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Certain fare of the Seasons mixed only at a momentous time like this, allowing pears to copulate with blackberries. We limited trade to essential resources. Spring herbs, Summer ropes, Autumn grain, and medicine from Winter, to name a few.
Apart from emergency aid, anything unimportant was excluded. The kingdoms also forbade their people from crossing borders or changing citizenship. As best we could, we lived equally but separately, determined to maintain the natural order of things. Because perish the thought of anything being “unnatural,” whatever the fuck that meant.
Selecting a trio of apples, I juggled them for a lazy minute, then kept one and sent the others flying back into the pile. After lowering myself to the dais, I pocketed the pome and lounged against the pedestal table situated between the thrones.
From her seat across the room, the Autumn Queen considered me with a honed gaze. According to gossip, the widow cherished her daughter. After the feast, could Autumn have drawn the conclusion that I’d singled out her offspring for more than a jest?
There once lived a jester, too tempting to resist. Protective of her daughter’s chastity, the queen banned him upon pain of public castration from the princess’s virginal maidenhead.
As though I would prey on such a prissy conquest. Fucking a princess was dangerous business in too many ways to count. I would never be that stupid.
No touching Royals or resident artists. Everyone else was fair game.
Then again, I was hardly known for being chivalrous. I didn’t advertise the ribbons’ purpose, but word got around privately, taking the form of confidential rumors. And because my intentions were often unknown, some feared my ribbons whilst others coveted them, enjoying the adrenaline rush.
I inclined my head at Autumn’s queen, offering my silent gratitude for the apple. With a neutral expression, she nodded back.
Well, well, well. Dare I say, my assumption about this woman had been wrong. She didn’t have a thorn up her ass, not like her daughter, who would have responded differently. The pulse in the princess’s neck would have throbbed with disdain.
Thereupon, I imagined pressing my finger into the slant of that female’s throat. I imagined counting that sharp pulse, wondering how many beats it would take until her lips parted for air. I imagined getting a sneak peek at that whiplash of a tongue.
How would her shocked gasp sound? How would it look if that tongue swiped across those lips, her mouth glistening?
“Be reasonable, Summer,” Queen Fatima chided, snapping me out of it. “Poet isn’t just any fool.”
Rhys the Rotten huffed. “A trained fool is still a fool. He has no business in the Peace Talks. On that score, forget that Spring has an abundance of artists. Why Your Majesties have need of jesters is beyond me, when you already own simpletons like the rest of us. Now those are real idiots. Better idiots. Surely, they must provide enough amusement.”
Fucking condemnation. By better idiots, he meant chattel. Our continent, The Dark Seasons, represented nature without fully accepting the natural world, a notion that poured a rancid flavor down my palate. The courts deemed so-called “simpletons” and the inherently “mad” as legal property of the Crown, viewing such minds as freak accidents of birth, thereby a disgrace. Apparently, the existence of “born fools” brought shame upon the people, who demanded to be distinguished from them.
The Royals claimed and abused such born souls, stripping them of rights. They shackled the mad and made the rest cater to the Seasons’ needs, so long as it wasn’t counter-productive, so long as they were capable and manageable.
Summer forced their captives to gut fish, weave nets until their fingers bled, and toil as deckhands. Winter used them as hunting bait and science experiments—whilst they were still alive and awake. Autumn assigned them to fields and orchards.
Spring used born souls as diversions. Basil and Fatima handed them over to traveling exhibits and nobles whose tastes for entertainment leaned that way. Comprised of trained acrobats, athletes, and aerialists like myself, the castle’s resident ensemble was the only one in Spring that didn’t include born souls.
But I had witnessed and loathed their treatment. Dark carnivals and eventide festivals drugged them, then made them brawl each other for sport. They were restrained, heckled in the stocks, bullied until they either collapsed or broke bones, and charged to do pet tricks for spectators.
My jaw locked. Someday, that could happen to …
Basil raised his finger. “We enjoy variety. Jesters represent every advantage rolled into one person—levity, wisdom, and eroticism. They can imitate a simpleton one hour, be a perceptive advisor the next, and seduce a crowded room by sunset. A counselor at dawn, a bard at noon, a dancer at dusk—”
“And a whore by night,” King Rhys finished.
My lips slanted. “Who says I limit my sex binges to the evenings? A lot can be accomplished in a day.”
“And you say this as if it’s a bad thing,” Spring criticized Summer. “It’s invaluable.”
“It’s excessive,” Rhys protested.
“It’s flattering,” I clarified. “It’s been my lifelong ambition to be excessive. Ah, the honor, to have a king appraise me that way. Speaking of excess, how are your pet sharks faring?”
Red suffused the man’s throat. He mashed his mouth together.
Then it happened. His whiskers twitched with reluctant mirth, which motivated him to raise his chalice in a mock-toast. “Sly bastard. You’ve made your point.”
Certainly. For better or worse, I could have gibed the king some more. Lucky for him, I felt merciful—until he opened his mouth yet again, and his words poisoned the air.
“I might see a jester’s appeal to Spring. I grant, there’s a versatile elegance to their otherwise annoying breed, whereas simpletons are another matter. As profitable as they are for extra labor, they aren’t as malleable or physically appealing to behold. If we had more room in the dungeon, I would lock them with the mad when they’re not needed, underground where they can’t be seen or heard. Why, they can’t even cry respectably.”
