Ice Like Fire (14 page)

Juli is drastically different from the smaller villages. No wall encircles the city, just a disorganized array of sandstone buildings leaning against one another on the bank of a tributary in the Preben River system, a collection of southeast-branching offshoots of the Feni, all of them too narrow to provide docking for the ship we rode in on. Fires burn in giant rooftop pits, and in roaring bonfires in squares, and even in the mouths of fire-dancers, keeping any rays of inky black night from encroaching on the never-ending party of Juli.

That’s what this city is: a celebration. Each street we weave down is packed with people, their hair as red and wild as the fires they tend, their skin the same creamy tan as Ceridwen’s. They stumble from building to building, giggling to friends, beseeching stall vendors for wine, the ruby liquid sloshing over the rims of goblets and staining the roads like puddles of blood. Women in corsets and lacy skirts lean against the doorways of buildings each in
more disrepair than the last—glassless windows, gaping holes through sandy walls that show tables hosting card games and bowls for dice throwing. Like the party can’t be stopped long enough to fix the city.

Conall and Garrigan plaster their horses on either side of Nessa and me, each holding naked daggers. Not that anyone tries to interrupt our travels—if anything, everyone seems to avoid us, not wanting to be involved in whatever has brought another Season and a Rhythm to their kingdom.

And what
has
brought us here makes me analyze the buildings we pass with more urgency. The key or a clue to the Order could be anywhere. What if one of the people we’re riding past knows something? What if that dilapidated building has been around for centuries and holds a key in its depths?

Where do I even start?

Ceridwen remains stoic, guiding her horse through the ocean of people like she doesn’t see them. She stays just ahead of the Summerian soldiers, which puts her close enough to me that I can see the way the skin around her eyes tightens with every cheer from the people around her, every distant, muffled laugh, every time one of the Summerian soldiers whistles at the women leaning in the doorways.

Summer’s kings have been famous for using their conduit with little regard for the true welfare of their citizens. They don’t control their people as completely as Angra did, forcing them to enjoy murdering and torturing enemies,
but they do force a similarly damaging emotion: bliss, so much that their army is apparently a joke, their cities sit mostly in ruins, and their economy functions solely on the profits they gain from wine, gambling, and brothels.

When Sir taught us about Summer, my reaction had been similar to Conall’s and Garrigan’s now as they growl at every passing Summerian. How dare they sit in this fog of happiness when so many in the world suffer?

If the city of Juli is a party, the palace is its hub. We pass through an open gate, the soldiers on duty throwing us disinterested glances from where they slump against the wall. A courtyard opens around us, a wide, dusty area with a stable on our right, a cluster of the same dilapidated, sandy buildings as the city, and before us, rising up in a mess of creeping green vines, stubborn spiny plants, and crumbling sand bricks, is the palace.

Ceridwen swings off her horse and passes it to a stable boy. “Welcome to Preben Palace,” she tells us, waving her hand at the building. Her eyes linger on it, her face pulling with the same emotions I experienced when I first saw the Jannuari Palace. Worn down, dejected, and above all, tired. But she shrugs it off before it stays too long. “I will arrange rooms for you.”

“King Simon will want to meet them as soon as possible,” the lieutenant says.

Ceridwen’s eyes flick over each of us in turn before she shoots a glare at the lieutenant. “I’d hate to interrupt my
brother’s revelry with political matters,” she snaps before turning back to us. “No, introductions can wait until tomorrow. I’ll be along around midday to collect you.”

The lieutenant laughs again, an abrupt crack of noise alongside the continuing choruses of shouts and drumbeats. His laughter makes me harden, and I groan at myself for having to hear the lieutenant laugh at the word
collect
to figure out what had been happening the whole trip.

These soldiers are Summerian collectors. And their wagons hold people.

Meira

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. Using it for those few moments in Gaos awakened my need to have it, and that, coupled with the lightness of the pleated gown I slip on, makes me feel naked without it. 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 in works of functional art.

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 me 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 up with 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, eyes closed, 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, and I shiver.

Theron nods toward the room his men guard. “It’s also probably best if we don’t parade our goods 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 one of Summer’s court ladies. Orange fabric wraps around her legs, twisting and folding 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 of scraggly trees placed in strategic rows, stable hands running about, dust puffing up in clouds of orange. And beyond the wall, Juli rises, its buildings as dusty and 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 such 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 says, half a statement and half a question, 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 knuckles 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 folds the dagger back into her palm, ripping out of my grip as she does. “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 atmosphere intensifies when we step inside. What walls looked run down on the outside are perfectly kept here, smooth panels of cream-colored stone with gold molding winking from every corner. A hall stretches down the center of this level, polished tiles glittering in a rainbow of colors on the floor and drooping plants keeping guard outside dozens of curtained alcoves.