“Queen Meira!” he tries again, and swipes a goblet from a table in the alcove. “It has been far too long since I’ve had the pleasure of a Winterian in my kingdom.” He waves the goblet around, encompassing the brothel. “Which is why I thought it best to make introductions here. I don’t imagine you’ve ever seen any of Summer’s splendors. A true shame, but one we will quickly remedy. Today you will have the whole of Madame Tia’s staff at your disposal—tonight,you will join me for a true Summerian celebration at the palace. We will have food, we will have drink—”
As my mind scrambles through his words to realize he intends to make us stayhere,all day, Simon thrusts the goblet at me, wine sloshing over his hand. Some of the dark liquid coats a bracelet on his wrist, a thick gold cuff with a turquoise stone in the center, surrounded by a steady glow of scarlet light. Summer’s conduit.
I want to tell him exactly what he can do with that goblet, but I manage some semblance of rationale through my fog of shock. He hasn’t done anything threatening—and honestly, he’s been hospitable. Just not the kind of hospitable I need.
Be nice, Meira.
A weak smile cracks my lips. “Thank you, but isn’t it a bit early for all this?”
He downs the goblet’s contents before chucking it into the mess of people and winking at me. “Not if you believe in yourself.” His focus shifts over us, more analytical, and he visibly wilts. “Cerie didn’t come with you? Flames on that girl. She used to be so fun. Did she even introduce herself? My sister, the most un-Summerian Summerian I’ve ever met, but when shedoesloosen up, guard the wine! Girl is a nasty drunk. In which case, I suppose she’sverySummerian.”
“King Simon,” Theron cuts in, angling between us. I bite back a sigh of relief. I don’t even know Ceridwen thatwell, but I assume she doesn’t take too fondly to her brother calling her a “nasty drunk.” “We come with a proposition for you. May we plan somewhere to speak? Somewhere away from the bustle of the city?” He pauses, features angling. “I hear Summerian vineyards are most glorious to behold.”
I frown.A vineyard?
Whatever link to the magic chasm or the Order of the Lustrate might be in this kingdom has to be somewhere that has survived the test of time—something important to Summer, or something just as old as the door.
That’s why Theron wants to go to their vineyards. Some of them have been around for centuries, and if any clues to the Order or the keys could have survived the trials of time—they could be at a vineyard. The carving of the vines on fire makes a little more sense.
My eyes lock on the tiles under our feet. The pride that wells on Simon’s face.
“I don’t imagine you’ve ever seen any of Summer’s splendors.”
Vineyards aren’t the only thing Summer values enough to keep preserved for centuries, though. And maybe the carving wasn’t supposed to be so literal.
My nose curls. Snow above, if I have to search Summer’sbrothelsfor the Order . . .
Simon stumbles out of the alcove and hooks his arm around Theron’s neck. “Quite glorious indeed! We’ll make the trip tomorrow. Today, though—” His bloodshot eyes pin on me and he whistles, releasing a cloud of acidicbreath. “I would very much like to get to know the new Winterian queen. Not that I’m not honored to host the heir of Cordell, but we Season monarchs have to stick together. Solidarity.”
The scent of the wine on his breath makes me choke.
We’re guests in his kingdom. We need to be here peacefully.
He hasn’t done anything wrong. He hasn’t done anything wrong.
But no matter how many reasons I stack like bricks in a wall, my impulses batter through.
We’re guests in a kingdom built on slavery.
We need to be here peacefully—which is basically saying that we endorse his kingdom’s treatment of people.
He hasn’t done anything wrong—to me. But who else has he hurt? How many of the people here are slaves?
As if in response to my thoughts, one of the people in Simon’s alcove sits up. She’s dressed, thankfully, but her hair sticks out in the matted array of slumber, spiraling black locks that plaster to her tawny skin.
She isn’t Summerian. She’s Yakimian.
Heavy lines of gold paint around her eyes have bled down her cheeks and across her forehead. She pats her hair, and when she feels me watching her, she lifts hooded eyes.
I lock my jaw.
The smears of gold paint over her face almost make the small mark on her cheek unnoticeable. AnSbranded below her left eye, the skin singed but old, healed, something that she’s lived with for a while. Maybe forever.
I flick my attention around the hall. Servants sweep up messes and straighten chairs, a few more of the scantily clad people in the alcoves are awakening. Most of them are Summerian, their hair spilling in tangled clumps of fire red around their tan skin, their liquid brown eyes; only a few people from other kingdoms move about. All are branded, their marks just as old as the girl’s.
Summer brands its slaves. The servants who showed us to our rooms last night—were they branded? In the darkness, it was hard to see much of anything—and honestly, making sure the stones from the Klaryns got locked away distracted me. I focused on the things a queen would, not on the things a soldier would. The safety of our key to obtaining alliances, not the details of my whereabouts.
My body jolts with remorse. I should be glad that I acted like a queen—but all I can feel now is disgusted. How can I not remember whether or not the servants had brands? Or even if they were Summerian? But the Yakimian slaves here move around the brothel exactly the same as the Summerian slaves, with no inclination to fight back or strain against the life Simon chose for them. No matter how much he is able to make Summerians accept their lives, no amount of magic could make him able to affect someone he bought from another kingdom.
