AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Softening my features, I stepped closer to Poet, intending to reassure him. I opened my mouth to speak when a figure dashed across my periphery. My eyes jumped across the dining shed and shopping booths outfitting the pasture. Yet only the fauna and Aire’s troops presently occupied the area, the soldiers’ armored outlines visible as they scouted the vicinity. Every brewer, crafter, farmer, miller, and servant had finished setting up for eventide; they would return within the hour, whereas the nobles and lower town residents were busy readying themselves.
And yet …
Poet tensed. “What is it?” he asked, following my gaze and bracing to fling me behind him at the first sign of danger.
I blinked, flummoxed. The figure had appeared cloaked and diminutive, prompting a certain memory. “I thought I saw … Somebody.”
“Who?” Poet misunderstood, his timbre honed like a knife.
“Somebody,” I emphasized until awareness claimed his features.
The girl who had been forced to work for the Masters. The child who’d slain Merit at the guild’s behest, on orders from Rhys. The one who avoided showing her face and had only answered to the name, Somebody.
At scarcely ten years of age, the girl had infiltrated a camp full of knights and beheaded one of their brethren with her axe. Albeit, she hadn’t done so willingly. The Masters had placed Somebody in their debt, having something to do with her mother.
In any case, a terrible possibility took root in my mind. One that I refused to believe.
In the silence, Poet guessed the awful direction of my thoughts and shook his head. “It wasn’t her, sweeting.”
Exhaling, I nodded. “I know.”
Somebody wasn’t here. Ever since the courtyard battle, she had vanished without a trace. She’d befriended us and wouldn’t have tried to poison me, nor harm a born soul. Although the child had been coerced to behead Merit, she wasn’t a murderer by nature. Most unfairly, I never would have thought of it, had my vision not tricked me seconds ago. In actuality, I must have caught sight of a young animal roaming the pasture.
“I pray she is safe,” I said.
“That feisty little tyke?” Poet intoned. “I suspect she is.”
Firelight bloomed from inside one of the dining sheds. We kept walking that way, with our fingers netted. I could not blame Poet for his rage. Not when the same emotions broiled in my gut as I thought of Nicu and the likelihood that it might be too risky for him to attend the market. No matter what this conference yielded, we could not take a chance in Rhys’s presence.
Striding down the pumpkin-lit path, Poet and I assessed the secret entrances camouflaged into the maple trunks. After the born soul’s death, and considering Rhys’s new agents must have breached the channels—first, to assassinate me; second, to extract one of the dungeon captives—we had debated the wisdom of hosting the market in this location. However, an alternate setting would have confounded the revelers, who desperately required stability, and alerted the traitors that we knew they had access to the passages. To that end, everything needed to proceed as normally as possible.
And this way, we could sleuth. Our clan would inspect everyone’s behavior and note any suspicious behavior. Though at present, none of the hidden entrances appeared disturbed or tampered with.
A rustic shed loomed ahead, the facade painted a shade of carmine. The atmosphere would have been quaint, were it not being used as an outpost for a military conference between Mother, Aire, Jeryn, Poet, and myself. On the pretense of preparing for the night market, we would gather for a final recap on how to manage Rhys.
Instead of honoring our customs and making an appearance the morning of Reaper’s Fest, Summer would roll into the courtyard soon. Moreover, Rhys withholding the precise time of his arrival hadn’t been an oversight. Granted, we had foreseen this tactic and only hoped it wouldn’t come to fruition.
In the interim, Poet and I had yet to settle a quandary, which had arisen after last night’s reading. That we were lovers was certainly no secret, yet attendants had been chattering nonstop about that moment between Poet and me, as if they’d witnessed a phenomenon. Regardless, our trance had been severed by a disagreement shortly after learning of Rhys’s travel plans.
With Spring expected to attend the revels as well, we hadn’t decided how or when to tell Basil and Fatima about Rhys distributing spies in their court. In person would be the optimal choice. But with Summer in residence, and with threats surrounding us, the moment required discreet timing. That was one of the dilemmas our clan planned to debate now.
Poet and I had vowed to make decisions together. Therefore, I broached the subject once more in advance, before involving the rest of our group. “I still say we should tell Spring when we have concrete proof.”
Poet grunted. “You know what I think about that.”
“Yes, you were somewhat vocal after the reading when we cleared the library.”
“The longer we wait, the graver the consequences. Do it forthwith, and do it in front of Rhys, and we have an advantage. He won’t be expecting the charge and will splutter all over the place. His temper will spike, and he’ll admit everything by accident.”
“Or he’ll rant, twist our words, and accuse us either of corruption or a grudge.”
“No one twists words like me. I’m a juggler; he’s just a piece of shit.”
“You are underestimating his shrewdness, and you know it,” I snapped. “Unless we have proof for Spring’s benefit, alleging anything could backfire. At worst, it would grant Summer the leverage to declare war with Autumn.”
“And whilst it would be glorious to see you lead an army, I would walk through hell to keep Nicu from living through a war. But you know Rhys doesn’t want an armed battle. At least not a continental one,” the jester reiterated. “He wants dominance by way of convenience, which is likely why he spends more time sucking his own cock than his wife does.”
Snatching Poet’s arm, I spun him toward me. We stalled again, not fifteen feet from the shed’s entrance. “Fine, but I insist we need proof,” I rehashed under my breath. “Something more than a verbal testimonial about the Masters.”
