Page 89 of Burn

“Dearest, what do you want me to say? What would you have us do?”

I clamped onto her arm. “We have the knights’ fealty. Reports indicate a percentage of the citizenry is coming around. It’s not everyone, but it’s a start. Between the three of us, we can elevate our plan to reach those who would see us dethroned.”

“We do not have time to orchestrate another plan,” Mother pressed. “Not after everything that’s happened. The people are stewing, alternating between doubting you and disputing with one another. Yes, tales of you and Poet are winning over some, but now the public is becoming divided on the matter. And with Rhys’s followers targeting the Crown and born souls, it will only serve to rile the denizens further, which could very well be Summer’s objective.

“Briar, be sensible. At this rate, we could have a brawl on our hands by morning. We must act immediately to mollify the people. A courtship with Winter will show your willingness to restore balance to this nation, to maintain peace with the Seasons rather than defying them at every turn.”

Mother’s visage twisted, as though she hated what she was about to say. “If you can’t do this, what chance do you have with greater negotiations? How will you lead an army, should you need to? This is the least of what you’ll be expected to do. After everything you and Poet have been through for this campaign, I shouldn’t have to remind you of that.”

I growled, another protest launching up my throat when Mother clasped the back of my nape and drew our foreheads together. “Daughter. I swear on my honor, I would never hurt you, nor Poet or Nicu. They are part of our family now, and I adore them. But you must show some form of allegiance with Winter, or our hopes may not see the light of day. If Poet cares about your future together, and if he cares about this crusade, he will play along. Give him that credit.”

Denial solidified like a stone in my chest, and the polished floor felt too hard beneath my boot soles. I could not refute her points. Knowing my jester, he would not either.

Mother was right. The role of a monarch could be painful, even gruesome. And I could not blame her. At this juncture, it behooved any ruler to consider such a course of action.

However, I was not any ruler. History and tradition ended with me. I’d broken my crown, and I would not allow yet another sovereign to break me. Even if I went along with some type of farce, it would be of my own design. I’d make sure of that.

No. I would not court the prince. Not in the way Mother proposed.

My voice sprouted thorns. “Poet is the only match. If the prince must be solicited, we’ll do it together. On our own terms.”

Rebellion must have shown across my face, because Mother blinked. As her gaze studied mine, perception eclipsed resignation. “You have a different plan. In the span of three seconds, you’ve devised a different plan.”

“I might have,” I told her. “I’ve redefined what it means to be a princess. I’ll redefine the very meaning of allegiance. Not a betrothal, but a collaboration.”

Mother stared. Then her expression crumbled, and she gripped my hands once more, a stream of words pouring from her lips. “Forgive me,” she beseeched. “I almost lost you. Twice, I almost lost you. And …”

I raised our fingers, balled them into a single fist, and held it between us. “It’s okay.”

It was. I had been separated from Mother, then poisoned in front of her. Of course, she would consider anything to keep her daughter alive and safe.

“We are all fools in some way. Me included.” Her mouth lifted into a marveling grin. “I beg your pardon for not having anticipated any other response.”

“The most conniving jester on this continent knows what it’s like to wear a mask and perform for his audience, as does the most steadfast princess in The Dark Seasons,” I affirmed. “We are skilled deceivers.”

“Then use that power,” Mother encouraged. “By Seasons, if there’s another way out of this, wield that strength like a weapon.” As if to imbue me with fortitude, she uttered, “Fool them all, dearest.”

Fool them all. That, Poet and I could do.

But to accomplish it required a dangerous proposition. To defeat one villain, we’d have to join forces with another.

29

Poet

My dagger cut through the distance and punctured a figure’s stomach. Pivoting and scissoring into the air, I executed a backhanded toss and sent another blade flying. This one speared into the figure’s throat, piercing its larynx before shooting through the opposite side, the weapon’s tip protruding from the back.

My muscles burned, but scarcely hot enough. Refusing to pause for breath, I vaulted into a series of twists and ducks across a network of suspended beams lined in barbs. Gliding through like smoke and leaping onto an upper platform that swayed from side to side, I whipped out the next dagger and let it fly, striking my adversary between the eyes. The weapon speared the skull clean through and pinned it to a wood-plank wall, which marked a dead end.

The obstruction materialized so quickly, I staggered in place at the stable edge of the crossway. Around me, numerous suspensions with serrated railings and swinging impediments comprised the training course, meant to test a fighter’s balance, dexterity, and aim. The main target drooped in front of me, its form stapled to the partition and signifying I’d successfully completed the track.

More than that, it appeared. I’d depleted myself of every blade and pulverized every vital organ the mannequin possessed.

Wind blew through the practice yard. The lawn was vacant for a good reason. Only a fool would be out here, on planks raised high off the ground, training in this weather.

My lungs siphoned oxygen, my chest pounded, and sweat drenched my bare skin. The mannequin slumped against the wall, its burlap face void of expression and sand trickling from the wounds like fake blood. I had a fine imagination, pictured the face before me, and wasn’t nearly done with him.

Yanking my dagger from the target’s skull, I juggled the hilt and lashed out of my arm, slicing its face horizontally. The satisfaction was short-lived. Too many parts of its body remained unscathed, so that I slashed through the mannequin’s husk, from its hip, to its wrists, to its invisible mouth. Flipping the blade in my fingers, I slammed the tip through the figure’s heart.

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