I have to forcibly keep my nose from curling, but Simon spins me around and points to the far wall. “Food! Tables of Summerian delicacies. Don’t even try to tell me that you don’t likefood.”
His suggestion is so blissfully innocent that I actually smile, and he claps his hands, thoroughly enthralled with his ability to find something to “entice” me.
“Come, come!” Simon loops his arm through mine, hauling me into the fray without a backward glance. Theron falls in behind, along with our guards, and I can tell by the way he bites his lips that he’s trying not to address the blatant Summerian brush-off.
The food table sits between two sandstone pillarswrapped in luminescent yellow fabric. Behind the table, nestled into the wall, a fireplace crackles, the flames licking far higher than necessary—meant to be more of a decoration than useful, I’d imagine. Slaves dart around the table, refilling platters and, in a few cases, providing entertainment. Off to the side, funnels of vibrant flames launch from the mouths of Summerian dancers while balls of fire gleam in cages at the end of chains, flung in patterns as the slaves lunge and twirl and dip.
Simon beams at them. “Lovely, aren’t they? Oh, try that—stew made of peanuts and sweet potatoes. Positively decadent!” He points to a bread bowl filled with lumpy golden mush and waves at one of the dancers. “Let’s show our guests a true Summerian celebration, yes?”
The dancer nods, her smile unfurling even brighter, and motions to a cluster of musicians in the corner, the ones who have been pounding out steady, gyrating tunes. They see her cue and dive into an achingly fast song, drums thumping and tambourines shaking in a melody that throbs in me.
The performers dissolve into a choreographed dance, spitting fire on certain upbeats, swinging the lanterns in tandem. Flames and heat, feet stomping, hips spinning, a dizzying array of light and energy that mesmerizes everyone around. Simon, his courtiers, the Cordellan guards, even my own guards and Theron, who stare with something more like awe than the passion of the Summerians.The dancers themselves, all Summerian, smile and laugh, engrossed in their own movements. The slaves not dancing watch with the same delirium, riveted with joy.
As I watch the dancers, their aura of happiness cracks here and there. One of the dancers steps wrong, landing on her ankle in an awkward twist, and a painful wince flickers over her face. But her smile returns, her body carrying on the dance like nothing happened. Another dancer fights cascades of sweat that roll down his face, his breath coming in gasps that shake his whole body, but he smiles through it, lips in a tight grin.
Enjoyment, enjoyment, everywhere—that is Summer’s reputation, after all.
But so many of these smiles are forced by the man next to me, who grabs a platter of shredded pork, and cheers with delight as he eats and watches his people dance through twisted ankles and exhaustion.
I grip my fingers into tight fists, every nerve taut.
A door covered by dangling beaded strands catches my eye—or more the person who materializes next to it, to the left of the performance.
Ceridwen.
Everyone else in this part of the room seems hypnotized by the dance. For a moment, no one is watching me. The awareness of this one chance at freedom sends a wave of tingling need through me, so strong and unexpected that I latch on to it before I can think of a more logical reaction.But all I see is a goal before me—saving Winter from a Cordellan takeover, finding the Order or its key before Theron. And Ceridwen is the first person I’ve met whom I might be able to trust.
Ceridwen turns to talk to a man behind her, the slave who was with her earlier. Together they duck through the arch.
I cast a glance at the dancers, still hurling their bodies fast and strong with no hint that they might be slowing, and at the audience, still enthralled. Without another thought, I take a smooth step back, angle my shoulders, and fold into the crowd. No one notices me leave, and I brim with a sensation I haven’t felt in months—the thrill of sneaking, plotting, springing into a mission. Beinguseful.
I dive into the archway, pushing through the dangling beads. The celebration dies behind me, this dark hall swallowing much of the noise. A few sconces flicker on the walls, a few doors open into more rooms, but I’m focused on the end, where Ceridwen and her companion whisper as they hurry into the darkness.
I surge forward, dodging out of the way of slaves who emerge from various rooms with trays of food and drink. Ceridwen and the man duck into a room on the right and I follow before I realize it isn’t a room—it’s outside.
The smell of straw, horse dung, and fire clogs the stable yard along with the occasional bout of cheeringor complaining from a group of stable hands, bent over an intense dice game as they pass a few bottles of wine between them. Torches light the yard, revealing barns that wrap around the palace and out of sight. No Ceridwen, but I catch a glimpse of orange fabric and red hair on a barn’s roof directly across from where I stand. It vanishes . . . over the wall? Where is she going? She’s the princess—she should be able to leave through the front gate without question.
Meira the soldier wouldn’t hesitate to follow her. But Queen Meira should return to the celebration and hope that no one noticed her departure so that she can bridge some sort of peace between Summer and Winter.
But the only Summerian ally I want is outside. If the muffled pounding of the same song is any indication, the dancing hasn’t stopped—everyone is probably still entranced by it.
A stack of crates sits against one of the barn walls, providing an easy lift to the roof. I fling myself up, teetering on the old shingles, and step back to get a better view of the wall, hoping, maybe, that Ceridwen will pop back over. Faintness makes me sway and I wobble to the edge of the roof, heat draining me with each drop of sweat.
“Hey there, Winterian.”
I whirl. On the ground below stand two men, red hair matted to their dirt-streaked faces.
One of them chuckles. “Your queen send you out to spy on us?”
The rest of the stable hands hover over the crate they used as a game table, sipping wine from glass bottles and watching us with cocked brows. I’m torn between worry that I didn’t realize they snuck up on me and relief that they don’t know who I am. Of course they don’t—why would the queen of Winter be scaling barns, alone, at this time of night? She wouldn’t. Sheshouldn’t, for this very reason.
My dagger burns against my wrist, but I don’t pull it out, don’t want them to know I have a weapon yet. I swallow, hovering up on the roof high enough that they can’t yank me down.
Unless they climb the crates and come after me.
The slightest tingle of panic starts at the back of my neck, but I shake it away. I’ve dealt with worse. I can handle this.
“How long till someone notices you missing, girly?” One man juts his chin toward me. “Long enough to have some fun?”
