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Another pause followed, then she mumbled, “You don’t need me for that.”
Briar didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t push her for an explanation. Putting it mildly, I lacked the verbal stamina, for I’d had my fill of her. And I was still thinking about her blindfolded, stripped bare, and spread out like a feast on my sheets.
We kept going. Between resting and our ride’s slow gait, the journey took three times as long as it should have.
’Twas the kind of overripe Spring day that felt like a sham, the air pregnant with the aromatic nausea of sweet peas. I concentrated on the crunch of dead branches underfoot, a beetle snacking on the corpse of its mate, and the earthy waft of the horse’s coat penetrating my nostrils. The sun lurked through the trees like a warning, threatening to lash us with glaring light at any moment.
Which it did when we reached the castle—my stage and my cage. It rose above the hills, crenelations lining the parapet walks like teeth, residents entering and exiting the open-mouthed drawbridge, glass spires stabbing the sky, and ivy clinging to the round towers. From the turrets, dozens of flags whipped at the clouds.
I tallied certain perks, such as my spacious chambers, my wardrobe, and my retainer of admirers. Nothing compared to my son, but these comforts somewhat blunted the pain. The attention frequently lavished on me, the way I tucked everyone in the palm of my hand, was exquisite. To that end, I needed another bath, a soul-deep stretch, and a long draught of fine wine.
I untied Briar. Spring’s fortress loomed as we passed under the barbican and into the clamor. Horns shrieked, guards stampeded across the walkway to attend us, and a retinue of servants cluttered the scene, the crowd swarming us like sheep.
Whilst being ushered to the throne room, Briar and I swapped glances. In the wild, we’d cobbled together our story during the only moment in which we talked. Now our gazes locked. The wildflower forest, the cottage, the stream, the meadow, there and gone.
Again, jesters didn’t lie.
And again, not routinely, nor outright.
Instead, we deceived with omission or evasion. Unless, of course, fabrication was the only option.
I nodded to Briar.Let me do the lying.
She nodded back. Good princess.
Bad jester. I still wanted to take her, ruin her, make her burn.
Basil and Fatima launched from their thrones. They trundled toward Briar first, expressing their relief. Then they took my hands, beaming and bursting with questions.
I bowed and hatched a tale. The princess had journeyed from the complex to pay homage to her father in the forest, where he was known to have died. When I saw her departure from a window, I got nosy.
The princess had wished for privacy, an impossible thing in general, and even more so had she ridden her own horse from the court stables. Thus, she’d borrowed a steed from the public stalls in the lower town, intending to compensate the owner later.
Like a troublemaker, I followed suit. Thereupon, we lost our mounts and had our showdown with the leenix.
A woodland recluse found us, gave us shelter, and stitched the princess’s leg. And nay, the solitary woman didn’t want to be thanked or receive a reward.
Her Highness impaled me with a look, smarting because I’d included her deceased father in the falsehood, not to mention dishonestly citing her for instigating the events to begin with. Well, apologies. She knew she’d have a better excuse to be in the wilderness than I would. Notwithstanding, we’d been over this earlier, and she’d known what to expect.
It wasn’t my best effort. But since Briar sported a bandage, no one questioned us about the particulars.
My ally lost her composure only when Avalea of Autumn flew into the room. Briar’s posture faltered as her mother gathered her into a petrified embrace. The queen clasped her daughter tightly and echoed, “My girl. My girl.”
Even as Briar held her mother, the princess also held herself back from grasping too tightly. Indeed, she’d had more difficulty saying goodbye to my son than greeting her own flesh and blood.
Avalea inundated me with words of gratitude. The Spring Crown insisted on a celebratory feast, at nightfall tomorrow, and allowed us to rest in the meantime. They led the princess and me in opposite directions, and thank merciful fuck, and damnation. I thrust myself into a tub, into bed, and the next day, into better fashion choices.
We didn’t see each other until the evening, when a note slipped beneath my door and her handwriting bled across the parchment.
The east tower catches the afterlight.
Whilst reading the message, I smirked. If she intended to communicate this way, she’d need to whet her skills.
That particular tower smelled of cold wax and gave a wider berth than the others. I mounted the spiral staircase and found her dressed in a waterfall of cinnamon silk—a richly spiced dye—with her neck roped in jewels and her hair confined in a circlet of braids. Eventide fell through the arrow slits, the stars illuminating her fidgety fingers.
I’d chosen a billowing shirt under a gray leather vest with an upright fluted collar trimmed in a thicket of lace. The garment split open at the waist and cascaded into two panels that framed charcoal pants and high boots.
Armored in fine tailoring and with black streaking my eyes, I felt ready for her. I curved my hand beside my mouth, lowered my voice to a broody, baritone whisper, and played off her covert message.“But the afterlight—”
