“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.’”
