Ice Like Fire (13 page)

Mather couldn’t fault him for being angry. They all wanted someone to hate.

“Well, it seems she is,” Kiefer snapped back. “Where is she now? Off to be pampered by the good-for-nothings of Primoria’s other kingdoms while we’re feasting our days away, right?” Kiefer swept into a bow. “Once-King Mather, please direct me to the feasting tables. I do so desire a plate of our queen’s generosity.”

Blood roared in Mather’s head, the remnants of his anger with William adding fuel. “Stop it.”

Kiefer laughed. “Tell me you at least got a little of
our queen’s generosity
at some point.”

Trace jerked his face out of his knees, Phil shoved up from his crouch on the floor, even Eli blinked at his brother in shock. Hollis’s shoulders rose and one sweep of his body let Mather know he’d have support should he decide to tackle Kiefer.

Mather drew in deep breaths. It was just a weak outward sign of Kiefer’s inner struggle. They were all tired, all in pain, and fighting him would do nothing.

But it would feel so,
so
good.

“Leave Meira alone,” he tried. “You owe her your life.”

“Meira,”
Kiefer echoed. “Using her first name. She didn’t even know she was the ruler when you were with her, did
she? She thought you were the king. Mighty King Mather. She probably did anything you asked of her.”

“Quiet!”

“Admit it. It’d help knowing someone put her in her place while we were being put in ours.”

Mather didn’t remember consciously moving; all he knew was that he felt the smallest blip of relief that Kiefer had opened himself to this. Hacking at each other with practice swords only worked out so much frustration—real fighting, throwing true blows, released so much more, and as Mather’s fist smacked into Kiefer’s jaw, all his worries evaporated, if only for a moment.

Kiefer flew into the air, the force of Mather’s punch bouncing him off the barn wall and onto his stomach. Mather let him have two seconds to right himself before Mather jammed his knee into Kiefer’s neck. Not hard enough to snap anything, and he dropped an elbow down on his spine. Kiefer flattened on a wheeze, the air knocked out of him, and Mather twisted so he had the boy’s arms locked behind his back.

“Stop it!” Eli shouted. A few feeble punches danced across Mather’s shoulders before another force swept Eli out of the way. The younger boy collapsed on the floor and stayed there, staring with terrified eyes at his brother and Mather and now Hollis.

“Stay back,” Hollis snarled, and the younger boy cowered.

Hollis grabbed Kiefer’s hair and yanked his head up,
twisting it so forcefully that Kiefer cried out, the first sign of pain he had dared release. Mather admired him for being able to hold on so long, but then Hollis spoke, and anger flooded Mather’s body.

“You saw those Suns attack your mother,” Hollis growled, every word dark and horrible and so full of pain that Mather worried for Kiefer’s life, even as he kept the boy’s arms bent against his spine. “You saw them do that to more than just her, I know you did. How dare you wish that on the person who saved your pathetic life?”

Kiefer moaned, straining against the boys holding him, and when he did Hollis slammed Kiefer’s head into the floor before standing. Mather jumped up, releasing Kiefer’s arms and taking four steps back to put space between himself and the prostrate boy.

Eli scrambled toward his brother but snapped back when Kiefer snarled at him. Trace and Phil looked from Kiefer to Hollis to Mather, a gleam of pride in their eyes.

Mather ran a hand down his face. The rest of the former trainees might have eventually made good soldiers—but these boys would have definitely been a success. And now, who knew when Noam would lift the order? Or would he make sure Winter stayed crippled forever?

Mather’s eyes narrowed as he took in each of the boys. There were only six of them, including himself. Already they had managed four nights of sneaking off early and showing up hungover each morning—they could easily
be missed in the bigger rush and pull of construction and mining now that training had been canceled.

“New orders,” he said, and the boys in front of him jerked to attention, drawn by the gravity in his voice or the brightness in his eyes or the way he smiled,
really
smiled. “We’re not listening to the other orders. We’re making our own.”

Meira

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, was 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 and horses, 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 hotness 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 bought 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 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, turning the minuscule particles into daggers that 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 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 poof 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 of 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 to 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 be eager 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 for so long.”

“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. But 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.