WE STAY IN Summer for a barely acceptable week. Emphasis on barely.
Every day is hot and slow, and every night is filled with the same parties. Theron still goes to Summer’s vineyards, using the time to get Simon to sign his treaty. I opt not to join them, feigning heat sickness—well, not entirely feigning it, but still—and reveling in the time apart from both Theron and the boundary-less Summerian king, who assured me he assigned men to investigate the slave’s death, but only after a flippant wave of his hand.
“Slaves often meet rough ends in Summer,” he’d said as though he told me merely that Summer is hot, not that someone had died under his care.
If I had any power here, I’d do it myself—but already I stand on shaky ground with Simon. Especially since he knows that I asked him about the slave’s death, and he told me he put men on it—if word gets back to him that I took it on myself, even after that . . .
I hate that I let that stop me. The old Meira would have simply dived into the investigation, sought out justice for the murdered man without a backward glance. But Queen Meira has to wonder—if Simon stole people from Autumn, would he do the same to Winter?
I’m not just me anymore. I’m a whole kingdom, and I can’t make mistakes.
Summer’s only redeemable trait is Ceridwen, whom I see even less than Theron and Simon, spotting her only once across the dining room during breakfast. Our allegiance isn’t politically acceptable either, so I stop myself from calling out to her. My mind works in terms of politics so easily now. Hard-hearted politics that prevent me from talking to someone who could have been a good friend, from asking her if she knew the man who was murdered, all because Simon watches, wondering why I choose to speak to his sister instead of him.
Once we finally leave Summer, our caravan now containing two Seasons and a Rhythm, it takes six days of travel to reach Putnam, the capital of Yakim. The first few are spent under Summer’s pounding heat, the oppressive air making the barren, parched world around us ripple. The next days, thankfully, lead us into the northeastern corner of the Southern Eldridge Forest, the wet, dense trees that cup Summer’s left border all the way to the Klaryn Mountains.
The temperature difference is glorious. Though my Winterians exhale in the relief of being in a cooler climate, our Summerian companions twitch with a discomfort that will be long lasting—the Rhythms just entered their proper spring, which means there will be nothing but coolness for the rest of the trip. The thought alleviates a little of my stress, but where do I start in my search for the Order or the keys in Yakim?
The Summerian key was linked to their wine—what in Yakim might hold a key? Their lasting symbols of grandeur could be any of their hundreds of libraries, universities, or warehouses. Or what if it isn’t in a historic place, like the key we found in Summer—what if it is somewhere completely different?
Three days out from Summer, we reach the tributary that shifts the Feni into the Langstone River. The Langstone runs along the eastern borders of both Yakim and Ventralli before it disappears into a lake near the northern Paisel Mountains, making it a popular guide by which to travel on the western bank. It’s also wide enough, deep enough, and populated enough for trade ships and docks, and as our vast caravan of Cordellan, Summerian, and Winterian dignitaries crosses into Yakim along the congested main road that follows the Langstone, we get our first taste of the chaos of Rhythm industry.
People bustle around us, mostly workers milling from village to village on horse-drawn carts, their wagons loaded with straw or produce or tools. They gape as our caravan passes, staring with wonder at so many people from so many kingdoms.
“It’s . . . a lot,” Nessa pants, her wonder palpable as she leans forward in her saddle, her eyes so wide I worry she hasn’t blinked since we entered Yakim.
The cool blue Langstone stretches so far off to our right that we can’t see its other bank, a never-ending blanket of lapping water dotted by ships. That holds her attention—not the passing throng of people who stare with just as much amazement at her as she does at the ships. I see a few mouths form the word Winterians, see a few noses crinkle with disdain. Here the Rhythm-Season prejudice will not be skewed in our favor as it was in Summer.
I pick at a catch on my travel gown, the same one Dendera forced me to wear on our journey out of Winter. She let me wear my normal, comfortable clothes until today, when she cornered me and explained that, even though we’re still a few days out from Putnam, it is imperative we make a good first impression. I agreed with every word she said.
No mistakes here. No risks.
“My queen!” Nessa points excitedly into the distance. “Is that a Cordellan ship?”
I nod, grateful for the distraction. One of the great wooden beasts bobbing in the river has a flag waving over its mast, the fabric flipping taut in the wind and revealing a lavender stalk with a golden maple leaf against a green background. “And that one is Ventrallan.” I point to one just next to it, a rich violet flag bearing a silver crown. “And Yakimian,” I say, motioning to a ship displaying a flag with a gold ax on a brown background.
The memories of my childhood lessons from Sir shoot a pang of nostalgia through me. It hasn’t been more than a couple of weeks since I saw him, but my mind throbs with missing him, and I wonder if that pain has been here all along, and I just haven’t noticed it.
He’s probably busy overseeing Noam’s control and training our Winterian army with Mather. The image of them crowded in a training yard, working through techniques and setting up sparring sessions, fills me with an all-too-familiar emotion—longing for Winter; longing for Sir and Mather and the lives they lead.
I shift up straighter, grinding my jaw. They aren’t my family anymore—they’re my general and my . . . whatever Mather wants to be. Something distant and formal and meaningless.
Nessa sighs, and I twist toward her. At least I still have her.
The wonder in her face shifts to a calm curiosity. “I want to see them all.”
I smile. “You will, Lady Kentigern. You’re a world traveler now.”
Her body goes slack, but she just shrugs.
“If none of this had happened, I think I would’ve gone to one of Yakim’s universities. I’d want to know as much as I could about the world.”
“You could still go to one of their universities.” I pause. Could she? I’ve heard of some Season citizens being allowed into Yakim’s universities, but it isn’t common. If she wants to go, I’ll find some way to make it happen. “Nothing’s stopping you from living anymore.”
“I’m happy where I am. It makes me feel close to everything we lost.” Her eyes wander to her brothers, next in line ahead of us, and I’m unable to tell whether they truly can’t hear us or are just pretending they can’t. “But if things were different . . . I don’t know. I just like imagining the possibilities. That’s part of freedom too—getting to dream, and knowing it could happen if I want it to.”
How is she always so good at making me both sad and happy all at once? “This world traveling has made you quite astute.”
Nessa giggles and I feel some of the distance between us lessen. For a moment we’re as we used to be—just two sixteen-year-olds fighting to survive. When all this is over, I’ll develop a university in Winter, or a library at the very least. A collection of history and science, words and books. A place where Nessa can be both who she is and who she could have been—one girl standing in a cavernous space, surrounded by swirling script and pieces of knowledge, staring up at each word with a strong, unwavering swell of hope.
Her smile eases, her hands tightening on her reins. She doesn’t say anything else, simply holds my gaze and waits there, expectant.
But a horse pulls up on my other side, and I turn to Ceridwen, who stares straight ahead as if she isn’t aware that she left the Summerian riders. Her posture is proper despite the way she grips a thick brown cloak around her shoulders, her white knuckles the only sign that she’s as uncomfortable as the shivering, bundled-up Summerian soldiers behind her.
She doesn’t say anything, and I cock a confused eyebrow at Nessa, who exhales, disappointed—had she wanted me to say something else? I start to ask, but she urges her horse ahead to ride next to Garrigan. Once she’s gone, or as gone as someone can be in a constantly moving caravan, Ceridwen turns to me.
“I thought I should prepare you for Yakim, Queen Meira,” she says, her face impassive. “I realize you have not had many dealings with other Rhythms, and this one is . . . unique. Queen Giselle is the product of a structured, logical society, and as such—”
“We’re talking now?” I don’t mean it as a rebuff and I catch myself, face falling. “Thank you for your concern, Princess, but I can handle a Rhythm on my own.”
You don’t have to help me. I won’t drag you into my war.
My horse whinnies as I push it forward, but Ceridwen’s hand snaps out and grabs my arm. She yanks it back as fast as it came and I loosen my horse’s reins, keeping it even with hers.
The nearest Summerian is a few good paces back, out of earshot. I lean toward her nonetheless. “What’s going on?”
Her eyes dart over mine, evaluating. “My brother already suspects me—and distrusts you. I can’t fan the flame by being seen with you too often.”
It’s the same reason I gave myself for not approaching her. “I’m sorry.”
She blinks at me, surprised. “For what?”
“You knew the man. The one we found in the wine cellar.” I keep my spine tall, my expression not giving away to anyone who might be watching that I’m speaking of a murder. “I should have . . . I don’t know. Helped you. I’m sorry I didn’t.”
“You shouldn’t be the one apologizing.” Ceridwen’s face breaks, her expression unraveling. “He was under my brother’s care—Simon is the one responsible. Just because someone has magic doesn’t mean they’re worthy of it.”
She doesn’t apologize or amend her statement to not include me in it, a monarch who has magic who might not be worthy of it, and somehow, that makes me respect her more. I need more people in my life who question me, who challenge me, who can admit I have faults.
“Did anyone find out who killed him?” I press, voice still soft.
She shakes her head. “Murders are not uncommon in Juli.” But her words hang in the air between us, and I know, were we alone, she’d expand on that statement.
Such talk is risky though, so I push for something light. “Tell me about Giselle?”
Ceridwen nods. “When you first met my brother, you noticed he tends to be . . . carefree?”
I glance at the Summerians behind us. Simon sits within a row of his soldiers, their leather breastplates accented with ruby-red cords. Behind him, tugged along by a pair of long-haired oxen, rolls an elaborate carriage of wine-dark wood painted with orange flames and golden sunbursts. Tassels hang at the edge of the slanted roof, and through those tassels a few faces peek. Isn’t that Simon’s personal carriage? Who are the people inside?
One of the faces turns toward me, and my jaw locks as my eyes catch on the brand on her left cheek. I swing to Ceridwen, who blinks in exhaustion.
“Yes, my brother brought a wagon of whores with him,” she growls. “Yes, he does this whenever he travels. And yes, this makes me want to cut off his man-parts, but there’s nothing I can do without defying him outright. But that wasn’t what I asked.”
I face forward, lips in a tight line. “The horrific heat of Summer distracted me quite a bit, but yes, I noticed that your brother was ‘carefree.’ Why does it matter?”
“Because Giselle is his exact opposite. There are benefits to being a kingdom focused on knowledge, but those benefits come at a price. The Yakimians who partake in their conduit’s enhancement of understanding are the upper class or a handful of lower class who have proven themselves useful. That’s the driving force in Yakim: use. Which makes them profitable and efficient as a whole, but when it comes to all the little pieces—” Ceridwen waves at the passing peasant folk, lugging their wagons or hauling along mules. “The way Giselle sees it, it is a wiser use of her resources to have a large population of poor who perform the bigger portion of menial labor jobs, and to have a smaller population of learned who perform the lesser array of specialized positions: physicians, professors, lawmakers . . .”
I squint. “So she lets most of her people live in poverty, though she has the knowledge and power to help them?” Ceridwen nods and I roll my eyes. “Why is it that of the handful of monarchs I’ve met, I’ve only liked one of them?”
She smiles. “Because it’s impossible to hate a toddler.”
I laugh, but my smile quickly fades. “But why?” I whisper. “Why isn’t Autumn as corrupt?”
Ceridwen tips her head on a half shrug. “There are some good men out there,” she says, her eyes fading to something beside my head, like she’s watching a memory play out. “What’s rare is to have a good, strong man, as opposed to a good, weak man. Those are the ones who ruin the world. Men who mean well, but buckle under others’ opinions until their good intentions destroy an untold number of lives.”
My hand goes slack on the reins. “You’re not just talking about Autumn, are you?”
Ceridwen lifts an eyebrow. “I’ll answer that question, Queen Meira, if you explain how you made it snow in Juli, and how you found a fire pit in my palace’s wine cellar.”
I tense. When I don’t respond, she smiles dully.
“We all have things we need to hide,” she says before she tugs her horse back to fall in with the Summerian party.