Ice Like Fire (15 page)

I blink, certain I have to be seeing wrong. Every other part of Summer has been in a state of near collapse—but not this place? Why—and what is it?

An answer appears when one of the curtains to the alcoves shifts and a woman swaggers out, making her way to a staircase at the far end of the hall.

My eyes open so wide I feel them try to pop out of my skull.

She’s completely naked.

Garrigan gags on his shock. Conall lurches toward me, realizes there is no immediate danger, and settles for tight-lipped glowering. Theron blushes so dark his skin turns a deep purple-red, such an odd expression for him that I almost laugh.

Ceridwen doesn’t react at all, however. She marches down the center hall, throwing a nod at a man who rushes out to greet us. My contingent stumbles after her, silenced by our varying levels of shock and discomfort. The alcoves birth a few more people, curtains fluttering back to reveal the types of women we saw on our way into the city last
night, the ones clad in very little, along with men dressed just as scantily. Most lounge on chaises, beds, their limbs strewn, hair askew, and outfits more so. And, usually, they aren’t alone. The customers who populate their alcoves range from people in the tattered, dirty garb of peasants to the fine silk wraps of the upper-class.

This place is a brothel. And apparently feeds Summer’s economy regardless of class. How tolerant of them.

I suck in a breath and thank every piece of luck I’ve ever had that Nessa didn’t come. I don’t even want to imagine what Conall and Garrigan would have done, had their innocent, sheltered sister been thrust into a place like this.

Heat overwhelms me, makes sweat bead over my forehead and spread across my spine, waves of it dripping from the lack of ventilation and the way the noon sun heats the exterior of the building. This brothel feels more like an oven, and as we plunge farther down the hall, Theron next to me, Conall and Garrigan pressed against my back while Henn lingers behind, I half expect the sleeping men and women around us to start sizzling like they’re being cooked.

Ceridwen leads us to an alcove in the back right corner. There, flimsy curtains part around silk-covered pillows that glisten as the people sprawled on them writhe in sleep.

She waves within. “Here you are,” she snaps, and shoves back through us, leaving us standing there, blinking in shock between the alcove and her retreating form.

Theron’s brows rise. “I’m getting the feeling we’re not welcome here,” he whispers.

I smile at him. “Maybe you, Rhythm prince.”

He rolls his eyes and flickers a small grin at me before turning to the alcove. Five people sleep within, from what I can tell—they all overlap in a tangle of hair and limbs, shimmering satin and glinting gold jewelry.

“King Simon?” Theron tries.

No one moves.

Theron’s jaw tightens. “King Simon Preben,” he tries, louder.

Out of the hodgepodge of bodies, a head pops up. Even knotted in a web of pillows and other people’s limbs, he’s obviously young—not quite as young Theron or me, but no older than his midtwenties. Scarlet hair cuts in a tangle across his eyes, one of which he cracks open with a rumbling groan before touching something at his wrist. After a moment, he sighs in relief and refocuses on us, eyes curious.

Did he just use his conduit to cure his hangover?

Simon surveys Theron, lifts a brow, and shifts his attention to me.

“Burn me to a crisp! Is it morning already?” His face lights up as he springs to his feet. The movement rocks consciousness into the people woven with him, eliciting moans of displeasure that he brushes off as he stumbles over the bodies to teeter before us.

At which point I make a noise halfway between a gag and a scream and duck my head to avoid seeing far more of the Summerian king than I ever wanted.

He’s just as naked as the woman we saw moments ago.

Simon either misses my reaction or ignores it. “Queen Meira! I have been
most
looking forward to this—”

Theron clears his throat, not at all gracefully, and Simon barks laughter.

“Oh!” he says like he’d honestly forgotten. “Terribly sorry—one moment.”

There’s shuffling and a few more grunts from the still-sleeping courtiers in the alcove, and after a moment Theron nudges me, presumably because Simon has put away his . . . um . . .

The first time I ever see a man naked, and it’s the tactless Summerian king. Lovely.

I risk a look up at him to see that he’s draped a bundle of scarlet satin around his waist, and while he’s still not exactly dressed, I’ll take it.

“Queen Meira!” he tries again, and swipes a goblet from a table in the alcove. “It has been far too long since I’ve had the pleasure of a Winterian in my kingdom.” He waves the goblet around, encompassing the brothel. “Which is why I thought it best to make introductions here. I don’t imagine you’ve ever seen any of Summer’s splendors. A true shame, but one we will quickly remedy. Today you will have the whole of Madame Tia’s staff at your disposal—tonight,
you will join me for a true Summerian celebration at the palace. We will have food, we will have drink—”

As my mind scrambles through his words to realize he intends to make us stay
here
,
all day
, Simon thrusts the goblet at me, wine sloshing over his hand. Some of the dark liquid coats a bracelet on his wrist, a thick gold cuff with a turquoise stone in the center, surrounded by a steady glow of scarlet light. Summer’s conduit.

I want to tell him exactly what he can do with that goblet, but I manage some semblance of rationale through my fog of shock. He hasn’t done anything threatening—and honestly, he’s been hospitable. Just not the kind of hospitable I need.

Be nice, Meira.

A weak smile cracks my lips. “Thank you, but isn’t it a bit early for all this?”

He downs the goblet’s contents before chucking it into the mess of people and winking at me. “Not if you believe in yourself.” His focus shifts over us, more analytical, and he visibly wilts. “Cerie didn’t come with you? Flames on that girl. She used to be so fun. Did she even introduce herself? My sister, the most un-Summerian Summerian I’ve ever met, but when she
does
loosen up, guard the wine! Girl is a nasty drunk. In which case, I suppose she’s
very
Summerian.”

“King Simon,” Theron cuts in, angling between us. I bite back a sigh of relief. I don’t even know Ceridwen that
well, but I assume she doesn’t take too fondly to her brother calling her a “nasty drunk.” “We come with a proposition for you. May we plan somewhere to speak? Somewhere away from the bustle of the city?” He pauses, features angling. “I hear Summerian vineyards are most glorious to behold.”

I frown.
A vineyard?

Whatever link to the magic chasm or the Order of the Lustrate might be in this kingdom has to be somewhere that has survived the test of time—something important to Summer, or something just as old as the door.

That’s why Theron wants to go to their vineyards. Some of them have been around for centuries, and if any clues to the Order or the keys could have survived the trials of time—they could be at a vineyard. The carving of the vines on fire makes a little more sense.

My eyes lock on the tiles under our feet. The pride that wells on Simon’s face.

“I don’t imagine you’ve ever seen any of Summer’s splendors.”

Vineyards aren’t the only thing Summer values enough to keep preserved for centuries, though. And maybe the carving wasn’t supposed to be so literal.

My nose curls. Snow above, if I have to search Summer’s
brothels
for the Order . . .

Simon stumbles out of the alcove and hooks his arm around Theron’s neck. “Quite glorious indeed! We’ll make the trip tomorrow. Today, though—” His bloodshot eyes pin on me and he whistles, releasing a cloud of acidic
breath. “I would very much like to get to know the new Winterian queen. Not that I’m not honored to host the heir of Cordell, but we Season monarchs have to stick together. Solidarity.”

The scent of the wine on his breath makes me choke.

We’re guests in his kingdom. We need to be here peacefully.

He hasn’t done anything wrong. He hasn’t done anything wrong.

But no matter how many reasons I stack like bricks in a wall, my impulses batter through.

We’re guests in a kingdom built on slavery.

We need to be here peacefully—which is basically saying that we endorse his kingdom’s treatment of people.

He hasn’t done anything wrong—to me. But who else has he hurt? How many of the people here are slaves?

As if in response to my thoughts, one of the people in Simon’s alcove sits up. She’s dressed, thankfully, but her hair sticks out in the matted array of slumber, spiraling black locks that plaster to her tawny skin.

She isn’t Summerian. She’s Yakimian.

Heavy lines of gold paint around her eyes have bled down her cheeks and across her forehead. She pats her hair, and when she feels me watching her, she lifts hooded eyes.

I lock my jaw.

The smears of gold paint over her face almost make the small mark on her cheek unnoticeable. An
S
branded below her left eye, the skin singed but old, healed, something that she’s lived with for a while. Maybe forever.

I flick my attention around the hall. Servants sweep up messes and straighten chairs, a few more of the scantily clad people in the alcoves are awakening. Most of them are Summerian, their hair spilling in tangled clumps of fire red around their tan skin, their liquid brown eyes; only a few people from other kingdoms move about. All are branded, their marks just as old as the girl’s.

Summer brands its slaves. The servants who showed us to our rooms last night—were they branded? In the darkness, it was hard to see much of anything—and honestly, making sure the stones from the Klaryns got locked away distracted me. I focused on the things a queen would, not on the things a soldier would. The safety of our key to obtaining alliances, not the details of my whereabouts.

My body jolts with remorse. I should be glad that I acted like a queen—but all I can feel now is disgusted. How can I not remember whether or not the servants had brands? Or even if they were Summerian? But the Yakimian slaves here move around the brothel exactly the same as the Summerian slaves, with no inclination to fight back or strain against the life Simon chose for them. No matter how much he is able to make Summerians accept their lives, no amount of magic could make him able to affect someone he bought from another kingdom.

Have these Yakimians lived this life so long they don’t know to fight back? Where are the people who don’t accept
this fate? Those have to be kept away from newcomers, so as not to spoil the illusion of pleasure. So anyone who visits sees the same fake perfection that made Spring keep its Winterian work camps inland, away from its interactions with the outside world.

That’s it. That’s all I can handle.

I whirl away from Simon, still wound around Theron’s neck, and dive for the door, at the end of the long hall lined by the other alcoves. My guards follow, and I can’t help but think they all sigh with relief to be leaving.

Ceridwen leans against the door, her arms folded and her eyes pinched. How long has she been standing there, watching her brother’s spectacle unfold?

A Summerian slave appears beside her, whispers something in her ear. By the time I reach her, she shoves off the wall.

“Forgive her, brother,” Ceridwen calls back down the hall. “She complained of the heat last night—our climate is a bit harsh for Winterians, you know.”

I don’t look back, and honestly, I’d run right out of the brothel if Ceridwen didn’t catch my arm and hold me in place. From behind me, Simon chirps.

“Cerie!” Rustling, a solid bump as he slams into the wall beside his alcove at the end of the hall. “I thought you weren’t yet back. You must come tonight as well! I miss you, sister.”

Is he still drunk? The expression on Ceridwen’s face makes it hard to tell whether or not he’s sincere. She doesn’t say a word, letting the silence stretch until Simon regains himself.

“But, yes, take a moment, Winter queen! Get some air.”

A growl ruptures in my throat, and Ceridwen angles her head at me.

“Don’t be stupid,” she hisses.

I rip out of her hold. “You have no idea what—”

“I don’t?” Her lips tighten and her voice dips lower than a whisper. “No, you’re right. It’s not like I’ve lived here for nineteen years. I have no idea what my kingdom is like. For instance, I have
no idea
that if you visibly act out against my brother, he’ll retaliate. Unless you want him to start forcibly taking slaves from Winter, don’t let him know you despise him.”

“What?” All air drops out of my lungs. “He wouldn’t dare.”

Ceridwen snorts. “And what’s to stop him? A few years back, King Caspar reacted to my brother as you did. Storming off, opposing him outright. Weeks later, I found a group of Autumnians forcibly put in a slave house south of Juli. So, I reiterate,
don’t be stupid
.”

I stagger, muscles coiling. “Did Caspar find out?”

This building feels too open yet too small all at once, and I have no idea if Simon can hear us. I glance back, briefly, to see him and Theron in conversation by the alcove.
Theron dips his eyes to me once and offers a small smile.

He’s distracting Simon.

My chest cools, gratitude nudging away some of the hurt I still feel toward Theron.

Ceridwen draws my attention back. “They were freed soon after,” she says, neither confirming nor denying that she was the one to free them. “But those whom Summer brands don’t have much of a life afterward. Don’t risk your people. Tolerate my brother—put up with his antics.”

I pause next to her, forcing my brain to process her words through this stupid heat, through my hatred of Simon, through my desire to tear out of this brothel and flee back to Winter.

She’s right, though. I do need to put up with his antics—for now. Didn’t I just wonder if this place holds any clue toward the Order or the key? I can’t leave. Not yet, anyway.