Ice Like Fire

by Sara Raasch

  When I got here it was set to heat to combat the chill of proper spring, and the amount of time I’ve spent twisting various knobs and oohing to myself about the instantaneous temperature change is not something I’m proud of. But giving into the amazement of the gadgets proves to be a monotonous-enough activity that my mind clears, letting plans to search for the next key form over my building nerves of meeting the Yakimian queen.

  I twist the knob to the left. Hot. To the right. Cold.

  I’ve at least decided what type of building I want to search first. The clue that led Theron to guess Yakim in the magic chasm’s entrance was a stack of books. There are dozens—maybe hundreds—of libraries throughout Yakim, but I can start with the oldest sections in Putnam’s, searching for anything that seems unusual. But Theron will no doubt do the same. Should I try to work with him this time? But he still has the first key—if he gets the second one too . . .

  I need leverage over Cordell. And I need to focus my search on the Order of the Lustrate and finding out more about magic—areas I definitely don’t want him involved with.

  This is what it comes down to. Choosing the well-being of my country over the well-being of my relationships.

  The door to my room opens and I rise, grateful for the interruption.

  Dendera leans in. “The rest have gathered not far from here. Come, I’ll show you.”

  I lift the skirt of my pleated gown as Dendera whips back into the hall, flanked by Conall and Garrigan. She didn’t offer to let me wear normal clothes again, but even I can tell that this place is far less physically threatening than Summer, and I can’t rationalize bringing a weapon when so much relies on befriending Giselle. The only threats here are political or emotional: threats derived from prejudice and thinly veiled remarks. I hope.

  The halls of Langlais Castle hold the same strange gadgets and furnishings as my room. The occasional panel of knobs sits in the stone walls, hazy yellow orbs emit steady light, a thick overlay of woven brown carpet covers the floor. Everything would be dreary and dim if not for the lights—their continual glow makes the hall feel bright and steady, as opposed to the usual flickering sconces or fire pits I’m used to.

  Dendera leads Conall, Garrigan, and me down two halls before stepping into a wide study. Leather chairs sit on a patterned auburn rug, the walls lined with shelves holding so many books that I’m reminded of Theron’s room. These books feel different, though—where Theron’s were cared for or laid out for doctoring, these are arranged deliberately, yes, but pages poke out of the tops, the bindings show thread and creases, and a few covers dangle off. I’ve never been particularly concerned with the things that Theron holds on to from his mother’s Ventrallan side, but even I feel a hollow thud in the pit of my stomach when I see the state of these books.

  Theron stands from one of the leather chairs and crosses the room to me when I enter. “One of the reasons Ventralli and Yakim have a rather strained relationship,” he explains, his eyes sweeping over the shelves around us. He massages the back of his neck and winces like he’s trying to fight an ache, whether from the state of the books or the growing stress of travel. “Difference of priorities—art versus information.”

  “I’ll refuse to be fascinated by any of their other inventions,” I promise, and he smiles.

  “Been playing with the temperature gauge, have you?”

  My cheeks warm. “Maybe.”

  He bobs his head in understanding. “The first time I visited Putnam, I missed a state dinner because I broke the temperature gauge and nearly burned my room down. Then I managed to trap myself in one of their”—he searches for the word—“lifts, I think they call them. Rooms that move up and down in lieu of stairs. This whole kingdom is one big trap.”

  I blink, incredulous. “Why haven’t I seen these devices before? I’d think Yakim in all their efficiency would sell these things to the world.”

  “They’re willing to sell what they need to survive, but knowledge is power, and these things, however small, are their power.”

  “Probably for the best, anyway.” I grin. Snow, it feels good—normal—smiling at him. “I’d hate to have any easily distracted princes injured by warm coils and rooms that move.”

  Theron lifts an eyebrow, but the pink tint to his cheeks tells me he’s just as glad for this light banter. “And how long did you fiddle with the temperature gauge?”

  “That’s none of your concern.”

  “Thought so.”

  Dendera leaves to help Nessa unpack. Conall and Garrigan position themselves just inside the room, doing their best to blend into the background as Theron leads me to a thick sofa. Henn is absent this time, letting them have their first solo mission outside Winter, and I stifle a smile at the way Garrigan cannot keep his beam of pride from flickering across his face.

  Simon and Ceridwen sit on the floor next to this room’s temperature gauge, far less uncomfortable beneath the rays of heat wavering out of the coils. Everyone wears representations of their kingdom: Theron is dressed in Cordell’s green-and-gold military uniform, I wear white and silver. But Ceridwen and Simon are the most dramatic.

  Simon looks like he’s purposefully adorned himself in every symbol of his kingdom. A square of scarlet fabric held in place by crisscrossing braids of red string forms a decorative breastplate that covers his otherwise bare torso. On the scarlet square an orange-and-red flame licks the fabric and Summer’s conduit glows on his wrist. His eyes are lined with gold paint, his scarlet hair pulled into a high ponytail decorated with small sunbursts and clusters of rubies. He should seem regal in so much finery, but the way he leans against the wall, legs spread before him, head drooped, he looks like a little boy forced to dress up for a special occasion. I half expect him to break into a tantrum.

  Ceridwen has changed from her layers of fur back into an array of straps and patches of fabric, with baggy pants around her thighs and sandals that twist up her shins. Despite her simpler wardrobe, she looks far more regal than her brother—even with, or maybe because of, her only other adornment: a red flame painted beneath her left eye, in the place where all Summerian slaves are branded.

  My eyebrows shoot up and though I know she catches my surprise, she doesn’t react, just turns back to the temperature gauge and holds her hands out to it. Is she usually so bold?

  A throat clears, and I jump when I notice the only person in the room I don’t know. A man towers inside the door, and from the startled expression on the faces of my guards as well as Theron’s and Simon’s, no one else noticed him enter either. He trains fathomless black eyes on me, the wrinkles in his dark skin and the gray in the twisted coils of his dark hair putting him at around Sir’s age. A thin scar runs from his temple down to his chin, cutting through his cheek in the smooth, pale tone of a long-healed injury.

  He clasps his hands against his stomach. “Queen Giselle requests you join her in Putnam University’s laboratory. Carriages await you,” he says, eyes meeting mine. Though the connection lasts only a few seconds, I get the impression he’s analyzing me.

  We are in Yakim, though, which is known for study. And he’s dressed as if he just came from a laboratory himself—a leather apron hangs over a white shirt rolled to the elbows and tight brown breeches. But now that I study him longer—don’t most Yakimians have lighter tawny brown skin, not the dark shade this man bears? Maybe their skin tone varies and I just didn’t pay attention during Sir’s lessons on Yakim.

  Before I can read more, the man sweeps out the door as noiselessly as he came.

  We all rise to follow him and I turn to Theron. “The queen is at the university?”

  He nods like it’s expected, one of his hands straying to brush over the breast pocket of his uniform. The action washes my responsibilities over me in a wave. The Summerian key. He’ll want to go searching for the Yakimian one after we parade our lie-that-isn’t-a-lie.

  But for this kingdom, it won’t be a lie on my part. I still want an ally to help me stand a
gainst Cordell—Ceridwen is helpful, but I need someone strong enough to offset Noam’s hold. The goods from our mines are already locked up again, awaiting the time I can offer them to Giselle—without Simon present.

  More delicate politics. More planning and scheming that make my head ache. But remembering that this meeting will be less fake for me than when we met Simon makes me stand a little straighter, build up more resolve.

  “Giselle spends much of her time there,” Theron explains. “She—”

  “—wastes time inventing light switches when she could be curbing the poverty in her kingdom.”

  I cock a look at Ceridwen, who closes the back of our group behind Theron and me, her demeanor not hinting in the least that she just insulted the queen of Yakim.

  Theron shrugs. “Some would say so,” he offers, eyes flitting to the servant, still within earshot.

  Ceridwen fans herself. “My, I forgot how thin the air gets when more than one Rhythm is in the same place.”

  Theron scoffs but throws a wink at Ceridwen. “Jealousy isn’t a pretty color on you, Princess.”

  Ceridwen drops her gaze from him to me and back up again, her eyes rippling with true emotion. It’s gone before I catch what it is, something that pulls at the mysteries she harbors.

  “And a Season isn’t a proper lover for you, Prince,” she retorts.

  All the air rushes out of my lungs. I’m still gaping as she leaves, pushing ahead of us to stand with her brother behind the servant. I can feel her words wiggle their way through the wall I’ve built around my feelings for Theron and point out how much distance remains between us, despite his lofty promises to bridge the gap between Rhythms and Seasons. Despite how I’m not sure I want him to.

  Theron grabs my hand. “She doesn’t matter.”

  I risk a glance at him, but he stares straight ahead, jaw set, eyes hard.

  We wind through a few halls to descend into the castle’s entryway, a short but wide room with two walkways on either side of an arched wooden bridge. Wheels spin in a bubbling stream that flows through the center of the room itself, a miniature version of the great, rolling ones that turn in the Langstone River. The water makes the room warm and moist, and as we cross the bridge and exit the castle, the air is only slightly cooler outside.

  A yard stretches around us, green and buzzing with stable boys and Yakimian dignitaries, the gray stone of the complex wall rising at the edge of the grounds. Carriages await us at the bottom of the stairs, the servant already perching on the driver’s bench of one. His eyes are on me before I notice him, and when I do, he levels that amused, analytical gaze at me again.

  I frown. Does he find me that fascinating? Actually, as I’m the recently resurfaced child-queen of the fallen Season, he probably does. That doesn’t stop me from tightening my frown in an unspoken question.

  His lips twitch in a smile that stretches through his scar and he faces the road ahead.

  Within his carriage, Ceridwen waits, her chin propped in her hand. Another carriage holds a few Cordellan soldiers, while the last one is Simon’s, the wine-dark wood connected to oxen. With a curl of my nose I climb in alongside Ceridwen, followed by Theron, Garrigan, and Conall. Once we’re all accounted for, the carriages move out, dragged down the sweeping road that runs in front of Langlais Castle and out into the city.

  Putnam is like every other Yakimian city I’ve seen. Thatched roofs, whitewashed walls, brown wood beams in X’s to support the structures and add some simple decoration. The buildings around the palace stand four and five stories in the air, tall things that reek of wealth, with giant clocks at the tops of towers and copper pipes coiling in intricate designs down the sides of buildings. The people who mill around these buildings are dressed as expensively as their homes, with tall brown hats, wide ivory skirts, pocket watches dangling from jackets, and canes tipped with gold. The fashion rivals Summer’s leather straps and lack of clothing with its oddity, and I can’t stop myself from staring as we roll past.

  As we cross a bridge over a branch of the Langstone River, the buildings get a little drabber. Shorter, skinnier structures with cracked walls, tiles missing on roofs, dirt smudged on windows. The fashion remains much the same, only dingier as well, and more people work as opposed to stroll down the streets.

  Ceridwen leans her elbow on the window across from me, our knees bumping with every jostling sway of the carriage. She surveys me as we ride, her eyes darting every so often to Theron, still holding my hand, but his attention is out the opposite window, his expression murderous.

  We sit in heavy, choking silence, until at last Ceridwen heaves a long sigh.

  “They built Putnam University away from the castle, in the center of the city,” she starts, just to fill the air with words. We roll past a glass shop, a fire roaring behind a man who blows into a long metal tube. A bubble of translucent white forms before we’re gone, rolling onto the next street. “Yakimians thought it better to divide their assets in case of war.”

  I shift and Theron’s grip on my hand tightens, almost painful, refusing to let go of me. My throat convulses as I add my own words to plug any leaks that might spring in the awkwardness. “Not so everyone in the city could have easy access to it?”

  Theron glances at me, surprise cutting through his anger. Should I have stewed in silence? Besides, what she said moments ago wasn’t wrong. Just blunt.

  Ceridwen shakes her head. “Sadly, no. Only certain Yakimians have access to the universities spread throughout the kingdom. The rest . . .”

  She waves her hand out the window, at a group of children carrying wooden rods hung with dozens of heavy iron horseshoes. Their skinny legs barely seem strong enough to hold up their own bodies let alone the weight of the iron, their faces smudged with soot, their clothes rumpled and stained.

  My stomach tightens. “Giselle isn’t trustworthy, is she?”

  “She’s similar to my father,” Theron adds slowly. I squeeze his hand. “I often wonder why he agreed to marry a woman from Ventralli rather than Yakim. Yakim shares more of his beliefs—efficiency, structure, enterprise. But despite their commonalities, there is still one difference big enough to put off even my father.”

  “What is it?” I ask. But Ceridwen already points outside. I follow her finger to an alley back the way we came and the carriage rolling down it, deeper into the city. The wine-stained wood boasts the painted flame of Summer. It would seem Simon has opted not to meet Giselle.

  I drag my eyes away from Simon’s brothel carriage, unable to stop myself from guessing why it might be pulling away. Making money off its services? My stomach rolls over.

  “For all my father’s faults,” Theron continues, his voice soft, “I can never say he isn’t a good king. He views each and every Cordellan, no matter how small, as his, and turns green at the thought of selling anyone to Summer as Yakim does.”

  Ceridwen scoffs. “A Rhythm with a conscience. I wonder what other oddities will plague the world—maybe it’ll snow in Summer.”

  Her statement at first sounds like just a declaration of absurdity, but when she meets my eyes for a beat, I feel the unaddressed issues she still has tucked in her mind. How I made it snow in Juli. How I uncovered a hidden pit in her wine cellar. I bite my teeth together, refusing to be ruffled by her.

  Theron’s face darkens. “Do not insult my kingdom when your own overflows with faults.”

  She gapes at him, startled, before she bares her teeth and crosses her arms defensively.

  I lift both my eyebrows at Theron. “I thought your goal for this trip was unification. You know—breaking prejudices, being nice.”

  He blinks at me, the darkness in his face lifting on a shake of his head. His grip on my hand loosens and I wiggle free, stretching my fingers as he shifts forward.

  “I’m sorry,” he offers Ceridwen.

  “I admire your father’s stance, actually,” she responds, her own version of an apology. She looks back out the window. “I wish more kingdoms appre
ciated their citizens that way.”

  Theron half smiles. “Maybe through this unification, they will.”

  I bite my lip, the images from the ride swirling in my mind. The fine upper-class citizens walking by their perfect homes; the children hefting horseshoes down the road. For the briefest moment, I’m sucked back to Abril and the sight of the children there. The only difference between them was their coloring. In a kingdom that claims to be so advanced, no one should bear any resemblance to someone from Angra’s work camps. Not even peasants, not even the poor. There shouldn’t even be a divide—there was no difference between Angra’s other Winterian prisoners and me, and yet here I sit, riding in a fine carriage. What is the only difference? My conduit magic?

  My eyes shift out the window again, to the sudden switch in scenery. No longer run-down buildings and child-workers and poverty—now we’re surrounded by high walls and fine brick buildings and more people in traditional Yakimian fashions—straight lines, brown fabrics, and copper accents. We must be at the university. That quick of a switch—no middle ground. Like the way most of Summer’s people are forced into intoxication and the fog of happiness. Accept it or . . . suffer. Ceridwen is proof of that. This world is nothing but extremes.

  There needs to be another option—something more than compliance or struggle. More than the abusive magic in existence today or the threat of everyone having magic. There needs to be a choice to just be normal.

  Would people still divide themselves and hold prejudices and foster hatred without magic? Of course they would. But if there were no magic, no Decay, nothing to make one person inhumanly different than another, things would at least be even. Just because it wouldn’t cure everything doesn’t mean it wouldn’t make things better than they are.