Page 52 of Burn

Now then. Arriving in what could be deemed the worst possible location had been intentional. But what hadn’t been part of the plan was for us to take one cautious step—then to halt as dozens of weapons leaped from the shadows.

18

Briar

They surrounded us. My kingdom, this court, and its soldiers. They fenced us in like felons, outcasts, and traitors.

My home did not welcome me. Rather, it sought to take me prisoner.

Beams of starlight dripped onto the lawn. The wind whipped through the high grass as a legion of armed bodies lunged from every corner, bronze mantles whisking around the knights’ chainmail. A cacophony of ringing steel, drawn fletching, and clanking iron filled the air. Axes, archery, halberds, hammers, sickles, saw blades, and swords braced toward our group.

Most of them aimed at me. The army brandished their weaponry at my chest, where my heart drummed. Intricate braids embellished their hair, and their faces reflected a myriad of emotions.

Scorn. Betrayal. Distrust. Astonishment. Resentment.

And uncertainty. Also, confusion. Even remorse.

The latter came from a handful, at least. These men and women had banished their princess, but they had never struck a weapon toward her, never threatened her life.

Half of me shattered like porcelain. The other half bled with yearning.

On a deadly growl, Poet moved. With the speed of a phantom, he swerved in front of me, blocking my form from every blade, the tips hovering centimeters from his chest. Yet that didn’t prevent him from windmilling his staff and bracing it overhead with one hand, then flipping his dagger with the other.

Members of the troop jolted in place, the jester’s motions too swift for them to react quickly enough. However fiercely trained, few of them matched Poet’s agility. Yet not only was it an uneven fight, but several knights fixed their axes at Eliot and Cadence, both of whom had drawn their own weapons. The garrote’s cord strained between my friend’s grip, and Cadence’s wrist shook as she extended her knife.

In the time it took to suck in a breath, manacles clattered from behind. One of the warriors launched my way, the bite of iron seizing around my wrist. That was as far as he got before another male figure tore into motion. Like a squall, the jester blasted through the troop, followed by a loud blow and the crunch of bone. The man apprehending me yowled, his body blasting sideways as if shot from a cannon. He catapulted into the air, twisted at an inhuman angle, and crashed to the ground.

And then Poet was on them. He spun, his dagger flying and nailing one of the warriors to a post. At the same time, he rotated his staff and smashed it against someone else’s skull.

Mayhem ensued. The troop broke into action.

Eliot shouted my name, then snapped on the handles of his garrote. Cadence screamed, ducked an arm, and jabbed her knife in reflex.

Blood spurted from someone’s throat. More crimson sprayed through the air.

The scene trapped me like quicksand, pulling me into the past. The courtyard. The dismembered bodies. The goldsmith driving a knife into my gut. The court sneering at me with disgust. The king’s triumphant look.

Poet’s elastic movements defied gravity. He might as well have transformed into a panther, swerving and springing into the air. The staff spun like a propeller, like an extension of him, until he became nothing but a blur of arms and limbs. His legs scissored and cuffed an assailant who bellowed in pain.

An arrow sliced Poet’s way. Before the warning cry could rip from my lungs, he whirled toward the projectile, having expected it. The staff caught the arrow midair and knocked it off course.

Never halting, the jester either impaled or split in half anyone who got near me. One by one, he took them down, blood seeping into his clothes and slickening his knuckles. But for each body that fell, another appeared, swarming him. It would take a sliver of movement, and any of those weapons would shear through him like a knife to butter.

Red exploded in my vision, sweat bridged across my throat, and protectiveness surged up my fingers. With one arm shackled, mobility was limited. Using my free hand, I ripped a thorn quill from my braid and hurled it toward Poet’s next attacker, then wheeled and dispatched another to a knight gaining on Eliot.

Suddenly, another male voice swooped into the fray. A muscled body seemed to take flight, spearing through with the velocity of a raptor. Twin broadswords flared from the man’s arms like a wingspan and diced through the frenzy.

Ashy hair. Angular face. Eyes as blue as a twilit sky.

Aire.

Relief washed through my veins. The First Knight lanced through his comrades, defending Poet and my friends. “Cease!” he commanded the legion in a gruff voice. “Stand fast!”

Half of them staggered from Aire’s orders. The rest either disobeyed or hadn’t heard.

My respite was fleeting as the knight landed back-to-back with Poet, both shearing through the mass—yet about to be consumed by it, nonetheless. My temperature rose. If the army touched my jester or friends, I would slay the warriors.

A vignette flashed through my head. The crown I had sent plunging over the tower rampart and the vow I’d made to myself, how a princess forged her own crown. Likewise, I recalled all the other pledges I’d made in my life.

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