Typical. When all else failed, prodding his ego offered a clean target. Because this delusional monarch loved tooting his flaccid horn, he boasted as often as I lied. So having “no geographical boundaries” implied the traitorous soldiers currently weren’t in that region.
As for the cryptic gibberish about kings versus old Autumn trees, I’d need more time to puzzle that one together.
While I reread, pain skidded across my flesh, the leaf and vine motifs stinging up to my forearms. I hissed in surprise. The flare-ups came at distinct times, but this one had to be a coincidence. Any other explanation made no sense.
Once any Summer correspondence had been read, the paper lost its immunity to heat. I pretended to comply, then flicked the parchment into the fire. This time, the ravenous flames chewed on the note, eating all four corners until they furled like wood shavings and shriveled to ash.
Locking my jaw, I watched the destruction until a brass noise rang through the forge. I whipped toward the wall clock, my eyes widening at the passing hour.
“Shit,” I gasped, wrestling out of the apron.
Two hours before dusk. That’s how long I had to get washed, get dressed, get Mama comfortable, and get the fuck out of here.
I prided myself on being on time. Technically, I was well in range. But more than that, I also prided myself on arriving early. Unlike my adolescent years when I wouldn’t have bothered for the Masters, then showed up late and lied through my teeth about why, I had outgrown this habit. I’d become part of a clan whose schedule I respected, elevating my own standards in the process. Punctuality was good business and just plain considerate.
Also, I liked having time to spare. No stress, and it often thawed Jeryn’s icy demeanor, since the Winter King took punctuality more seriously than even Briar. On that front, clocks invented by his nation were imported luxuries Mama and I couldn’t afford. But this one had come from Jeryn himself, one of nine models he’d presented to the clan, less of a gift and more of a demand. The calculating man hated tardiness and had dismembered people for lesser offenses.
I tossed the smock aside and exited the forge. Within five minutes, I changed into a felted wool skirt, donned a knit pullover, threw my cloak hood over my shoulders, strapped on my axe, devoured one of Mama’s persimmon tarts, assured her none of the trees would attack me on the way to the castle, and sprinted from the cottage.
Several miles later, I hastened down the brick lane carving through The Wandering Fields. Casting the golden stalks a heedful glance, I shot past them. Briar had described a shortcut through the harvest rows, but considering the fields’ penchant for entrapping anyone who meant harm to the kingdom, I wasn’t about to chance it. Not that my endgame meant to hurt the clan, or that I’d sided with Rhys out ofboredom, but who knew how the corn and wheat fields would interpret those actions?
Rushing from the fields to the maple pasture, I sought a particular tree and flattened my palm against the bark. A camouflaged seam appeared, then swung inward like a door. I darted inside, flew down the subterranean steps, and raced along the tunnel, roots glinting to illuminate the way.
Only the clan, the troops, and members of Autumn’s Royal family knew about these secret passages. Rhys had been privy to one isolated channel, but Queen Avalea had since ordered that conduit demolished.
The tunnel deposited me at the lower town’s border. Cobblestones bloated from the ground. Timber and plaster homes cluttered the avenues. In the main square, cooked plums wafted from a cafe, leaf bouquets decorated the lampposts, and lumber wheelbarrows trundled by.
That time of the year had arrived. In three weeks, Reaper’s Fest would be in full swing.
As I neared the barbican, my pulse jackhammered. Aire was coming home.
Even if a secondary mole had informed Rhys, the clan would have also known in advance, and they would have told me by now. Then again, this kind of news traveled fast and quietly by avians. And I hadn’t been here in a week, too busy taking care of Mama and working in the forge.
Flanking the drawbridge, sentinels stood like chess pieces. Their eyes slid my way, briefly scanning my tits as they inflated from the vent in my cloak. Over the years, my curves had grown into a luscious body. And while my height didn’t reach the branches, nobody could call me petite.
The guards shifted to let me pass, their attention veering back to the bridge. Fronted by the maple courtyard, the castle towered like a mammoth library, wrought of brown masonryand flat towers. Scarlet leaves rained from the boughs. The aromas of fresh bread and cinnamon drifted across the quad.
My muscles relaxed. How I loved coming here.
How badly I wished Mama could see this place. The updated interior wainscoting and millwork would captivate her.
Instead of entering through the main courtyard, the army’s training lawn provided swifter access. Behind a sprawling fenced-in yard, spokes, mauls, and pennants decorated the area, and a mighty trebuchet loomed. Across the south yard, male and female warriors flung swords at each other, grunts punctuating the air.
Typically at this hour, I found Poet training to a packed audience, his sculpted chest the stuff of legends, his naked abdomen glistening as he snapped into backflips or spun knives between his fingers like deadly sex toys. I’d once tried to guess how many inflated dicks and soaked cunts this sight had elicited under every woolen stitch of clothing, but I lost count and gave up.
Eventide poured dark blue across the sky like overturned paint. Stars nicked the welkin, and a watch of hawks appeared, circling the towers on wingspans vaster than paragliders.
My eyebrows furrowed at the birds. Usually, only half a dozen stationed themselves overhead at this time of night. Must be a new rotation.
In my periphery, the armory door stood open. I slowed, my insides fluttering with enthusiasm. Although I’d been inside plenty of times, the impact never got old, and the troops rarely left this partition ajar.
I’d gotten here with half an hour to kill before heading to the library wing. Succumbing to temptation, I crept past the armory door, my eyes jumping from war hammers to shields. Maces, spikes, chains. Helmets and gauntlets. Jousting lances, beautifully constructed and painted.
Also, hatchets. Bracketed along one wall, each one gleamed, the blades etched in symbols of Autumn. Gilded leaves, foxes, and trees. Leather and hardwood handles. Poleaxes, halberds, and battle axes.
Torch flames crackled from the walls, luminous casts unspooling across the floor. Withholding a grin, I approached the display and trailed my fingers along every specimen.
Then my hand stalled. Hyperawareness glided up my spine, my nape tingling as an intense weight filled the room like a pair of watchful eyes.
