THE TOUR OF the brothel takes three hours.
Three hours.
One wing of the building was built more than four hundred years ago. One caters entirely to people who like women; one, men; one, a mixture. The uppermost level holds private suites, one of which Simon reserved for us, but his offer was met with a firm, emotionless refusal. Theron figured out why I wanted a tour rather quickly, and spent the time analyzing details as much as I was. But not a damned alcove, plant, sculpture, or even tile seemed to contain anything related to the Order of the Lustrate—no symbols like in the chasm, at least.
So after far too many run-ins with nudity, I feigned exhaustion and Simon dismissed us to rest for the party that night.
If this is how our search is going to go in every kingdom, I don’t think I’ll survive the trip.
The celebration Simon promised—or threatened, more like—starts just after sunset. Again, Nessa and Dendera stay behind—this time, not for lack of trying on Nessa’s part.
“Maybe if more of your court is with you, he won’t be so . . .” But her words trail off as she wrings her hands. I didn’t tell her everything that happened, just enough for her and Dendera to get the general idea of my stance on Summer.
I squeeze her arm. “No, stay here. I won’t be gone long.”
She holds my gaze. “You’ll tell me about it, won’t you? When you return?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. If there’s any part of it I can tell you. “I’ll be back soon.”
Nessa’s shoulders dip forward and she slides away, taking a seat next to Dendera in the corner of my room. She seems . . . defeated. Did she expect me to take her? Even if I wanted to, her brothers wouldn’t allow it, and rightfully so.
But Nessa offers a smile as I leave. See? She’s fine. It’s just this heat—it’s making all of us edgy.
Dendera let me stay in my very unworthy-of-a-celebration pants and shirt, modest and more suited to Summer than a gown. When I meet Theron and his men in the hall again, he wraps his arm around my waist and tucks his thumb into my belt loops as if it’s his natural stance. I don’t fight him, too preoccupied with trying to prepare myself for whatever lies ahead.
A servant leads us to a celebration hall, drums luring us in beats that vibrate through the sandy walls. Outside, faintly, more drumbeats can be heard, the start of parties reverberating through the city. Voices lift in laughter, and when we duck through an archway, a party unfolds around us.
Orange, scarlet, and gold fabric wraps around columns of the sandy bricks within a massive open-air room. Four stories of balconies lift up, ending in a swath of bluish-black sky in the process of sinking into night, encouraging fire pits that roar from every corner, torches that flicker along the walls, and fire dancers who spew strands of flames over the tightly packed crowd. Cheers and squeals of pleasure ricochet from every direction, peppered with the clinking of goblets.
If I thought it was hot in the brothel, it’s absolutely searing here. The nearest fire is in the mouth of a dancer against the wall, but the heat I feel is strong and sure and close, pulsing over my skin with deliberate yet chaotic fingers. The heat comes from the Summerians, their bodies radiating waves of it just like the impenetrable cold that surrounds all Winterians. It swarms me, blistering, unrelenting. A heat that could drive people mad, warp images, and blur thoughts.
Theron leads me in. My eyes dart from person to person, noting every brand like a beacon. Just as many slaves populate this room as nonslaves, serving drink or food or dancing with courtiers. Even the ones serving refreshments seem to be enjoying themselves, swaying with trays over their heads.
Simon, dressed this time, sits in the center of a dais in the middle of the room. A grand orange tent caps the area, sunbeams sewn in gold thread glittering in the pulsing firelight. He reclines with the Yakimian girl who accompanied him earlier. She’s the first to see us, whispering a quick word of warning to Simon, who snaps his attention to the foot of the dais and beams.
“Winter queen!” He leaps up, not even bothering to notice Theron this time. Why would a Season king so unashamedly disregard a Rhythm?
Cordell doesn’t sell to Summer—which means they are of no use to Simon. And he obviously doesn’t care about forging any connection, because when he saunters down the dais, he actually shoves Theron out of the way to put his arm around my shoulders.
“Meira! May I call you Meira?” Simon grabs a goblet from a passing tray and presses it to me. I take it only to avoid it spilling when he lets go. “Try this—you won’t regret it. A ten-year-old red. Delicious.”
He tugs me forward, trying to pull me beneath the canopy over his dais, but I plant my feet on the floor, heat leaching steadiness from my body so I stumble.
Don’t be stupid, Ceridwen’s voice echoes from my memory.
“Thank you,” I manage, and duck out from under his grip before he can touch me skin to skin. His is one mind I’d rather not see into. “But Prince Theron is more of a wine lover than I am.”
Theron blinks surprise when I thrust the goblet at him, but he takes it, casting me a suspicious look. “Yes,” he says, clears his throat, and turns to Simon. “Wine. I love it.”
Simon smiles. “Really? Cordell does make a good ale, though.” He turns back to me, eyes squished as he thinks. After a moment, he snaps his fingers in realization. “I know just what will entice you, Winter queen!”
I have to forcibly keep my nose from curling, but Simon spins me around and points to the far wall. “Food! Tables of Summerian delicacies. Don’t even try to tell me that you don’t like food.”
His suggestion is so blissfully innocent that I actually smile, and he claps his hands, thoroughly enthralled with his ability to find something to “entice” me.
“Come, come!” Simon loops his arm through mine, hauling me into the fray without a backward glance. Theron falls in behind, along with our guards, and I can tell by the way he bites his lip that he’s trying not to address the blatant Summerian brush-off.
The food table sits between two sandstone pillars wrapped in luminescent yellow fabric. Behind the table, nestled into the wall, a fireplace crackles, the flames licking far higher than necessary—meant to be more of a decoration than useful, I’d imagine. Slaves dart around the table, refilling platters and, in a few cases, providing entertainment. Off to the side, funnels of vibrant flames launch from the mouths of Summerian dancers while balls of fire gleam in cages at the ends of chains, flung in patterns as the slaves lunge and twirl and dip.
Simon beams at them. “Lovely, aren’t they? Oh, try that—stew made of peanuts and sweet potatoes. Positively decadent!” He points to a bread bowl filled with lumpy golden mush and waves at one of the dancers. “Let’s show our guests a true Summerian celebration, yes?”
The dancer nods, her smile unfurling even brighter, and motions to a cluster of musicians in the corner, the ones who have been pounding out steady, gyrating tunes. They see her cue and dive into an achingly fast song, drums thumping and tambourines shaking in a melody that throbs in me.
The performers dissolve into a choreographed dance, spitting fire on certain upbeats, swinging the lanterns in tandem. Flames and heat, feet stomping, hips spinning, a dizzying array of light and energy that mesmerizes everyone around. Simon, his courtiers, the Cordellan guards, even my own guards and Theron, who stare with something more like awe than like the passion of the Summerians. The dancers themselves, all Summerian, smile and laugh, engrossed in their own movements. The slaves not dancing watch with the same delirium, riveted with joy.
As I watch the dancers, their aura of happiness cracks here and there. One of the dancers steps wrong, landing on her ankle in an awkward twist, and a painful wince flickers over her face. But her smile returns, her body carrying on the dance like nothing happened. Another dancer fights cascades of sweat that roll down his face, his breath coming in gasps that shake his whole body, but he smiles through it, lips in a tight grin.
Enjoyment, enjoyment, everywhere—that is Summer’s reputation, after all.
But so many of these smiles are forced by the man next to me, who grabs a platter of shredded pork and cheers with delight as he eats and watches his people dance through twisted ankles and exhaustion.
I grip my fingers into tight fists, every nerve taut.
A door covered by dangling beaded strands catches my eye—or more the person who materializes next to it, to the left of the performance.
Ceridwen.
Everyone else in this part of the room seems hypnotized by the dance. For a moment, no one is watching me. The awareness of this one chance at freedom sends a wave of tingling need through me, so strong and unexpected that I latch onto it before I can think of a more logical reaction. But all I see is a goal before me—saving Winter from a Cordellan takeover, finding the Order or its key before Theron. And Ceridwen is the first person I’ve met whom I might be able to trust.
Ceridwen turns to talk to a man behind her, the slave who was with her earlier. Together they duck through the door.
I cast a glance at the dancers, still hurling their bodies fast and strong with no hint that they might be slowing, and at the audience, still enthralled. Without another thought, I take a smooth step back, angle my shoulders, and fold into the crowd. No one notices me leaving, and I brim with a sensation I haven’t felt in months—the thrill of sneaking, plotting, springing into a mission. Being useful.
I dive into the beaded doorway. The celebration dies behind me, this dark hall swallowing much of the noise. A few candles flicker on the tables, a few doors open into more rooms, but I’m focused on the end, where Ceridwen and her companion whisper as they hurry into the darkness.
I plunge forward, dodging out of the way of slaves who emerge from various rooms with trays of food and drink. Ceridwen and the man duck into a room on the right and I follow before I realize it isn’t a room—it’s outside.
The smell of straw, horse dung, and fire clogs the stable yard along with the occasional bout of cheering or complaining from a group of stable hands, bent over an intense dice game as they pass a few bottles of wine among them. Torches light the yard, revealing barns that wrap around the palace and out of sight. No Ceridwen, but I catch a glimpse of orange fabric and red hair on a barn’s roof directly across from where I stand. It vanishes . . . over the wall? Where is she going? She’s the princess—she should be able to leave through the front gate without question.
Meira the soldier wouldn’t hesitate to follow her. But Queen Meira should return to the celebration and hope that no one noticed her departure so that she can bridge some sort of peace between Summer and Winter.
But the only Summerian ally I want is outside. If the muffled pounding of the same song is any indication, the dancing hasn’t stopped—everyone is probably still entranced by it.
A stack of crates sits against one of the barn walls, providing an easy lift to the roof. I fling myself up, teetering on the old shingles, and step back to get a better view of the wall, hoping, maybe, that Ceridwen will pop back over. Faintness makes me sway and I wobble to the edge of the roof, heat draining me with each drop of sweat.
“Hey there, Winterian.”
I whirl. On the ground below stand two men, red hair matted to their dirt-streaked faces.
One of them chuckles. “Your queen send you out to spy on us?”
The rest of the stable hands hover over the crate they used as a game table, sipping wine from glass bottles and watching us with cocked brows. I’m torn between worry that I didn’t realize they snuck up on me and relief that they don’t know who I am. Of course they don’t—why would the queen of Winter be scaling barns, alone, at this time of night? She wouldn’t. She shouldn’t, for this very reason.
My dagger burns against my wrist, but I don’t pull it out, don’t want them to know I have a weapon yet. I swallow, hovering up on the roof high enough that they can’t yank me down.
Unless they climb the crates and come after me.
The slightest tingle of fear starts at the back of my neck, but I shake it away. I’ve dealt with worse. I can handle this.
“How long till someone notices you missing, girly?” One man juts his chin toward me. “Long enough to have some fun?”
“I’m pretty sure we have drastically different ideas of what counts as fun,” I manage, glancing at the door back into the palace. Empty and dark.
The men hoot laughter.
“She’s got a tongue on her, this one!”
“What else can you do with that tongue of yours, eh?”
My legs shake and I step back, closer to the peak of the roof. The cold ball of conduit magic wiggles against my fear, clashing with their words and making me gag.
The empty stable yard waits, dark and ominous around me. Angra’s face flashes through my mind as I realize how this area is so like Abril—vacant and eager. Horrible things don’t happen in crowded places; they happen in the hollows of the world, where it’s just a victim and an attacker and no one to hear any screams.
“Hang on there, sweetheart—we just want to talk! Come on down.”
I rub my forehead, skin coated with grime, and draw in stifling mouthfuls of hot air. The sticky wetness of sweat on my hands grows thicker, a layer of moist heat that feels just like . . . blood. Blood like in Abril, when I killed Herod.
Herod looked at me like those men look at me.
The conduit magic flashes ice through me and I rub my hands furiously against my pants, wheezing on air that refuses to go into my lungs. What I wouldn’t give for ice right now—
No, I’m fine—I’m fine.
A shadow moves on the other side of the barn’s roof and I whirl, nearly losing my footing on the shingles as I rip the dagger out of my sleeve. Terror courses through me, lightning bolts of dread as the shadow moves forward. I lunge, but my vision blurs—the deep black sky, the distant flicker of a rooftop fire pit. My knees crack against the roof, the knife skittering down the incline, and the impact jolts a whimper from me along with—
Coldness.