Chapter One Ayleth #2
“Oh, I’m always right,” he replies with one of his roguish grins. Joan groans into her wineglass. “By the way, I trust you received your invitation to the Northcutt twins’ party next week? It would be my honor if you attended.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I say.
“Keeping me in suspense,” Weston says, raising his glass to me. “But do come. I’m hungry for a proper game of Castles and you’re the best player I’ve ever met, Majesty.”
The Lord of Misrule smiles again, all teeth, and I think back to the match with him and the king, in which I pulled all crowns. A little shiver races down my spine.
“I don’t know why you indulge him,” Joan comments as Weston disappears into the crowd. “You should have banished him ages ago.”
Like I did all the other courtiers who stood in my way.
I scan the rest of the hall, cataloging the various important ministers and lords and ladies of the White Court.
It was Callen himself who assisted me in rooting out each member who posed a potential threat during the early days of my reign.
Exposing their secrets. Tying their fates to mine.
It was highly satisfying to force him to pick this palace apart at its seams.
“Weston is harmless,” I say to Joan, earning a skeptical expression. “Mostly. And he does know how to have a good time.”
Joan snorts. “If you enjoy drunken oblivion.”
“I caught you at one of those parties,” I point out. “You were drinking out of a shoe.”
She flushes. “I was…celebrating.”
“I’ll say. And there’s no need to be ashamed.” I nudge her shoulder with mine. “We worked hard to get here. Besides, even you have to admit that it’s fun to watch them all squabble for our favor when they spent so many years looking down on us, or worse.”
Like my own, Joan’s family history isn’t a pleasant one. Though she never faced the same persecution as the witches, Joan’s connection to the Dwarves made her a pariah at court. Always an outsider—just like me. All that is changed now, though. And I have no intention of going back.
“Well,” Joan relents. A sly smile sneaks onto her face. “I suppose it’s a little bit fun.”
“That’s what I thought.” I tap my glass to hers. “And I suggest that we enjoy ourselves as much as possible.”
Her grin widens. “That reminds me—”
“Joan!”
A courtier weaves through the crowd and approaches the High Table.
I recognize her as Anora, Joan’s intended.
Before the Order fell, the two women were forced to conduct their relationship in secret, as couples of the same sex were forbidden by the faith.
Female couples, in particular, were considered too close to a coven to be permitted.
Lifting that edict was one of the first declarations I made as queen.
Joan and Anora have been inseparable ever since.
“Here you are,” Joan says, beaming at the other courtier.
“Sorry to be late,” Anora apologizes. “Time got away from me. But I hoped for a dance?”
“Oh. The queen and I were—”
“Go on,” I say, shooing her. “I’m sure it’s nothing that can’t wait.”
Joan flashes me a grateful smile, then hurries down the dais and accepts Anora’s hand.
Much as I try to fend it off, I cannot help the prick of jealousy that twinges in my chest as I watch them join the dancers.
See their faces light up, like they’re the only two people in the world.
Beneath the smell of wine and perfume, I might detect the hint of juniper.
I quickly drown it in a swallow of wine.
“Your Majesty.”
I turn at the voice. A man in rippling black robes waits just behind me.
“Master Parnell.”
The High Priest’s former steward is a lithe man, with pale white skin, a long, hooked nose, and beady black eyes.
When I served as a maiden in Queen Sybil’s household, I’d been terrified of the slippery, scheming man—especially his talent for sniffing out secrets.
But, like everyone else in the White Court, Parnell cares only for his own power and position.
When Ignatius was disgraced, the steward stood to lose both.
Within a month of my coronation, he scurried to my door, pleading for a place in my household.
Though I trust the viperous man about as much as I did the High Priest, I reasoned that it was wiser to keep him closer.
So far, I’ve been correct. Parnell’s unique skills have proven invaluable over the years.
And given his close call with Ignatius, my steward is keenly aware of the fact that—should I fall—he’ll tumble down with me.
Parnell inclines his chin. “Forgive my interruption, Majesty. There are some matters that require your attention.”
“Can’t they wait?” I gesture to the hall. “Tonight is for celebration.”
“Apologies, Majesty, but I did think you’d want to see these.” He holds up a stack of papers. “Reports of recent disturbances throughout the realm.”
“If you mean blights and plagues, that’s hardly news.”
“Not that,” Parnell says. “I believe these may be related to Follower groups.”
My brow furrows. “Followers? There hasn’t been an uprising in months.”
While most of the White Court was happy to shed the confines of the Order’s strict Illuminations, the rest of Riven wasn’t so quick to follow suit.
Especially not after the Veil fell and Malum started wreaking havoc on the realm.
The initial months of my reign were riddled with skirmishes between the Hunt and the Order’s acolytes, the frenzied zealots desperate for Meira’s return.
“Indeed,” Parnell agrees. “But my sources indicate that they’ve regrouped. They seem to have rallied around a new leader, one they claim is Meira herself.”
I snort into my glass. I assumed that breaking the Veil would rid me of the false goddess, but she seems to haunt me at every turn.
“Surely the Hunt can settle this.”
“Normally,” Parnell replies. “But we experienced heavy losses in the last battle with Rycinthia. It would be unwise to overextend ourselves in case of another attack.”
And there will be one. The Rycinthian army has been snapping at our borders for the last year, the witches with them. Nearby shadows shimmer, stirring my power.
Destroy them, that old instinct rears up.
I fully intend to. I only need time.
“Then find a solution, Master Parnell,” I say. “That is what you promised me that you could do when I appointed you, is it not?”
“Of course, Majesty.”
“Good. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“There is one more matter”—Parnell rummages through his papers and passes one to me—“a letter from the Mines.”
I note the seal affixed to one edge: crossed pickaxes ringed by a crown, indicating the Head of the Guilds. Roland.
Something you need to see at the Western Mine—if you’re not too busy queening.
—R
The Dwarf has lost none of his charm. Still, it’s unlike him to request my presence. Normally the Dwarves keep to themselves.
“Order a carriage,” I tell the steward. “I’ll go tomorrow.”
“Are you certain, Majesty? It may be too dangerous with the recent disturbances…”
But I’m not listening anymore. The nearby candles flicker. Shadows lengthen from the dark corners of the room, as if reaching for me. Malum hums behind my sternum.
My queen, a low voice whispers, one that could only belong to one creature: Shade.
“Tomorrow,” I say to Parnell. “And we’ll discuss the rest later.”
Because if my Huntsman is calling, it means he has found someone.