“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.
Because Jeryn revealed the explosive components had been sourced from Winter, this implied Lyrik had visited that Season before. Except I knew bullshit when I heard it. This man had never stepped foot out of Autumn. He was just being cagey, unaware of Jeryn’s legendary patience and the cunning of every person seated at this fire pit.
