30
Aspen
Five minutes ago, life was different. The plot had been straightforward: get in, sleuth, get out. Given our combined history, Aire and I should have managed this with our eyes closed.
Only amateurs expected things to go as planned. We had contingencies in place. Though, none of our strategies involved me throwing myself to the wolves like a leg of roasted mutton.
Well. Sometimes shit happened.
All it took was an overactive male bladder to change the course of history. No point in dwelling. Even less a point in questioning what the hell I’d been thinking, much less freezing up now.
Own my actions. Don’t look back. Keep my head on my shoulders, so it doesn’t end up rolling across the ground.
Every figure in the camp snatched their weapons, steel whizzing into the night.
Some of the warriors launched to their feet, while others corralled themselves around the blaze, and the rest sat on logs, pretending they weren’t grasping blades under their cloaks.
Scarred, whiskered, or tattooed. Countless faces stared me down like a bug.
From burgundy to orange, every set of eyes tapered, cast in fuming light.
I kept the mantle’s hood tucked fast. In this disguise, they wouldn’t link a concealed face to Aspen of Autumn.
A blond corona of hair poked from the bushes. Aire’s gobsmacked features watched, his expression strung between horror, exasperation, and ferocity. To be frank, I couldn’t tell which he wanted more. To strangle me or shield me.
Within seconds, Aire brandished both swords in his fists. Like a bird-of-prey about to take flight, he vaulted to one knee, moving soundless and swift.
“What the fuck?” he mouthed.
Couldn’t blame him for that. Not with the premonition burying its claws in his head.
But hesitation would have led to Aire’s capture.
That giant knight could take a circle of warriors, however a camp full of them would tackle him in less time than it took to spit on the ground.
His superior rank be damned, the First Knight of any Season would fail to outshine a vindictive king with a record-breaking temper and a vengeful fuse shorter than his cock.
Cross Rhys of Summer, and he wouldn’t forget it.
The company stirred. If a liar found herself as the centerpiece of a deadly army willing to betray their own ruler, that liar ad-libbed. Best to seize the advantage and squeeze any information liable to drip out of them. Alluding to their failed ambushes was a good place to start.
Which units were they fixing to attack? How and when?
Glimpsing Aire’s killing-spree stance, I shook my head the barest fraction. Work with me.
Slamming his lips together, the knight glared. Annoyance and mayhem played tug-of-war across his features. Finally, he hunched to the undergrowth and clipped his head. I’ll always work with you.
The reassurance bolstered me like scaffolding. Concealing my voice beneath a thick brogue accent synonymous with the eastern parts of Autumn, I amplified, “Sorry to crash the party. But you know how it is.”
The inevitable shot out of a female’s wiry mouth. “Who the devil are you?”
Ah. I recognized her from training sessions. Dame Muriel. Third Commander. All right, no fussing around with this one. Basically, treat her like Jeryn.
So who the devil was I?
I rolled the answer across my tongue and ejected it like an arrow. “Rhys’s spy.”
Dead silence. They gawked, their heads swinging between one another.
Aire’s eyebrows punched together. Masquerading the truth as a lie had its perks. For one, it guaranteed consistency. For another, it would get me farther quicker with this bunch. Last, the possibility that I worked for Summer provided a decent scare tactic, one that stayed their weapons.
Speaking of which, a sickle rested on Muriel’s lap.
It matched what I’d seen in the tent, an unusual assortment including harvest scythes, cleavers, trunks of roughspun, and enough Summer tinder to keep the oak tree in line.
Not usually the assets of an army, but the surplus of wood meant they’d be here while.
Likely enough time to get arrested for treason.
Although outside of the tent, they mostly carried fine weapons suited to their statuses—well-crafted swords, hammers, and longbows among them—their choices of second-rate arms inside the armory clashed, which threw me off.
Case in point, Dame Muriel usually wielded a blade more aligned with her rank, not a basic sickle.
She seemed to be in the midst of polishing the curved edge, as if that would improve things, even though she owned a superior alternative.
That begged the question why she’d feel the need to bother. A closer look at the weapon might help solve that riddle.
Discreetly, I glimpsed the object, signaling Aire to follow my trajectory. Noticing the same thing, he disarmed one sword. Cupping his free palm beside his lips, Aire emitted a ghostly avian wail that quivered across the sky.
Members of the company veered toward the disturbance. As Muriel glanced at the firmament, I craned forward an inch and studied the engraved fox ornamenting the sickle’s edge. It matched the symbols marking all the other curious weapons gathering dust inside the tent.
I reeled away as everyone cut back to me.
“Rhys does not have a spy,” a man declared from his perch.
Crater-shaped scars pitted into his temple, likely from a mace. That identified him as Sir Godfrey.
No doubt Aire had accomplished this within seconds of arriving, but I did a swift pass over the nearest soldiers, committing to memory each recognizable face.
So the Scourge of Summer didn’t keep these ass-kissing pawns up to speed on his supplementary minions.
I’d gotten this fact out of Rhys a while back, but their reactions confirmed it.
And lucky for me. Except there went any chance of identifying the king’s secondary informant, who’d been keeping an eye on Aire.
“Last time I checked, spies generally weren’t public knowledge,” I tossed back, the axe’s weight resting beneath my cloak. “But then, exceptions have to be made in times of dissent. His Majesty sent me here for a ‘Strict Competency Check.’”
The less elaborate the perjury, the better. Though, I embellished with a phrase Rhys often used. Hence, one-quarter of the knights eased their hold on the weapons.
Several players traded conspiring looks. Here came the next obstacle.
A squire named Peter called out, “How does he communicate with us?”
By way of response, I clocked my gaze to the fire. Rhys used the flames with me, so it stood to reason he did the same with them.
Another knight quizzed, “How long does he wait for a response?”
I crossed my arms. “That’s assuming he waits at all.”
The next question fired. “How many factions do we have within these borders?”
“Just you,” I answered.
“And how many camps?”
“Try a better trick question.” But when he pouted, I answered, “Same number. Though, I don’t think your host is happy.”
The oak tree’s bark crackled with umbrage. The roots twitched, their motions jerky, as if recognizing my foliage motifs.
Palpitations thumped in my chest, and questions piled on my tongue. If we were alone, I would settle the score, ask why it punished Mama and if it had intended to torment her all these years.
Instead, we regarded one another. Then the oak redirected its attention to the knights, resuming its earlier hostility and groaning in contempt. Long-standing resentment and sudden compassion clashed inside me.
Muriel wavered in contrition. “In due time, we will beseech the oak’s forgiveness.”
The markings stung across my tailbone. I reined in the sensation, speaking over every sharp jab. “Ancient landmarks of the Seasons have been here longer than any monarchy. That must count for more, right?”
The woman’s features pruned. “Funny. That does not sound like the opinion of a Royal spy.”
“Spies have double standards like anybody. Most of all, when it comes to nature. This tree could curse you.”
“Let it curse us,” Sir Godfrey blustered. “Damnation is a worthy sacrifice.”
Sure. The Masters thought the same thing.
The sickle flashed, and its owner pursed her thin lips. “When was the last time we heard from him, and what did the missive say?”
Shit. My fingers slid into the tartan hood, where the axe rested.
At the same time, another avian wail blew through the forest from Aire’s position. It distracted the company, buying me time to invent a response.
They’d mentioned Rhys being impatient in his latest message.
That meant it had been recent enough for them to recap, but not so recent that their reaction would be visceral.
Instead, Muriel had referenced the missive as though she’d had time to mull over the contents.
And she used the words, “Last time,” instead of something like “Last night.”
As for what the missive said, the obvious would have to do. Rhys liked holding all the cards; I’d never known him to share information between too many players.
I tailored my words to sound casually accurate rather than meticulously detailed.
“He mentioned communicating with you a few days ago,” I pretended to recall. “But then, I don’t breathe over his shoulder when he writes a letter.” Next, I corralled the discussion in my favor. “But I imagine he sounded in a rush.”
The woman floundered. The rest eased off, lowering their weapons at her nod. Steepling her fingers, Muriel used them to balance her chin. “And for what purpose did he send you?”
Under the cloak, my fingers disengaged from the axe.
“To make sure you’re not misbehaving or sleeping on the job.
His Majesty wants to be certain everyone’s still on his side, as power-hungry kings like to do in their spare time.
” I glanced around. “Sloths have been more productive than you lately. With all this loafing and botched ambushes, it seems as though you’re second guessing.
But don’t blame me for that assumption. I’m just the messenger, and I’m sure you’ve gotten a taste of Rhys’s paranoia, especially these days.
If his missive contained a tone of haste, that would justify why. ”
One of the knights huffed, validating my knowledge of the king. “Perhaps in Summer, revels happen all the time.”
“I believe you mean Spring,” Muriel informed her comrade.
“My point being: By comparison to other Seasons, revels don’t occur every day in Autumn.”
This dialogue might be leading me into a trap. They could be fabricating some type of social gala as a last ditch effort to catch me in a lie.
Instead of agreeing, thus displaying the overconfidence of an imposter, I clocked my head to the side. “What the hell does that mean?” But when they remained quiet, I sighed. “If you can’t handle one basic inquisition, what am I going to do with you?”
A soldier to my right argued, “It means the next attempt must be scheduled for the precise moment. We have no choice but to wait until then.”
“I wager that’s supposed to be an excuse.”
“You wager correctly. We don’t control the calendar.”
“Then get creative.” I cleared my throat and recited, “From Rhys. And I quote, ‘You have balls. Now show me you have brains. If you don’t, then I’ll know your limits, and it’ll spare me the wasted time.’”
Delivered as the crowned lowlife in question would have done. In the backdrop, Aire’s expression shifted from dire to amused, his mouth curling.
“Creativity is for Spring,” Dame Muriel sneered. “Pragmatism is the Autumn way. The next best ambush will be possible when the fires are lit.”
When the fires are lit. Noted.
“Suit yourself,” I fibbed. “I’ve had a look around. Since I don’t see anything shady happening, is there any other message I should relay to His Royal Bane?”
In spite of themselves, the group chuckled, feasibly used to Rhys’s mood swings.
“It appears you don’t like him much,” Muriel observed.
I thought of Vex, who led the Masters and enjoyed calling me a mutant when I was a child. “Do we have to like the people we work for?”
The venom in my tone wasn’t a lie. Yet the soldiers dismissed it, some of them returning to their duties while Muriel stated, “No message that we can’t send through the flames directly.”
“Might want to plan for all likelihoods and assume he’ll inquire with me first before contacting you. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here.”
“If so, tell him we’ll stay the course.” Then her serpentine tongue recited, “For inheritance of the Seasons.”
Supremacist cunt. The continent’s intolerant motto crawled under my skin like a parasite. How Poet managed to fuck information out of partisans like this for years was beyond me. My respect for the jester, as well as my heartbreak for him, increased a hundredfold.
I forced myself not to spit in this bitch’s face. “I hope so.”
As I strutted past this riffraff, my fingers brushed the oak’s trunk. Warmth threaded across my markings, coupled with the strange urge to comfort this tree.
The troops’ eyes latched onto my back as I bled into the shrubs opposite from Aire. Thankfully, none of them offered to guide me to the main road. Any knight worth his rank understood that spies didn’t need backup.
Circling the long way, I fell into step with Aire, who met me halfway. As we trekked into the thicket, my clammy hands dried, and my heart ceased pattering.
For the first five minutes, Aire said nothing. Then he murmured, “How did you know about Rhys’s paranoia?”
“Doesn’t everybody?” I inquired.
The First Knight made a noise of concession. “Well met, playing the spy angle. It had sounded like the truth.”
Yes. It did.