Chapter Ten Blodwyn
Chapter Ten
Blodwyn
The vehement, green-eyed gaze of a witch glares up at me.
Four other witches are clustered around her, their teeth bared and their hair wild as it whips across their faces.
But it’s their feet that I can’t stop staring at: five pairs of iron shoes that, even on the parchment, blaze red with heat.
Thunder rumbles overhead, rattling the panes of my menagerie’s glass ceiling.
The witches’ curse.
The words loop in my mind like crows, as they have since I was old enough to hear the whispers circulating through the palace. Old enough to understand that there was something different about me. Something wrong.
I thumb the edge of the drawing, the page brittle and yellowed with age.
I discovered the book in the library years ago, after both Mother and my ladies refused to explain what the curse entailed.
I’ve read the story so many times by now that I practically have it memorized.
According to this, at the start of the Covens’ War, five witches—the reigning Heirs—were dragged to the palace and executed.
With their dying breaths, they levied a curse against my family.
All the White King’s sons would die, they vowed.
The line itself would end, as repayment for the violence against the witches.
“Curses have only the power that you give them,” Mother always insisted.
I want to believe her, but it’s difficult when so much of the evidence points otherwise. Difficult when, nearly half a century later, the court is still convinced it’s true.
Not just King Callen, someone had said last night. But his father before him. The other princes…
They were right. Uncle Arthur died in the war, slain by the witches themselves.
Uncle Tiergan was rumored to go mad. I overheard some of my ladies say that he was found running down the halls of the palace, screaming that something was chasing him.
And then there’s Papa. Dread coils tight in my belly when I think of him lying in bed—the glassy sheen to his eyes and the garish scar carved into his marble-cold skin.
All because of an accident, Ayleth claimed.
But what if it wasn’t? If it was something far more sinister?
And if my family really is cursed, how long before it finds me?
Another crash of thunder shakes the palace, lightning flaring white against the drawing of the witches. For an instant, the red-hot iron shoes gleam brighter. The witches seem to move on the page, their skirts whipping around their legs. The expressions on their faces screw into snarls.
Blodwyn, I swear I hear beneath the howling of the wind outside. Pay the price.
A blur of black leaps from amid the potted plants and I yelp, certain that it’s one of the monsters from my nightmares come to life. Instead, a pair of golden eyes blinks up at me. Recognition hits me in a rush.
“Nettle!” I exclaim, my heart still racing. The cat meows, evidently thoroughly amused at having given me the fright of my life. “Is that your idea of a greeting?”
She trills in what I interpret as confirmation.
I glower at her, but then relent and scratch beneath her chin, which is still her favorite place, given that she immediately starts purring.
My attention returns to the book, but there’s nothing strange about the illustration now—just ink and parchment.
That’s all it ever was, I tell myself, feeling foolish for allowing my imagination to get the better of me.
“Blodwyn? Are you here?”
The sound of Aunt Margaret’s voice carries through the menagerie. I slam the book closed, then shove it back into its hiding place before my aunt can see it.
“Well,” she says, rounding the corner. “This wasn’t here when I inhabited these rooms.”
“Papa had it built for me,” I explain. “After—”
“Oh!” Aunt Margaret cries. “A rat! Get away!”
She lifts her skirts and I spot something spiky and brown zooming around her feet. Nettle chirrups in what could be a laugh.
“Careful!” I hurry to scoop the creature up before Aunt Margaret steps on him. “That’s just Crumbs. He’s a hedgehog, not a rat.”
Crumbs lifts his quivery pink nose, beady eyes peering up at me.
“A hedgehog,” Aunt Margaret repeats, smoothing her skirts. “Yes, that sounds like a perfectly reasonable thing to have.”
He’s not a thing, I almost correct.
“I should have warned you,” I say instead. “Honestly, I’m surprised he’s still here. All of them, really. I assumed Ayleth would have boarded this place up a long time ago.”
As soon as I left, in fact. But the menagerie and all its residents are noticeably well tended.
The doe, Marigold, twitches her ears at me from where she’s half-hidden among the potted trees.
There’s a family of rabbits who boasts decidedly more members than I recall.
Even my tortoise, Lucille, is lounging beneath the large fronds of a fern, snapping at blackberries.
The juice and pulp smear over her face, making a gruesome mess.
Why did Ayleth keep this place up? But I suppose it doesn’t matter now.
“Yes, well,” Aunt Margaret continues. A hummingbird flies near her and she shoos it away. “Then the queen has surprised us both. Especially after last night.”
I’d been so wrapped up with reading about the curse that I’d nearly forgotten the other disaster at dinner.
Another version of the council meeting, only worse.
Because this time, it was like I didn’t exist at all.
No one even seemed to remember my name, just the fact that I’m not a prince. Not what was wanted. Not…
Gavin.
I can still picture the young man standing before the court.
His broad shoulders and strong jaw. The candlelight luminous against his light brown skin and shining on his dark hair where it fell across his forehead.
I suppose some might consider him handsome, but I certainly don’t.
Not when he’s trying to erase my family from Riven.
Fresh anger licks my insides. How could anyone be so haughty and arrogant and—
Right, a small voice inside me supplies. What if he’s right about you?
“What’s going to happen now?” I ask, shaking it away.
Aunt Margaret smiles. “That is why I’m here. Come along.”
She beckons for me to follow her. I set Crumbs gently down and head out into the main chamber, where it looks as though the contents of my trunks have exploded. Gowns are strewn across every piece of furniture, along with ribbons and jewels and other accessories.
“What’s all this?”
“I’ve ordered you a new wardrobe,” Aunt Margaret explains, obviously proud of herself. “You need to stand out among the crowd. Let no one forget that you are the rightful heir.”
“How are gowns going to make a difference?”
“They make all the difference, my dear,” she replies, picking up a bodice to inspect it. “These trials are as much about presentation as they are about skill.”
That’s exactly what concerns me.
Presentation is Aunt Margaret’s specialty, not mine.
I’ve always preferred sneaking off to the forest or the library whenever I get the chance.
But my aunt thrives in a room full of people, instantly assuming control in every situation.
At the estate, my aversion to social gatherings didn’t matter as much.
There, no one knew about my family history, or they were polite enough to avoid dredging it up. Here, though…
Cursed.
“Hurry up now,” Aunt Margaret says. “Let’s get you fitted for that riding habit. I want it to be spectacular.”
She steers me toward the large mirror on the other side of the room.
The servants waste no time. They usher me onto the low stool and bustle around me, their hurried hands peeling off my sleeves.
Holding up various fabrics or jewels or ribbons.
It’s all too much—too suffocating. The walls of my chamber seem to press closer.
I close my eyes to steady myself. But when I open them, my reflection in the mirror shifts.
Like the illustration in the book—the witches’ faces morphing into hideous snarls.
Cursed, that voice again. You are cursed.
Someone fastens a collar of rubies around my throat and it looks like blood. Like—
“Stop!” I cry out. “I can’t breathe!”
I claw the collar off my neck. Metal pops and rubies scatter across the floor. The servants freeze, gaping at me like I’m a wild animal let loose among them. Perhaps I am. Perhaps everyone is right and I don’t belong here.
Aunt Margaret claps her hands, breaking the spell. “Out! All of you.”
They instantly obey. As they scuttle out of the room, Aunt Margaret helps me down from the stool and leads me over to the cushioned bench at the window. Outside, the storm is still raging, but she cranks the window open anyway. Cool air hits my skin, and I can finally inhale a real breath.
“Now, then,” Aunt Margaret says after I’ve settled. “What’s all this about?”
“I just felt…overwhelmed,” I admit, humiliation stinging my face. “Wardrobe or not, I don’t stand a chance against other claimants. Even if I did, you heard the court last night. They don’t want me. And maybe they’re…”
“What?” Aunt Margaret asks. “Right?”
She reads my answer in my silence.
“Blodwyn.” Aunt Margaret takes my hand in hers. “The throne is your right. You were born to it. Destined for it. I know that. Your mother did, too, from what you described.”
Yes. Mother was always adamant that I take the throne.
She used to sit me down in front of her tapestries and tell me the stories of the queens depicted there.
Women charging into battle with their swords raised.
I should feel like one of them now, fierce and courageous.
Should have spoken up last night. Done something.
But I just stood there like an idiot, waiting for some kind of impetus, like the characters in the books I’ve read embarking on their grand quests.
Instead, I feel like I’m trying on someone else’s clothes.
“It doesn’t matter what Mother thought,” I say. “You know what happened to her. And Papa. What if we really are…”
Thunder grumbles outside.
“Cursed?” Aunt Margaret laughs. “Honestly, I’m convinced my own papa invented that vile fantasy to threaten us as children. Mind the curse, he’d warn when we misbehaved. Do I look cursed to you?”
“No, but—”
“Everyone likes a ghost story, Blodwyn,” Aunt Margaret says, squeezing my hands. “But that’s all it is. A tale. Win, and you disprove it forever.”
She says that like it’s simple. “And if I can’t?”
Aunt Margaret studies me a long while.
“Have you ever known me to lose at cards?” she asks at last.
That’s an odd question. But I mentally comb back over the years. There must have been dozens of parties at Aunt Margaret’s estate. Hundreds of card games. And Aunt Margaret was always sitting with the largest pile of coin in front of her.
“I…suppose not.”
“You haven’t,” she confirms, matter-of-factly. “Because I don’t lose at cards. I don’t lose at anything, ever. I used to. All the time. Do you know how I managed to improve my luck?”
I shake my head. Lightning flashes through the window.
“I finally learned how to play the hand I was dealt,” she explains. “To only engage in the battles I was certain that I would win. And if I believed that there was the slightest chance that we would lose this particular battle, I wouldn’t be here. And neither would you.”
Her faith in me should bolster my confidence, but it doesn’t.
“This isn’t cards,” I reason. “And I’ve heard what everyone is saying. Now that the trials are open, there will be more claimants. A lot more.”
“Yes,” Aunt Margaret says, unbothered. “Vermin typically crawl out of the woodwork when the opportunity presents itself. But all they want is to play at being king. You have something more.”
My brow furrows. “What?”
“Hunger,” she replies. “I’ve seen it in you. Because I have it as well. A deep anger driving you on. It’s far deadlier than any of their expensive blades—if you wield it properly.”
That anger stirs inside me again, like a beast stretching in its den.
“You and I are very similar,” Aunt Margaret continues.
“Both unwanted princesses, packed off and sent away. There’s a reason we were brought together.
A shared destiny between the two of us. And if there is a curse on this family, it’s clearly only on its sons.
Perhaps it’s time for us daughters to have a go. ”
That finally tempts a smile. And I let myself relax slightly. Aunt Margaret has never steered me wrong before. If it weren’t for her, I might still be locked in my rooms. Or worse…
“All right,” I say, nodding. “I’ll try.”
“That’s my future queen,” she says, patting my hand. “I’ll call the servants back. And shut that window before we catch our death.”
I hold in a groan, mentally preparing myself to be poked and prodded within an inch of my life. But just as I start to close the window, something smacks into the panes so hard that the glass cracks. I gasp and jerk away, staring at a splotch of black stuck to the opposite side.
“What on earth was that?” Aunt Margaret asks, horrified.
“It’s a…bird.”
A crow, I realize. And it collided with the window so violently that its beak is embedded in the pane. After a few seconds, the creature finally dislodges, blood smearing as it slides away. A stark crimson blossom amid the jagged fissures on the glass.
“How awful,” Aunt Margaret says. “It must have gotten lost in the storm.”
Maybe. But I study the hole where the crow’s beak had punctured the pane. It must have been flying straight-on to do that, like it was heading right for me. Like it was…
Looking for you, a small voice in the back of my mind whispers.