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“And their allies,” Poet said.
Which included Rhys. That was the tunnel Summer had been hunting for, seeking to confirm its location.
In league with courtiers, that was also how the town residents had entered the castle undetected. With this advantage, they’d slipped past security and joined the nobles.
To poison me. To burn a born soul. To snuff out the fortress.
Recalling where we’d seen the crack, I directed our trio from one cord to the next, each one guiding us. Flare assisted, her eyes more adjusted to the darkness after having been imprisoned for who knew how long. Because I described the crack in detail, she was the first one to point it out when we reached the right corridor.
We paused by the rift; our fingers traced its shape. Now I understood why passersby would have dismissed this detail. It was discreet, blending in with the wainscoting like a grain of wood. But if this crevice worked like the other confidential passages …
My fingers hit a depression in the wall. The facade pitched inward like a revolving door, firelight casting through the fissure.
Poet stepped aside, ushering me and Flare past him, then sealed the partition behind us. The conduit dug into the earth for what seemed like an eternity, winding farther and farther. Mounted torches blazed along the root-laced walls, illuminating Flare’s petite frame and Poet’s tall physique.
“Fie and fuck,” the jester groused. “Where the devil does this lead?”
By now, we must have passed the courtyards, the maple pasture, and The Wandering Fields. Knowing what came after those areas, trepidation prickled my flesh. Especially when pulsating hues outlined another door at the tunnel’s end, where screams and crackles of flame reverberated beyond.
Flare released my hand and sprinted ahead. Poet grabbed my fingers as we barreled through the door and stumbled into another nightmare. Where there had been darkness before, now light and heat consumed our vision.
Months ago, the castle had fallen to ruin.
And now the lower town burned.
44
Briar
Flames. Everywhere.
The town had caught fire like kindling, scorching the night in wrathful hues of orange and blue. Bonfires meant for Reaper’s Fest rose higher. Each blaze chewed on the facades, from brick avenues to alleys, from timber restaurants and taverns to forges and pitched houses, from hay wagons to leaf-strewn carriages and stables. Pyres bloated to impossible sizes and coughed embers into the sky.
No.
Thick pelts of smoke clogged the air. Immeasurable heat blasted against my skin. Charred odors singed my nostrils.
No.
Shouts and bellows sliced across the vicinity. Revelers dashed around us in a panic, some wailing people’s names, others hollering threats. Castle and town residents flung stones, threw punches, and crossed weapons.
No.
Chaos ensued. Mass hysteria clashed with widespread confusion.
Perspiration leaked down my skin. Hacking, I swung this way and that, unable to process the anarchy.
My people. My home.
My nation was burning itself to the ground.
Among that, groups from the castle and town joined forces, shattering glass windows and thrusting torches against roofs while yelling, “For inheritance of the Seasons!” and “The Crown is a traitor!”
Half of the people sought to flee. The other half sought to entrap.
Poet yanked me against him and braced his staff. Beside us, Flare beheld the scene with a mixture of terror and awe, so much light and heat consuming her after years of deprivation.
My frantic gaze swept across the desolation. I had no time to shout, no time to stop the pandemonium. Only one thought rose to the forefront.
