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The demand radiated from her, though it did nothing to stifle my wrath. I’d had the king on his fucking back. My knife had been so close to shearing him like a lamb.
But then her lips moved, soundless and urgent.
Not like this, she mouthed.Not without Briar.
The plea relaxed my grip on the weapon. An instant later, another figure swooped into the pasture, this one larger and taller. Like a bird of prey, Aire sped through the trees, his shirt hanging open and a pair of broadswords braced in his fists. Despite the scene, he stalled with the lethal grace of a raptor.
Shock widened the man’s dark blue eyes as he beheld the evidence of treason, the damage I’d done to Summer. “Seasons almighty,” he muttered. Not one to mince words—much less use many words at all—Aire hesitated with a grimace. It might be Rhys of Summer, a man who deserved no less, but he was still a king whose demise would mean violent repercussions. So before Avalea could issue the order, the First Knight flew into action and hastened to the Royal’s aid.
Shouts cannoned from the rafters. Only now did the night watch along the parapet walks register the mushroom of smoke. However, the alarm didn’t sound, the massive horn that normally signaled intruders and natural disasters failing to echo through the castle. In its place, a smaller instrument blew across the grounds, its rhythm indicating flames but no attackers.
I considered that oversight and glanced Avalea’s way. She’d stopped them from raising hell and alerting the court of a greater threat. Astute as ever, especially since her suite overlooked this area. She must have noticed the blaze first and signaled to the patrol that a fire had broken out, a circumstance that didn’t warrant awakening the knights.
On that note, the queen processed Aire’s presence with brief astonishment before remembering the man’s uncanny ability to perceive things others couldn’t. Grumpy exterior aside, the First Knight moved like the wind and read signs in every shift of air, among other mysterious abilities. Plausibly, the warrior had scented the flames long before his slumbering comrades could.
I flattened my lips, miffed to see Aire helping Rhys off the ground. The reek of the king’s burned flesh permeated my senses. Ancestors born of fire. Assumptions that he was impervious. Bullshit. The man had erupted like a volcano the moment those sparks had landed on his tacky mantle.
Aire lugged Rhys across the grass, balancing the king’s limping form. They paused abreast of me and the queen, so that Rhys’s glower dashed between us. He alternated between seething in agony and spitting venom my way. “Mark my words, you parasitic fuck! I shall make you weep for this!”
They trundled toward the castle, where the infirmary would treat Rhys’s wounds. Thunder slapped the sky. Lighting sheared through the clouds. The effect illuminated Avalea’s expression, which transformed from distress to anger, then finally resignation.
Fuck. I knew that look. ’Twas the same disapproving frown a certain princess wore whenever she was forced to perform an inconvenient duty, usually regarding a certain troublemaker who refused to stop breaking laws.
Footfalls pounded across the pasture. I counted a dozen guards likely carrying buckets of water and hoses.
With a heavy sigh, I offered my wrists to the queen and waited for the manacles.
5
Poet
Hours later, I paced the dungeon cell like a panther. Chains jostled around my wrists and ankles, the latter restraints scuffing my expensive leather boots. These guards understood the extent of my agility and knew better than to keep any limbs free. As for my mouth, they’d had no choice but to leave that unhampered. To their dismay, the queen had ordered them not to gag me.
Stalking from one end of the cage to the other, my movements disturbed the rushes, creating a serpentine noise that echoed through the dungeon. Years of mildew had soaked into the exposed root walls, producing a stink that caused my nose to crinkle, the putrid scent darkening my mood further. To this inhumanity, the laws of our continent subjected human beings. My molars ground to the point where I dismissed thoughts of Rhys receiving medical care he didn’t deserve. I would deal with him later.
In the meantime, there were more important grievances to keep in mind. Aptly, my neighbors reminded me of that. Unlike the insulated brick cells in the noble prison, which afforded prisoners a semblance of privacy, only bars separated each cubicle here. Within them, one of the captives—a man with pale, sagging skin—chewed on the door railing of his cage, his efforts threatening to whittle down a few teeth, whilst another skeletal prisoner with bright coral irises hunkered in the corner of her own cell. The inhabitants coughed, muttered to themselves, or shivered in their cots, each sound louder than it should have been in this cavernous shithole.
Instead of tossing me into the jail wing reserved for high-ranking residents, the guards had locked me in with the mad. Specifically, the ones Rhys had brought from Summer, from his trade agreement with Briar. Nay, not criminals but slaves. To that end, there was nothing I could do to change their fates unless I behaved and served my time like a good anarchist.
Men and women armed with halberds kept a wide berth from my chamber. Unaware of the reason behind my imprisonment, they cast me furtive glances. Rather typical of most people dealing with the Court Jester and certainly wise of them.
The guards split up, dividing themselves between the dungeon’s entrance and the far end of the cavity. They glanced inside the cubicles with pretentious disgust, as if they were saints keeping watch on abominations. So much for charitable, benevolent Autumn. The rushes, latrines, and barred windows emitting a modicum of fresh air didn’t absolve this Season from being as much of an asshole as Spring, Summer, or Winter.
Twilight filtered through the window, moon rays slashing past the bars. Another cursed hour until dawn. Not long ago, the thunder and lightning had ceased.
I halted at one end of the compartment and twisted, my back hitting the wall. The irons clanked as I slid to the ground and reclined, steeping one leg and draping a wrist over my knee.
As if synchronized, the hinges squeaked. The noise reverberated from the stairway, followed by insistent footsteps. At fucking last.
A curvy figure turned the corner, sweeping into the dungeon like a mighty ship and stalling outside my cell. Rust-red hair coiled atop her head, slate gray cashmere fell around her frame, and drop earrings swung from her ears. Despite the regal attire, Queen Avalea appeared anything but composed. Rather, that glare told me just how pissed off I’d made her. For I was well acquainted with that look, albeit from someone else.
Avalea nodded to the guards. One of them pulled a lever outside the cage, which caused partitions forged of metal to disengage and roll along the sides of my cubicle. They glided over rails to form thick, makeshift walls that flanked my cell, enclosing me from my neighbors.
Nifty, indeed. And necessary, seeing as Her Majesty looked ready to rip my head off. Or at least shout until my ears bled. This way, our conversation would be muffled, and no one would hear or see us.
The door swung open. The queen marched inside.
I stayed where I was, casually slumping against the wall, with my open coat and shirt blackened at the edges from where the flames had eaten the fabric. I stank of smoke, blood, and malice. And aye, the manacles had officially ruined my fucking boots.
