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Winter had a remedy for such wounds, an ointment that dissolved layers of burned flesh and acted as a balm, thus alleviating the sufferer to a considerable degree. It was too late to help the soul, but it was not too late to mend their skin. We could minister that salve to the deceased, repairing their body while offering some measure of comfort in the afterlife, before we brought the person to the crypt, where they would lie until their burial. This way, they could rest in peace.
Taking advantage of this private moment, I aligned myself with Poet, then approached the prince. “Sire,” I petitioned. “The charred flesh. Autumn humbly asks that you remove it.”
Only then did the man turn from examining the body, acknowledging me at last. His black eyebrows rose, offering the first sign of an actual visceral reaction. However, it was not a look of surprise. Rather, it was the imperious countenance of a ruler who considered the request absurd.
“What for?” he murmured.
“Are you fucking joking?” Poet seethed.
In tandem, my nostrils flared. “What for?” I repeated, appalled and gesturing at the evidence. “Look at what’s been done. Do you not see the problem?”
Jeryn gave the question due consideration. While appraising the corpse, his face might as well have been carved from a glacier. After a notable amount of time, he answered, “Yes.” Then that merciless, cold-blooded gaze sliced our way. “The problem is they should have finished the job.”
My breath stalled. Revulsion climbed up my spine. Beside me, Poet growled, barely able to stop himself from mincing the Royal to pieces. The only thing preventing him was me, because committing another treasonous act would not serve us.
Across the way, Eliot and my ladies glowered at Winter, having overheard the most crucial part. The bit where Jeryn had stated the body should have been fully burned to cinders.
Unfazed by our reactions, the detestable prince turned. He sauntered off, his imposing form breaking through a cloud of smoke.
***
My hands thwacked against the double doors, the partitions blowing open as I marched into the Crown suite, the hem of my gown snapping around my legs. “Barbarous,” I hissed, my fists balling while Mother followed me inside. “Who would do this?” Halting at a window overlooking a squash garden, I stormed around to face her. “And never mind this continent’s prejudice. What Royal besides Rhys would react that way?”
Mother bobbed her flat palm in the air, endeavoring to calm my temper. Once I clamped my lips together, she nodded for the guards to shut the doors and then crossed over to me.
For a moment, Mother visibly replayed the incident, one hand covering her mouth, the other fixed on her hip. She’d been alive for longer and witnessed things I never had. People had killed before in Autumn, and it was certainly not the first time assassins had targeted the Crown in the last hundred years. And because of our crusade for equality, I had anticipated us being tested, the pacifistic heart of this nation being challenged in a way it hadn’t before. At least, not since the age of ancients.
But foreseeing these horrors and witnessing them come to fruition were different matters. Since the moment I’d returned from Spring, this court had been ravished with hatred, death, and such violence that rivaled Summer.
Merit’s murder. Betrayal by the Masters. The courtyard battle and Rhys’s accusations against my capacity to lead. My subsequent banishment. Our scrimmage against the soldiers when I came back. The poisoned dinner, which Nicu had witnessed. And now, an innocent prisoner had been torched.
All of this, coupled with rising conflicts amid the citizenry. All of this, because they didn’t trust their princess or support her beliefs.
Rhys had done more than recruiting the Masters against us. He had undermined the public’s faith in me and their growing esteem for Poet. In its place, the Summer King had planted seeds of doubt, which were sprouting faster than we could chop them down.
This burning was no isolated incident. In some way, Rhys had engineered this, prompting his new cult to act. If we did not catch the culprits or find a way to expose Summer, such atrocities would not end but only become more grotesque, spreading from the castle to the outlying villages and towns.
Poet and I had concluded as much without trading a single word. It had taken a mere look from across the ashes.
Mother hardly needed me to voice these thoughts. As a monarch with decades of experience, she perceived every gesture and action a person took.
Nodding to herself, Mother recuperated and uncovered her mouth. “Whoever attacked that captive—” she cupped my cheek, “—and you, they must have access to the secret tunnels. More than one passage, to be sure.”
“Poet and I drew that conclusion as well, after I recovered,” I told her. “Though we haven’t ruled out any castle residents. For all we know, this gang could be divided. As to the rest, we’re missing a vital piece. And after that flagrant display in the pasture, we cannot discount Winter’s own agenda. Jeryn did not come to heal me out of the goodness of his heart, particularly when he appears to have misplaced that organ in the first place.”
At the mention of him, Mother’s face creased. More than loathing, apprehension cinched her features, her mind whirling with unspoken thoughts. And that was before she began fidgeting.
My mother never fidgeted. Not even under duress. Something else was wrong.
I frowned. “Mother?”
“Where’s Poet?” she blurted, yet another thing this woman rarely did.
“He’s with Nicu,” I drew out, confounded. “You were there.”
Yes. She was with us when Poet and I had checked for a second time on his son. We’d left them together, so Poet could watch over the boy. The jester would join us soon, yet apparently not soon enough for Mother, who started pacing like a lioness.
Unnerved, she gusted out, “I was hoping to speak with both of you.”
