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.
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 inmore 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 whathasbrought 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 mybrother’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 wordcollectto figure out what had been happening the whole trip.
These soldiers are Summerian collectors. And their wagons hold people.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
Meira
THE INSIDE OFPreben 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 timeand 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 oneshe 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.”
