Though that could also be due to the putrid stench of the river and the ebbing, rocking motion that makes Dendera vibrantly green. Every particle of air hangs heavy with the scent of fish and the moldier stench of stagnant water trapped at the river’s edge. The palpitation of the wind filling the sails dances with the way the deep river licks the narrow boat in snapping waves, bobbing us back and forth, back and forth.
Just when my stomach—and Dendera’s—can’t take it any longer, the ship docks us on the northeastern tip of Summer, about half a day’s ride from Juli, leaving us at the largest Summerian port on the Feni so we can buy supplies before trekking into the kingdom.
The abrupt shift from the bobbing schooner to the solid dock makes me falter. Theron grips me from behind, his fingers curving into my hips in a way that could be just to steady me, but could be something more.
I lurch forward, pulling out of his arms even as I see the small flash of hurt on his face. “I’m fine,” I stammer, but he smiles knowingly.
“You’ll be unsteady for a bit,” he says. “Sailing can do strange things.”
The ship’s rhythm is only a small fraction of my problem,though, and as I watch Nessa, Dendera, and the rest of the Winterians disembark, I see the same suffering descend over them.
I’ve never been to Summer, but the Rania Plains, where we spent so much of my childhood, was often sweltering and miserable, enough that I assumed I’d be able to deal with intense heat if I ever had to come to Summer.
I realize now how utterly wrong I was.
The heat ripples up from the earth itself. Sandy structures adorned with dried wood doors comprise the port city, but beyond it, the stark landscape stretches like the withered, cracked hands of a beggar, unfolding and reaching into the blue sky for even the smallest drop of water. When four of Theron’s two dozen men return from the city with two enclosed carriages and horses, I almost weep with relief. My Winterian blood couldn’t handle walking through this kingdom—my body aches for cold as if each waft of hotness drains the life out of me. Anything that lives here has to be just as harsh and determined as the sun, born of a fiery stubbornness that is either extremely brave or extremely stupid.
I only know a few things about Summer beyond its climate. Its male-blooded conduit is a turquoise stone set in a gold cuff, inherited by their current king, Simon Preben, after his father died four years ago. Biggest export: wine. Biggest import: people.
Their economy is all too similar to Angra’s work camps,only Summer uses some of its own citizens in addition to people bought from other kingdoms. I saw a few Summerian collectors on trips around Primoria, relentless human-hunters who scooped up living purchases. Only Yakim and Spring sell to Summer—the rest of Primoria’s kingdoms find the practice of slavery repulsive.
Anxiety balls tight in my gut. Why did the magic chasm have to lead us here? I won’t be able to see what Summer does to its people, to itsproperty, without drowning in rage . . . and memories of my own slavery-filled past. Let alone the fact that Summer buying people from Spring indirectly supported Angra.
Maybe I’ll find the key or the Order quickly, and not have to be here long. But what am I even looking for? The chasm’s clue was only vines on fire. Am I looking for an actual vine on fire? That seems too literal. Then just a vine? Or just a flame?
This is something I’d talk to Theron about. Ask for his help regarding interpretation.
But I can’t bring myself to trust him again just yet.
We lock our cargo inside the enclosed carriages and start south, making for Juli more slowly than I’d like. Each lurch of the horse leaves me shifting awkwardly, finding a new place where my pleated ivory dress clings to my skin. Thankfully Dendera let me change out of the starchy, high-collared monstrosity I wore for our departure from Winter—just the thought of being confined to wool andlong sleeves in this heat makes black spots flutter before my eyes. But my bare arms are only a relief for the first few minutes before the unobstructed sun finds my fair skin, and I swear I can hear the rays chuckle with delight at such a tasty meal.
The heat would be bad enough, but after about an hour of riding, Theron’s soldiers scramble in their saddles and start passing out thick cloaks. I sag when one falls into my lap.
“I’m not going to like what these are for, am I?” I ask Theron, who whips his cloak around his shoulders.
One soldier uncoils a length of rope and passes it back, connecting everyone in our caravan by looping it around the pommels of our saddles.
“No,” Theron says, and his tone makes me tug my cloak into place.
Moments later, a gust of wind slams into us, giving a brief burst of relief against the heat before a greater threat swoops in—sand. Billowing, raging clouds of grit thrash and swirl around us, turning the minuscule particles into daggers that send me burrowing deeper into the cloak. The horses seem as accustomed to the sandstorm as any Summerian would be, trudging on with the help of the connected rope. I wrap the cloak across my nose, keep my eyes closed and head bowed against the unrelenting storm that screams windy fury in my ears.
By the time it ebbs, I know what it would feel like fora Summerian to experience a blizzard. The complete and horrible opposite of everything one’s body is made for and, as I unfurl the cloak, sand cascading off the fabric in trickling rivers, I narrow my eyes at Theron.
Orange sand streaks across his face and he accepts my glare with a shrug. “I assumed you knew about Summer’s sandstorms.”
“I did—but I didn’t think we would have to worry about one on our short trip. Some warning would have been nice.”
He scrubs the sand off his cheek and shakes out his cloak as a soldier passes by, winding the rope back up. “No visit to Summer is complete without one, or so I’m told,” Theron says, his grin fighting to cancel out my annoyance.
It works, and I roll my eyes in resignation. “As long as there are no more surprises—”
But I barely get the wish out before all my instincts scream.
The fading sandstorm reveals the measly shade of a forest around us. Scraggy, sharp trees cut into the sky like scars, tangled bushes reveal thorns as long as my finger—and raiders perch high in the trees, waiting for unsuspecting travelers to get disoriented by the storm.
Just as I shout alarm, the attackers lunge down like the sand particles, sporadic yet deliberate. Knives flash in the sun, throwing sharp beams onto the raiders’ sand-colored clothes—orange scarves tied around their heads, dusty red shirts, billowing auburn pants that poof around theraiders’ knees but wrap tightly against their ankles. In a few seconds we’re surrounded, our men holding weapons ready, the raiders staring up at them, knife to knife.
My fingers flex for a weapon, but I hold steady, keeping myself calm and rigid. A queen wouldn’t fight—she’d face this threat logically, diplomatically.
