Within his carriage, Ceridwen waits, her chin propped in her hand. Another carriage holds a few Cordellan soldiers, while the last one is Simon’s, the wine-dark wood connected to oxen. With a curl of my nose I climb in alongside Ceridwen, followed by Theron, Garrigan, and Conall. Once we’re all accounted for, the carriages move out, dragged down the sweeping road that runs in front of Langlais Castle and out into the city.
Putnam is like every other Yakimian city I’ve seen. Thatched roofs, whitewashed walls, brown wood beams inX’s to support the structures and add some simple decoration. The buildings around the palace stand four and five stories in the air, tall things that reek of wealth, with giant clocks at the tops of towers and copper pipes coiling in intricate designs down the sides of buildings. The people who mill around these buildings are dressed as expensively as their homes, with tall brown hats, wide ivory skirts, pocket watches dangling from jackets, and canes tipped with gold. The fashion rivals Summer’s leather straps and lack of clothing with its oddity, and I can’t stop myself from staring as we roll past.
As we cross a bridge over a branch of the Langstone River, the buildings get a little drabber. Shorter, skinnier structures with cracked walls, tiles missing on roofs, dirt smudged on windows. The fashion remains much the same, only dingier as well, and more people work as opposed to stroll down the streets.
Ceridwen leans her elbow on the window across from me, our knees bumping with every jostling sway of the carriage. She surveys me as we ride, her eyes darting every so often to Theron, still holding my hand, but his attention is out the opposite window, his expression murderous.
We sit in heavy, choking silence, until at last Ceridwen heaves a long sigh.
“They built Putnam University away from the castle, in the center of the city,” she starts, just to fill the air with words. We roll past a glass shop, a fire roaring behind a man who blows into a long metal tube. A bubble of translucent white forms before we’re gone, rolling onto the next street. “Yakimians thought it better to divide their assets in case of war.”
I shift and Theron’s grip on my hand tightens, almost painful, refusing to let go of me. My throat convulses as I add my own words to plug any leaks that might spring in the awkwardness. “Not so everyone in the city could have easy access to it?”
Theron glances at me, surprise cutting through his anger. Should I have stewed in silence? Besides, what shesaid moments ago wasn’t wrong. Just blunt.
Ceridwen shakes her head. “Sadly, no. Only certain Yakimians have access to the universities spread throughout the kingdom. The rest . . .”
She waves her hand out the window, at a group of children carrying wooden rods hung with dozens of heavy iron horseshoes. Their skinny legs barely seem strong enough to hold up their own bodies let alone the weight of the iron, their faces smudged with soot, their clothes rumpled and stained.
My stomach tightens. “Giselle isn’t trustworthy, is she?”
“She’s similar to my father,” Theron adds slowly. I squeeze his hand. “I often wonder why he agreed to marry a woman from Ventralli rather than Yakim. Yakim shares more of his beliefs—efficiency, structure, enterprise. But despite their commonalities, there is still one difference big enough to put off even my father.”
“What is it?” I ask. But Ceridwen already points outside. I follow her finger to an alley back the way we came and the carriage rolling down it, deeper into the city. The wine-stained wood boasts the painted flame of Summer. It would seem Simon has opted not to meet Giselle.
I drag my eyes away from Simon’s brothel carriage, unable to stop myself from guessing why it might be pulling away. Making money off its services? My stomach rolls over.
“For all my father’s faults,” Theron continues, his voicesoft, “I can never say he isn’t a good king. He views each and every Cordellan, no matter how small, ashis, and turns green at the thought of selling anyone to Summer as Yakim does.”
Ceridwen scoffs. “A Rhythm with a conscience. I wonder what other oddities will plague the world—maybe it’ll snow in Summer.”
Her statement at first sounds like just a declaration of absurdity, but when she meets my eyes for a beat, I feel the unaddressed issues she still has tucked in her mind. How I made it snow in Juli. How I uncovered a hidden pit in her wine cellar. I bite my teeth together, refusing to be ruffled by her.
Theron’s face darkens. “Do not insult my kingdom when your own overflows with faults.”
She gapes at him, startled, before she bares her teeth and crosses her arms defensively.
I lift both my eyebrows at Theron. “I thought your goal for this trip was unification. You know—breaking prejudices, beingnice.”
He blinks at me, the darkness in his face lifting on a shake of his head. His grip on my hand loosens and I wiggle free, stretching my fingers as he shifts forward.
“I’m sorry,” he offers Ceridwen.
“I admire your father’s stance, actually,” she responds, her own version of an apology. She looks back out the window. “I wish more kingdoms appreciated their citizens that way.”
Theron half smiles. “Maybe through this unification, they will.”
I bite my lip, the images from the ride swirling in my mind. The fine upper-class citizens walking by their perfect homes; the children hefting horseshoes down the road. For the briefest moment, I’m sucked back to Abril and the sight of the children there. The only difference between them was their coloring. In a kingdom that claims to be so advanced, no one should bear any resemblance to someone from Angra’s work camps. Not even peasants, not even the poor. There shouldn’t evenbea divide—there was no difference between Angra’s other Winterian prisoners and me, and yet here I sit, riding in a fine carriage. What is the only difference? My conduit magic?
My eyes shift out the window again, to the sudden switch in scenery. No longer run-down buildings and child-workers and poverty—now we’re surrounded by high walls and fine brick buildings and more people in traditional Yakimian fashions—straight lines, brown fabrics, and copper accents. We must be at the university. That quick of a switch—no middle ground. Like the way most of Summer’s people are forced into intoxication and the fog of happiness. Accept it or . . . suffer. Ceridwen is proof of that. This world is nothing but extremes.
There needs to be another option—something more than compliance or struggle. More than the abusive magic in existence today or the threat of everyone having magic.There needs to be a choice to just benormal.
Would people still divide themselves and hold prejudices and foster hatred without magic? Of course they would. But if there were no magic, no Decay, nothing to make one person inhumanly different than another, things would at least be even. Just because it wouldn’t cure everything doesn’t mean it wouldn’t make things better than they are.
I sit straighter in the carriage’s seat. That’s what I will ask the Order, if I ever find a clue that leads to them.
How to cleanse our world of magic.
