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“Then bargain for him,” I whispered.
The princess blanched. “You cannot be serious.”
“I’m Poet. You’ll know when I’m not serious. That is, unless I’m being clever and a wiseass, which is most of the time, but not all the time.”
“Autumn is the same cage.”
“It’s the lesser of the two evils. It’s a wider cage and under your reign.”
“Under mymother’sreign.”
“She’s a tolerant woman from a mild-tempered land, and you’re her daughter.”
“You can’t!” she cried. “You can’t let him go like his mother did. You can’t do that!”
“In an escape, he could be struck by an arrow meant for me,” I spat. “Or if we don’t make it, he could be punished more severely. Negotiation is safer.”
“Temporarily, because if you do this, he’ll grow up thinking he wasn’t worth fighting for. That could break him. He needs you!”
“The knights are expert shots,” Eliot pointed out. “If they aim for you, they’ll strike you, no one else. And Spring won’t blame your son for an attempted escape. He’s a stripling. They won’t suspect him of being savvy enough to have anything to do with it, which’ll be the truth.”
Muffled voices drifted through the crack under the door. One of them uttered the word, “simpleton.”
We funneled to the entrance, eased it open, and listened to a group of servants mumbling.
“They say the Seasons can trade the likes of ’em now.”
“You sure the wee thing caught today isn’t being kept by Spring? The Crown likes the stupid ones.”
“I just came from the hill what’s set up for Lark’s Night. Overheard the Royals myself, I did. Summer’s traded with Spring—two of their elder simpletons for the one tyke. Wee hands make good net weavers, I s’pose. He’s being carted off tonight.”
My fingers curled. My fingernails impaled the wood.
Rhys. That miserable cocksucker hadn’t wasted time claiming my son. Later, when the King of Summer discovered Nicu lacked the directional capacity to tie more than a simple ribbon—and only with someone’s help—Rhys would take his irritation out on my child.
And I’d be tried for murder.
Briar’s hand covered mine. “I have a plan.”
With deadly precision, I whipped around and prowled to the wardrobe, where I kept my daggers. “As do I.”
33
Poet
I whisked a hooded cloak the color of smoke around my shoulders. Briar changed into a dark mantle, a raven dress, and black velvet gloves that corresponded with the soft-heeled boots hugging her feet. Coupled with that inflammatory hair, which blazed as if someone had set a match to it, the ensemble made her look like a siren who recently broke from her coven.
Getting past every shithead in residence without being recognized left little to the imagination. Either we’d have to distract, immobilize, or draw blood.
Braced behind a wall, we glanced around the corner and gauged our first obstacle. In a rotunda where several thoroughfares converged, a guard paced the room’s length, his footfalls echoing. A blade scar slashed through his mouth, his eyes were as brown as coffee, and his shoulder-length hair a rare shade of slate gray.
In my life, I had only seen a dozen residents with locks of notable colors, including Cadence and Vale. Though, it was said the Prince of Winter possessed an even rarer one—a deep, dominant blue—which hung in long a mane.
I scanned the guard’s bulky outline for something worth prying from him. A medallion dangled from around his neck, the pendant tethered to an easily chewable thong. The strap’s humble material suggested the medallion was of personal value.
Silently, I hand-signaled to Briar. Then I quietly snapped my fingers to the trained creature braced beside our boots. Tumble burst forward, dashed to the guard, and scaled his frame.
“What the feral fuck,” the man sputtered.
