Page 65 of Ice Like Fire
“That’s none of your concern.”
“Thought so.”
Dendera leaves to help Nessa unpack. Conall and Garrigan position themselves just inside the room, doing their best to blend into the background as Theron leads me to a thick sofa. Henn is absent this time, letting them have their first solo mission outside Winter, and I stifle a smile at the way Garrigan cannot keep his beam of pride from flickering across his face.
Simon and Ceridwen sit on the floor next to this room’s temperature gauge, far less uncomfortable beneath the rays of heat wavering out of the coils. Everyone wears representations of their kingdom: Theron is dressed in Cordell’s green-and-gold military uniform, I wear white and silver. But Ceridwen and Simon are the most dramatic.
Simon looks like he’s purposefully adorned himself in every symbol of his kingdom. A square of scarlet fabric held in place by crisscrossing braids of red string forms a decorative breastplate that covers his otherwise bare torso. On the scarlet square an orange-and-red flame licks the fabric and Summer’s conduit glows on his wrist. His eyes are lined with gold paint, his scarlet hair pulled into a high ponytail decorated with small sunbursts and clusters of rubies. He should seem regal in so much finery, but the way he leans against the wall, legs spread before him, head drooped, he looks like a little boy forced to dress up for a special occasion. I half expect him to break into a tantrum.
Ceridwen has changed from her layers of fur back into an array of straps and patches of fabric, with baggy pants around her thighs and sandals that twist up her shins. Despite her simpler wardrobe, she looks far more regal than her brother—even with, or maybe because of, her only other adornment: a red flame painted beneath her left eye, in the place where all Summerian slaves are branded.
My eyebrows shoot up and though I know she catches my surprise, she doesn’t react, just turns back to the temperature gauge and holds her hands out to it. Is she usually so bold?
A throat clears, and I jump when I notice the only person in the room I don’t know. A man towers inside the door, and from the startled expression on the faces of my guards as well as Theron’s and Simon’s, no one else noticed himenter either. He trains fathomless black eyes on me, the wrinkles in his dark skin and the gray in the twisted coils of his dark hair putting him at around Sir’s age. A thin scar runs from his temple down to his chin, cutting through his cheek in the smooth, pale tone of a long-healed injury.
He clasps his hands against his stomach. “Queen Giselle requests you join her in Putnam University’s laboratory. Carriages await you,” he says, eyes meeting mine. Though the connection lasts only a few seconds, I get the impression he’s analyzing me.
We are in Yakim, though, which is known for study. And he’s dressed as if he just came from a laboratory himself—a leather apron hangs over a white shirt rolled to the elbows and tight brown breeches. But now that I study him longer—don’t most Yakimians have lighter tawny brown skin, not the dark shade this man bears? Maybe their skin tone varies and I just didn’t pay attention during Sir’s lessons on Yakim.
Before I can read more, the man sweeps out the door as noiselessly as he came.
We all rise to follow him and I turn to Theron. “The queen is at the university?”
He nods like it’s expected, one of his hands straying to brush over the breast pocket of his uniform. The action washes my responsibilities over me in a wave. The Summerian key. He’ll want to go searching for the Yakimian one after we parade our lie-that-isn’t-a-lie.
But for this kingdom, it won’t be a lie on my part. I still want an ally to help me stand against Cordell—Ceridwen is helpful, but I need someone strong enough to offset Noam’s hold. The goods from our mines are already locked up again, awaiting the time I can offer them to Giselle—without Simon present.
More delicate politics. More planning and scheming that make my head ache. But remembering that this meeting will be less fake for me than when we met Simon makes me stand a little straighter, build up more resolve.
“Giselle spends much of her time there,” Theron explains. “She—”
“—wastes time inventing light switches when she could be curbing the poverty in her kingdom.”
I cock a look at Ceridwen, who closes the back of our group behind Theron and me, her demeanor not hinting in the least that she just insulted the queen of Yakim.
Theron shrugs. “Some would say so,” he offers, eyes flitting to the servant, still within earshot.
Ceridwen fans herself. “My, I forgot how thin the air gets when more than one Rhythm is in the same place.”
Theron scoffs but throws a wink at Ceridwen. “Jealousy isn’t a pretty color on you, Princess.”
Ceridwen drops her gaze from him to me and back up again, her eyes rippling with true emotion. It’s gone before I catch what it is, something that pulls at the mysteries she harbors.
“And a Season isn’t a proper lover for you, Prince,” she retorts.
All the air rushes out of my lungs. I’m still gaping as she leaves, pushing ahead of us to stand with her brother behind the servant. I can feel her words wiggle their way through the wall I’ve built around my feelings for Theron and point out how much distance remains between us, despite his lofty promises to bridge the gap between Rhythms and Seasons. Despite how I’m not sure I want him to.
Theron grabs my hand. “She doesn’t matter.”
I risk a glance at him, but he stares straight ahead, jaw set, eyes hard.
We wind through a few halls to descend into the castle’s entryway, a short but wide room with two walkways on either side of an arched wooden bridge. Wheels spin in a bubbling stream that flows through the center of the room itself, a miniature version of the great, rolling ones that turn in the Langstone River. The water makes the room warm and moist, and as we cross the bridge and exit the castle, the air is only slightly cooler outside.
A yard stretches around us, green and buzzing with stable boys and Yakimian dignitaries, the gray stone of the complex wall rising at the edge of the grounds. Carriages await us at the bottom of the stairs, the servant already perching on the driver’s bench of one. His eyes are on me before I notice him, and when I do, he levels that amused, analytical gaze at me again.
I frown. Does he find me that fascinating? Actually, as I’m the recently resurfaced child-queen of the fallen Season, he probably does. That doesn’t stop me from tightening my frown in an unspoken question.
His lips twitch in a smile that stretches through his scar and he faces the road ahead.
