Just as Winter focused its magic on mining, Cordell focuses its conduit on opportunity—on helping its citizens work a situation in their favor so they get the most out of it. Opportunistic, resourceful, swindlers: whatever they’re called, they can even make “leaves turn to gold”—a Cordellan phrase Sir explained in our many lessons, referring to the fact that they’re so good at turning a profit it’s as if they make leaves on a tree turn into gold coins. That explains Captain Dominick’s curse earlier—golden leaves.
But while Cordell has endless resources, Noam is not known for making political alliances with anyone other than just-as-wealthy Rhythms. His sister marrying the Autumn King was a scandal he eventually condoned when he found ways to make it beneficial to Cordell, but lowering himself to assist eight Winterian refugees?
After three hours of traipsing through fields of green and lavender, we see an even more magnificent sight rise before us: Bithai. The city sweeps over a wide plateau surrounded by about twenty different mini-farms, all abuzz with midmorning activity. The closer we get, the denser the houses, the people, until the regiment clomps onto a cobblestone road that connects to a drawbridge and the gated city.
As soon as we pass under the gate, the city explodes around us in a ruckus of merchants shouting, carriage wheels clanking down roads, and donkeys baying into the morning wind. Buildings line up in perfect symmetry along gray cobblestone streets, the avenues folding and bending in precise angles through the city. Each structure, whether house or store or inn, is a mix of gray stones stacked beneath curved, brown-tiled roofs. Flags snap in the breeze above us, banners with a lavender stalk in front of a golden maple leaf on a green background. Everything is clean, deliberate—fountains and vines decorating random corners like the entire city is supposed to be part of the palace grounds. Which makes sense—Bithai is Cordell’s entryway, Noam’s best display of power. Of course he’d keep it as perfect as he could.
Citizens wave as we ride through, cheering the soldiers, shouting encouragement to their long-gone men. A few women drop baskets of produce and practically tip horses over in an attempt to kiss their husbands. More often than not, civilians pull back from Sir and me, their mouths twisting in confusion at the sight of two Winterians in Bithai. But the soldiers are too distracted to care about political prejudices, and they fall into the waving and the cheering with enthusiasm, their faces lighting with relief at being home. The sentiment makes me smile.
Loyalty. Pride. I can feel it in the air, in the way the men shout greetings to passersby and ask for news of Cordell. These men love their kingdom. These men have what I see missing every day from Sir’s eyes, from Finn’s set grimace, and Dendera’s distant gaze—a home.
The regiment slows to a gentle trot and turns onto one last wide road, maple branches arching over us. Light filters through the canopy, a few leaves drifting down and dancing around the wrought-iron fence that follows both sides of the gold-brick road.
Sir pulls up alongside me. I try to catch his eye to get some clue about what we’re planning to do next, but he just stares ahead. So I do the same.
Oh, sweet snow. Seriously?
The regiment pulls to a stop, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from asking if Noam is trying to compensate for something. Because I can understand wanting to have a lush kingdom, and wanting to have an impeccably pristine capital … but this?
A gate cuts off the main palace grounds from the entry road. This gate is gold, towering at least three times taller than me, and covered in climbing, green metal vines. Scarlet metal roses bloom along the vines, azure birds perch on metal limbs. But, worst of all, a pair of looming maple trees sits, one on each side of the gate. Completely golden, their leaves clink in the wind with a pretty—and completely excessive—melody.
“Their kingdom’s heart,” Sir whispers. It’s his sudden quietness that makes me realize the men’s enthusiasm has been replaced by a deeper air of solemnity.
“It isn’t”—I catch myself and drop to a whisper—“real gold, is it?”
Sir gives a curt nod. My mouth dangles open. No wonder Sir hates Noam; he used enough gold to run a kingdom to make two trees.
The regiment dismounts, leaving Sir and me to follow. When we all stand in front of the gate, the Cordellan men drop into waist-bows and linger for a moment, hair swaying in the breeze, before a gentle murmuring rises from their bent forms.
I ease closer to Sir. “Are they chanting?”
Sir nods. He doesn’t look happy. But it’s not an I’m-going-to-punch-Noam-in-the-throat unhappy—it’s wistful and slightly envious. “It’s the Poem of Bithai.”