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  “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.

  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.<
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  “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.