Page 123 of Trick

“—and somehow, the notion sprung into our heads.”

Fucking. Shit.

For a second, my eyes clenched shut. The queen could have left me out of it, and things might have turned out differently. Because she didn’t, it snuffed the mood like a candle.

Well, now I had to look.

Briar’s smile vanished in a blast of smoke. A series of noxious emotions followed, namely confusion, disappointment, and finally indignation. The muscles in her face ticked. As they did, she wrestled with them, striving to appear neutral and unruffled.

Yet I saw the accusation in her eyes as they sliced over to me. Briar thought she had earned her seat here by being a flawless and respectable princess, when in essence I’d handed this opportunity to her.

I made this happen. She hadn’t.

Had Briar assumed it a coincidence when I told her a surprise was coming and then, on the same day, an invitation to join the Talks arrived at her door? Apparently so.

Either that, or she had understood this was the surprise. Except she hadn’t realized until this second that I played a role in orchestrating it.

Her nostrils flared. She snatched her chalice and drained the contents, her throat overextending itself. I had offended plenty of times, but I’d never vexed a woman to the point where I lacked a prolific means to fix it. My powers of perception deserted me, since I should have predicted this upheaval, that the Crown would reveal the details of our little chat.

From one topic to the next, the princess contributed her thoughts with tenacity, objectivity, and a private grudge. The whole infernal time, she ignored me. To my comments alone, she remained stiff and dry, all timber and no blaze.

Since I couldn’t do it myself without rousing suspicion, I silently motioned to one of the servants, who headed toward Briar with a bowl of strawberries. She had once mentioned they were her favorite of Spring’s fruit. ’Twas a subtle and gentle peace offering to start, until I could figure out how to atone more frankly later.

Unfortunately, His Royal Fart of a Summer Majesty had been drinking with aplomb. On the servant’s way, the king took a break from his mead binge and toed the lad’s calf with his boot, which caused the young man to stumble and nearly drop the bowl. This happened too quickly, before I could intercept.

Rhys had also done so without the Royals noticing, otherwise it would have insulted his hosts. Briar and I flung the prick identical glares. He hadn’t hurt the lad, otherwise my fist would have found its way into King Rhys’s face. However, his actions had discouraged the servant, so that he placed the bowl swiftly beside Briar without making eye contact.

The princess motioned to offer a kind word and conciliatory gesture, but the page walked away too fast. On his way back to the refreshment table, I cupped his shoulder and murmured reassurances, after which he retreated with a grateful expression. Still, my locked jaw took several seconds to smooth out.

To hell with this. We needed to appear impartial to each other, but I should have risked it and delivered the fruit myself instead of involving someone else.

Nonetheless, I had a hunch my offering went unappreciated. But out of respect for the servant, Briar chewed on the berries until the bowl was empty.

I rounded the table, hands bolted behind my back, and preceded to make points of my own. My mockery should have riled her. My reflections should have drawn her attention. Alas, to my annoyance, the princess consulted her peers without sparing me a glance.

“Moving on to the subject of fools,” Basil announced.

My gaze whipped up, as did the princess’s. Her eyes darted to me, silently questioning whether I expected this to be on the agenda.

Despite the collective monstrosity and the continental decree proclaiming born souls as Royal property, the specifics of their treatment were determined by the individual kingdoms. The methods used by each Season weren’t unified concerns like import and export routes, neutral territories, pirates and smugglers, the codes of war, or migration between borders.

So nay. To put it mildly, I hadn’t expected this.

At the right opportunity, I’d meant to coax new ideas about born souls into Spring’s mind, to win them over slowly but surely. However, here was a bounty of Royals at my disposal. The laws wouldn’t change today, but it could be a beginning. This might be an opportunity to put a dent in their bigotry on a grander scale.

Whether or not I fancied myself ready, I had to be.

The princess and I swapped another mutual look wrought from three days in a forest. It deemed this moment worthy of putting aside her wounded pride and my sly inducements. We hadn’t planned for this, but we’d shared ideas in the archive library. That, and our ability to read one another, would have to suffice.

As a formality, Basil unrolled and recited from the Fools Decree. The document stated that whilst so-called“born fools”remained blood relations to their families, they became the property of the Crown. They were to be used either for labor if the tasks demanded“little in the way of intellect,”or entertainment if they were prone to“clumsiness and comical behavior,”or to be manacled as prisoners in dungeons if they were“violent or useless.”

My retinas burned. As the Spring King reiterated this, I envisioned my son belonging to the alleged “simpleton” class, to be harassed at carnivals whenever he lost direction.

Basil dropped the scroll on the table. “Spring welcomes any arguments regarding a new trade amendment to be added to the Decree.”

And now I understood.

In one of the earlier meetings, the Royals had briefly considered the option of trading born souls between the kingdoms. Nonetheless, they had agreed to postpone the discussion until next year. I’d been counting on that delay to prepare counterarguments. Yet evidently, these monarchs had changed their minds at some point during my absence, whilst I’d been confined with Briar in the wildflower forest.

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