.”