Someone could have been hurt by my recklessness tonight. That’s what recklessness does—it hurts the people I care about.
I thought I’d learned that by now.
But as Ceridwen joins us on the ground, I alleviate my regret with the knowledge that I have aid, should I need it. Should I figure out what I’m even searching for.
I wipe away the sweat from my forehead and start across the yard, angling back toward the door. Something clinks against my boot, and when I glance down, one of the stable hands’ empty wine bottles glistens in the nearby torchlight.
I frown and bend down to it. Finn had a few bottles of Summerian wine back when I was younger. I might have convinced Mather to help me steal one at some point. Tipsiness blurred most of the details after that, but I do remember the bottle: the glass a translucent maroon hue; the label peeling in tattered strips; grime caked so thick I had to scrub off a layer to get at the cork.
“They better enjoy that buzz,”Finn had grunted at Sir once Mather and I were discovered, nearly comatose yet giggling uncontrollably.“They just drank fifty years of aged Summerian tawny port.”
To be fair, we didn’t drinkallof it—we only managed a few sips before the taste became unbearable. And Sir had seemed more angered by the fact that Finn had the wine at all than by our drunkenness, as he proceeded to smashthe bottle to bits and growl at Finn for buying goods from such a corrupt kingdom.
“They just drank fifty years . . .”
An idea surges to life in my head.
“How long do you age wine?” I ask Ceridwen.
She sees the bottle at my feet and dismisses it. I’d imagine thousands of them litter Summer. “Depends on the wine. Why?”
“What’s the oldest bottle in Summer?”
“We have a few bottles and casks kept as tokens of the first batches. Centuries old, at least by now. I didn’t take you for a wine enthusiast.”
Centuries old.So . . . old enough to have existed when the Order hid the keys?
I bite my lip and stand, hands beating a rhythm against my thighs. How much should I tell her? “I think . . . they could help me.”
“I’d imagine so. Alcohol has been known to have its uses.”
I mock-laugh. “Not to drink. Where are they?”
Ceridwen relents, waving a hand dismissively. “Follow me.”
I start after her but freeze. “Wait—they’re here? Not at a vineyard?”
“Of course they’re here.” Ceridwen glances back. “The best wine in the kingdom has been kept in my family’s private reserve for as long as Summer has been hot.”
I hadn’t expected it to be so simple, but Ceridwen starts walking again, and I follow dumbly.
She leads us back into the palace. We pause just long enough for Garrigan to run a message to Henn and Conall that I’m safe. Thankfully Ceridwen avoids the celebration, dipping us down a few dark halls and around the hubbub of the party to a stairwell that leads us deep beneath the palace. The air lifts degree by degree as we descend, each layer of coolness easing relief into my muscles. Maybe my Winterians and I can stay underground for the rest of our time in Summer—it’d certainly be far more enjoyable.
By the time the staircase deposits us into a wide space, my body buzzes with adrenaline, eyes snapping to every detail as if the Order of the Lustrate itself might be standing down here, waiting just for me. But darkness clings to the stones so all I know is the reverberating echo of our footsteps hitting walls many paces off.
Ceridwen lifts a lantern and flicks it to life, the gold flames shooting light over a wine cellar.
Or a winewarehousemore like. Rows and rows of wooden shelves stretch in every direction, with more beyond the lantern’s reach. Every shelf holds bottles swathed in dust or casks stacked in neat rows. The pungent tang of oak swirls around the musky stench of time, confirming that this place has withstood generations of turmoil and war, struggle and hardship. A place untouched for decades—or hopefully centuries.
“Welcome to the Preben reserve,” Ceridwen says, her tone dry, and nods us on as she ducks down a row, her lantern’s light swaying off the dust-covered bottles. Garrigan and I follow in silence, every step dredging up dust.
Left, left, right, left—Ceridwen makes so many turns I know I won’t be able to find the way out on my own. This cellar has to stretch at least the whole width of the palace, if not more—maybe the whole area of the palace compound. The farther in we go, the thicker the layers of dust, the heavier the stench of age and mustiness on the air.
Finally Ceridwen stops and waves at a shelf that, to me, seems like every other wine-coated shelf we’ve passed. The top few rows hold bottles, neck out, while the bottom few hold small casks stacked horizontally.
“The oldest wine in existence,” Ceridwen announces, clearly unimpressed with her own kingdom’s possessions. “It’s a point of pride for every king to leave them aging here.”
I start to reach for one but stop, eyeing her over the flickering lantern light. For all my anticipation, I didn’t process the fact that these areimportantto someone. Not things I can open and sift through. But do I even need to open them? Maybe the outsides will have a marking.
