Chapter Four Knife at the Throat
An hour later, I willed myself not to fidget in the grand room in which I found myself.
I had changed back into the maroon dress, though I left the leather corset in my bag.
I’d done little more to my windswept hair than smooth it down and back.
My face felt puffy from so much sun and wind, my stomach growled despite finishing off my water bottle, and I was tired after a walk in descending darkness in unfamiliar boots.
To be summoned in front of a dais with a crowd at my back was too much. Regardless, I straightened my spine.
If there was ever a character in the Landsome Roads world that I never wanted to meet, it was her.
She looked down at me, her icy-blond hair perfectly wound in an elaborate spiral around her head, a blue jewel at her throat, shoulders bare.
Her gown was elaborate, the excess fabric arrayed in a sweeping waterfall at her feet.
She seemed completely at ease upon the dais of a beautiful, firelit room, her whole court standing, facing her, with me in between.
And now I could see why Sherry Whitehorse always wrote about her eyes.
They were a brilliant blue with dark, full lashes—and were currently pointed in my direction with disdain.
“If she’s not a witch, then what is she?” Queen Elthra, fourth of her name, Regal Protectress of Landsome, contemplated me with a tilt of her head.
I opened my mouth, but Jerrald stepped on my foot, crushing it to the flagstone floor.
The crowd stirred and a wizened old woman brought my bag forward.
The elder squinted at the make of the bag.
“Never seen stitching like this, Your Grace. The elves are no more in Landsome, and besides, they would thread from drips of honey, whereas this stitching is brown.” She tsked and squinted harder.
“Whoever made this used a finely forged metal to clasp it shut, like a lock on a door. I deduced how to open it though.” I huffed as she undid the clasps and my flower crown fell to the ground.
The hunting clothes slithered after it. “There,” her cracked voice rang out, “her secrets are open to us, Your Grace.”
Queen Elthra sat a little straighter as she tried to peer into the bag without going down there herself.
“More bags!” the wizened voice exclaimed. She snapped her fingers and a small boy rushed forward. The two of them struggled for a moment to identify the zippers and make use of them. I knew they were successful when a buzzing zip announced itself loudly.
Someone in the crowd gasped.
“Quiet!” the queen commanded, but she was breathless too. “What’s in there? Tell me at once. Dark artifacts?”
The old woman—who I was beginning to have quite negative feelings toward, all things considered—held aloft a pair of black underthings prescribed by Sorrel. My face reddened.
It seemed I did not have to worry though.
“Lace handkerchiefs, Your Grace.” The woman nodded sagely.
The boy unzipped another pouch and held it up for her examination.
“Eh? Oh, and parchment and such. Possibly she stole the bag—the craftsmanship is too fine to belong to a stray girl alone on the road—look at her.” The old woman let my bag drop to the ground and turned her attention on me.
“She’s not beautiful enough to be a witch.
Why would she not have ensorcelled those thick eyebrows? ”
I opened my mouth, but shut it before Jerrald could elbow me.
“And she’s not a warrior,” the queen summarized thoughtfully. She waved a lazy hand and the boy started to right my bag, but the old woman made a noise of impatience and shoveled everything inside.
The queen wanted to hear from me at last. “Speak. I’m sure it will only be lies, but let’s hear your tale.”
The little boy brought the bag back to me but seemed to think twice about getting close to the not-a-witch-still-a-stranger. He handed my satchel to Jerrald, who set it on the floor between us.
I swallowed. Fortunately, I had time during the evening march to the castle to come up with a backstory. “I’m a traveler, from a kingdom far, far away. Beyond the blue Seas of Melancholy.”
I felt the crowd behind me still as they waited. Oh. I had thought that’d be enough.
“And I was sent by a witch.”
There was a general murmur of approval. Apparently, I fit the bill for witch’s assistant.
“For what purpose?” the queen demanded.
Why couldn’t Sorrel have written me a cover story? I was going to have a word with her about her paltry onboarding system.
I clasped my hands together and tried to look thoughtful.
Sorrel had tasked me with the vague notion of fixing the plot and I carried a highly specific vision in my head of me and Ironclaw that I was dedicated to manifesting.
To achieve both, I needed to have the queen’s ear and be able to go where I wanted in the castle.
Claiming to be a warrior was clearly out.
My only talent was in knowing what chapters were yet to come.
“To advise.”
The queen frowned at my presumption. There was nothing but to speed ahead.
“The Witch of Mayfair sees a positive outcome for you but not without much loss. A rift is coming. There are those who wish to see you fail.”
A line appeared between her light brows. “Who?”
I fought for the right words. “Your Grace, I’m not sure that’s wise to speak aloud here. Witches speak in riddles. Sometimes their prediction is the very instigator for their prophecy coming true.”
The queen’s blue eyes flashed as she drew back. “What is—” she lowered her voice, “—an instigator?”
I nodded sagely. “Instigate means to start something. An instigator is the person who starts it.”
“I see what you mean about these witch’s riddles. Everyone out!”
There was a shuffle through the great hall. Ladies and lords—and, I suppose, generic medieval-type folk—gathered their cloaks and furs around themselves as they prepared to leave the great room.
The idea of facing the queen alone terrified me.
I shouted loud enough to be heard. “No, Your Grace!”
Shit. The hall went silent. I felt Jerrald tense next to me, but thankfully, he didn’t step on my foot again.
“No?” Queen Elthra seemed to enjoy repeating the word back to me.
“If I tell you now...you could become...the instigator.”
Someone from the crowd again gasped.
The queen considered that, torn by her desire for gossip and her reluctance to become what I’d deemed an instigator. “Fine,” she said at last in a bored tone. Clearly, I had squashed her fun. “You’re not to leave the castle or divulge any information before it comes to me. Understood, Lady Dottie?”
I nodded.
The corners of her mouth tilted down. “My punishments can be harsh.”
It was no struggle to look appropriately grave. Sorrel had said I wasn’t going to die, but neither did I want to spend my free time locked in a dungeon. “So I’ve heard.”
That made Queen Elthra smile at last. “Good.” She addressed the room. “Let us go to the banquet.”
The queen and her enormous dress sashayed down the stone steps and Jerrald pulled me aside, out of her way.
I was trembling with adrenaline. Queen Elthra was lauded by the fan community as a favorite character, as ruthless as she was beautiful.
I felt confident I could convince others to listen to me, but the queen was a wild card.
I had no reason to think Sherry Whitehorse would want Elthra’s character dampened, but I had to figure out how to sway her where necessary.
Even beyond that, I had to find time to gather my thoughts and figure out what changes would have to be made to redo or rewrite the second author’s mistakes.
Make it the series finale readers deserved.
We were nearing the climax of the story, but I thought Sherry Whitehorse would have wanted to continue focus on the romantic relationships as equally as the adventure.
After the queen came the main members of her court. Though I knew the book descriptions of each character, the way I pictured them in my head was influenced by the actors in the show. I struggled to tick the court off as they walked by.
There was the lead of the guard, Sir Aaron Key who had a long scar running down his face, ending at a well-defined chin.
Next was Lord Parable, who was easy enough—he was an old friend of the queen mother’s and liked to think he served the part of wise counselor.
On his heels was the Master of Horse. Though not typically a core part of a royal entourage, the queen always kept the charming man close by, and I could see why.
While his character had been cut from the TV show altogether, here he was the antithesis of the elderly Lord Parable.
The Master of Horse moved with a certain grace and wore a woven doublet embroidered with a prancing horse, his wavy light brown hair half-pulled-up into a small bun, the rest spilling to his shoulders.
He gave me a small smile as he passed, and I felt a thrill go through my abdomen.