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Autumn divided the fest into two sections. Most courts would host the grandest affair in the castle. Instead, our culture did the opposite. In town, the bonfire ball would commence with modest pyres scattered amid the streets and culminating in a massive one at the square.
Soon fiddles would skip, mandolins would strum, flutes would pipe, and drums would pound. Game, bread, and produce from the harvest would weigh down the tables. As part of the tradition to abandon Autumn propriety, attendants would don masquerade masks and engage in lusher folk dancing than at the market, in a darkly mystical and less choreographed manner.
Whereas the castle courtyards provided quieter zones for revelers to indulge in conversation and drink among glittering orange candles. In the quads, foxes skulked, and maples frothed with vibrant leaves. In both areas, all was peaceful.
Though that would change in the next half hour.
Below, a few revelers left the castle in a flurry of tartan, cashmere, and merino wool extravagance. Watching them venture to town with visors in their hands, I could not help but grin wistfully. Despite all that had occurred over the past months, the sight bolstered my sense of hope.
The market had successfully concluded without incident, and Rhys was still restricted to the castle. Although prepared, with knights and guards patrolling every square inch of the fest, perhaps we would come out of this unscathed. I dared to believe this could mark the beginning of change.
Footfalls approached, and a pair of regal figures materialized at my side. “Ahem,” a male voice grumbled. “We wish to … thank you.”
I twisted, surprised to find Basil and Fatima hovering with their arms looped. The king and queen wore their splendor well, draped in the dark green satin finery befitting their Season and carrying petal masks attached to long handles. Although the garments’ lack of insulation concerned me, as it was rather chilly this evening, I made no comment.
“Your Majesties?” I sank into a curtsy, then gave them an inquiring look as I rose.
“The unfortunate state of affairs with Summer,” Basil muttered, flitting a set of bejeweled fingers. “Most taxing. Therefore, Fatima and I extend our gratitude.”
Spring’s traitors had been unveiled, the performers posing as soldiers having confessed quickly. That left the informers in Autumn and Winter. Regardless of the pressure from the Seasons, Rhys would not speak on the matter, seeking instead to convince his fellow Royals that he’d taken essential precautions, acting for the welfare of his court. And while Spring and Winter sided with his prejudice, they didn’t condone him breaching their lands with spies, whether or not Summer claimed he was doing it for the protection of his own nation.
It would take a while for the king to capitulate. Until then, he would exhaust himself by denying the charges, pardoning his actions, and justifying those transgressions to anyone who would listen. Done with his tantrums and nonsense, Mother, Basil, and Fatima had requested Poet be the one to interrogate Rhys later. The jester’s tongue would either wear the man out or rile him into confessing the identities of his cult. And if need be, the Winter Prince would do the rest.
In any event, a multitude of reactions clashed inside me. Ambition fired through my chest, because we needed this kingdom as an ally instead of an adversary. Vitriol stoked my blood for the way Spring regarded born souls—mostly especially Nicu, whom they’d once imprisoned without remorse. And resentment pinched my flesh that our court required their endorsement in the first place, and that I must play this game to ensure it happened.
Yet determination eclipsed all of that, because someday those walls of intolerance would be dismantled. And for that to occur, we had to maintain an equilibrium. To that end, I summoned years of breeding and fought to maintain a humble expression instead of a scowl.
“There is no need,” I assured them. “Though if I may be so bold, perhaps we might reach an understanding.”
Basil and Fatima wavered, consulting one another in silence. Reaching a full-scale truce was too soon. But a proposal was a start.
“Perhaps,” Fatima conceded, flapping her finger my way. “Mind, it won’t change our positions on certain regulations.”
“Yet it may grant Autumn the opportunity to start a dialogue,” I ventured. “For example, at the next Peace Talks?”
It was a bold move, considering I’d been banished from the Talks. Yet I hadn’t said I would physically be there. Thus, the mere implication upheld their authority on the matter.
Besides. Poet had taught me that a certain brazenness tended to charm Spring. On that score, the king and queen nodded in reluctant amusement, neither promising nor rejecting my suggestion. Nonetheless, an acknowledgment would do for now.
Fatima’s eyes strayed to my hair, which I’d gathered in a sprawling bun atop my head. She noticed the rose planted there, recognition stunning her features. “That looks familiar.”
It should. Poet had confessed to me how he’d stolen the rose from Spring when his former sovereigns were last here, bearing gifts for the invitation to Reaper’s Fest.
Instead of feigning cluelessness, I touched the rose. Taking a cue from my ladies, I simpered, “It was a gift.”
“Rare, stunning, and impervious to the fires of our continent,” Basil listed, admiring the Spring blossom before affording me a perceptive look, his eyes twinkling with animated shrewdness like his wife. “As usual, our jester has exceptional taste.”
Like a proper princess, I inclined my head as they took their leave. However, I spun in their direction at the last minute. “Sires,” I called out when they were halfway down the corridor, where the trusted remains of their convoys awaited. “If there’s a chance of war with Summer—”
“Pff,” Basil dismissed with a swat of his hand. “And spoil the entertainment of retribution?”
“We have no idea what Winter intends with Rhys, but Jeryn and his grandaunts are logical rulers,” Fatima clarified. “They’re astute enough to align with us on the finer points.”
“War won’t punish Summer,” her husband said just before his expression flattened. “Exclusion will.”
Normally Spring behaved optimistically blithe even in the wake of conflict. Yet the monarchs’ features tightened, illustrating just how ruthless any nation could be.
They were right. Combat did not frighten Rhys as much as humiliation and ostracism. This was precisely why he’d attempted that tactic with me, to inflict pain by having me expelled from my own nation.
