THE POWER OF Things Concealed.
The next morning, the bold, swirling inscription above the doors to the Donati Palace’s throne room stares down at me. I lean against the wall directly opposite the two ornate white doors, their gleaming silver moldings and small sapphire accents adding beauty to confusion, and I touch the mask on my face.
“Are you sure this is necessary?” I ask.
“You don’t like it?” Dendera touches her own, a half-face white mask with small crystal snowflakes clustered around her eyes.
Ventrallan servants provided an array of masks suited to every kingdom, stock they always have on hand for foreign guests. The servants seemed absolutely thrilled that someone would finally get to wear the Winterian masks—it had been decades, apparently, since they had been more than pretty shelf decorations. Conall and Garrigan didn’t complain at all when they were forced to wear masks too, and they stand stoically beside me in simple white-silk half-face masks that blend into their ivory skin and hair.
“It’s not that,” I say. “I just don’t see why it’s necessary for us. We’re not Ventrallan.”
Dendera smiles but I can’t see more than that in her expression. “It’s respectful of their culture. Besides, if we don’t partake in Ventralli’s rituals, they would have the upper hand, wearing masks as they do.”
I catch my reflection in one of the gilded mirrors that line this hall. The mask she chose for me is half a snowflake, the straight lines forming natural eyeholes before fanning around my face. She curled my long, white hair and left it down, and when one of the servants offered us a collection of dresses and shoes instead of my worn gowns or an unfinished dress of Dendera’s, she teared up in the most perfect way.
Ventrallan fashion is unique, to say the least. Overlapping layers of pink and peach tulle make up this gown, with the topmost layer embellished by twisting strands of crystal beads. The sleeves are only one layer of the tulle, showing my pale arms through a haze of peach. I saw a few of the other dresses the servants gathered for us—slender, form-fitting things constructed entirely of jewels pressed side by side on flesh-colored fabric; skirts that dropped only to the wearer’s knees; neck pieces that fanned around in giant cones of stiff fabric. Each gown had the same deliberate feel as the buildings in the city, like every piece of them was cared for.
At least this gown came with a pocket, and the key I found in Putnam sits within, wrapped in a square of cloth. I adjust the layers of tulle around my legs, feeling the weight of the key shift against my thigh. Yet another introduction awaits us, and the sooner we get it over with, the sooner I can start scouring Rintiero’s museums for the final key.
Dendera straightens and turns, hearing footsteps as I do. Sure enough, the rest of our party starts toward us down the long, mirrored hall that stretches before the two ornate doors. Theron with his soldiers, all of them wearing their Cordellan uniforms, now accompanied by green-and-gold masks accented with golden maple leaves and lavender stalks. The mask makes it impossible for me to read Theron’s face, but he meets my eyes as he approaches, his lips parting as if he wants to say something.
I pivot away from him, back rigid, and search for Ceridwen in the crowd. Simon and his guards have masks befitting their kingdom, snapping flames that weave around their faces, blending flawlessly into their scarlet hair. Simon wears the same outfit he wore in Putnam—but the gown Ceridwen chose perfectly combines Ventralli and Summer styles. Red tulle pours from a band of gold around her chest, wrapping around her body until it splits and falls in two sections over her left leg. When she walks, bloodred silk peeks under the split of fabric, showing an intricate fire design stitched all the way up to her hip. More gold straps crisscross her torso, a beautiful blend of gold and red and orange, flames and beauty and art.
Ceridwen doesn’t look at me, staring at the doors as though they’re an enemy, and I can’t tell whether she’s preparing to run or fight.
“Princess?” I start when they all stop before us. “Are you—”
“Isn’t my little sister lovely?” Simon staggers to her and pats her cheek, resting the conduit on his wrist against her bare shoulder. “She’s just nervous, that’s all.”
Ceridwen flinches. “I won’t deal with you right now—”
The opening doors send a ripple of quiet over everyone, but for Ceridwen, the silence is harder, heavier, and she pulls into herself, head down, shoulders slumped.
“The king will see you now,” a steward announces, his mask made of simple purple-and-silver silk. He spins on his heels and strides into the room, and we follow, a slow river of dignitaries clinging to uncomfortable silence like it’s all that will save us from drowning.
I start forward when I notice Ceridwen lingering, her eyes stuck on the room ahead and slow, uneven breaths bursting out of her mouth. Everyone else passes us; even Dendera goes on ahead to give us space. Only Conall and Garrigan linger, and back by the wall, a man falls out of the Summerian group to hover behind Ceridwen. Lekan.
He meets my eyes, his own framed by a red silk mask. If he offers a warning in his gaze, I can’t see it, and I turn to Ceridwen.
“You defy your brother on a near-daily basis, but it’s Ventralli you fear?”
She shakes her head, coming out of her fog. When she looks at me, I recognize the same inescapable nothingness I’d feel whenever Sir refused to let me assist with anything. The dark, burning embers of not being enough.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper.
She licks her lips, her hands wringing against her stomach. “The king of Ventralli gave me this dress,” she says, almost as if she’s not aware she’s talking.
“It’s beautiful.”
“I shouldn’t have worn it.” She lifts the skirt and takes a few quick steps back down the hall, but she stops when Lekan and I start after her, and we all just stand there, me with one hand out, her with one hand in her skirt, Lekan coiled to spring to her.
“Ceridwen, tell me what’s going on,” I try again.
She glances back, her eyes bloodshot. Her gaze sweeps over me before she sniffs, straightens. “Nothing,” she snaps. “Once this introduction ends, follow me. I’ll take you to someone who can help with . . .” She touches her bodice, and I know she must have the tapestry tucked there.
I nod, still dumbstruck. “All right, but—”
She pushes past me, diving into the throne room before I can finish. Lekan hurries after her, bowing his head to me as he passes, and I think I catch a mumbled apology.
My eyebrows raise so high I’m sure they’re hovering over my mask. Conall and Garrigan seem just as confused, and Garrigan shrugs, offering me an encouraging smile. I take it and smile back at him, holding it on my face as I enter the throne room.
I grip my skirt in two tight fists, keeping alert in case whatever Ceridwen feared comes to pass. The throne room rolls out, a green-and-white marble floor swirling in a colorful dance beneath two rows of auburn columns. Sky-blue panels line the ceiling, broken only by a circle of gold in the center, bent to form a concave bowl that glitters in the light from the sconces around the room. Mosaics on the walls beyond the pillars create a kaleidoscope of green and brown that forms into shrubs, grass, maple and oak trees, and more. The gleaming golden dome above us shines down as a sun, casting us into an artist’s version of a forest, perfect and untouched.
I stop next to Dendera, trying not to gape too obviously at the wonder around me. The more I look, the more details I see. Like the tiled deer hiding behind a tree in one of the mosaics, or the rotations of the sun carved into the dome above us, or the king and queen of Ventralli, sitting on thrones made of—mirrors? Palm-sized mirrors cover each of the two thrones, giving the illlusion that the thrones have been turned into diamonds. The dais beneath the thrones holds also an assortment of courtiers, a handful of men and women—but one stands closer to the king’s throne than the rest. Her vibrant yellow mask does nothing to hide her obvious disdain, and she purses wrinkled lips at our arrival, bending low to whisper something in the king’s ear. Sitting there with the courtier on one side and the queen in her throne on the other, the king looks . . . trapped.
My awe flies away and a pulse of anxiety moves me forward, my body humming with the need to talk to Jesse and Raelyn before anyone intercedes on Winter’s behalf. Again. Dendera grabs my arm—the whole reason she came with me this time was to help me balance when to be impetuous and when to be calm. From the look she gives me, I can tell she wants to let the Ventrallan royals talk first.
As if sensing her cue, the queen rises. The older courtier woman pulls back from the king, eyeing the queen with some unspoken signal I can’t read.
Raelyn Donati’s gown swishes into place as if she controls every handful of fabric. A black bodice connects to cascades of black silk at her waist, the bundle falling down the back of her legs in an explosion of gleaming darkness. The front of her skirt is a riot of colors—layers of sunflower-yellow and blush-red tulle. Her mask combines her gown’s colors and fabrics, fastened discreetly into her thick, dark curls. Sharp hazel eyes take each of us in as if she’s sorting through different fabrics to pick the one she dislikes least.
She stops on Ceridwen. Even with her mask, Raelyn’s entire demeanor changes, moving from slightly bored to annoyed with a few twitches of her lips. I risk a glance at Ceridwen, who keeps her eyes on the marble floor, her body so stiff she may as well be one of the pillars.
Raelyn takes a single step forward and turns to me, stopping at the edge of the short dais on which the thrones sit. “Queen Meira,” she says, clasping her hands behind her back.
I brace myself. I expect Ventralli’s displeasure now that I realize what bringing Cordell on this trip signifies, but I still don’t know how they’ll retaliate. Giselle only rebuffed us—what will Ventralli do? Throw their weight behind Cordell?
But, to my surprise, Raelyn’s mouth opens in a sigh. “I am sorry to hear of your kingdom’s suffering, but glad to know you have at last achieved a state of peace.”
Her words are kind, but her tone is that of someone reciting the sentence at an execution. Dendera nudges me and I blink.
“Um, thank you.” I clear my throat. “Thank you, Queen Raelyn. Winter appreciates your . . .” Support? No. Empathy? Eh. “. . . well-wishes.”
She bobs her head in acceptance and turns to her husband. “My lord, our guests traveled all this way, and we haven’t yet offered them a proper Ventrallan welcome.” She puts her hand on Jesse’s arm. “We have a celebration planned in their honor tonight, do we not?”
All attention is on Jesse now. But though we look at him, he only looks at Ceridwen, his eyes wide, his neck muscles tense, his jaw clenched. I feel as though we all stumbled in on these two, and we should duck out to allow them privacy for some affair.
Air lodges in my throat and I do everything I can to keep from coughing in the silence. That’s exactly what I’m watching, what Simon implied, what Raelyn knows all too well, the way she touches Jesse and smirks at Ceridwen.
The Ventrallan king loves Ceridwen.
And from the way she glances up at him . . .
She loves him too.
That’s her secret. That’s why she seemed so disgusted by my relationship with Theron—we’re the same. And her relationship is just as broken as mine.
The older woman leans forward to put her hand on Jesse’s other arm, as if helping Raelyn hold him to the throne. Her touch shocks him and he launches to his feet, throwing off their hands in a way that makes both women blink in a sudden burst of surprise that no mask could hide.
Jesse looks down at the rest of us like he only just realized we were here. Like he couldn’t see anything beyond the fire that is the princess of Summer.
“Of course, my lady.” With his dark hair hanging loose around his shoulders and the simple red silk mask over his eyes, he complements his wife in every way. Every way except in how he keeps drifting back to look at Ceridwen, unaware of the fact that Raelyn moves to take his arm again, her slender fingers curving around him.
His hazel eyes flick over us once more and stop on Theron. “Prince Theron,” he says. “Of course. We were . . . we expected you. Yes. A celebration, tonight.”
Jesse turns to Raelyn, dipping his head in a bow again. “Yes. A celebration,” he agrees before spinning around and diving between the mirrored thrones. The older courtier moves after him, hissing something inaudible, and all I catch in return from him is a brittle “Not now, Mother.”
His mother?
A burst of silver reflects back—Ventralli’s crown, hanging in a holster at his hip. Thin silver spires hold an array of jewels, from rubies to emeralds to diamonds, all of it emitting the faintest silver glow, the same hazy aura of magic that emanates from all object-conduits. How did I not notice it before? And why does it hang from his belt, not sit on his head?
Jesse throws himself at a door behind the dais, ducking out almost as if he’s running from his mother, who follows in hot pursuit.
He doesn’t behave like someone who has the power to change his country.
As soon as he’s gone, Raelyn swings back to us. “We will see you tonight.” She flips her hand in dismissal and moves between the mirrored thrones as well, catching the older courtier by the arm before they disappear beyond the door Jesse exited through.
I start forward when a hand grabs my arm. “I didn’t get a chance to—”
But it isn’t Dendera—it’s Theron.
He hooks my arm around his as everyone else walks back down the throne room, pulling me along like we’re doing what’s expected of us, like we’re normal again. Dendera talks with Conall and Garrigan, but she sees Theron holding me, and her brows rise, asking whether or not I want her to intercede.
I turn to Theron, making that my answer.
“We’ll both get chances to speak with them,” he says, his voice sinking on the way he divides us. “Give them time.”
But as he talks, his focus wanders to the head of our group. Ceridwen lifts her gown and sprints down the room, followed closely by Lekan. She reaches the doors and bursts out, the clacking of her shoes echoing back, her brother and his men chuckling in her wake. My grip tightens on Theron’s arm, an involuntary spasm as I fit together more missing pieces.
“You knew about them?” I whisper.
Theron looks down at me, his other hand rising to cup my fingers. No, I didn’t mean to hold him like that, but he stares at me, and I can’t read his expression behind these damn masks.
“The rumor is that it began after she became an ambassador in Ventralli,” he says. “No one speaks of it. It’s been the scandal of the Donati family for years, and Raelyn used to care—until little less than a year ago.”
My jaw goes slack as I think back. “She gave birth to Jesse’s son. She secured the Donati conduit line, and no one could threaten her station anymore.” My lungs deflate, my eyes going to the door we’re approaching. “And yet, Ceridwen still loves him.”
I can feel Theron’s eyes on me, anchors that used to ground me, that now feel more like restraints. “He still loves her too,” he whispers. “No matter how many people tell him it’s wrong. No matter how many courtiers despise him for it. He’ll always love her.”
It seems like a bold statement—how could he possibly know that? Then he runs his thumb up the back of my hand.
He isn’t talking about Jesse anymore.
Thank everything cold, Nessa comes hurrying into the throne room, meeting us as we leave. “Meira,” she says, taking my other arm. “I need to show you something.”
She doesn’t flinch or correct herself for using my name, and that alone makes me want to kiss her, but the exit she offers throws me willingly after her.
“I’ll see you soon,” I say to Theron, pulling myself away from him. Dendera, Conall, and Garrigan follow, and I let Nessa tug me out of the room, pretending the mask is enough to hide the pang that ricochets over Theron’s face.
Maybe the masks aren’t so bad, actually. They let us live in worlds as untouched as the forest throne room—controlled and glittering, unmarred and perfect. A world where I can focus on the things I need to focus on, not the fragile emotions of broken relationships.
“I have to go after Ceridwen,” I tell Nessa, voice low, the moment we leave the ballroom. The hall is already empty save for the departing Summerian dignitaries, who turn left and head toward the front of the palace.
“I know, but this will help!” Her grip on my arm tightens and she hauls me to the left, dipping down a hall that branches off this main one. “I wasn’t about to just unpack and wait for news—so I asked one of the servants what tapestries are in the palace.”
She beams back at me, veering us left, then right again.
“Tapestries?” I ask.
“Like the one you found in Putnam. I thought maybe it would be a good place to start too! The servant said there’s a whole guild dedicated to the art of tapestry making, but it’s deep in the city. In the palace, though, they have hundreds, which wasn’t a surprise. But he showed me the—”
“He?” Conall cuts in, angling forward as we all practically sprint down the hall.
Nessa blushes but tries to fight it with a roll of her eyes. “Yes, he was a cheery seventy-year-old butler. Really, you don’t have to worry about me so much.”
Conall pulls back, grumbling to himself.
Nessa continues. “Anyway, he showed me some of the ones they’re most proud of and, well, look!”
She swings open a door to a gallery lined with tapestries: small ones depicting landscapes; large ones depicting battles; long tapestries depicting whole crowds. But none of them holds Nessa’s attention, and she drags me across the otherwise empty room to the far wall, where eight tapestries hang, identical in size and shape.
The four on the right I understand instantly.
One shows scarlet-haired people adorned in orange and red, flames on their uniforms, the fabric of their clothes twisting and sparse beneath leather straps and sandals. The background shows a cracked desert, the blinding sun beating down in startling gold thread, vines wrapping in a frame around the whole scene.
The one beside that shows men in satin tunics of teal, burgundy, and brown, and women in wrapping bands of the same brilliant satin, their black hair and dark complexions making them blend into the background of shadowed red, yellow, and brown trees.
The next shows women in pleated ivory dresses, and men with bundled fabric wrapping in X’s over their torsos. Snowfields cascade all around, the hazy, gray sky threatening more snow upon the scene.
And the last one—fields of flowers billow behind people in airy dresses of subdued colors, rose and eggshell and lavender.
The Seasons. The parts of Spring I’ve seen have been shrouded in war and the Decay, but this tapestry shows what Spring should be. The aged quality to the threads, the worn texture at the edges, makes me think these tapestries must be centuries old.
My breath catches.
The four tapestries on my left show the remaining kingdoms. Cordell, with its green and gold and fields of lavender; Yakim, with its brown and brass and gears; Ventralli, with its eclectic styles and colorful buildings; and Paisly, with its . . .
Mountains.
Nessa skips down to the tapestry depicting Paisly and points up, bouncing. “You showed us the tapestry you found before we left for Ventralli. I know Ceridwen has it still, but I think I remember it enough. This is similar, isn’t it?”
I stop before it, my mouth yanking open.
“Not just similar,” I say. “Those are the mountains.”
And they are. The exact same circle of mountains that I saw on the tapestry we found in Putnam gazes down at me—a ring of gray stones peaking sharply. But instead of a ball of magic stitched in the center, people stand within the ring, dressed in long, heavy robes of maroon and black with swirls of gold thread making intricate patterns up the bell sleeves. The high collars shoot around their ebony hair, the strands twisted into knots against their dark scalps.
“Paisly?” I ask. The tapestry showed the Paisel Mountains?
Or was it just a clue to lead us to the key?
I dive at the Paislian tapestry and run my hand over the thread. The dense fabric hangs from a clasp high up the wall, and most of the tapestry I can’t reach. But I analyze the edges, searching where I can, lifting the bottom of the tapestry. Nothing sits in the wall behind it, no pockets dip from the material.
As far as I can tell, there is nothing specifically related to the Order in this tapestry.
“It can’t be a coincidence.” I turn to Nessa. “Can it?”
She shrugs, her face falling ever so slightly. “Maybe this was wrong? Maybe those aren’t the mountains.”
I back up, staring at the tapestry again. They are the same mountains, though.
“Are we supposed to go to Paisly?” I wonder aloud.
Dendera scoffs, “Snow, I hope not.”
But that’s all I can deduce from this. The Putnam tapestry led us here. Didn’t it? Maybe we’ll find something else if we search Ventralli’s museums or guilds. Maybe this is just a weird coincidence.
My wondering stops dead as someone clears their throat at the door to the room. It’s the steward from earlier, hands behind his back, chin lifted.
“The king requests your presence,” he announces, and swings back out the door, easing away at a fast clip so he’s halfway down the hall before I even process what he said.
I snap my hands into fists and dive after him.
Dendera catches my arm. “Should we talk about this? We need to—”
“No,” I tell her, tone even. “The key isn’t here. I need time to figure out what to do next, and lingering around isn’t going to help. Besides, I need to meet with Jesse too. He certainly can’t make this any worse.”
But I don’t know what the Ventrallan king might want. Maybe he will find a way to make this worse.
We all follow the steward, leaving the Paislian tapestry behind.