57
Aspen
Usurp his throne. Overthrow the bastard.
But not with just anyone.
After serving Rhys, I knew. This elusive heir scared him more than anything. More than Jeryn. More than Winter. More than the emancipation of born souls. For whatever reason, the King of Summer had one ultimate weakness, one thing that would undermine, demean, and break him for good.
Loss of power terrified this dictator. But how acutely depended on the context.
We migrated to the fire pit where I’d shared meals with Aire, Nicu, and Lyrik. It turned out, Briar, Eliot, and Cadence recalled this spot with similar nostalgia. They had their own stint here once, and this platform was also where they ate together.
Under Jeryn’s direction, Lyrik kept sleeping off his injury. Aside from the rogue, Nicu temporarily excused himself from this discussion. Stress from the battle had exhausted him, in addition to a few wounds Briar and Poet insisted he recover from.
Nicu would join us later. From there, we would recap the details and get his feedback.
A crackling blaze threw light across everyone’s faces. Settling around the benches, our clan balanced steaming mugs and muttered in hushed tones.
“But what about Giselle?” Posy wondered while snuggling with Vale beneath a tartan blanket. “She can rule on her own. Rhys doesn’t need a replacement.”
“Not now,” Eliot contested while peering into the flames. “But eventually.”
“Every ruler’s time comes to an end,” Avalea stated, giving her daughter a proud smile. “If they’re fortunate, they shall look forward to their descendants.”
“Too bad Summer’s court doesn’t have that type of luck,” Cadence said while combing a snag from her evergreen hair. “Since the only acknowledged heir is an uninvested dandy, he’ll reject his seat at the throne.”
In which case, married Royals could appoint alternative successors.
But only if both parties agreed. Giselle and Rhys would never concur on that front.
So while the queen would likely champion this missing heir—barring the unidentified figure was nothing like Rhys—the king would slit his own throat before sanctioning a transfer of power.
The wild card was the circumstances of this heir’s birth. That alone might be enough to topple Rhys, if we managed to find out and publicize it.
Briar cupped her palms in her lap, the picture of diplomacy, while Poet sprawled beside her, the picture of disheveled elegance. His arm slung behind the princess, his fingers toying with a lock of red hair.
On reflex, the princess shifted closer to him while addressing the clan.
“This explains Rhys’s desire to use the elixir,” she concluded with a grimace.
“Giselle would have been impregnated without her knowledge and against her will. And while Her Majesty could decide not to keep the child, she would likely accept it rather than struggle to find a replacement that meets with Rhys’s approval. ”
Firelight sketched the inked webs beneath Poet’s eyes. “The question remains why this heir would scare Rhys shitless.”
“Shame,” I contributed from my place beside Aire. “It’s got to be something so incriminating, even his cult would no longer follow him.”
Jeryn leaned forward and tented his fingertips. “You said it was a male.”
Because Winter hated to waste his breath, he didn’t expand. Instead, the man simply waited for more information.
I sighed, “I got loads of things out of that asshole, but not about the heir. At least, nothing substantial aside from his sex.”
“As such, this figure could be hiding anywhere,” Aire speculated, his body heat warming my skin. “The heir could be residing among the bacchanals of Spring or the hellscapes of Summer.”
“Or here,” I guessed. “Or Winter.”
Flare’s eyes gleamed. Perched sideways so that one olive limb steepled between Jeryn’s thighs, thus enabling him to rub her calf, she peered at the fire with the ambition of a sandrifter. An explorer who knew how to locate impossible things.
“So we find him,” she mouthed.
This had been one of our agendas from the start, though the most important context had been missing.
As I’d speculated when Rhys paid me a surprise call in this enclave, communicating through fire could be useful.
If the ability to send missives through flames was restricted to blood-related members of Summer’s Royal family, it might help identify and confirm the heir.
After I suggested this, more questions floated between our clan.
Did the heir know about his origins? Did he care?
Boot soles thumped across the wood planks. A dark silhouette in a smudged coat blasted through the fog.
We swerved as Lyrik strode toward the fire pit. Under the mantle, a red-spotted bandage stretched diagonally across his chest, then hooked over one shoulder.
Clearly, he hadn’t expected everyone. “Where the fuck—” He trailed off, stumped by the faces staring back at him. “Shit. Famous people.”
The rogue must be drugged on something to combat the pain. Only that would explain the awkward head-bow. “Er, sorry,” he grunted. “I was looking for the songbird—”
“Please.” Avalea graciously swung her arm toward the banquettes. “Join us.”
Lyrik wavered, uncomfortable with the curious looks that greeted him. “Sure. All right.”
The instant he moved, Briar and Poet rose. Stranger though he might be, this man saved Nicu’s life. He flung himself in front of a knight hellbent on impaling their son.
Earlier, Aire and I recapped what we saw. I would have leaped off the bench and given Lyrik a hug for that, but I doubted the man could handle any measure of affection.
Lyrik took a seat next to me and Aire, his bandages and unkempt layers enhancing the knavish appearance. Amid the blaze, he resembled a post-battle pirate.
Predictably, Briar’s ladies noticed. Spring origins on display, Cadence gave him an indulgent once-over, then leaned into Posy and Vale.
“Well, damn,” she hinted under her breath. “Very nice.”
Considering the gap in years between me and Aire, I wasn’t about to judge Cadence’s appraisal of Lyrik. That aside, she wasn’t serious about the rogue. At least, not beyond acknowledging male beauty when the occasion called for it.
Regardless, females weren’t his type. Lyrik’s wandering gaze only held space for the one person who remained absent from this conversation.
Poet’s perceptive gaze did a slow crawl over the rogue’s features. “Lyrik, is it?”
“That’s me,” the man replied, patting his chest before realizing he was fresh out of cigarettes.
Lowering herself beside Poet, Briar made introductions and smiled. “Aspen and Aire tell us you hosted them here.”
“Wouldn’t say I was much of a host.”
“Such modesty,” the jester remarked, picking up on the evasive tone. “Care to embellish?”
But when Lyrik just slouched and peered at the flames, I elbowed him, “He’s brooding and can’t take a compliment.”
“Be that as it may, we’re sitting over here,” Briar asserted, drawing Lyrik’s reluctant attention, then holding it until he submitted. “Thank you for what you did.”
Poet bent toward the fire. “You protected our son. He’s alive because of you. That won’t be forgotten.”
“We’re beholden,” Avalea finished.
Unnerved by the praise, Lyrik did what he always did whenever thrown out of his comfort zone. He feigned nonchalance. “I could use an upgraded cauldron.”
Well, then. If only we’d been placing bets on the man’s response, I would be a rich woman as of this very second.
Despite his gratitude, Poet’s eyes narrowed into thin, intimidating blades of green. “You could ask anything of us right now, including a pardon for your creatively renegade hobby. Yet that’s your reply.”
“I keep things simple.”
“Mmm. Somehow, I doubt that.”
Jeryn intervened, withdrawing the elixir from his fur pocket. “Does this look familiar?”
Lyrik cast the vessel a fleeting glance. “Maybe.”
I scowled. Aire grunted, annoyance replacing his appreciation for the man’s savior instincts toward Nicu.
Unfazed, Jeryn resumed his interrogation. “You’re an alchemist.”
Finally, Lyrik met the king’s eyes. “Something like that. My work comes in handy when you want to redefine the rules. Thanks for the stitches, by the way.”
Impressive. Most people withered to particle dust under Winter’s piercing stare. To Lyrik’s credit, the man held his own.
Also, stupid. No one acted glib in Jeryn’s presence and lived to see the light of day. The same went for anyone brave enough to face off with Poet, who scrutinized Lyrik from his lounging spot, his earlier impression of the man gradually changing shape.
Jeryn assessed Lyrik’s bandage. “Infection has abated. No more festering skin or pus. Given the wound’s location and the possibility of internal bleeding, it’s fortunate I did not have to conduct a splenectomy to remove your spleen.”
Although Poet could detach a target’s limb with a flick of his blade, the man never handled medical descriptions well. Repulsed, he groaned like a drama queen. “Too much.”
Winter glowered. “If words are too much for a jester, I’m happy to demonstrate the procedure on you instead.” Then he enunciated, “Slowly.”
“The only thing I like doing slowly is fucking.”
Lyrik smirked like a shithead. Aire’s capillaries burst. Briar flushed twelve shades of red, elbowed her husband until he coughed, then shot Eliot and her ladies a reproachful look as they cackled. Flare and I ducked our smiling faces.
Avalea tossed her son-in-law a bland look. “Too much, indeed. Please remember I’m the mother.”
“Your alchemy chamber is well stocked,” Jeryn observed to the rogue, clocking his head to the side. “Perhaps too well.”
Lyrik’s eyebrows slammed together. “Call me an overachiever.”
“The explosives that destroyed the knights’ camp. Where did you procure the ingredients?”
“Smuggled them.”
I’d say this was probably the truth. But not the whole story, if one kept semantics in mind.