Ice Like Fire (30 page)

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.

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 culture 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.

Is she that kind of person? Jesse seems to think so.

I blink, surprised at myself. It seems I’ve gotten better at thinking through politics. I don’t know if that’s something I should be proud of.

Jesse hunches over papers on the floor, talking still. “. . . men stationed just out west, who are loyal to me, I think.”

All this swirls around me, the chaos of such heated politics rearing up out of what seemed a beautiful, picturesque kingdom. I turn to Dendera and to my surprise, she nods.

Accept him?
I mouth.

She nods again.

But something about this still doesn’t sit right. Unease seems to be my constant escort.

“Why now?” I swivel back to Jesse, who pauses in his sorting to look up at me. “Because I need allies too, King Jesse, and if I agree to this, I will need support quickly. Why is it so imperative you find allies to fight your wife now?”

His face drains of color. “Because she . . .” His voice fades, his jaw bobbing.

Every nerve in my body flares to readiness, a feeling that shocks me with memory.

I was four or five, young enough that my recollection consists of hazy flashes of images that may or may not be real. A canopy of heavy, wet leaves in the Eldridge Forest;
Alysson’s arms around me as we sat near a fire; and a sound, a violent, shattering noise—a branch snapping.

On its own it wasn’t anything unusual; branches snapped all the time in the Eldridge. But something about it felt heavier, louder than any noise I had heard yet. Because just after it, Alysson shoved me off her lap and fell over the sprawled body of Sir, lying motionless in the undergrowth of the forest. He didn’t move for so long, seconds that felt like days, until finally,
finally
, he turned over and murmured that his partner had been killed by Angra’s men.

As I watched him, and his wife hovering over him and people running in a frenzy around me, all I could hear was that branch snapping over and over, the branch he’d stepped on as he collapsed by the fire. For years after, every time I’d hear a branch snap, my heart would drop and my eyes would tear and I’d expect death to come roaring at me.

Now, as I stand in the center of the Ventrallan king’s study, I feel the noise before it happens. Not a branch snapping, but something just as commonplace—a noise forever warped into signaling that something’s coming, something I can’t control.

Two thumping knocks on the door.

I spin, the tulle of my gown whooshing against the force. Jesse leaps to his feet, his face sickly gray as he dives forward and yanks open the door.

Lekan stands there, fist up to knock again, sweat gleaming on his bare face. He sees Jesse and flinches—physically,
violently
recoils
, lips curling, body hunching back.

“I need the Winter queen,” he snaps.

Jesse sags against the door. “Where is Ceridwen? Have you seen her? Can you—”

“I need the Winter queen,” Lekan echoes his snarl, and shoves Jesse aside.
Shoves
the Ventrallan king.

I gape at Lekan. I know Jesse is Ceridwen’s . . . whatever he is, and Lekan is her friend, but that was bold. And this coming from someone who once locked herself in the Cordellan king’s office.

Lekan’s glower intensifies. “I need your help.”

“I’m popular today,” I say as Jesse leaps in with “Where is she?”

I squint at Jesse. The moment he saw Lekan, he asked where Ceridwen was. But . . . they are involved, aren’t they? Wouldn’t he know where she is? Or did something happen?

Is that why Jesse is so panicked to find allies?

“She does that at every turn—infects potential allies until I’m left with . . .”

Snow above. Did Raelyn do something to Ceridwen? She’s left her alone for however many years, but maybe . . . maybe she finally acted against her husband’s mistress.

I nod at Lekan. “Of course.”

Jesse presses a moan back, torn between wanting me to help Ceridwen and wanting me to help
him
. But he relents, almost instantly, his eyes latching on to mine. “Please, Queen Meira,” he gasps. “Consider my proposal. We can
discuss this after we—”

Lekan turns on Jesse as the king reaches for a sword hanging on the wall. The pattern on the sheath and the jewels on the hilt scream “decoration only,” and the lack of weapons on Jesse’s person at all says he isn’t a fighter.

“This doesn’t concern you,” Lekan growls. “Stay here. Do nothing. You’re good at that.”

Jesse’s chest sags and he drops against the door frame.

The old Meira appreciates Lekan’s brazenness, but Queen Meira chokes. “He’s the
king of Ventralli
,” I half gag, half laugh.

But Lekan just grabs my arm. “He’ll get over it.”

And we’re running, leaving Jesse with his hands over his face, his conduit dangling uselessly from his hip.

The halls of the Donati Palace are maddeningly long.

I’m already half out of my dress by the time I burst into my room. Conall and Garrigan close the door, and Dendera dives at the trunk in the corner, ripping out clothes more appropriate to search for someone. Nessa scoops it all out of Dendera’s hands and shoves me behind a dressing screen.

“She loves him,” Lekan starts. My heart fractures. “She has for four years. Well, more than that, actually—before he married Raelyn. But that’s not important—she went to him just after you all met them in the throne room. She said she was done, that she wanted to end things. She’s tried in the past, but something about this time felt different.”

“What?” Dendera asks. “Why would this time be different?”

“Because Ventralli has started to sell people to her brother.”

I bend forward, one hand bracing on the dressing screen.

The Ventrallan man who was murdered in the wine cellar.

Not only was his death upsetting for humane reasons, but it was also upsetting politically. His presence in Summer should have struck me oddly—I
knew
only Yakim and Spring sold to Summer, but I was too wrapped up in my own issues to see anything outside of myself.

Ceridwen should have told me how Summer’s situation had evolved. What stopped her? Pride? My constant babbling about my own problems?

Dendera sighs. “He betrayed her.”

Her words slant sharply, and I close my eyes as if that will stop them from hitting their mark. I don’t need Dendera’s observation to connect how similar Ceridwen and I are—both in our doomed relationships with Rhythm royals.

But Lekan grunts. “I don’t think so. I think it was his wife. She’s manipulative, to say the least, and she’s always after ways to boost Ventralli’s economy. And Jesse isn’t heartless. He may be weak, but never heartless.” He pauses, exhaling slowly. “But Ceridwen wouldn’t listen to me. She went to talk to him, and that was the last I saw her. But the
servants said that she hurried back soon after, and changed out of her gown and into . . . weapons.”

That was why Jesse was so riled. Ceridwen ended things with him, probably told him of his wife’s arrangement to sell Ventrallans to Summer, and left.

Nessa folds my dress once it’s off and I’m in my normal clothes, the black pants and white shirt I wore in Summer. The key, still wrapped in cloth, goes into my pocket while my chakram sits on my back, and as I step out from behind the dressing screen, I tighten the straps of the holster.

“I know where she went,” I say.

Lekan flinches forward. “What? How?”

“Because I know where I’d go if my heart had broken,” I tell him, “and I’m beginning to think Ceridwen and I are similar in more ways than one.”

I know where I’d go if I had ended things with a man I loved, if my kingdom was constantly threatened by an evil far stronger than me. Weapon blazing, I’d march into war. It’s what my body has screamed to do since I finally relented to who I am, a warrior and a queen. To face everything without hesitation, to seek out the fight instead of cowering from it.

I know we need to press on for the Order, for answers. But if I let someone I care about slip through the chaos, I’ve lost no matter what I do. I’d do the same for Nessa, or Mather, or Sir—drop everything to race to their aid. The reckless part of me, the Meira the orphaned soldier-girl
part—that’s all she is. Someone who acts impetuously, but always with good intent.