Damocles lets out a long sigh, and I study him. It’s like staring into a cursed sort of mirror, because while we share so many features, I could never imagine myself looking similar to him. He stands stiff as a statue, with cropped golden hair, a permanent straight line for a mouth, tan but never burned skin, and robes that don’t even have a whisper of a wrinkle. On a chain around his neck hangs a gleaming shell: the token of Summer that signifies his status as High Ruler. With that little charm, he can return to Castletree from anywhere in the Vale.
Now,thatis interesting.
“Daytonales, this is not an arrangement nor a duty, but it is a prospect you should seriously consider for your future.”
“Seriously consider? Seriously, Dammy?” I spread my arms wide and step back. “You know I don’t understand what the wordfuturemeans.”
He breaks my gaze and massages the bridge of his nose. “Be presentable for the Autumn Royal Family’s arrival this afternoon. I expect you to be on your best behavior for the welcome gala tonight.”
“Of course, High Prince.” I turn without waiting for a formal dismissal.
Outside the throne room, I slip out of a window and down a rocky ledge to stare at the foaming water breaking upon the shore.
A prospect you should seriously consider for your future.
Damocles thinks the future means court and politics, rules, and meetings. Trapped in a tree where you don’t fall asleep to the sound of waves.
No, my future isn’t there.
My future is the oceans, the grand horizon, and, of course, the sands of the arena.
2
Farron
The marble floor is so perfectly polished, I can see my reflection in it like a pond. If only it were made of water, I could sink straight to the bottom and never emerge.
I’m no stranger to parties. I often travel with my family throughout Autumn, celebrating harvest and new moon festivals. Not to mention, my book club at the Scriptorium can get positively raucous at our year-end celebration. Why, last time, Professor Thiran even cracked open his aged single malt whiskey, and we all took a nip. By night’s end, we were poring over poetry about falling stars and tide-kissed sailors. Certainly not the work of scholars. Ah, wild times.
But parties in the Summer Realm are a completely different beast. Here at Soltide Keep, the heart of Hadria, men and women saunter through the ballroom, sashaying by coral-encrusted pillars wearing less clothing than I do when I’m merely in my undergarments. Mother insisted we dress per their customs. My father, Padraig, embraced it; I catch sight of him now, juggling three pomegranates for a wide-eyed crowd of Summer children. His barrel chest, smothered in bright redhair, is on display, barely contained by the rivers of white cloth draped over one shoulder.
I subconsciously pull at my own clothing, a sheet of swathed orange fabric, wishing it covered more of my pale chest. Despite it not being the custom, I did, in fact, keep my undergarmentson.
Soltide Keep, I must admit, is truly an architectural marvel. It’s no wonder it’s also known as the Summer Palace; it appears designed for beauty rather than fortitude. The palace is crafted of organic sea matter with bones of stucco, plaster, and colored tiles that form gorgeous mosaics. Though the floor is marble, the pillars and ceilings are the lightest pink, appearing as if cut from coral. Glistening tide pools are carved into alcoves, smelling of briny ocean and filled with all manner of sea stars, barnacles, and seagrasses.
It’s gloriously cool within the palace, despite the heat outside. The season never changes in the four realms: the Summer Realm is always blistering hot, Winter cold and unyielding, Spring fragrant and green, and my own Autumn Realm is always crisp and colored in a cornucopia of reds, yellows, oranges, and browns. But all the realms observe the annual calendar, which is based on the seasons around Castletree—the only place in the Enchanted Vale blessed to experience all four seasons.
I imagine Castletree is beautiful right now, basking in warm sun and balmy breezes through the glorious meadows and forests that surround it.
Servants stroll through the ballroom holding platters of food, including bread baked with olives, palm leaves stuffed with figs and dates, and even sea urchins, still with their spines. I don’t dare attempt one of those, but I do help myself to two honeyed custards and a glass of saffron wine.
I know Mother wants me to mingle with everyone—especiallythe Summer Royal Family—but my feet are planted to the floor. Thankfully, no one has wandered over and attempted to make conversation with me. I purposely chose my location to blend in: surrounding me are pedestals adorned with marble busts, depicting the previous High Rulers of Summer as well as famed gladiators, sailors, and artists.
“Great party, isn’t it?” I turn to the bust right beside me. The man’s marble eyes stare back, emotionless yet piercing. “Come here often”— I peer down at the plaque below the bust—“Aeneas?” Aeneas, the first High Prince of Summer, does not respond. The perfect company for a party. “So, how about the honeyed custards?” I nudge the pedestal with my elbow as if we’re old friends. The movement makes the bust wobble, and with a yelp, I snatch Aeneas’s skull and steady him. A servant gives me a stern glare as she passes by with more goblets of wine.
Sighing, I mumble, “I’m hopeless.”
Even my baby sister isn’t as pathetic as I am. Princess Eleanor, our sweet Nori, despite barely being of age to attend school, is peering over a tide pool and pointing at the various treasures within. Though I can’t hear what she’s saying, I know she’s likely reciting memorized facts to her captive audience and apparent chaperone for the evening, Prince Decimus of Summer.
I search my memory for everything I know of the Royal Family. Decimus is the middle child, an accomplished gladiator and the Imperator of Summer’s army. His mother, Princess Sabine, married twice, first to Cenarius, a bard-warrior, then to Ovidius, a famous navigator and naval commander. Having multiple spouses is not unusual in the Enchanted Vale, though certainly it is more common in Summer than in Autumn.
Decimus is sired by Ovidius, I recall. They share the same dark brown skin and prowess with a short sword, but whereOvidius wears his hair in long braids and boasts an impressive beard, Decimus’s hair is shorn, his face clean-shaven. Despite Decimus’s fearsome reputation in the arena, he appears to be endlessly patient with Nori, nodding as she rambles on about her tide pool findings.
Even my brothers are honoring Mother’s wishes to mingle. Dominic and Billagin—imps disguised as boys—have cozied up next to the warriors Ovidius and Cenarius and are attempting their own gladiator match against one another, using skewers from the fruit plates. Like Decimus, the prince consorts show incredible patience. I watch as Ovidius puts his hands on their shoulders to correct their form, while Cenarius, a bronze-skinned man with a wild tangle of blond hair, laughs and cheers beside them.
Princess Sabine, the matriarch of the family, wanders over to watch this mock gladiator match, and my pulse rages in my ears. Our family has visited Hadria before and hosted their Royal Family in Coppershire, but the sight of Sabine never fails to make my heart quicken. With her blond hair braided into an elaborate crown upon her head, skin tanned from days in the sun, and eyes like aquamarines, she’s beautiful as the dawn. Legends of sirens flutter through my mind, though I don’t imagine any creature could be as lovely as she.
Sabine jumps between Dominic and Billagin, wielding her own skewer, and both her husbands laugh. After a valiant attempt to waylay my young brothers, Sabine allows them to strike the final blows and collapses to the ground in a dramatic display. Sabine was once a High Princess like my mother before she passed the rule to her eldest son. I try to conceive of my mother engaging in play of such a sort, but find my imagination lacking.
