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Long had I believed that reason and wisdom were the same, and that goodness and badness were opposing forces, never to overlap. Long had I assumed my intuitions would never give way to impulsivity, that being dutiful equated to being honorable. Long had I been foolish, thinking it could be that simple.

***

We sat outside Lyrik’s appointed chamber and waited. Sprawled on benches with padded seats, Aspen and I fell silent, replaying our roles in this story.

My comrades had carted our bleeding knight—Cedar was his name—to the infirmary. Such a trauma was no stranger to me; if an infection was prevented, the soldier would yet live. Then it would require considerable time for him to recover, but recover he would.

Nicu had disappeared down a row of ribbon streamers, bent on his own task.

My gaze could not resist, locating Aspen situated across from me, where she stroked Punk’s feathers. Her clothing had been torn, and she sported nicks on her chin and fingers, but she was well and whole.

Somehow, she had managed to bear arms without losing her hat. I might have smiled, if I had dared.

I could not fathom what had come over me tonight as I’d charged at her, wishing to see how well I had taught her, though aware that she would need years to match me. Facing her over our weapons, an affection so dire and raw had consumed my heart. I simply could not hurt her, nor let them chain her again. I had shifted alliances, choosing her over my peers, her over my sovereigns and my grievances.

It had been an agony from the beginning, from that moment when they detained her in the treehouse colony. I had struggled with that confounding restlessness, that endless protectiveness, the need to check on her, to comfort her, to free her. This had mingled with alternative desires, such as wanting to punish her in the throne room, satisfied to watch her groveling, pained to behold her trembling lips, a validating and harrowing sight.

I love you.

What her declaration had done to me.

Outside Lyrik’s chamber, her eyes answered my call, her gaze threading with mine across the floor. With a grimace, she glanced away, and I both despaired and understood. She could not trust where my emotions would lead me next. I hardly trusted them myself.

Quite a while had passed, marked by the sky yawning with dewdrops on the leaves outside the arched window. Footfalls approached, carrying a pair of regal figures, candelabra sconces illuminating their faces with relief, gratitude, and fury.

The princess made haste, the folds of her topaz-encrusted robe sealed shut to the throat. Only the red tresses spilling around her shoulders spoke against modesty.

The jester’s own robe flapped, his linen undershirt hanging open to the navel, an arrangement that exposed the lean muscles of a dancer’s torso.

Nicu had gone to them, of course. I could only imagine the uproar of seeing, and then hearing, what had happened to their son—what had nearly happened.

Two bodyguards trailed them, taking post against the walls. I stood and bowed, feeling like the single awkward party, clinging to formalities.

“The young man,” Briar inquired. “The potioneer—”

“He rests inside,” I reported, gesturing to the door. “The Court Physician attends to him.”

Poet made an unfortunate observation. “I understand the appeal of getting the kingdom’s attention by shucking expectations. ’Tis a pastime of mine as well. Alas, we cannot keep meeting like this, Aire.”

“Your Highness. Master Jester. I must beg your pardon.”

The jester wiggled his fingers. “We’re getting to that, sweeting.”

“Our son is well. That has been our only concern for the past hour,” the princess said.

Reassured that Nicu was fine, Briar and Poet had allowed their son to leave with the queen. She’d taken Nicu to the infirmary, where another physician would minister to his cheek. Her Majesty also planned to monitor Sir Cedar, to ensure that he was on the mend.

The princess did not offer this intelligence purely out of kindness. “Tonight’s outcome could have been ghastly,” she hissed. “We could have lost Nicu. We could have lost lives.”

“We know not whether to condone, console, or condemn the two of you,” the jester remarked.

I would not trust Poet’s leisurely tone, so at odds with Briar’s. Fluent in trickery, he knew how to disguise his ire, if only to unsettle his targets before striking.

It must have taken them this long to calm themselves, to pull themselves away from Nicu, in order to locate us. I could scarcely presume the original degree of their parental wrath. Thankfully, that inferno had since dwindled to a sizzle.

The princess massaged her forehead. “Nicu has taxed himself by speaking on your behalf, testifying for both of you. I admit, the scene you caused in the throne room compromised our resolve, whereas my mother is a brick wall. Compiled with tonight’s uproar and Nicu’s affirmations, you have us at an increased and puzzling disadvantage.”

“It’s my fault,” Aspen and I declared in unison.