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When we refused to answer, the prince straightened and turned our way, his towering form stalking in our direction. The closer he got, the more those blue crescents stood out under his eyes, like the kohl lining Poet’s lashes. The chains ornamenting Jeryn’s pants shivered, and the fang-shaped vial pendant—with a slight crack in the glass—hung down his shirt, the necklace jolting with his movements.
The prince halted on the opposite side of a table, the only barrier separating us. There, he flattened his palms on the surface. “Eighteen prisoners have been loaded into the carriages,” he said between his teeth. “One of them is missing.”
Indeed, she was.
Flare had vanished after the riot. Although I’d give her directions, the female’s exact whereabouts were anyone’s guess by now.
And even though we hadn’t told the prince where we’d isolated her prior to that, he never demanded the information. This fiend loathed being proven wrong, clueless, or incompetent. Moreover, he despised needing anyone’s assistance. Winter prided itself on highbrow intelligence and educated savvy, the Season’s erudite ego preferring such challenges.
In fact, Jeryn had been searching for Flare’s isolated cell during the night market, which accounted for his late arrival to that showdown with Rhys in the shed. This, according to the sentinels who had witnessed the prince searching.
How ironic that it took Jeryn a while to realize Flare had been in the Royal dungeon. So accustomed to complexities and overcomplicating things, this man hadn’t made the simplest deduction. The jester and I had counted on that.
Nonetheless, Jeryn had made the connection during the blackout. We’d confirmed as much from Aire, who encountered the prince in the north wing’s dungeon, just as His Highness came to the realization. And by then, we had rushed Flare from her cell, knowing he would try to retrieve her.
Poet’s head cocked. Like him, one thing struck me harder than the rest.
From the onset, Jeryn had been referring to born souls as “plagues” instead of humans. With one exception.
Where is she?
She. Often, he referred to Flare as a person.
When we kept quiet, the prince’s eyes tapered. “You might have successfully played with fire. But you don’t want to trifle with ice.”
“Over a captive?” Poet volleyed. “You must have a lot of time on your hands. And yet she wasn’t your only objective.”
On cue, I jumped in. “You had a second agenda. Something worth siding with Autumn, despite the social threat we pose to you.”
Jeryn’s attention narrowed further. “Threat,” he enunciated. “I scorn Autumn for its choices. Your sympathizing faults and the people who follow you will not supplement your weaker defenses. However much damage your people have inflicted upon themselves, Autumn’s troops are not vast.” As if in fatal inquiry, the prince murmured, “Why the fuck would I ever consider you a threat?”
I set my palm on Poet’s knuckles, stalling the jester’s hand, which had bent toward one of his hidden daggers. If we interrupted now, the prince would stop talking.
Winter contemplated. “Rhys, on the other hand.” He trailed off briefly. “While I detest your nation, I loathe Summer more. That moron is tempestuous, with larger defenses. As such, his temper might cause a tedious war involving my court. Winter would win, but at an inconvenient expense.
“With his army and natural resources for medicine, Summer is an essential annoyance, which needed to be put to heel.” Jeryn leveled us with a look of contempt. “Whereas you, Dispensable Autumn, merely need to be disregarded.”
Breaching enemy lines, the prince leaned across the table. “If I haven’t made myself clear, you’re beneath my notice after today. But make no mistake. We are not allies. If you try causing trouble for my court, I will act.”
How I longed to embed a thousand thorn quills into this bastard. How I longed for Poet to do his worst.
By aligning with us against Summer, Jeryn had the same objective—to break the greater threat. Except Winter had been motivated by different principles. Scarcely a shock, but it wasn’t the whole story.
We had suspected from the beginning that Jeryn had ulterior motives for bargaining with us. However merciless, and however the prince hated born souls, Flare’s captivity and Rhys’s submission couldn’t have been the only impetuses for this Royal.
“Get to the punchline, sweeting,” Poet mocked.
Something akin to intrigue, or perhaps hostile admiration, flickered in the prince’s pupils. “I did have another incentive. Which you helped me to attain.”
“Such as?” I demanded.
“The Fools Decree.” Jeryn’s mouth slanted. “This arrangement will make negotiating with Summer more productive. So thank you for that.”
Abhorrence and shame overwhelmed me. During the Peace Talks, The Dark Seasons had sanctioned the trade amendment to that odious document. By breaking Rhys and reducing him to an outcast, it put Winter at an advantage when dealing with Summer. Jeryn had wanted the Crown desperate and groveling, which would now make it easier to drive a ruthless bargain.
Despite Winter’s intimidating nature, everyone preferred a guarantee. Helping us to dismantle Summer’s reputation among the continent meant Jeryn would have his pick of born souls. Neither court treated those people humanely, but Winter’s captives suffered a much more violent fate. The room’s surgical tools reminded us of that.
“My, my,” Poet sneered. “And they call me a twisted fuck.”
