Page 126 of Dare
“In my court, humane methods of research will be complicated,” I affirmed.
“I know about treatments. I was raised by a healer,” Poet replied. “Humaneness isn’t complicated, Winter.”
I inclined my head. “And yet.”
Because the jester wasn’t naive, he capitulated and packed his own experiences into one word. “Alas.”
Precisely. Humaneness was not complicated. Getting my court to redefine and accept new practices was. To say nothing of redefining humanity, which necessitated both kingdoms’ cooperation.
Winter’s knowledge and Autumn’s empathy.
Winter’s science and Autumn’s sensitivity.
As for when to leave, I would not compromise. “I will go, but only when the opportunity is right. My return must overcome multiple impediments. Chiefly, I must ensure my arrival under no circumstances endangers Flare. And I must preserve the trust of my subjects without inciting suspicions about where my allegiance lies. Royals can’t take a shit without the court knowing the number of minutes we spend squatting. The concept of privacy is nonexistent, and I haven’t begun to reflect on how I’ll convince my queens of this venture. Therefore, planning takes time. Patience.”
“Aye,” Poet murmured. “Success takes even longer.”
“Until then, I have a proposal.”
Sarcasm flickered in those obscenely green oculi. “Should we be worried? The last time we negotiated with you, a knight lost one of his organs.”
“I’ll revise. This is not a deal, it’s a tactic. Autumn has taken the first step. Winter will take the second. In the interim, we must anticipate the opposition.”
Poet’s timbre hardened into granite. “Rhys.”
“But we dealt with him,” Briar contended. “He’s a ruined monarch.”
“More to the point, my wife brought the cocksucker to his knees.”
“Let us keep it that way,” I pressed. “My meeting with him left much to be desired.”
I recapped the conference in Rhys’s throne room. With his role reduced, the monarch had time to kill and ample hours in which to stew, a fact that could backfire once he finished licking his scrotum. Poet had all but mutilated the sovereign, Briar had humiliated him, Giselle had made his crimes public, and the Seasons had rejected him. Strip a person of everything, and all they had left were suicidal tendencies.
Poet tilted his head, unkempt layers of dark hair falling around his face. “The only thing more dangerous than a confident king with everything to lose, is a broken king with nothing to lose.”
“Unstable rulers go down quickly, but they do not stay down forever,” I forecasted. “He will revisit his vendetta.”
“Don’t fucking do that,” the jester growled, noticing the wince in Briar’s features and reading into its meaning. Clasping the side of her face, he urged, “This doesn’t mean you failed. On the contrary, Sweet Thorn. You walked through fire on Reaper’s Fest, inspired your subjects to stop the riot, reunited the nation, changed the fate of born souls, restored the court’s relationship with Spring, got Summer to kneel, and crushed his influence in Autumn like a fucking insect. None of that has changed, least of all your triumph.”
A small grin lifted Briar’s lips. “Our triumph.”
Poet smirked. “I do enjoy getting some credit. It gives me an excuse to brag. In any case, if the shithead doesn’t know how to stay down when it comes to the rest of this continent, we’ll remind him.”
Flare wrote on her leaflet. All of us will.
At which point, the tenacious princess nodded and leveled her chin. “Rhys will need an arsenal to exact retribution.”
“His Majesty may yet acquire such an advantage,” Aire predicted.
“Or someone else on his behalf,” Aspen added. “He’s done it before, but that doesn’t mean he ran out of minions. People like using other people.”
Especially if you get them angry enough, Flare testified.
My palms beaded with perspiration. “Which brings this discussion to what Rhys has on me.”
Gasping, Flare abandoned the quill and set her hand on my arm. At her touch, waves of heat rolled through my bloodstream. Until now, I had confessed this only to her. The gamble was extreme, but it had to be done.
Poet furrowed his brows, accurately recalling our talk in Autumn when he’d asked that precarious question. What does Summer have on you?