by Sara Raasch
“He wasn’t my lover,” I hiss. “Snow above, is that all you Summerians think about?”
“Trust me, when you find the right person, it will be all you think about.” Ceridwen grins weakly.
I tip my head, voice low. “I’ve told you my secrets. Will you ever tell me yours?”
She blinks at me but recovers quickly. “That wasn’t part of our deal, Winter queen.”
And she leaves, brushing past Nessa and Dendera without another word. I stare after her, stunned, but shake it off when Nessa comes up to me.
She’s been quiet through everything I said, like she’s piecing it all together in her own way, and as I stand before her, I’m overcome by the prickling certainty that she will be the one to see what none of us have been able to.
Nessa wrings her hands together. “Are you still afraid of it?”
I touch the locket, the shell of what once was. Again my hesitation answers for me.
“I would be too,” Nessa says. “Don’t feel guilty for what you did; I don’t think your magic is as bad as you think it is. After all, it’s done a lot of good. It healed us, it helped save us, it fought off Angra in Abril. I know it doesn’t make it any less frightening, but—” She pauses and shrugs. “It’s a weapon we have, and we need all the weapons we can get.”
I smile. “You really are too astute for your own good, Lady Kentigern.”
Her cheeks flush and she backs away, skipping out the door, Dendera in tow. I’m left with the gears and knobs and twisting copper pipes of the Yakimian bedroom, the faint rays of the rising sun peeking through the curtains. I don’t know how long we were up talking—hours, half the night, all night. I feel the exhaustion now, and my mind starts to sway and pull, the gentle fog between sleep and waking. The time when thoughts rush through my head, patching together meanings I missed.
Which is why Nessa’s words resonate so strongly in me.
“It’s a weapon we have, and we need all the weapons we can get.”
I was right. Nessa did see the missing piece—the magic has done a lot of good. I’ve pushed it away for so long, feared it for so long, but . . . maybe it can help me, even in its unpredictable state. It’s still magic; it’s still power.
I have to at least try.
My gown pulls taut over my knees as I kneel on the bed. The Lustrate’s key still sits on the quilt, silent and dark, and as I stare at it, everything I know about conduit magic rolls through my mind. How it came into me after Hannah died and Angra broke the locket. How it lay dormant inside of me until I knew it was there, a passive magic founded in choice. And back before that, how Hannah grew so desperate that she surrendered herself to it so she could learn how to save Winter.
I frown.
She asked the magic how to save Winter. And this magic is about choice—she chose to ask about Winter.
A ready heart, the key-magic had said. Readiness is a type of choice, being prepared and accepting of things to come—is this what it wanted me to see?
Because . . . what if Hannah hadn’t asked how to save Winter? What if she had chosen to ask how to stop Angra, or the war, or how to defeat the Decay? Would she have gotten a different response?
What do I need to be ready to ask?
I lean back into the pillows, my chakram pressing against my spine. The hazy vacancy of sleep ebbs over me, the events of the past few weeks unwinding in this one night of release. But I push past it, reaching out to the magic. A soft, careful touch, the beginnings of a bridge between it and me, and across that bridge I send a single thought.
What is the right question?
My chest grows cold, the magic responding with gentle fingers of ice that spread through my body like growing designs of frost on a window. When it speaks, it’s not like Hannah’s voice, not clear words that ring in my head. It’s like the key-magic, my own emotions, waves of conviction that fill me with knowledge as if it had been there all along. I’m left with a heavy, persistent thought that rocks me into sleep.
When I’m ready to ask it, I’ll know.
Henn leaves for Winter the next morning. And, much to my relief, I find I don’t need to prepare to sign Theron’s treaty—because Giselle refuses to sign it “until another Rhythm does.” She says this without acknowledging that Cordell has signed and orchestrated it, and the blatant rift this puts between Yakim and Cordell makes our stay more than a little uncomfortable.
Without needing prodding from anyone, Theron agrees to head for Ventralli after only a few days in Putnam.
I know he hopes to get the Ventrallan king to sign the treaty and thereby sway Yakim—he still clings to his vision of peace. But as we leave Langlais Castle, our caravan banding together in another haphazard cluster of soldiers and people from three different kingdoms, I watch him from my group of Winterians. We haven’t interacted with each other beyond the necessary planning for travel, and even now, we both stay firmly with our groups.
Theron feels my eyes on him and turns. Even from as far away as he is, the air still feels tight and uncomfortable between us, emotions knotted up, words left unsaid.
Dendera swings up onto her horse beside me. When she and Henn finally admitted to their feelings, it seemed like the easiest thing in the world. One minute they weren’t and the next minute they were, and it was so right and so true that nobody batted an eye. Even now, seeing just Dendera, it feels like I’m only seeing half of her. Like her other part barrels fast for Winter.
It should be that easy. I want it to be that easy. I want to look at someone and know that every need and wish and desire I have matches his, not that my every need and wish and desire clashes with his. Unification should be the overall theme of a relationship.
So even though Theron watches me still, I turn to Nessa for something else to do, somewhere to look other than him.
After a few seconds, I feel him turn away.
Rintiero, Ventralli’s capital, sits hardly more than half a day’s journey north. Everything Sir taught me about Ventralli revolves around their love of art—color and life and beauty, art echoed through pain and imperfection. Their male-blooded conduit, a silver crown, belongs to their current king, Jesse Donati, a man in his early twenties. His wife, Raelyn, bore him three children—two girls and one boy, all under the age of three, which means they either really wanted children or a male heir as quickly as possible. Most likely the latter.
Ventralli’s affinity for beauty is clear when we reach Rintiero at sunset. Whoever designed this city built it to complement the setting sun as perfectly as the stars complement the night. We crest a series of hills that make up the Yakim-Ventralli border and guide us down into the Rintiero Valley, giving an aerial view of a city that is more akin to a multifaceted jewel.
Rintiero curves in a crescent of spindly rocks and straight lines of docks that jut into the Langstone River, all of it capped with the deep, heavy blue of a sky about to sink into sleep. A chill blankets the air, the cold of a proper spring night. A soft, golden glow lights the streets—sconces probably, or streetlamps, but nothing like the violent flames of Summer’s bonfires or the steady light of Yakim’s lamps.
Four- and five-story buildings lean against one another or cling to cliff faces, all in the most vibrant colors I’ve ever seen. Teals stolen from the Langstone itself; the vibrant magenta of a court lady’s blush powder; creamy peach tones that would make any orchard owner weep. Interspersed among in the buildings are Ventralli’s guilds, at least a dozen domes made of glass, thick panes that reflect the unmatched beauty of the night sky.
The buildings flicker and pulse in the lights like they’re taking deep, calming breaths, and as we draw nearer to the city, I do the same. This kingdom instantly feels calmer than any of the others we’ve visited. The road isn’t clogged with peasants on their way home from work, the small outlaying villages aren’t dirty or rotten or poor. Everything is as it needs to be—whole, pretty, valued.
That must have been why Noam allied himself with Ventralli when he m
arried Theron’s mother. It would appear that Cordell and Yakim have more in common with their similar love for efficiency, but I’ve been in Ventralli for less than an hour and I can feel Cordell here.
We move through the winding streets of Rintiero and pass into a lush forest that wraps around the palace like a living wall. The complex itself is just as sleepy and calming as the city, and stable hands take our horses before servants lead us to rooms inside the palace. The rest of the crates from the Klaryns get locked away, a burden on our trip now that I know how useless they’ll be, but everyone seems to have absorbed the relaxation of Rintiero. Without a second thought, we all crawl into our various beds and drift off under reflections of stars.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
Meira
THE POWER OF Things Concealed.
The next morning, the bold, swirling inscription above the doors to the Donati Palace’s throne room stares down at me. I lean against the wall directly opposite the two ornate white doors, their gleaming silver moldings and small sapphire accents adding beauty to confusion, and I touch the mask on my face.
“Are you sure this is necessary?” I ask.
“You don’t like it?” Dendera touches her own, a half-face white mask with small crystal snowflakes clustered around her eyes.
Ventrallan servants provided an array of masks suited to every kingdom, stock they always have on hand for foreign guests. The servants seemed absolutely thrilled that someone would finally get to wear the Winterian masks—it had been decades, apparently, since they had been more than pretty shelf decorations. Conall and Garrigan didn’t complain at all when they were forced to wear masks too, and they stand stoically beside me in simple white-silk half-face masks that blend into their ivory skin and hair.
“It’s not that,” I say. “I just don’t see why it’s necessary for us. We’re not Ventrallan.”
Dendera smiles but I can’t see more than that in her expression. “It’s respectful of their culture. Besides, if we don’t partake in Ventralli’s rituals, they would have the upper hand, wearing masks as they do.”
I catch my reflection in one of the gilded mirrors that line this hall. The mask she chose for me is half a snowflake, the straight lines forming natural eyeholes before fanning around my face. She curled my long, white hair and left it down, and when one of the servants offered us a collection of dresses and shoes instead of my worn gowns or an unfinished dress of Dendera’s, she teared up in the most perfect way.
Ventrallan fashion is unique, to say the least. Overlapping layers of pink and peach tulle make up this gown, with the topmost layer embellished by twisting strands of crystal beads. The sleeves are only one layer of the tulle, showing my pale arms through a haze of peach. I saw a few of the other dresses the servants gathered for us—slender, form-fitting things constructed entirely of jewels pressed side by side on flesh-colored fabric; skirts that dropped only to the wearer’s knees; neck pieces that fanned around in giant cones of stiff fabric. Each gown had the same deliberate feel as the buildings in the city, like every piece of them was cared for.
At least this gown came with a pocket, and the key I found in Putnam sits within, wrapped in a square of cloth. I adjust the layers of tulle around my legs, feeling the weight of the key shift against my thigh. Yet another introduction awaits us, and the sooner we get it over with, the sooner I can start scouring Rintiero’s museums for the final key.
Dendera straightens and turns, hearing footsteps as I do. Sure enough, the rest of our party starts toward us down the long, mirrored hall that stretches before the two ornate doors. Theron with his soldiers, all of them wearing their Cordellan uniforms, now accompanied by green-and-gold masks accented with golden maple leaves and lavender stalks. The mask makes it impossible for me to read Theron’s face, but he meets my eyes as he approaches, his lips parting as if he wants to say something.
I pivot away from him, back rigid, and search for Ceridwen in the crowd. Simon and his guards have masks befitting their kingdom, snapping flames that weave around their faces, blending flawlessly into their scarlet hair. Simon wears the same outfit he wore in Putnam—but the gown Ceridwen chose perfectly combines Ventralli and Summer styles. Red tulle pours from a band of gold around her chest, twisting and wrapping around her body until it splits and falls in two sections over her left leg. When she walks, bloodred silk peeks under the split of fabric, showing an intricate fire design stitched all the way up to her hip. More gold straps crisscross her torso, a beautiful blend of gold and red and orange, flames and beauty and art.
Ceridwen doesn’t look at me, staring at the doors as though they’re an enemy, and I can’t tell whether she’s preparing to run or fight.
“Princess?” I start when they all stop before us. “Are you—”
“Isn’t my little sister lovely?” Simon staggers to her and pats her cheek, resting the conduit on his wrist against her bare shoulder. “She’s just nervous, that’s all.”
Ceridwen flinches to him. “I won’t deal with you right now—”
The opening doors send a ripple of quiet over everyone, but for Ceridwen, the silence is harder, heavier, and she pulls into herself, head down, shoulders slumped.
“The king will see you now,” a steward announces, his mask made of simple purple-and-silver silk. He spins on his heels, strides into the room, and we follow, a slow river of dignitaries clinging to uncomfortable silence like it’s all that will save us from drowning.
I start forward when I notice Ceridwen lingering, her eyes stuck on the room ahead and slow, uneven breaths bursting out of her mouth. Everyone else passes us; even Dendera goes on ahead to give us space. Only Conall and Garrigan linger, and back by the wall, a man falls out of the Summerian group to hover behind Ceridwen. Lekan.
He meets my eyes, his own shrouded with a red silk mask. If he offers a warning in his gaze, I can’t see it, and I turn to Ceridwen.
“You defy your brother on a near-daily basis, but it’s Ventralli you fear?”
She shakes her head, coming out of her fog. When she looks at me, I recognize the same inescapable nothingness I’d feel whenever Sir refused to let me assist with anything. The dark, burning embers of not being enough.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper.
She licks her lips, her hands wringing against her stomach. “The king of Ventralli gave me this dress,” she says, almost as if she’s not aware she’s talking.
“It’s beautiful.”
“I shouldn’t have worn it.” She lifts the skirt in a fist and takes a few quick steps back down the hall, but she stops when Lekan and I start after her, and we all just stand there, me with one hand out, her with one hand against her forehead, Lekan coiled to spring to her.
“Ceridwen, tell me what’s going on,” I try again.
She glances back, her eyes bloodshot. Her gaze sweeps over me before she sniffs, straightens. “Nothing,” she snaps. “Once this introduction ends, follow me. I’ll take you to someone who can help with . . .” She touches her bodice, and I know she must have the tapestry tucked there.
I nod, still dumbstruck. “All right, but—”
She pushes past me, diving into the throne room before I can finish. Lekan hurries after her, bowing his head to me as he passes, and I think I catch a mumbled apology.
My eyebrows raise so high I’m sure they’re hovering over my mask. Conall and Garrigan seem just as confused, and Garrigan shrugs, offering me an encouraging smile. I take it and smile back at him, holding it on my face as I enter the throne room.
I grip my skirt in two tight fists, keeping alert in case whatever Ceridwen feared comes to pass. The throne room rolls out, a green-and-white marble floor swirling in a colorful dance beneath two rows of auburn columns. Sky-blue panels line the ceiling, broken only by a circle of gold in the center, bent to form a concave bowl that glitters in the lig
ht from the sconces around the room. Mosaics on the walls beyond the pillars create a kaleidoscope of green and brown that forms into shrubs, grass, maple and oak trees, and more. The gleaming golden dome above us shines down as a sun, casting us into an artist’s version of a forest, perfect and untouched.
I stop next to Dendera, trying not to gape too obviously at the wonder around me. The more I look, the more details I see. Like the tiled deer hiding behind a tree in one of the mosaics, or the rotations of the sun carved into the dome above us, or the king and queen of Ventralli, sitting on thrones made of—mirrors? Palm-sized octagonal mirrors, connected to appear as overstuffed armchairs that got turned into diamonds, cover each of the two thrones. The dais holding the thrones aloft holds also an assortment of courtiers, a handful of men and women—but one stands closer to the king’s throne than the rest. Her vibrant yellow mask does nothing to hide her obvious disdain, and she purses wrinkled lips at our arrival, bending low to whisper something in the king’s ear.
My awe flies away and a pulse of anxiety makes me move forward, my body humming with the need to talk to Jesse and Raelyn before anyone intercedes on Winter’s behalf. Again. Dendera grabs my arm—the whole reason she came with me this time was to help me balance when to be impetuous and when to be calm. From the look she gives me, I can tell she wants to let the Ventrallan royals talk first.
As if sensing her cue, the queen rises. The older courtier woman pulls back from the king, eyeing the queen with some unspoken signal I can’t read.
Raelyn Donati’s gown swishes into place as if she controls every handful of fabric. A black bodice connects to cascades of black silk at her waist, the bundle falling down the back of her legs in a wide explosion of gleaming darkness. The front of her skirt holds a riot of colors—layers of sunflower-yellow and blush-red tulle. Her mask combines her gown’s colors and fabrics, fastened discreetly into her thick, dark curls. Sharp hazel eyes take each of us in as if she’s sorting through different fabrics to pick the one she dislikes least.
