Ice Like Fire

  What do I have left to lose?

  I turn to Rares. “What information do you have on something called the Order of the Lustrate?”

  Ceridwen frowns. “The what? Lustrate?”

  “They’re the ones I need help from. I just have no idea where to search for them.” I pause, watching both her reaction and Rares. If either of them knows what the Order is, they’ll know now what I’m after.

  Ceridwen’s face doesn’t change, her eyes drifting as she thinks. But Rares needs no time to absorb my question—his smile widens in delighted curiosity and he heads down the row, beckoning us to follow him. “Nothing in Evangeline the Second comes to mind, but this library is rather dull, and something like the ‘Order of the Lustrate’ sounds right mystical. The Library of Clarisse is just down from here, and that might be more suited to your research.”

  Neither of them knows what the Order is.

  I hurry after Rares and tilt my head when he glances back at me. “What books are in this library?”

  “Books of law and edict.”

  I roll my eyes. The servant took me to the law library? What about me says I want to spend time perusing books about rules?

  Rares reads the annoyance on my face and laughs. “I do apologize, dear heart. Not what you were expecting?”

  “No.” I keep pace beside him as we duck down another row of books, angling toward the back wall. “You aren’t what I was expecting either. Are you Yakimian?”

  “No, dear heart. From outside Yakim, actually.”

  “Ventralli?” Ceridwen asks, her eyes analyzing his features. “You don’t look Ventrallan.”

  He bobs his head in something like a nod. “You’re familiar with Ventrallans, yes? It’s odd that I’d be here, but someone should care for these books. Because, honestly, this is shameful. So I’m mending what I can, providing fodder for a kingdom that right adores studying unusual folks.” He winks at me. “No manners, Yakimians. I’m afraid I’ve picked up a plethora of unseemly behaviors from them. Ah, here we are—the Library of Clarisse, home to books of history and records.”

  Rares pushes open a door at the back of the law library, revealing another room that stretches just as large beyond. An identical layout too, with balconies and chairs and orbs of light, the same mirrors marking each row with numbers. This library is far less crowded; the only other person here is a servant sweeping a carpet to our left.

  Rares saunters in as if he knows exactly where he’s going, stopping only to yank a book from a shelf and plop it into my arms. “A census record, but just for Yakim, and only through the last proper spring. The rest are in this row and around. They list people, businesses, even the occasional horse—if anything named the ‘Order of the Lustrate’ exists in Yakim, it’ll pop up here.” He turns to a row behind him. “And this row starts census records for Ventralli, that one for Cordell. They tried to do censuses in the Seasons, but you know how their relationship with you lot goes. Over here are a few for Paisly—old ones, and mostly inaccurate. Journey up there is a nightmare, I hear—even more treacherous mountains than your Klaryns.”

  Rares whisks off to the next row, tugging me along. I throw a questioning look at Ceridwen, who stifles a laugh and shrugs as if to say, You asked for it.

  “Now, this is good—Bisset’s Analysis of Secret Societies.” Rares whips a book out of a shelf and stacks it in my arms. “It’ll chill you to your veins! Though I’d imagine chilling isn’t as uncomfortable for you as for the rest of us. Ah, now, this one should help—A Study of the Unknown. Oh, and you must have Forgotten Worlds—Richelieu clearly adored the sound of his pen scratching on paper, but every few dozen pages he provides good information. Oh, and—”

  By the time Rares is done, Ceridwen, Lekan, and I all have our arms stacked with books and more recommendations waiting on shelves. I gawk at Rares, my arms threatening to buckle just so I can spend time cleaning up the loose pages instead of reading all this.

  Seeking information about the Order of the Lustrate might not have been one of my better ideas. How easily I forgot the misery of trying to read Magic of Primoria—but my brain remembers it well, already lurching with pain as I look down at the cover for The Reign of Queen Eveline the First and Societal Cultures During Her Time.

  Merciful snow above.

  Rares claps his hands. “When you’re finished, dear heart, feel free to leave the books on the table, as disorganized as you possibly can.” He motions to a table behind me, situated in a break in the rows of books. “The librarian in residence in charge of the Library of Clarisse is an offensively irritable man, and I would like nothing better than to make unnecessary work for him. Do let me know if any of these books help, or if you need more!”

  “Wait.” Ceridwen dumps her burdens on the table after Lekan and pauses, cheek caught between her teeth. “Lustrate,” she says again, rolling the word around her tongue. “That sounds like a word Ventrallans would favor.”

  Rares’s eternal smile cracks wider, like he can see what she’s getting at, but I’m lost.

  “Why?” I ask.

  Ceridwen presses her hand just below her collarbone, eyes averted, and I can’t help but think she’s looking away more to avoid revealing something than to think. “Because of what it means—to purify by sacrifice. Ventrallan culture is full of words like that—luscious words for dark acts, dark words for luscious acts. Artistic, extravagant meanings.” She turns to Rares. “Where are your books on Ventralli? And not censuses.” Her nose curls and I smile. At least I’m not the only one who cringes at the thought of reading all this. If Theron were here, he’d dive in without hesitation.

  My gut twists, but I brace myself against thoughts of him.

  Books on Ventralli might be a good place to look, actually—the final clue in the chasm entrance was a mask, pointing to the Ventrallan culture of wearing elaborate ones. Maybe Ceridwen is on the right path.

  Rares taps a finger to his lips. “Quite deductive of you, Princess. We’ll make a Yakimian out of you yet.”

  Ceridwen’s lips twitch in a snarl. “Don’t insult me.”

  Lekan grunts and slaps her in the shoulder. Ceridwen glares at him, and he unabashedly returns her glare, an exchange that makes little sense to me. But after half a breath Ceridwen relents.

  “Sorry,” she mumbles, but while it would seem like the apology should be directed at Rares, Lekan is the one who nods and accepts it.

  Rares overlooks this interaction and points to the back left corner of the library. “Last row, shelves labeled 273 through 492. You no doubt noticed the markers on the ends of the rows? Lovely, aren’t they? Mighty helpful, you’ll find. Anything else?”

  “Not if life is at all kind,” I groan, realize how ungrateful that sounded, and straighten. “I mean, thank you.”

  Rares winks at me. “Enjoy Yakim, Your Highness.”

  He leaves, angling back through the library in the opposite direction Ceridwen and Lekan head, toward the Ventrallan books. Since my only options are to stay and start sorting through Rares’s choices or follow them, I unload the books from my arms and dart off into the shelves without hesitation.

  The orbs of light flash off the mirrored plates, the numbers dancing in the reflective surfaces until Ceridwen stops before a row labeled with an oval that proclaims “273–492.”

  “Order of the Lustrate, you said?” she asks as she starts surveying book spines.

  “Yes—”

  My attention sticks on the marker at the end of this row.

  Did it . . . change?

  I step closer to it, head angling. The light from the nearest orb catches on it and—

  I chirp surprise and hop up onto the chair that stands guard over this row, providing an easy lift to get close to the marker. Ceridwen turns to me while Lekan shrugs and goes back to watching the empty rows.

  “What is it?” she asks, voice low in the stillness of the library.

  I brace my hands on the bookshelf and tip my head to the side. Nor
mal, just the oval with the numbers etched, nothing of importance. But as I ease to the other side, the light shifts, and a luminescent picture reveals itself. A beam of light hitting a mountain.

  The Order of the Lustrate’s seal, hidden in the reflective surface of the metal oval.

  “It’s here,” I say, though I still don’t know what it is. Something is here, though, in this shelf, or in a book on this shelf.

  My pulse accelerates, trampling my lungs as I run my hand over the oval. My fingers glide down the edge and I spit unexpected laughter.

  The oval moved.

  I do it again, the mirrored plate spinning, crank by crank, under my fingers.

  Ceridwen’s attention returns to the shelf and she springs away in surprise. “Flame and heat! Keep doing that—there’s a compartment opening behind one of these shelves.”

  I jerk to the side, eyes scanning the library’s floor beside the shelf. “Watch out for—”

  But Ceridwen is way ahead of me, testing the floor with her feet and holding on to the shelves should a surprise pit open up here too. She shoots a cocked eyebrow up at me. “Just keep cranking.”

  Books smack into the floor as she tears them off the shelf. I keep easing the oval, gear by gear, until it locks into place, the numbers upright again. Skirt flurrying around me, I leap off the chair and step into the row, careful to avoid the stacks of books Ceridwen removed to make room.

  One of the shelves has lifted out, swinging horizontally away from the rest, revealing a hidden compartment.

  Ceridwen, holding a cluster of books against her chest, turns to me. Her shock eases into smug amusement and she tips her head, curls bouncing.

  “See?” she says, triumphant. “You do need me, Winter queen.”

  My surprise evaporates into the slightest tingle of unease as I wrap my fingers into the door and pry it the rest of the way open, the wood crying out with age and more than a few bursts of dust that spray into my face. I cough but open the door wider, allowing a nearby orb of light to shine into the narrow compartment. My fingers twitch to reach inside, but memories of my last encounter with the Lustrate’s key make me hesitate. Is this one a conduit too?

  In the back corner sits a smashed cloth. I ease my hand around it, waiting for the hard bite of metal to warn me of a key, but the thick weave of the cloth curves around something lumpy.

  I pull it out and guide it open in my hands, my stomach knotted up with two different emotions. Hope that it will be the key—and dread that it will be the key.

  The cloth unrolls and reveals a key within, identical to the one I found in Summer—iron, ancient, with the Lustrate’s seal at its head.

  So easy. Again.

  Warning hums in my throat, the instinctual rearing of danger coming. But I should be relieved. I’m that much closer to finding the Order, or at the very least, having leverage over Noam. This is good. Not threatening—good. Maybe the Order wanted the keys to be found easily. Maybe they separated them only so they wouldn’t be easily accessible.

  But I only have two keys—no answers. No information about the Order itself, or anything that could help me with my magic. Yes, I’m a step closer to being able to keep the chasm closed, but I need more than that. And it’s only luck that I found these two first—it could have been Theron with just as little effort. It makes no sense that the Order would bother to hide these keys in places that are so simple to find, unless they wanted them found. But why? And further—why Yakim? Summer, Yakim, Ventralli . . . what do these three kingdoms have in common?

  No—calm down, Meira. Right now, it’s just two keys, nothing dangerous. I won’t let myself worry until a viable threat materializes. I certainly have enough other things to worry about.

  The cloth around this key depicts a scene much like the tapestry the Ventrallan queen sent with Finn and Greer. Mountains circle a valley filled with beams of light and, in the center, a tight ball of even more brilliant light woven in yellow and white and blue threads, all of it swirling around.

  Magic.

  I exhale, hands shaking. The placement of the key in a tapestry, hidden in a row of books about Ventralli—it’s purposeful. The final key is definitely there.

  I look up at Ceridwen. “Now we—”

  She winces before I even talk. I glance at Lekan, who eyes her with a lingering sympathy.

  Ceridwen bobs her head. “Ventralli next. That was the plan, anyway.”

  “Yes,” I say slowly. “But . . . you don’t have to come with us.”

  Ceridwen sets the books in her arms on the floor. “Thanks, but I know someone in Ventralli who can help with that.” She nods at the tapestry, her expression void of emotion. “It’ll lead you to something, right? Admit it—you’re helpless without me.”

  I start to smile, warring with pressing her discomfort regarding Ventralli. But I flinch when the stillness of the library shatters around the sudden chiming of music.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  Meira

  A PIANO DISTURBS the silence, the player unleashing the melody from close by, steady notes that tinkle like raindrops beating on a window.

  I know who it is without needing to see him, some deep-seated link tugging even tighter. Just as the instinct hits me, I’m swarmed with familiarity—finding a key with Ceridwen, only to be distracted from the find by Theron.

  In Summer, I brushed it off as a coincidence that Theron was in the cellar. He went looking for me—he probably asked a servant, who directed him there.

  But for him to be here, again, just after we found the key . . . did he follow me? Why would he have followed me without revealing himself earlier, involving himself in the search?

  My body quakes with another tremor of unease. No—I won’t distrust him that much. Theron is still my friend, he’s still him, and he wouldn’t do anything like that.

  But he has already, my instincts whisper. Twice, now—in Winter, when he told Noam about the chasm, and here, when he gave the goods from the Klaryn mines to Giselle.

  I curl my fingers around the tapestry. Is this key a conduit too? Probably—both my reaction to the barrier in the magic chasm and the last key hang all-too memorably in my mind. But I only had visions when I touched the key and Theron—so if I don’t touch the key, I should be safe.

  I open one of the pockets on my dress and slide the key in via the tapestry. The iron thumps against my thigh, but the fabric of my gown keeps it from touching my skin.

  “Guard this,” I tell Ceridwen, and thrust the tapestry at her. “Please.”

  She hesitates, her eyes narrowing. I can’t tell if it’s from finding a Ventrallan tapestry hidden in a Yakimian library or her finally reaching the end of her endurance.

  “Only if you explain what’s going on. All of it,” she demands.

  I pause. She waits.

  “I will,” I relent, and even I don’t know if I’m lying. “Soon. I promise.”

  Ceridwen considers, one beat, two. Finally she rolls her eyes, takes the tapestry, and closes the hidden compartment. “Fine. Deal with your Rhythm prince.”

  I start that she knows who the pianist is too, but she doesn’t say anything more. Ceridwen leaves the books strewn about as she and Lekan duck out of the row, heading back for the main door.

  Absently, I clutch the locket at my throat, the empty conduit giving me some sort of relief. Which is completely absurd—I’m stuffed with magic, and yet a small piece of useless metal comforts me?

  I leave the row, letting the music pull me through the shelves. One last turn and a small opening reveals a few chairs with a piano against the wall. Theron leans over it, his fingers brushing the keys to make the music swell abruptly, cut off, and plunge down again. Each note . . . aches. Slow and palpitating, filling the empty air with melancholy, so even before he says anything, I feel broken.

  He doesn’t glance up as he
plays, his head plunging side to side, lips tight in concentration. But I know he sees me enter the area—his shoulders jerk sharply, one note faltering ever so brokenly under his fluttering hands.

  “I thought you weren’t feeling well,” Theron says, his attention on the piano.

  I bite my lip but stay silent.

  He stops playing, the song ending on a crash of keys. “I went to visit one of Putnam’s factories. Figured you found the Summerian key in a wine cellar; maybe the next one would be in a symbol of this kingdom too. Giselle has to give special permission, though, to visit the oldest factories, so I went to your room to make sure you had returned all right, but Dendera said you left.” He cuts his eyes to me, so fast I almost miss it. “Seems you weren’t feeling as ill as you appeared at the university. My mistake.”

  Theron went searching for the key without me too—luckily he went for the wrong symbol of Yakim. I don’t point that out, though, straightening before him.

  “I needed to be alone for a little while. I won’t apologize for that,” I say, and I only flinch a little at the hardness of my voice. “You’re the one who should apologize to me. You had no right to give Giselle goods from the Klaryns.”

  “That’s why you’re upset? That’s one of the reasons we’re here!” Theron flies off the bench. “We had to give her some of our mines—she’s a Rhythm. She never would have—”

  “Stop.” My chest lurches with cold and this time I welcome it, opening my body to the way every nerve fills with flakes of snow and shards of ice. I know my voice reflects the sensation, can feel just how cold I sound. “They’re Winter’s mines. There is no our.”

  Theron lunges forward, cutting me off. Hands to my shoulders, yanking me to him; lips on mine, but not in a gentle, loving kiss—a hard, desperate kiss, his fingers stiff, his mouth unyielding, his body a formidable mountain with me trapped at the top, hopelessly lost in the clouds and wind and light.