by Sara Raasch
I regain my composure and near the railing, eyes snapping over the room below. Giselle’s tone grates at me, her air of superiority unavoidable—she expects to prove me wrong, to sway me to her side.
Whoever these workers are, they aren’t the battered, dirty peasants I saw on the ride in. They’re clean, neat, their white shirts crisp and their breeches well fitting. Only their leather aprons hang dirty, the byproduct of the thick black grease that coats some of these machines, the same sort of stuff we’d use to lubricate carriage wheels or riding equipment.
I look at Giselle. “Of course these people would be cared for—they’re your upper class, aren’t they? I’d be more willing to like you if everyone in your kingdom looked this way, but that hasn’t been the case so far.”
Realization throbs in me the moment I finish talking. Insulting the queen of Yakim is not the best way to make an alliance with her.
But Giselle laughs and her focus sweeps from my head to my toes. “You are quite young, aren’t you? Yes, I agree that not everyone in my kingdom receives the same treatment—but these workers you see before you are not upper class. They are peasants who proved themselves useful—they are working through the ranks of society, and while it may look like they are menial laborers obeying the plans of a higher lord, they are free to work on their own projects in their spare time. They are encouraged to do such things. I do not devalue my citizens as you may think—I simply give value only when it has been earned.”
I watch the workers, how they flurry around. None of them look anything but enthralled in their tasks. “Good for them. They’ve managed to work your system. Would this be a system they would choose, though, if you weren’t forcing this need for knowledge into them?”
Giselle blinks, surprised for the first time. “My magic use is what you despise?” Her eyes narrow and, after a beat, she grunts like something occurred to her. “They all have this desire for knowledge in them. Everyone does—including you. I foster that desire. It is not like other kingdoms that force their people to bend to emotions or interests they might not otherwise harbor. Knowledge is a worldwide pursuit. Do not base your opinion of me on such foundationless hatred, Queen Meira.”
“It’s not foundationless—”
“But it is.” She interrupts me with a wave of her hand. “Any of the peasants you have seen who live in undesirable situations can change their fate in an instant. If they prove they are of use to Yakim, they will be elevated to a befitting station. Use is not a right, Queen Meira—it is a privilege.”
My mouth yanks open, ready to counter her accusations with my own arguments.
But I actually agree with some of what she said.
Not everyone is deserving of the same things. Not everyone is deserving of power—the whole reason I don’t want the magic chasm opened. And if Yakimian society is truly based on people of any class earning their places, it might not be such a hateful kingdom after all.
“If you expect use to come from any of your people,” I start, “why do you sell some of them to Summer?”
Giselle faces me completely, her lips lifting in a delicate, demeaning smile. “We all do things we ought not explain to outsiders for the safety of our kingdoms. If you dislike Cordell so much, why do you allow them reign over Winter?”
She has a reason for selling to Summer that affects the safety of her kingdom? What does she mean by that?
I bite down so hard on my cheek that pain lances across my face. “I do not allow Cordell anything. You seemed less than fond of Noam yourself.” Here it is, an opening. “Which makes me wonder just how far that opinion stretches.”
Her brow flickers in assessment. “If you seek to play on that opinion of mine, you will find little support here. I do not see the Seasons with the same disdain as my Rhythm fellows—the Seasons, like my people, have the possibility to prove their use to me. But what use does Winter serve me now? No, Queen Meira—your problems are your own. And know that as much as I value use, I loathe interference, and I will do anything necessary to keep my kingdom functional. Do not try to bring your problems here.”
I don’t trust myself to talk again, so I stay silent. Her face remains blank and studious, as though she’s simply reciting information, not threatening me.
“The Rhythms will destroy you, child, unless you stop them,” she adds, not leaving herself out of the grouping. She turns and heads toward a staircase that will drop her into the factory. “You may go, Queen Meira. Tell Prince Theron I will consider his treaty.”
I stay poised on the mezzanine, processing this interaction through a haze. Giselle’s directness would be refreshing, if not for my instinctual hatred of her overall air of superiority. This whole thing was a test, wasn’t it? She was searching for use in me. In Winter.
And Theron presented her with the one thing that may have cemented such usefulness.
My anger at him bubbles up as Giselle reaches the factory floor. She walks the aisles, talking with workers, pausing to examine one particularly large machine, twice her height and bearing a number of long metal tubes sticking out in an even row. Each worker she encounters turns to her with apparent eagerness to show off their projects.
She does care for those who earn it. But it is an awful thing, basing worthiness on those who best fight for it. What about the children who are still too young to be of use and wallow in poverty? What about those who might not want to lead lives of knowledge, but who know that to succeed, they’ll have to bow to Giselle’s will? What about a weak, stupid Winter queen who didn’t have the foresight to prevent this trip from falling apart before it began?
I rub my temples. My problems are minuscule compared to the others I listed. The perspective redirects some of my self-anger toward the tingling ball in my chest.
That’s what makes me the most upset about the world—how magic shoves people into lives they might not want. No one should have to beseech higher people for permission to be who they are, only to find their pleas ignored.
No one should be forced to be something they aren’t.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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Meira
NESSA AND DENDERA help Conall and Garrigan into chairs as soon as we return to my room. Conall caves in on himself, holding as still as he can, his injured arm twisted against his stomach. Opposite him, Garrigan leans forward with his head in his hands, quiet, still.
My heart shrivels and I step closer to them before I flinch back, not trusting myself.
“How are you?” I manage.
Pain dances over Conall’s features before he smoothes them out and nods at me. “We’ll be fine, my queen.”
Nessa puts her hands on his shoulders. “What happened?”
“I lost control. Again,” I admit, my voice dry.
Dendera rushes to the attached bath chamber to fetch water for them.
It’s Garrigan who squints at me, one hand in his hair. “Does that happen a lot with conduit-wielders?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “But I’ll get it under control.”
Dendera returns and dabs a wet cloth on Garrigan’s forehead, wiping some of the sheen that had formed. She hands a cloth to Nessa, who does the same for Conall, and under their tender care, Conall and Garrigan seem to relax a little.
“You two, rest,” I tell them, and turn for the door.
Dendera whips to me, her face instantly serious. “You aren’t going out alone.”
“Unless Henn is available.”
“He’s familiarizing himself with the grounds. He should be back in an hour.”
“I don’t have an hour.” Theron could already be searching for the key. Finding the Order or the two remaining keys before him are my last hopes for helping Winter without Cordell’s influence. Yakim is unresponsive. The possibility of forming an alliance with Ventralli still remains, and I’ll try with everything I have left, but
. . . Theron is half Ventrallan. Anything he says, they’ll side with him.
I have to find the key or the Order. Now.
“I’ll be fine—I promise. I was fine in Summer, and that kingdom was far more dangerous.” Well, I was barely fine in Summer, but that won’t help my argument.
My promises do nothing to ease Dendera’s glare. “Take Nessa, at least.”
And have her ask why I’m upset? Have her discover things that might bring up her past?
“No.” It snaps out of me, breaking the excitement off Nessa’s face. Just when I thought I couldn’t possibly hate myself more . . . “I mean—I need you to stay and take care of them.”
Nessa slumps against Conall’s chair, her hand on his forearm. She won’t look at me, her lips set in a tight line. I hurt her.
What’s left of my heart crumbles.
Dendera’s lingering disapproval mars her words. “Tell me where you’re going. The moment Henn gets back, I’ll send him after you.”
“Yakim’s libraries. The ones in the palace, to start.”
She nods, hearing my words for the harmless request they are, but Nessa frowns at me. They both know about the magic chasm, about the truth of our journey, to find a way to open it. They know that’s what I’m doing—and doing it without Theron.
“I’ll fetch someone to show you the way,” Dendera says, and rises. “I won’t let you go wandering aimlessly. And here.” She tugs a small blade from Garrigan’s sheath.
I lift a brow. For someone so adamantly against me using weapons, she’s given me quite a few these past weeks.
“Hide it in your bodice,” she tells me. Her eyes narrow and she adds, “Don’t make me regret giving one to you again.”
I take the blade. “I won’t,” I say with more sincerity than she expected, because her tension evaporates into something like surprise.
She leaves and returns moments later with a servant who leads me into Langlais Castle.
“The libraries in the palace guard the oldest and most prestigious books,” the servant explains as we scurry down a staircase. “Putnam University houses the more functional tomes, meant for study and use. But for a Season’s purposes, I do expect the books here will suit you.”
A Season’s purposes? All I told him was that I wanted to see Yakim’s libraries. I frown at the back of his head, sorting through the meaning of his words, and roll my eyes when it hits me.
He doesn’t think I’m interested in the books for study and use. Which I believe is a lofty Yakimian way of calling me stupid.
“Oh, quite,” I return. “I just love looking at books. Sometimes I can even make out a word or two.”
The servant cuts a quick glance back at me, his eyes flitting across my overly serene stare. After a huff, he faces forward, and our journey through the palace falls silent.
Two halls later, we step into a behemoth of a room. Three stories high, with shelves of books that stretch in wrapping balconies, cloaking the bright, warm space in leather and parchment. No fireplaces or open flames of any kind sit in the room, the light coming from more of those unwavering orbs. Leather chairs cluster in rings on auburn rugs, in rows along balconies, at the end of bookshelves like soldiers standing guard. And at the end of every shelf hangs a mounted oval of mirrored metal with numbers etched on it, identifying the books within.
The servant stops in the center of a ring of chairs and pivots to face me, hands behind his back. “This is the Library of Evangeline the Second, queen of Yakim six hundred and thirty-two years prior.”
Six hundred and thirty-two years?
Adrenaline patters in me. Maybe these are the right libraries to start in after all.
Will Theron have figured this out as well?
The servant angles his eyes at me. He starts talking again, and I realize he meant for me to respond somehow—with proper oohing and ahhing, or some show of acknowledgment beyond absent, silent staring.
“Should you need assistance, the librarian in residence will be about,” the servant says, his words slow, as though he’s giving instructions to a child. “Do try to treat this space with the respect it deserves.”
And he leaves, darting past me. Bluntness seems to be a Yakimian trait.
I start toward the first row of books and find I’m not the only patron here—but I am the only non-Yakimian. A few people glance at me as I pass, brief snatches that turn into shocked staring that unabashedly morph into outright curiosity. Like I’m not a living person, but a statue, and they’re trying to figure out how I was carved.
Four rows of maddeningly unhelpful numbers later, I stop. The rest of the row is empty of Yakimians for the moment, and I breathe in the solitude of not being looked at so curiously. To top it all off, I have no idea what I’m searching for. Again. These books all have titles like Law and Justice and Civilities in Common Townships and Declarations from West of Ardith. Nothing about magic, or even about the Klaryns.
I lean against a shelf, exhaustion muddling my thoughts. Maybe if I can convince Theron to let me see the key I found in Summer—maybe there’s something I missed, a lead to the next one. But that would mean having to touch it again, and I don’t want to risk any more . . . memories.
“You were quite convincing.”
I jump, flailing off the bookshelf. Ceridwen crosses her arms at the entrance to this row, her lips lifted in a mischievous smile. Next to her, holding his body so he can see the rows behind us, stands the slave who followed her out of the party in Summer. He must be hers. Though I can’t imagine she’d willingly keep slaves, not with her stance on Summer’s practices. Maybe he’s just her friend.
“Convincing at what?” I ask.
“At playing sick. Theron swore you’d head straight to your room when you returned, and I thought so too—until I asked myself, if a Rhythm had just given away something of Summer’s, what illness would keep me down?” Her smile sobers. “And I couldn’t think of a single one.”
I tighten my jaw. If the man behind her is her friend, he’s probably trustworthy—but I keep my tone low all the same. “I told you. I don’t want to involve you in this—you don’t need to be involved in this. This isn’t—”
“I just traveled here with you and Cordell,” Ceridwen snaps. “I am involved in this. Or whatever your cover is, so I might as well be involved in the truth of it. And I helped last time, didn’t I? Besides,” she smiles again, “I quite like you being in my debt.”
I can’t stop the way my mouth instantly turns down. But the spark in Ceridwen’s eyes speaks more to camaraderie. I nod at her friend, who eyes me with cautious interest.
“I assume he’s trustworthy?”
The man smiles, white teeth cutting brilliance through his tan skin, his S brand wrinkling under his eye. But Ceridwen gets to his introduction before he can.
“Lekan.” She taps him in the chest. “He’s been helping with raids longer than I have, plus his husband runs the camp where we send our freed slaves. He’s trustworthy.”
Lekan bows. “My princess trusts you, so I do as well.”
One edge of my mouth starts to rise but cuts off when a realization flares through me. “You’re Summerian, though,” I state. “Aren’t you affected by Simon’s magic?”
I angle the question at Ceridwen too, because in all the chaos since I met her, I never thought to ask how she’s able to think clearly when her brother pumps dazed joy into everyone else in their kingdom. My question makes Lekan’s smile vanish, but Ceridwen chuckles.
“Took you this long to ask me that?” She clucks her tongue. “You’re not the brightest flame in the fire, are you?”
“Don’t make me hit you in a library.”
She laughs again. “Years of practice, learning how to distinguish our own feelings from magic-induced ones. It also helps that Summer’s magic is, shall we say, weak, what with how much of it my ancestors have used on bliss. But most people are so accustomed to it that they don’t need much help to remain happy anymore.”
>
She says it all with no more pomp than if she had just told me it’s hot in Summer. Lekan shuffles, slanting away from us, his reaction breaking Ceridwen’s apparent lack of concern.
It’s hard, what they do, resisting their king’s magic. Harder than Ceridwen lets on.
Summer would certainly benefit from a lack of magic too, if their ruler was forced to govern simply by strength and will.
A throat clears behind me and I glance back, hand going to the dagger in my bodice.
The servant who led us to Giselle, who drove our carriage through Putnam. Those black eyes lock on me again, the studious way I’m more than a little sick of.
“May I help you find something, Your Highness?” he asks after a beat. He sweeps over Ceridwen and Lekan, decides they’re not nearly as fascinating as I am, and focuses back on me.
I squint at him. “Who are you?”
The man folds into an elaborate bow. “Rares, the librarian in residence. You seem lost, dear heart—can I help?”
“You’re the librarian in residence.”
“Yes.”
“And the carriage driver?”
Rares’s smile doesn’t even flicker. “I offered to accompany you to visit the queen—you’re quite the specimen here in Putnam. A teenager who single-handedly freed her kingdom! I couldn’t resist the opportunity to see you for myself.”
“I’m glad I could provide some entertainment for you.”
“And I can provide some assistance for you,” Rares says. “What brings you to the great Library of Evangeline the Second?”
Ceridwen leans forward at that, just as eager to hear, while Lekan falls back to being uninterested, scoping the library like a guard.
I wanted help, didn’t I? And now I have it from two sources. Neither of them could do any harm, unless I tell them straight out that the magic chasm entrance has been discovered—or they know about the Order of the Lustrate, which is a risk I’ll have to take; neither of them will shatter at any information we find about Angra or the Decay.
