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  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.

  My stomach roils with nausea and I keep my focus on the light gleaming through the front door as I raise my voice. “When I return, King Simon, I’d like a tour of this . . .” I can’t say it. “Establishment.”

  So I can scour every surface for clues from the Order of the Lustrate and then run away.

  Simon cheers behind me. “Excellent! Of course!”

  I deflate. Ceridwen smiles, a small flicker of approval.

  My face pinches and my voice drops again. “Why are you helping me?”

  Her eyes flick to the slave who had spoken to her, hovering outside the brothel. He nods and ducks out of the courtyard, into the street.

  “As my brother said, Queen Meira,” she says, edging toward the door. “Solidarity.”

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  Meira

  THE TOUR OF the brothel takes three hours.

  Three hours.

  One wing of the building was built more than four hundred years ago. One caters entirely to people who like women; one, men; one, a mixture. The uppermost level holds private suites, one of which Simon reserved for us, but his offer was met with a firm, emotionless refusal. Theron figured out why I wanted a tour rather quickly, and spent the time analyzing details as much as I was. But not a damned alcove, plant, sculpture, or even a tile seemed to contain anything related to the Order of the Lustrate—no symbols like in the chasm, at least.

  So after far too many run-ins with nudity, I feigned exhaustion and Simon dismissed us to rest for the party that night.

  If this is how our search is going to go in every kingdom, I don’t think I’ll survive the trip.

  The celebration Simon promised—or threatened, more like—starts just after sunset. Again, Nessa and Dendera stay behind—this time, not for lack of trying on Nessa’s part.

  “Maybe if more of your court is with you, he won’t be so . . .” but her words trail off as she wrings her hands. I didn’t tell her everything that happened, just enough for her and Dendera to get the general idea of my stance on Summer.

  I squeeze her arm. “No, stay here. I won’t be gone long.”

  She holds my gaze. “You’ll tell me about it, won’t you? When you return?”

  I bite the inside of my cheek. If there’s any part of it I can tell you. “I’ll be back soon.”

  Nessa’s shoulders dip forward and she slides away, taking a seat next to Dendera in the corner of my room. She seems . . . defeated. Did she expect me to bring her? Even if I wanted to, her brothers wouldn’t allow it, and rightfully so.

  But Nessa offers a smile as I leave. See? She’s fine. It’s just this heat—it’s making all of us edgy.

  Dendera let me stay in my very unworthy-of-a-celebration pants and shirt, modest and more suited to Summer than a gown. When I meet Theron and his men in the hall again, he wraps his arm around my waist and tucks his thumb into my belt loops as if it’s his natural stance. I don’t fight him, too preoccupied with trying to prepare myself for whatever lies ahead.

  A servant leads us to a celebration hall, drums luring us in beats that vibrate through the sandy walls. Outside, faintly, more drumbeats can be heard, the start of parties reverberating through the city. Voices lift in laughter, and when we duck through an archway, a party unfolds around us.

  Orange, scarlet, and gold fabric wrap around columns of the sandy bricks within a massive open-air room. Four
stories of balconies lift up, ending in a swath of bluish-black sky in the process of sinking into night, encouraging fire pits that roar from every corner, torches that flicker along the walls, and fire-dancers who spew strands of flames over the tightly packed crowd. Cheers and squeals of pleasure ricochet from every direction, peppered with the clinking of goblets.

  If I thought it was hot in the brothel, it’s absolutely searing here. The nearest fire is in the mouth of a dancer against the wall, but the heat I feel is strong and sure and close, pulsing over my skin with deliberate yet chaotic fingers. The heat comes from the Summerians, their bodies radiating waves of it just like the impenetrable cold that surrounds all Winterians. It swarms me, blistering, unrepentant. A heat that could drive people mad, warp images, and blur thoughts.

  Theron leads me in, drawn by the swaying of the drums or the giddiness of laughter. My eyes dart from person to person, noting every brand like a beacon. Just as many slaves populate this room as non-slaves, serving drink or food or dancing with courtiers. Even the ones serving refreshments seem to be enjoying themselves, swaying with trays over their heads.

  Simon, dressed this time, sits in the center of a dais in the middle of the room. A grand orange tent caps the area, sunbeams sewn in gold thread glittering in the pulsing firelight. He reclines with the Yakimian girl who accompanied him earlier. She’s the first to see us, whispering a quick word of warning to Simon, who snaps his attention to the foot of the dais and beams.

  “Winter queen!” He leaps up, not even bothering to notice Theron this time. Why would a Season king so unashamedly disregard a Rhythm?

  Cordell doesn’t sell to Summer—which means they are of no use to Simon. And he obviously doesn’t care about forging any connection, because when he saunters down the dais, he actually shoves Theron out of the way to put his arm around my shoulders.

  “Meira! May I call you Meira?” Simon grabs a goblet from a passing tray and presses it to me. I take it only to avoid it spilling when he lets go. “Try this—you won’t regret it. A ten-year-old red. Delicious.”

  He tugs me forward, trying to pull me beneath the canopy over his dais, but I plant my feet on the floor, heat leaching steadiness from my body so I stumble.

  Don’t be stupid, Ceridwen’s voice echoes from my memory.

  “Thank you,” I manage, and duck out from under his grip before he can touch me skin to skin. His is one mind I’d rather not see into. “But Prince Theron is more of a wine lover than I am.”

  Theron blinks surprise when I thrust the goblet at him, but he takes it, casting me a suspicious look. “Yes,” he says, clears his throat, and turns to Simon. “Wine. I love it.”

  Simon smiles. “Really? Cordell does make a good ale, though.” He turns back to me, eyes squished as he thinks. After a moment, he snaps his fingers in realization. “I know just what will entice you, Winter queen!”

  I have to forcibly keep my nose from curling, but Simon spins me around and points to the far wall. “Food! Tables of Summerian delicacies. Don’t even try to tell me that you don’t like food.”

  His suggestion is so blissfully innocent that I actually smile, and he claps his hands, thoroughly enthralled with his ability to find something to “entice” me.

  “Come, come!” Simon loops his arm through mine, hauling me into the fray without a backward glance. Theron falls in behind, along with our guards, and I can tell by the way he bites his lips that he’s trying not to address the blatant Summerian brush-off.

  The food table sits between two sandstone pillars wrapped in luminescent yellow fabric. Behind the table, nestled into the wall, a fireplace crackles, the flames licking far higher than necessary—meant to be more of a decoration than useful, I’d imagine. Slaves dart around the table, refilling platters and, in a few cases, providing entertainment. Off to the side, funnels of vibrant flames launch from the mouths of Summerian dancers while balls of fire gleam in cages at the end of chains, flung in patterns as the slaves lunge and twirl and dip.

  Simon beams at them. “Lovely, aren’t they? Oh, try that—stew made of peanuts and sweet potatoes. Positively decadent!” He points to a bread bowl filled with lumpy golden mush and waves at one of the dancers. “Let’s show our guests a true Summerian celebration, yes?”

  The dancer nods, her smile unfurling even brighter, and motions to a cluster of musicians in the corner, the ones who have been pounding out steady, gyrating tunes. They see her cue and dive into an achingly fast song, drums thumping and tambourines shaking in a melody that throbs in me.

  The performers dissolve into a choreographed dance, spitting fire on certain upbeats, swinging the lanterns in tandem. Flames and heat, feet stomping, hips spinning, a dizzying array of light and energy that mesmerizes everyone around. Simon, his courtiers, the Cordellan guards, even my own guards and Theron, who stare with something more like awe than the passion of the Summerians. The dancers themselves, all Summerian, smile and laugh, engrossed in their own movements. The slaves not dancing watch with the same delirium, riveted with joy.

  As I watch the dancers, their aura of happiness cracks here and there. One of the dancers steps wrong, landing on her ankle in an awkward twist, and a painful wince flickers over her face. But her smile returns, her body carrying on the dance like nothing happened. Another dancer fights cascades of sweat that roll down his face, his breath coming in gasps that shake his whole body, but he smiles through it, lips in a tight grin.

  Enjoyment, enjoyment, everywhere—that is Summer’s reputation, after all.

  But so many of these smiles are forced by the man next to me, who grabs a platter of shredded pork, and cheers with delight as he eats and watches his people dance through twisted ankles and exhaustion.

  I grip my fingers into tight fists, every nerve taut.

  A door covered by dangling beaded strands catches my eye—or more the person who materializes next to it, to the left of the performance.

  Ceridwen.

  Everyone else in this part of the room seems hypnotized by the dance. For a moment, no one is watching me. The awareness of this one chance at freedom sends a wave of tingling need through me, so strong and unexpected that I latch on to it before I can think of a more logical reaction. But all I see is a goal before me—saving Winter from a Cordellan takeover, finding the Order or its key before Theron. And Ceridwen is the first person I’ve met whom I might be able to trust.

  Ceridwen turns to talk to a man behind her, the slave who was with her earlier. Together they duck through the arch.

  I cast a glance at the dancers, still hurling their bodies fast and strong with no hint that they might be slowing, and at the audience, still enthralled. Without another thought, I take a smooth step back, angle my shoulders, and fold into the crowd. No one notices me leave, and I brim with a sensation I haven’t felt in months—the thrill of sneaking, plotting, springing into a mission. Being useful.

  I dive into the archway, pushing through the dangling beads. The celebration dies behind me, this dark hall swallowing much of the noise. A few sconces flicker on the walls, a few doors open into more rooms, but I’m focused on the end, where Ceridwen and her companion whisper as they hurry into the darkness.

  I surge forward, dodging out of the way of slaves who emerge from various rooms with trays of food and drink. Ceridwen and the man duck into a room on the right and I follow before I realize it isn’t a room—it’s outside.

  The smell of straw, horse dung, and fire clogs the stable yard along with the occasional bout of cheering or complaining from a group of stable hands, bent over an intense dice game as they pass a few bottles of wine between them. Torches light the yard, revealing barns that wrap around the palace and out of sight. No Ceridwen, but I catch a glimpse of orange fabric and red hair on a barn’s roof directly across from where I stand. It vanishes . . . over the wall? Where is she going? She’s the princess—she should be able to leave through the front gate without question.

  Meira the soldier wouldn’t
hesitate to follow her. But Queen Meira should return to the celebration and hope that no one noticed her departure so that she can bridge some sort of peace between Summer and Winter.

  But the only Summerian ally I want is outside. If the muffled pounding of the same song is any indication, the dancing hasn’t stopped—everyone is probably still entranced by it.

  A stack of crates sits against one of the barn walls, providing an easy lift to the roof. I fling myself up, teetering on the old shingles, and step back to get a better view of the wall, hoping, maybe, that Ceridwen will pop back over. Faintness makes me sway and I wobble to the edge of the roof, heat draining me with each drop of sweat.

  “Hey there, Winterian.”

  I whirl. On the ground below stand two men, red hair matted to their dirt-streaked faces.

  One of them chuckles. “Your queen send you out to spy on us?”

  The rest of the stable hands hover over the crate they used as a game table, sipping wine from glass bottles and watching us with cocked brows. I’m torn between worry that I didn’t realize they snuck up on me and relief that they don’t know who I am. Of course they don’t—why would the queen of Winter be scaling barns, alone, at this time of night? She wouldn’t. She shouldn’t, for this very reason.

  My dagger burns against my wrist, but I don’t pull it out, don’t want them to know I have a weapon yet. I swallow, hovering up on the roof high enough that they can’t yank me down.

  Unless they climb the crates and come after me.

  The slightest tingle of panic starts at the back of my neck, but I shake it away. I’ve dealt with worse. I can handle this.

  “How long till someone notices you missing, girly?” One man juts his chin toward me. “Long enough to have some fun?”