Chapter One Ayleth
Chapter One
Ayleth
Three Years Later
The king’s screams echo down the corridors of the White Palace.
By the time I arrive in Callen’s bedchamber, he’s shattered at least a dozen vials and jars, their bright-colored powders and liquids leaking over the rugs.
“I won’t have it!” he bellows, knocking a few more medicines off the shelf with a wide sweep of his arm. “Poison! It’s all poison!”
“Your Majesty, I assure you, there is no poison here.” One of the physicians grunts as he, along with a handful of servants, struggles to wrangle the king back into bed. “Please, Sire. Let us assist you.”
“No!” Callen flails blindly against them. His eyes, which have taken on a cloudy, filmed color after the unfortunate jousting accident he suffered shortly after our marriage, rove wildly. “Let me go! Let me—”
“Callen,” I interrupt, stepping farther into the chamber.
The king’s head whips in my direction. “No. Not you. Get her away from me! She’s a—”
At my command, one of my shadows darts toward Callen.
The physician, like the servants and all mortals, is oblivious as it wriggles past the king’s lips, stilling his tongue.
Callen’s raving instantly devolves to garbled nonsense.
His muscles slacken, and he slumps over as my power regains control over his body.
The servants, visibly relieved that the king has ceased chucking bottles at them, guide him back to bed.
“My deepest apologies, Majesty.”
The head physician, Dr. Locke, smooths his robes and joins me. He’s an older man with a portly build and graying hair tucked beneath his cap. Light brown skin is creased around his eyes and mouth.
“The king was resting peacefully this morning,” he goes on. “I can’t imagine what came over him.”
I certainly can. Much like the version of Callen that dwells inside my mirror, the king’s shell of a body has proven irritatingly unpredictable.
These episodes are infrequent—and more annoyance than anything else—but my gaze twitches to the nearest mirror, where I expect the real Callen is lurking within his glass prison.
Smirking, probably. I’ll deal with him later.
“Though His Majesty’s outburst may have been related to his new treatment,” Locke suggests. “As you can see, it doesn’t appear that the king is responding very well to our efforts.”
I frown, giving my best impression of a concerned wife. “How disappointing. Perhaps there’s something else you can attempt?”
“We are exploring other options, certainly,” Dr. Locke assures me. “In fact, I’ve heard of a physician in Carrick who may be of assistance. We could solicit his advice if Your Majesty will sanction the request.”
“Send whatever you need to the council,” I reply. “I’ll see that it gets approved. Let no expense be spared.”
“That’s very kind. Your Majesty’s devotion to the king is an example to us all.”
I have about as much devotion to the rotten husk of Callen’s body as Nettle does to the carcasses of the mice she deposits in my chambers.
“Is there anything else?” I ask. “I’m already late.”
“Ah yes, the banquet. Congratulations, Majesty. A well-deserved celebration.”
I grant the doctor a gracious nod. “I’ll have a plate sent up to you.”
“That would be much appreciated,” he replies. “And there’s nothing more regarding the king. Though I do recommend increasing His Majesty’s bloodletting. I suspect there are ill humors at work.”
“Whatever you deem best,” I agree. “And keep his meals simple. Gruel, perhaps.”
It might be my imagination, but I think I feel rage wafting from the mirror’s direction.
The doctor bows again and returns to the others.
I remain long enough to watch them remove Callen’s shirt and drape one of his arms over a basin, his white skin sallow.
Blood weeps from a small puncture wound on the inside of his elbow and drains into the bowl, stark crimson against the porcelain.
Seeing him so small and defenseless makes it easy to forget that Callen was ever the king.
To forget the years when this entire court spun around him.
I once spun around him, too, though more like a mouse fleeing a hawk.
Because that’s what I, along with every other woman, was to Riven’s merciless king: prey.
Callen’s head lolls, exposing the angry red scar tracking down the side of his face. For an instant, he stirs. I could swear that his sightless eyes are locked on me. Can almost feel the heat of his fury burning inside him.
Well, I tell him in my mind, who’s the prey now?
—
When I at last reach the Great Hall, the banquet is in full swing.
Every surface glows in the torchlight. Servants scurry back and forth carting enormous plates of food, each dish more sumptuous than the last. Courtiers, dazzling in their silks and jewels, cluster in groups or dance to the tune of the musicians playing in the upper gallery.
The air is heavy with the scents of wine, perfume, and roasting meats.
Three years ago, I abhorred nights like these.
Despised being watched, or even seen, instead preferring to make myself as small and invisible as possible.
But Callen isn’t the only one who’s changed since the events that occurred in Ignatius’s lair.
And I’ve learned that parties are much more enjoyable when you’re not the unwanted daughter of the High Witch.
You will burn, Mother warned on the night before my coronation.
And yet I’m still here. And they are not.
“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” Joan comments as I take my place at the High Table.
Now a senior-ranking member of court, Joan has occupied the seat next to mine since I appointed her the head of my household.
The position suits her. When we met, Joan and her family were barely surviving at court.
Now her wardrobe rivals any of the women who used to mock her.
The burgundy velvet of her gown brings out the green color of her eyes and complements her complexion, her white skin—dusted with freckles—luminescent in the candlelight.
Her auburn hair is swept up in a gold net.
Jewels sparkle on her necklace and rings.
“The king had another of his episodes,” I explain.
Joan pauses as she reaches for her glass. “Another?”
“Nothing to worry about. I have it under control.”
She presses her lips together and I sense the questions in her silence.
Joan knows more of my secrets than anyone else at court, but not even she is aware of the shadows.
Or of the fact that the real Callen is trapped inside my mirror.
Joan isn’t a fool. She must guess that there’s more going on with the king than I’ve explained to her.
But she’s learned to leave well enough alone.
And I’ve tasted the bitter sting of betrayal too many times to let anyone else close enough to hurt me. Ever again.
“Well, you haven’t missed much here,” she continues, changing the subject. “Just Weston and his idiot friends attempting to drown themselves in that contraption.”
She indicates a fountain in the center of the hall.
It was a gift from the Dwarves around the time of my coronation.
Flawless white marble decorated with sculptures of fish and mythical sea creatures.
But instead of water spewing from their mouths, it’s wine.
Sir Weston and his cadre are challenging one another to see how long they can drink from it.
“As if we could be so lucky,” I comment dryly.
Joan hums her agreement.
“You’ve also received half a dozen invitations to various other parties and engagements,” she adds. “One of the Northcutt twins tried to bribe me to make sure you’d make an appearance at their birthday celebration next week. Weston is hosting it.”
“I hope you accepted—the bribe at least,” I say, throwing her a wink.
“Of course I didn’t…oh no.” Her expression falls as Weston himself saunters over.
Callen’s former best friend is virtually unchanged from the man I first encountered during the pageant for Longest Night.
Though I abolished the Order long ago, Weston insisted on retaining the title of Lord of Misrule.
He spends his days staging elaborate entertainments and flirting with the women at court, half of whom are in love with him.
It’s little wonder. Weston, annoyingly, remains one of the most handsome men at the palace.
Lean and tall, without so much as a hint of silver in his chestnut-colored hair or a blemish on his brown skin.
“Your Majesty.” He flourishes an elegant bow. “Marquess. You’re both looking ravishing tonight. Are those new gowns? And that brooch.”
He reaches for the garnet on Joan’s bodice and she swats him away. “Don’t.”
“Forgive me.” He puts up his hands in mock surrender. “I merely wished to offer my congratulations, Majesty, on yet another stunning victory. At this rate, we’ll have Rycinthia begging for peace within the month.”
And not just Rycinthia. The covens.
My gaze travels to the windows and the sea of trees spilling down the mountainside, painted blood-red by the final rays of the setting sun.
Mother wasn’t exaggerating when she warned that the Heirs would stop at nothing for the Bloodstones.
A few months after her visit, I received word that Selene and the others—Mother with them, I assume—fled to Rycinthia, pleading for King Frances’s army.
Considering the covens’ history with the White Kings, I was surprised that the witches willingly allied with another mortal ruler.
Then again, if I learned anything during my time among the covens, it’s that witches are hypocrites.
But that doesn’t matter. Let them scheme.
The covens will need far more than Rycinthia’s army to steal my crown.
Malum stirs behind my breastbone, as if to agree.
“I hope you’re right,” I say to Weston.