by Sara Raasch
She stops on Ceridwen. Even with her mask, Raelyn’s entire demeanor changes, moving from slightly bored to annoyed with a few twitches of her lips. I risk a glance at Ceridwen, who keeps her eyes on the marble floor, her body so stiff she may as well be one of the pillars.
Raelyn takes a single step forward and turns to me, stopping at the edge of the short dais on which the thrones sit. “Queen Meira,” she says, clasping her hands behind her back.
I brace myself. I expect Ventralli’s displeasure now that I realize what bringing Cordell on this trip signifies, but I still don’t know how they’ll retaliate. Giselle only rebuffed us—what will Ventralli do? Throw their weight behind Cordell?
But, to my surprise, Raelyn’s mouth opens in a sigh. “I am sorry to hear of your kingdom’s suffering, but glad to know you have at last achieved a state of peace.”
Her words are kind, but her tone is that of someone reciting the sentence at an execution. Dendera nudges me and I blink.
“Um, thank you.” I clear my throat. “Thank you, Queen Raelyn. Winter appreciates your . . .” Support? No. Empathy? Eh. “. . . well-wishes.”
She bobs her head in acceptance and turns to her husband. “My lord, our guests traveled all this way, and we haven’t yet offered them a proper Ventrallan welcome.” She puts her hand on Jesse’s arm. “We have a celebration planned in their honor tonight, do we not?”
All attention is on Jesse now. But though we look at him, he only looks at Ceridwen, his eyes wide, his neck muscles tense, his jaw clenched. I feel as though we all stumbled in on these two, and we should duck out to allow them privacy for some affair.
Air lodges in my throat and I do everything I can to keep from coughing in the silence. That’s exactly what I’m watching, what Simon implied, what Raelyn knows all-too well, the way she touches Jesse and smirks at Ceridwen.
The Ventrallan king loves Ceridwen.
And from the way she glances up at him . . .
She loves him too.
That’s her secret. That’s why she seemed so disgusted by my relationship with Theron—we’re the same. And her relationship is just as broken as mine.
The older woman leans forward to put her hand on Jesse’s other arm, as if helping Raelyn hold him to the throne. Her touch shocks him and he launches to his feet, throwing off their hands in a way that makes both women blink in a sudden burst of surprise that no mask could hide.
Jesse looks down at the rest of us like he only just realized we were here. Like he couldn’t see anything beyond the fire that is the princess of Summer.
“Of course, my lady.” With his dark hair hanging loose around his shoulders and the simple red silk mask over his eyes, he complements his wife in every way. Every way except in how he keeps drifting back to look at Ceridwen, unaware of the fact that Raelyn moves to take his arm again, her slender fingers curving around him.
His hazel eyes flick over us once more and stop on Theron. “Prince Theron,” he says. “Of course. We were . . . we expected you. Yes. A celebration, tonight.”
Jesse turns to Raelyn, dipping his head in a bow again. “Yes. A celebration,” he agrees before spinning around and diving between the mirrored thrones. The older courtier moves after him, hissing something inaudible, and all I catch in return from him is a brittle, “Not now, mother.”
His mother?
A burst of silver reflects back—Ventralli’s crown, hanging in a holster at his hip. Thin silver spires hold aloft an array of jewels, from rubies to emeralds to diamonds, all of it emitting the faintest silver glow, the same hazy aura of magic that emanates from all object-conduits. How did I not notice it before? And why does it hang from his belt, not sit on his head?
Jesse throws himself at a door behind the dais, ducking out almost as if he’s running from his mother, who follows in hot pursuit.
He doesn’t behave like someone who has the power to change his country.
As soon as he’s gone, Raelyn swings back to us. “We will see you tonight.” She flips her hand in discharge and moves between the mirrored thrones as well, catching one of the courtiers by the arm, an older woman who scowls at Ceridwen before they disappear beyond the door Jesse exited.
I start forward when a hand grabs my arm. “I didn’t get a chance to—”
But it isn’t Dendera—it’s Theron.
He hooks my arm around his as everyone else walks back down the throne room, pulling me along like we’re doing what’s expected of us, like we’re normal again. Dendera talks with Conall and Garrigan, but she sees Theron holding me, and her brows rise, asking whether or not I want her to intercede.
I turn to Theron, making that my answer.
“We’ll both get chances to speak with them,” he says, his voice sinking on the way he divides us. “Give them time.”
But as he talks, his focus wanders to the head of our group. Ceridwen lifts her gown and sprints down the room, followed closely by Lekan. She reaches the doors and bursts out, the clacking of her shoes echoing back, her brother and his men chuckling in her wake. My grip tightens on Theron’s arm, an involuntary spasm as I fit together more missing pieces.
“You knew about them?” I whisper.
Theron looks down at me, his other hand rising to cup my fingers. No, I didn’t mean to hold him like that, but he stares at me, and I can’t read his expression beyond these damn masks.
“Most people know,” he says. “No one speaks of it. It’s been the scandal of the Donati family for years, and Raelyn used to care—until little less than a year ago.”
My jaw goes slack as I think back. “She gave birth to Jesse’s son. She secured the Donati conduit line, and no one could threaten her station anymore.” My lungs deflate, my eyes going to the door we’re approaching. “And yet, Ceridwen still loves him.”
I can feel Theron’s eyes on me, anchors that used to ground me, that now feel more like restraints. “He still loves her too,” he whispers. “No matter how many people tell him it’s wrong. No matter how many courtiers despise him for it. He’ll always love her.”
It seems like a bold statement—how could he possibly know that? Then he runs his thumb up the back of my hand.
He isn’t talking about Jesse anymore.
Thank everything cold, Nessa comes hurrying into the throne room, meeting us as we leave. “Meira,” she says, taking my other arm. “I need to show you something.”
She doesn’t flinch or correct herself for using my name, and that alone makes me want to kiss her, but the exit she offers throws me willingly after her.
“I’ll see you soon,” I say to Theron, unwinding myself from his arm. Dendera, Conall, and Garrigan follow, and I let Nessa tug me out of the room, pretending the mask is enough to hide the pang that ricochets over Theron’s face.
Maybe the masks aren’t so bad, actually. They let us live in worlds as untouched as the forest throne room—controlled and glittering, unmarred and perfect. A world where I can focus on the things I need to focus on, not the fragile emotions of broken relationships.
“I have to go after Ceridwen,” I tell Nessa, voice low, the moment we leave the ballroom. The hall is already empty save for the departing Summerian dignitaries, who turn left and head toward the front of the palace.
“I know, but this will help!” Her grip on my arm tightens and she hauls me to the left, dipping down a hall that branches off this main one. “I wasn’t about to just unpack and wait for news—so I asked one of the servants what tapestries are in the palace.”
She beams back at me, veering us left, then right again.
“Tapestries?” I ask.
“Like the one you found in Putnam. I thought maybe it would be a good place to start too! The servant said there’s a whole guild dedicated to the art of tapestry making, but it’s deep in the city. In the palace, though, they have hundreds, which wasn’t a surprise. But he showed me the—”
“He?” Conall cuts in, angling forward as we all practically sprint down the hall.
Nessa blushes but tries to fight it with a roll of her eyes. “Yes, he was a cheery seventy-year-old butler. Really, you don’t have to worry about me so much.”
Conall pulls back, grumbling to himself.
Nessa continues. “Anyway, he showed me some of the ones they’re most proud of and, well, look!”
She swings open a door to a gallery lined with tapestries: small ones depicting landscapes; large ones depicting battles; long tapestries depicting whole crowds. But none of them holds Nessa’s attention, and she drags me across the otherwise empty room to the far wall, where eight tapestries hang, identical in size and shape.
The four on the right I understand instantly.
One shows scarlet-haired people adorned in orange and red, flames on their uniforms, the fabric of their clothes twisting and sparse beneath leather straps and sandals. The background shows a cracked desert, the blinding sun beating down in startling gold thread, vines wrapping in a frame around the whole scene.
The one beside that shows men in satin tunics of teal, burgundy, and brown, and women in wrapping bands of the same brilliant satin, their black hair and dark complexions making them blend into the background of shadowed red, yellow, and brown trees.
The next shows women in pleated ivory dresses, and men with bundled fabric wrapping in X’s over their torsos. Snowfields cascade all around, the hazy, gray sky threatening more snow upon the scene.
And the last one—fields of flowers billow behind people in airy dresses of subdued colors, rose and eggshell and lavender.
The Seasons. The parts of Spring I’ve seen have been shrouded in war and the Decay, but this tapestry shows what Spring should be. The aged quality to the threads, the worn texture at the edges, makes me think these tapestries must be centuries old.
My breath catches with hope.
The four tapestries on my left show the remaining kingdoms. Cordell, with its green and gold and fields of lavender; Yakim, with its brown and brass and gears; Ventralli, with its eclectic styles and colorful buildings; and Paisly, with its . . .
Mountains.
Nessa skips down to the tapestry depicting Paisly and points up, bouncing. “You showed us the tapestry you found before we left for Ventralli. I know Ceridwen has it still, but I think I remember it enough. This is similar, isn’t it?”
I stop before it, my mouth yanking open.
“Not just similar,” I say. “Those are the mountains.”
And they are. The exact same circle of mountains that I saw on the tapestry we found in Putnam gazes down at me—a ring of gray stones peaking sharply. But instead of a ball of magic stitched in the center, people stand within the ring, dressed in long, heavy robes of maroon and black with swirls of gold thread making intricate patterns up the bell sleeves. The high collars shoot around their ebony hair, the strands twisted into knots against their dark scalps.
“Paisly?” I ask. The tapestry showed the Paisel Mountains?
Or was it just a clue to lead us to the key?
I dive at the Paislian tapestry and run my hand over the thread. The dense fabric hangs from a clasp high up the wall, and most of the tapestry I can’t reach. But I analyze the edges, searching where I can, lifting the bottom of the tapestry. Nothing sits in the wall behind it, no pockets dip from the material.
As far as I can tell, there is nothing specifically related to the Order in this tapestry.
“It can’t be a coincidence.” I turn to Nessa. “Can it?”
She shrugs, her face falling ever so slightly. “Maybe this was wrong? Maybe those aren’t the mountains.”
I back up, staring at the tapestry again. They are the same mountains, though.
“Are we supposed to go to Paisly?” I wonder aloud.
Dendera scoffs, “Snow, I hope not.”
But that’s all I can connect from this. The Putnam tapestry led us here. Didn’t it? Maybe we’ll find something else if we search Ventralli’s museums or guilds. Maybe this is just a weird coincidence.
My wondering stops dead as someone clears their throat at the door to the room. It’s the steward from earlier, hands behind his back, chin lifted.
“The king requests your presence,” he announces, and swings back out the door, easing away at a fast clip so he’s halfway down the hall before I even process what he said.
I snap my hands into fists and dive after him.
Dendera catches my arm. “Should we talk about this? We need to—”
“No,” I tell her, tone even. “The key isn’t here. I need time to figure out what to do next, and lingering around isn’t going to help. Besides, I need to meet with Jesse too. He certainly can’t make this any worse.”
But I don’t know what the Ventrallan king might want. Maybe he will find a way to make this worse.
We all follow the steward, leaving the Paislian tapestry behind.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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Meira
JESSE WAITS FOR us in a study so cramped and chaotic that I can’t help but feel even more curious about this meeting. This isn’t a room made for receiving foreign dignitaries and impressing them with displays of power and extravagance—this is his actual study, cluttered with parchments and shelves crammed with well-used ledgers.
If there were any doubt over Jesse’s relation to Theron, this room would negate it. The mess peppered with bits of art—a stack of masks in the corner, a tapestry rolled up on the floor, a painting leaning against the wall—reminds me so much of Theron’s room in Bithai that I half expect him to be here too. But only Jesse waits within, and it isn’t until the door closes behind us that he jumps and swings around.
“Queen Meira!” he chirps, and drops a ledger, sending it crashing to the velvety green carpet. But it appears intentional, as he dives for a stack of papers on his desk without bothering to note the book he dropped.
“I didn’t expect the king of Ventralli to treat books with such disdain,” I note, and Dendera snaps a quiet hiss at me.
But Jesse doesn’t seem to hear me. “Oh, no, that’s useless.”
He drops the stack of papers in turn and moves for a scroll on his desk, mumbling unintelligibly.
“King Jesse?” I start.
He snaps up to me, blinking behind his red silk mask. His eyes cut to the door, closed after Dendera, Nessa, my guards, and me, and he surveys us in turn, his lips parting in tight, uneven breaths.
“Are they trustworthy?” Jesse asks, and thumps the scroll on his desk. “Of course they are; they’re your people. You saved them.”
“I don’t understand—”
“Queen Meira, I need your help.” Jesse moves out from behind his desk and crosses the room to me. He folds his arms behind his back to straighten into the most regal stance I’ve seen on him yet, the crown at his hip glinting silver. “I realize this is unorthodox, but I wish to form an alliance with you.”
My eyes snap open so wide the snowflake mask shifts. “You want an alliance with me?”
Dendera sucks in a small gasp of surprised joy as Jesse nods.
“You freed yourself. Your people,” he explains, shoulders dipping slightly. “You overthrew a great evil. I need to do that. I need—help.”
That quickly, my shock dissolves into wariness. “What exactly do you need?”
Jesse waves his amends, mistaking my concern. “No, no, I intend to reciprocate—whatever you need. Anything. I just—” His eyes drift to stare at a spot on the floor. “This has gone too far. My wife. She needs to be stopped.”
I can’t control my wheezing gasp. “You want help dethroning your wife?”
Jesse meets my eyes and nods.
My mind reels back to my brief time with Raelyn. She didn’t seem particularly terrible, but we were only in the same room for a few minutes. If anything, she seemed . . . hard. Aloof. But this is Ventralli, after all—they built their c
ulture on concealment.
“You’re the king,” I state, only because I need to remind myself that Jesse is, in fact, the most powerful man in this country. “Why would you beseech a Season for help with this? Can’t you just order your own divorce?”
Jesse shakes his head in a tight, determined rebuttal. “You think I haven’t tried ending things peacefully? She has support. Lots of support. Including my own mother, and that’s what I was doing when you came in—trying to sort through all of my correspondences and figure out which allies I still have. But it’s you I need. You overthrew Angra. You know of these things.”
“I overthrew him in a bloody, costly war, not through politics. Why don’t you go to Cordell?”
My gut twists. Here the king of a Rhythm is handing me an alliance on what may as well be bended knee, and I’m refuting him. But I don’t have the extra resources to help in what he needs—and anything he did take would come indirectly from Cordell, anyway.
“I did ask Cordell.” Jesse pulls back and turns to his desk, shuffling aimlessly through the papers on it. His eyes lift to mine, softer now, some of his desperation receding. “But I fear my wife already has her influence in them as well. She does that—cuts off everything I have, infects potential supporters until I have no ally but her.”
I step forward. “What do you mean she has her influence in Cordell?”
“That’s why I needed to see you so suddenly.” Jesse faces me again. “She’s speaking to Theron at this moment. I needed to meet with you before—”
My brain lurches to a halt, though he keeps talking.
Raelyn . . . and Theron? She’s who he went to in Ventralli, not his own cousin? But Finn and Greer did say that Raelyn was basically the kingdom’s ruler.
But whom do I trust in this? I don’t know enough about Raelyn or Jesse to choose between the two. Supporting the conduit-wielder seems the natural course—his is the line that will always be in power.
Unless he dies, and the crown passes to her infant son. She would no doubt act as regent until he came of age, and by then, she could be even more fiercely powerful.
