Chapter Twenty-Eight Blodwyn
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Blodwyn
I have paid the price of blood and snow.
The legend of the lost princess follows me into the next day.
I must have read the tale a dozen times, but it’s only raised more questions: Was the princess real?
What happened to her after she fled the palace—if she fled?
Most important, what does her story mean for me?
If my ancestor stole the ancient princess’s claim to the throne, do I have any right to be here?
In fact, what if it wasn’t the witches who cursed our line, but someone else?
The questions won’t leave me alone. I desperately want to go to the library and ask Master William for his assistance in learning more about the princess, but Aunt Margaret dispatched her army of servants to my room at dawn to begin preparations for the ball.
I’ve barely had a moment to breathe, much less sneak away.
I haven’t even had the chance to ask Verity where she found the text and why she gave it to me.
Then again, perhaps this only proves that Aunt Margaret was right about her.
Maybe Verity left me the book to shake my confidence before the trial.
If so, she’s certainly succeeded. My nerves are buzzing by the time I arrive at the Great Hall.
If I thought the parties at Aunt Margaret’s estate were lavish, this puts all of them to shame.
The hall is teeming with courtiers. Candlelight shimmers on onyx silks and jet satins.
Dazzles on the deep reds and greens and purples of the gems sewn into masks and headdresses.
Columns and beams have been covered to resemble branching trees, which are either barren or blooming with life.
Jeweled fruit and apples ringed in crowns sparkle in the torchlight.
Garlands of white roses are draped over the upper-story gallery, their heady, redolent scent mixing with that of the wine and food.
A massive tree rises in the center of the chamber, its boughs stretching all the way up to twine with the beams of the ceiling.
One half of the tree is alive and thriving, but the other is ancient and gnarled.
Its bark is black and glittering, limbs twisted like claws.
My skin prickles, recalling the rumors that Gwen, the seamstress’s assistant, shared about real ghosts attending this ball. Might the ancient princess find her way here? And if so, what would she want?
Pay the price, I think I hear beneath the strains of music.
“Your Highness!” A pair of courtiers maneuvers through the crowd.
Constance and Elinor. Like the other guests, they’re dressed in black, their elaborate gowns embroidered with delicate scrollwork and trimmed in expensive lace.
The mottos they mentioned in the garden are stitched on sashes pinned to their bodices.
And their masks are as ornate as their dresses, studded with obsidian beads that glitter in the torchlight.
As a claimant, I’m not wearing a mask. And my own gown is white, which only causes me to feel more exposed.
Like the court itself is comprised of shadows. Another chill tingles down my spine.
“You look stunning,” Elinor gushes. “I’m insanely jealous.”
Constance nods along emphatically. “Absolutely glorious. Are you ready?”
Not in the least. With the lost princess’s story rattling around in my brain, I didn’t manage much sleep last night. Between that, the weight of my gown, and the tightness of my corset, I have no idea how I’ll survive this night, much less win the trial.
“Well, well,” Elinor says, nodding into the crowd. “Isn’t he handsome?”
I follow her gaze and discover another spot of white amid the black costumes.
Gavin. He does look handsome, his doublet cut perfectly to suit his frame.
The pearl-colored velvet, accented with silver trim, complements his complexion and makes his brown eyes stand out even more as they lock with my own.
Are you really going to close off your heart? Verity’s words resurface.
I shove them down, fussing with my sleeves to distract myself.
“Is that a blush, Highness?” Constance asks, giggling. “Do you have your sights set on the Warbeck boy? How intriguing.”
“No,” I say quickly. “I don’t have my sights set on anyone.”
Nor will I. Ever.
“Well, then you won’t mind if I take him,” Elinor remarks, suggestively.
Given what I know of him, Gavin would be as interested in spending time with Elinor as he would with a Nevenwolf. In fact, he might prefer the beast. But I keep that to myself. I don’t care who Gavin chooses for himself. It certainly won’t be me.
The blast of a herald’s horn draws our attention to the center of the hall. Sir Weston positions himself in front of the large tree. His ink-colored doublet is embroidered with gold thread. A horn spirals up from each side of his mask.
“All right, everyone,” he calls, tapping a knife against his wineglass until the hall quiets. “Tonight commences the second of Braxos’s Trials: Wisdom.”
Everyone else applauds, but I feel the walls of the hall cinch tighter. And I realize that I haven’t found Aunt Margaret yet. I scan the crowd, but—if she’s here—I don’t recognize her among the masks. Where could she be? It’s not like her to be late to something like this.
“Braxos himself was famed for his wisdom,” Sir Weston continues. “It was under his leadership that Riven enjoyed decades of peace and prosperity.”
He indicates a stained-glass window that depicts my ancestor sitting under his apple tree. My mind wanders back to the lost princess. Was Braxos wise? Or was he a thief? Did he, like so many at court, care only for his own advancement?
“During this trial, our claimants must prove that they, like Braxos, possess the mental fortitude necessary to lead Riven,” Weston continues. “To do that, they will be tested on their knowledge of the realm’s history.”
Excited chatter chases itself around the chamber. Constance nudges me with her elbow and beams. I try to smile back, but don’t manage more than a grimace.
“Courtiers, each of you holds a piece of Riven’s past.” Sir Weston removes a tiny gilded apple from where it’s pinned to his doublet and dangles it for all to see.
“As the ball progresses, you may award your favor to the claimant who correctly answers your question. At the end of the evening, the three claimants with the most favors will advance to the final trial.”
The crowd applauds, but my own insides feel like a nest of eels, all the facts and details I tried to stuff into my brain sloshing around inside it.
Then again, perhaps it doesn’t even matter what bits of history I remember.
Because what’s to stop the other courtiers from simply awarding their prize to their favorite claimant?
And who among them would choose you? that voice mocks.
I clench my fists against it.
“Right, then…” Sir Weston raises his wineglass. “Let’s—”
Another blast of the heralds’ horns cuts him off.
Confusion ripples over the crowd as a man strides into the hall.
At first, I assume it’s another courtier.
He’s wearing black, like all the rest. But then I notice the medals on his doublet.
The chain of state draped across his shoulders.
The crown on his head. That isn’t a courtier, I realize. It’s…
“Papa.”
—
For a few moments, the sounds of the hall—the startled cries and shatter of glass as goblets are dropped—fade around me.
My own heart thunders in my chest, my attention fixed to Papa.
How is this possible? He was barely moving the last time I visited him.
But he appears completely recovered now. Like nothing happened at all.
“Why all the sour faces? I expected more celebration at the sight of your king.”
His voice rings over the crowd, bringing a pang of recognition. Because it’s not Papa’s voice. It belongs to someone else: Aunt Margaret.
She has her hair pinned up, Papa’s crown sparkling on her head. And she isn’t wearing her usual rouge or powder. But there’s no mistaking that it’s her. I feel as though my stomach has dropped out of me again, though I’m not certain if it’s from relief or shock…or something else.
“Your Grace!” Sir Weston exclaims, pressing a hand to his chest. “You gave us all the fright of our lives!”
The audience, instead of being outraged at Aunt Margaret’s farce, begins to laugh.
A few courtiers even cheer, raising their fists and calling Papa’s name.
Others go so far as to bow as they would to a king.
Aunt Margaret soaks up their attention. As if all this is a game.
A joke. Like Papa never existed at all—like he doesn’t matter.
The last of my shock dissipates, replaced with an overwhelming surge of rage.
“You are not the king!”
The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. A tense hush descends, all attention pivoting in my direction. As the seconds stretch on, a deep instinct warns me that this is a bad idea. I should just go along with Aunt Margaret’s plan. But I can’t. Not this time.
“Blodwyn.” Aunt Margaret’s boots clip as she crosses the hall. “My dear. Whatever is the matter? I thought you would be honored.”
“Honored?” I spit out. “This is the Remembrance Ball. Costumes are meant to represent the deceased members of our family. Papa isn’t one of them.”
“There was a mishap with my original gown,” Aunt Margaret attempts to explain, shrugging. “This was the best I could do on such short notice. And I assumed my brother would appreciate being included in his daughter’s trial.”
Some in the crowd begin to murmur sympathetically, taking her side.
“He’s not included.” I fling a gesture toward the doors. “He’s upstairs. And maybe the real reason you’re dressing up like him tonight is because you wish he was dead.”
Gasps ricochet around the chamber.
“Blodwyn.” Aunt Margaret reaches for me, but I step away. “I wish for no such thing. That would be treason.”