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Fatima quoted from a working draft, which stated,“Fools, and all that they are, shall be bound to their new Season.”
Because each Season valued certain attributes in born souls, I harbored no illusions that this gathering wouldn’t sign the amendment—another way for the vultures to turn slaves into easy pickings.
In Summer, child prisoners wove nets, working nonstop despite how it mutilated their hands.
The clumsier they were, the more amusing to Spring.
Thirsty for knowledge, Winter’s scientists and physicians valued sedate captives. By the same token, the court’s university scholars had been expressing an interest in researching born souls’ varying behaviors—so I’d heard from my sovereigns.
And despite requiring more beguine tasks such as clearing orchards of rotted fruit, Autumn benefited chiefly from the able-bodied.
As for the mad, they decomposed in the Seasons’ prisons. Yet the Royals considered this problematic not because it was barbaric, but only because they needed those spaces for criminals.
This applied to Summer most of all, having the greatest number of criminals. Sea breezes aside, humidity and mosquito bites tended to make its citizens irritable. Whoever deemed the ocean an invigorating place needed to reconsider the reality of sunburns, crashing waves, and sand wedged into places no one should have it.
Although none of the monarchs wished to house or tolerate them, the mad would be included in the amendment, in case an unforeseen change or opportunity arose. In the meantime, no doubt the Royals would be discussing alternatives of how to deal with the situation.
Rhys of Summer grumbled, though he’d be of more use to everyone stuffing his mustache in his mouth. “I propose a collective dumping ground for the deranged and overly imbecilic,” he said. “The ones who prove savage or impossible to utilize. We might establish an encampment on neutral soil—one of the islands, perhaps. There’s a legendary but uncharted rainforest island our seafarers and sand drifters have been searching for. If we expand our efforts and locate it, that would be the perfect remote location. Like a leper colony.”
My blood boiled. “Ignorance is more contagious than leprosy will ever be.”
“Buffoonery is a hazard,” Summer said. “The mad rant and rave and injure innocent people. If not useful, the naturally stupid are meddlesome and a burden. In and of themselves, those factors act as a contagion—a severe case of fleas.”
Briar’s eyebrows slammed together. “If you consider born souls such a trial, why not leave them to their families?”
“And allow the mutants to freely litter our kingdoms? That would complicate our plight, not solve it. It’s bad enough that we must stock the unmanageable ones when we lack the cell space.”
“Ah,” I pounced. “May I offer a tip, then?”
“Over my rotting corpse, you may.”
With relish, I added his dead carcass to my bucket list of ambitions, then moved forth. “I would suggest getting rid of assholes. Send them to this remote, mythical island of yours where starvation, dehydration, and basic survival will be a problem. I mean, nobody values the company of a piece-of-shit. That would provide extra room in the villages.”
Rhys’s head practically doubled in size. “I see your puny brain requires perspective. Why do we own idiots? Because they inhibit our citizens. One who doesn’t have the wit to look after oneself is a waste of space. Families, both rich and especially poor, cannot afford the shame or inconvenience of looking after a fool. As sovereigns, we serve our people by shouldering the task, working the able fools and leashing the rest. It’s our responsibility to oversee the unnatural.”
“That doesn’t extend to treating anyone with cruelty,” the princess blurted out. “That’s not our right, nor should it be.”
The Royals stared at her. Their expressions couldn’t be more transparent, nor more effortless to interpret: Since when had this become an issue of sympathy instead of practicality?
“You speak as though they’re one of us, dear,” Silvia of Winter said with concern.
King Rhys blew hot air. “You may come from the lenient land of Autumn, but don’t be naïve, Your Highness. The mad are prone to explode at any moment. As for simpletons, if they’re good for labor or humor, at least then they have a purpose.”
“Spring’s standards for humor could be higher,” I suggested. “If Spring needs slapstick, my kind can perform that to greater effect.”
“And you cost more to do it.”
“In other words, you’re cheap. Or you think Spring is penniless.” I maneuvered between Basil and Fatima and draped my arms over the tops of their chairs. My hands dangled beside their heads as I leaned down. In turn, they regarded my words, their attention a crawlspace through which I implanted an idea. “I didn’t realize that was the widespread impression you wanted to give, Your Majesties. ’Tis dawning on me. You may own born souls, but that any court would rely this desperately on unpaid service is inconsistent with the quality of your wine.”
“For the mad, I propose a physician’s facility on neutral ground,” Briar announced, introducing one of the ideas we’d talked about in the library.
King Rhys stamped his fist on the table like a mallet. “An excellent recommendation. A tower for fools, where we could use them for medical research. Winter, your scientists and doctors will be pleased.”
The princess bristled. “I meant a sanctuary. A place for rehabilitation. If something is amiss with the mind, it should be examined and cared for. In addition to physicians fromeachSeason, Winter might devote a batch of its scholars to the cause.”
“You cannot fix quicksand. It’s an eternal peril.”
“We don’t know that. From our individual thrones, we could hold court and summon physicians to determine what conditions born souls live with and whether they pose a threat. If so, they will be sent to this sanctuary for healing and stability.”
