Page 47 of Burn

“Or something fancier,” Poet murmured. “Either way, it’s part of a larger scheme having to do with a certain sexy couple and their renegade intentions for equality. He doesn’t believe we’re out of the picture, even with you gone.”

“Considering you tried to fry him like a slab of bacon within days of Briar leaving, I’d say that’s a fair assumption,” Cadence remarked.

“Considering Autumn’s princess is the staunchest woman on the continent, I’d say that doubles it,” Eliot added.

Former princess. The urge to correct them pressed against my tongue until I remembered Poet’s words from last night.

You were born to make history, not be erased from it.

When our friends questioned how Rhys had learned about the tunnels, my mind whirled. Mother and I knew the passages’ locations, as did Poet. In addition to us, Aire possessed this information, as the First Knight and commander of our army.

However, another group of individuals were privy to the secret routes. On that score, my words grew teeth. “The Masters of old built the tunnels.”

“Fuck,” Eliot muttered, his head dropping forward.

Cadence grunted. “That miserable piece of shit.”

The Summer King had recruited Autumn’s current guild of Masters to act as informants for him, to spy on my nation. Outraged by the campaign Poet and I were waging for born souls, Rhys had bribed us to end our crusade. In response to our refusal, he threatened to rouse the crafters, to have them commit treason, massacring innocent citizens and scapegoating the maddened prisoners—the ones he’d traded with me—for the crime.

It hadn’t worked. The jester and I had outwitted the guild, but the conflict had resulted in bloodshed at the castle. And although the Masters had been slayed, they must have imparted additional valuable intelligence with Rhys prior to that tragedy.

Over generations of elite crafters, privileged knowledge about those outlets had been passed down to every guild successor. As allies, why wouldn’t they also share this with the Summer King?

What’s more, the subject prompted another likelihood. “Whatever Rhys has in mind, he is not doing it alone,” I asserted.

“The Masters’ progenies could be helping Rhys now,” Cadence offered, glancing at Poet. “Seeing as Briar and you basically mopped the courtyard with their parents’ corpses, I’d say they have one hell of a grudge to burn off.”

“To top it off, you were planning to change laws about who gets admitted into the guild, making it more inclusive for everyone instead of just passing those ranks on to the Masters’ heirs,” Eliot added, reciting what I’d told him during our journey here. “The list of motives adds up.”

Because Poet had already given me a summary of court news, I briefly pressed my lips together. “It was not them.”

Poet reclined, propped one booted foot atop the pit’s rim, and slung his arm across the bench, assuming an indolent pose. Yet his voice narrowed like the edge of a dagger. “The Masters’ spawn defected to Summer.” With that, he shrugged. “Dead parents. Disinheritance of their ranks. A so-called ‘mad’ princess. And a rival king’s promise that no such catastrophes would happen to them in his nation. Not least of all, they probably weren’t interested in dying the way their mothers and fathers had. The offer was too good for them to resist.”

While redefining the guild would be easier now, their departure signified yet another breakdown in Autumn’s system. Through abandonment, the Masters’ children had gotten their revenge without risking themselves. All the same, though it should have pained me when Poet delivered this blow last night, it had not affected me in the slightest.

Still, the fact remained. If not the Masters’ successors, who was working with Rhys now?

We went over the particulars, theorizing what Summer was planning and with whose help. But most of all, when we should be ready for him.

“Come now, children,” Poet said when the rest of us lapsed into silence. “I’ll admit this is coming to me late, but take it from Spring. There’s only one glorious time the enemy can successfully raid a castle, and it’s when people are too drunk and fucked to notice.”

I stiffened. “Reaper’s Fest.”

“Ugh.” Cadence lamented. “That asshole’s going to spoil a perfectly good party.”

Eliot scrubbed his face. “Nothing like a loud, widespread revel to obscure the sound of people screaming. Everyone will mistake it for merriment or public sex.”

“In Autumn, I would doubt the latter,” I proclaimed. “But otherwise, yes.”

According to Poet, Mother had delayed the annual revels and bonfire ball out of respect for the fallen. Along with Summer, the Spring court had departed shortly after the announcement, Basil and Fatima surly and our relations more fraught than they’d been before the king and queen had banished me from their court.

Now with a period of mourning approaching its end, Mother believed it was the optimal time to stage the revels. With tensions running high, levity was the lesser of the two evils. Wait any longer, and it might lead to civil unrest. Nobles and commoners alike were feuding daily. Verbally, at least. Hosting the festivities might dilute the impact before things escalated to violence.

That said, it would be the ideal opportunity for Rhys to act, when everyone was vulnerable. But what exactly he intended was still up for debate. We wouldn’t know without prying.

Rage boiled through me. This game wasn’t over. Summer would continue to plot against this kingdom, Rhys would further subject born souls to cruelty, and by some manner he now threatened Autumn’s stronghold.

Alongside wrath, a premonition crept into my mind. “Rhys would not attach himself to a full-scale rampage,” I stated. “Laying siege to a kingdom unprovoked would be seen as a betrayal against the Seasons. It would defy the age-old peace treaty and require each court to take up arms against the perpetrator. To incite a war of that magnitude would be folly. Summer’s actions would pull Spring into the conflict. Most importantly, Winter.”

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