Chapter Eleven Ayleth
Chapter Eleven
Ayleth
Before sunrise the next day, Weston, who I assumed never rose before noon, is at my door with plans to transform the upcoming challenges to accommodate the additional participants. A number that seems to be growing by the hour.
“These arrived this morning,” Joan says, brandishing a stack of letters as she walks into my chamber the following afternoon. “New claimants.”
Fitz trots in alongside her. Nettle rouses herself and stretches, then lopes over to start pestering him.
“Already?” I ask as Joan hands me the pile.
“What did you expect?” she asks. “You opened the door to begin a new royal line. I’ll be shocked if half the kingdom doesn’t turn up.”
That’s exactly what Callen said. The imprisoned king began berating me as soon as I returned from dinner, shouting about how this was a terrible idea.
That I was ruining a thousand years of precedent and that even I, a lowly commoner, should comprehend how dangerous this situation could become.
I think the curtain shrouding Callen’s mirror is still trembling with the remnants of the White King’s wrath.
Usually, I don’t care about Callen’s opinions.
But he might be right. From the look of this mountain of letters, I’ll soon have dozens of challengers to my throne—many of whom I appointed to court in the first place.
I was never na?ve enough to count the courtiers as my friends, but I didn’t anticipate that they would be quite so quick to turn their blades on me.
Because they hate you, that voice sneers. They always have.
“I hope you’re satisfied,” Joan remarks, bringing me back into the present.
She crosses her arms and fixes me with an accusing expression.
“Are you angry with me?” I ask.
“Not angry,” she replies. “But certainly annoyed, as I imagine many in the court might be after you decided on this plan without consulting anyone.”
“And who was I supposed to consult?” I challenge. “Margaret is the one who started all this. And the whole hall was clamoring for me to open the trials. What else could I do?”
“I don’t know,” Joan admits. “But even you must see that you’ve created a situation you can’t possibly control. Especially where the princess is concerned.”
Much as I might want to, I can’t entirely dismiss what Joan says.
My encounter with the princess had nipped at me through the long hours of the night.
Not because of Blodwyn’s evident anger, but because—beneath her simmering hatred—I could sense something deeper.
A hurt I recognized from my own years with Mother. But I shove that down.
“That wasn’t my fault,” I insist. “And I have a plan.”
“Oh?” Joan arches a skeptical eyebrow. “I’d very much like to hear it.”
“Aye, that makes two of us.”
Nettle meows, abandoning Fitz as someone else strides into the chamber. Roland. Excellent.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” I say to the Head of the Guilds.
“And I wasn’t expecting to wake up and hear that Braxos’s Trials were called,” Roland returns. “Open to everyone in the realm, apparently. Didn’t think to warn us Dwarves about that, did you?”
Joan deals me another look.
“I didn’t have much warning myself,” I tell them both. “And I don’t see what this has to do with the Dwarves.”
“Oh aye,” he says. “Nothing at all. It’s our favorite sort of game, guessing the next ruler of the realm. Or do you not recall a certain edict that was passed? One that gave us these?”
He yanks up the leg of his trousers to expose the faint scar above his left ankle: a set of crossed pickaxes with a crown in the center.
The Dwarves’ Guild Mark. The brand has been removed, but the skin around the outline is still pink and puckered, a permanent reminder of the years the Dwarves spent under the White Kings’ control.
“Certainly hope the next random person sitting on the throne won’t decide to gift us another,” he continues. “Or something worse.”
“He’s right,” Joan agrees. “The trials are set to begin in two weeks. There could be hundreds of claimants by then. Anora was up half the night worried about what it might mean for us. Even if Blodwyn wins, what if the laws change again? We won’t be able to hide this time.”
No—she won’t. And the reality of the mess I’ve made is sinking in by the minute. But I steel myself against my gnawing anxiety. I’ve climbed out of worse circumstances before.
“There won’t be any new edicts,” I assure them. “Besides, the trials might wind up working in our favor. Margaret assumed she could seize control of the realm without a fight. She’ll soon learn that she was mistaken and want to make a deal.”
“And if you’re mistaken?” Joan presses. “What’s preventing the duchess from returning to Darryn and leaving us to fend for ourselves?”
“Pride,” I reason, praying I’m right. “Margaret has obviously been planning this scheme for a long time. She’s not going to give up easily.”
“So we’re basing the future of the realm on your hunch?” Roland asks dryly.
“It’s far too much of a gamble,” Joan agrees. “You have no idea what the duchess will do. Or the princess, for that matter. Even if she succeeds in the trials, after what I witnessed at dinner, I doubt she’ll be sympathetic toward us.”
Again, an image of the princess resurfaces in my mind: the white-hot rage rolling off her in waves.
You will burn, Mother’s warning echoes beneath the crackle of the fire.
“I’ll fix that,” I say, earning a dubious grunt from Roland. “I was friends with the princess before. I can win her back. All I need to do is show her that I’m not the villain Margaret has evidently painted me to be.”
“Oh aye,” Roland says. “This is a wonderful plan. Very well thought out. No possible way it could end in disaster.”
Nettle trills, as if seconding his opinion. I shoot her a glare.
“Do either of you have a better idea?” I ask.
Roland only grumbles something under his breath.
“I understand that you have concerns,” I allow. “But both of you thought I’d lost my mind when I broke the Veil. And, aside from these trials, look where we are. I have no intention of losing everything now. But I’ll need your help to keep that from happening.”
Joan and Roland exchange a wary look, but they must know that there’s no other real choice.
“Fine,” Joan relents. “What can I do?”
“It would help to know more about Margaret,” I tell her. “And why she wasn’t invited back to the palace after her marriage. There has to be more of a reason than her station. In fact, even the missing records seem suspicious to me now.”
“You may be right,” Joan replies, frowning. “I’ll see what I can discover. What about you, Roland? Do you know anything about the king’s sister?”
“Sure,” he says, swatting Nettle away when my cat starts playing with the ring of keys hanging from the Dwarf’s belt. “We were quite close. She shared all her secrets with me.”
“Can you just check the Dwarvian records?” I ask, exasperated. He makes a gruff noise of agreement. “And perhaps you can bring me a gift for Blodwyn? The first trial is a hunt, so a weapon might work. Something impressive.”
“I’ll see what I can dig up,” he grudgingly replies. “Literally. Given that my Mines were blown to bits.”
With the commotion surrounding Blodwyn, the attacks slipped my mind. Malum swells inside me, images from that awful day resurfacing.
“How are things there?” I ask. “Rosemary and—”
“They’re well enough,” Roland replies, scrubbing the back of his neck. “Though it’s not easy. Tilda and I have our cottage in the forest, but the rest aren’t so lucky.”
“Send word of what you need,” I tell him. “I want to help as much as I can.”
Roland jabs a finger at me. “If that’s true, then you best sort this mess out. And quickly. Otherwise, we’ll all be paying for it.”
With that, he summons another door, yanks it open, and stalks off into the darkness. Nettle meows, disappointed at losing her source of amusement, and returns to bullying Fitz.
“He’s right,” Joan says, nodding in the direction Roland went. “You need to be careful.”
“I am,” I promise. “Nothing will happen to you or—”
“Not just for me,” she says. “For the princess. You can’t treat her like she’s a piece on a game board.”
“Tell that to Margaret,” I grouse. “It’s precisely what she’s doing.”
“And you’re taking lessons from the duchess?”
“Of course not. But we can’t let her win. You have as much to lose as I do if Blodwyn, or anyone else, assumes the regency.”
“That might be true,” Joan allows. “But the princess is sixteen. Perhaps she’s lashing out at you because she’s grieving. From what you’ve told me, you understand that.”
Joan doesn’t know everything about Stonehaven, but I shared about Rhea.
Sixteen was the age I’d lost my sister. I press my thumb into the place on my palm, against the nearly invisible lines drawn in the shape of a triangle.
Rhea’s mark. A rune that would always connect us, she promised.
But love, I’ve found, never lasts. All it does is weaken you.
And I will not be weak. Not ever again.
—
By the middle of the following week, well over fifty young men have arrived to stake their claim in the trials.
The White City is teeming with visitors.
The glow of their celebrations is visible from the windows on the west side of the palace.
At times, I can even hear the strains of music floating up the mountainside.
In the palace, the mood is similarly jubilant.
Whispers eddy through court. The anticipation of a new Braxos about to rise.
Some are even saying that this could be the end of the war. The end of Malum.
The end of you, that old voice jeers.
“Sir Dudley, Your Majesty.” Parnell’s voice interrupts my warring thoughts.
My steward indicates the young man kneeling in front of me. He appears to be in his early twenties, with black skin and deep brown eyes. His hair is braided in rows down his head.
“Robert, Your Majesty,” he says, dipping his chin.