Chapter Five Ayleth
Chapter Five
Ayleth
The Dwarvian village is buried under a mountain of rubble.
With the help of their magic, most of the Dwarves were able to escape the fire and resulting explosion.
But not everyone was so lucky. At least three bodies are pulled from the wreckage before I leave the village.
Other survivors wander around, dazed and weeping.
Joan stays behind to offer what help she can, but I return to the palace.
As my carriage pulls away, I spot Rosemary, huddled with her mother.
The sight of her like that, her gemstone-colored eyes filled with fear, is a painful reminder of the night of the Hunt’s raid on Stonehaven.
The night my entire world was ripped out from under me.
Steely resolve threads down my spine: I am going to make the covens pay for this.
“Your Majesty. It’s a relief to see that you’re safe.”
Master Parnell bows as I storm into the council chamber.
The rest of the members have already gathered.
Annoyingly, all men. When I assumed my position as head of the council, I considered appointing a few women, Joan among them.
But Parnell advised against such measures.
A woman sitting at the head of the table would be shock enough for the nobility, he reasoned.
The looks on the councilmen’s faces whenever I enter the chamber certainly confirm that sentiment.
Especially now when I haven’t bothered to bathe or change my gown, the soot from the Mine collapse still crusted over my skin.
But my appearance is the least of my worries.
“How bad is it?” I demand.
“The full extent of the damage is difficult to determine,” Parnell replies. “But early reports suggest that multiple Mines were affected.”
He gestures to the table, the surface of which is inlaid with a sprawling map of Riven.
Like the one in my chamber, it’s a Dwarvian piece.
The Western Mine explosion is already visible, a smoking smudge of black amid the forest. About a dozen other craterlike holes are littered throughout the realm as well, those Mines reduced to nothing but rubble.
Fresh rage crackles in my wrists, stirring my power.
“This was Rycinthia. The covens,” I say, earning a nod from my steward. “How did they get through?”
“My spies are working on that,” Parnell replies. “But—”
“It was Darnley,” another council member, Lord Warbeck, chimes in.
He’s a middle-aged man with brown skin and a neatly combed mustache and beard.
His bright, amber-colored eyes, which have always reminded me of a falcon’s, gleam.
“Using his estate to allow Rycinthians to slip across the border. The witches as well, I suppose.”
“Darnley?” I ask.
My attention travels to the area of the map where Darnley’s estate rests, nestled in the mountains between our two realms. It’s a location that’s been essential in holding Rycinthia back throughout the war. Or so I believed.
“Nothing has been proven yet,” Parnell insists.
Warbeck barks a laugh. “From what I’ve heard, he’s already turned tail and escaped. What more proof do you need?”
“He’s right,” another man agrees. “It was a bad idea to give someone like Darnley such a position. He was always self-serving.”
Such could be said of most of the members of court, especially those in this room.
Darnley’s estate was once held by a more established noble family.
But there were rumors that they were gathering their own troops to challenge the throne.
And so, on Parnell’s advice, I gave the lands and title to Darnley instead.
A mistake, that voice whispers. You always make mistakes.
From the direction of the mirrors, I swear that I hear Callen’s laughter.
“How did you miss this?” I demand of Parnell. “You said he could be trusted.”
The steward pales slightly. Presses a hand to his chest. “I assure you, Majesty, that I’m as surprised and furious as you are by this betrayal. I will locate the earl at once.”
“Good luck,” Warbeck scoffs. “Darnley’s already in Rycinthia, no doubt, enjoying whatever coin or titles they’ve awarded him for his service.”
And not just Darnley. The witches. I picture Mother and the rest lounging in some Rycinthian palace and gloating over their victory. They were probably hoping I’d be under that mountain when it fell. My shadows leap and dive around me.
“We have to do more than find him,” I say, shooting Parnell another glare. “We need to attack. There’s no time to waste.”
“That…may not be possible,” Parnell says.
Some of the others start to shout him down, but he holds up his hands for quiet.
“With so many of the Mines destroyed, we don’t have the weapons for a successful siege.
Even if we did, we’re still rebuilding. We were counting on this time to regroup.
Strengthen our troops with Darnley’s forces holding the border. Now…”
Darnley is gone, leaving Riven wide open for an invasion.
Failed, that awful voice.
“This is your mess,” I hiss at Parnell. “I suggest you devise a way to clean it up.”
“Indeed, Majesty,” Parnell agrees. “And I do have a plan. We should look to our ally in Darryn.”
He slides a marker on the map so that it rests on the realm directly to Riven’s east.
“Our ally?” Warbeck asks, raising an eyebrow. “Are you referring to the Princess Margaret? I don’t see how she can make a difference.”
Neither do I. Three years ago, I scarcely knew that Darryn—or Margaret—existed. The duchess sent her bland congratulations around the time of my farce of a wedding with Callen, but I received no further communication from her until Blodwyn’s illness. Even now, Margaret hardly writes me.
“I believe she can make a great difference,” Parnell goes on. “Some of you may recall Princess Margaret’s marriage to the duke. A union that was intended to solidify trade relations with Darryn.”
One of the council members snorts into his wineglass. “A lot of good that did.”
“Correct,” Parnell agrees. “That venture was largely unsuccessful. As were any attempts His Majesty made at securing Darryn’s army for help during the Covens’ War.”
I bristle at the mention of that time: Forty years during which the White Kings hunted the covens in the name of the Order’s false goddess.
Countless witches lost their lives, including Rhea.
And my own grandmother was among the first five witches whose executions sparked the conflict.
An image of the tapestry burns in my mind: those witches being forced to dance in red-hot iron shoes.
“Are you finished giving a history lesson?” Warbeck asks, bored.
“Nearly,” Parnell replies, clipped. “But this bit of history is rather important. Despite their long marriage, the Princess Margaret and the duke produced no children. Therefore, when His Grace died about five years ago, everything passed to his wife. Including command of the duke’s army.”
That is important. Even Warbeck sits at attention.
“Is the force large enough to make a difference?” I ask.
“It might be,” Parnell replies. “And most attractively, the duchess’s control over the army is relatively secret. I had to do quite a bit of digging to ascertain the fact that Princess Margaret inherited such control. It stands to reason that Rycinthia isn’t aware.”
I’m inclined to agree with him. If Rycinthia knew about Margaret’s army, they’d have recruited her by now.
“But would the duchess help us?” someone else asks, echoing my own question. “It’s been years since the duke’s death. Why not offer us the army before now?”
“A good question,” Parnell allows. “The only way we will determine the answer is if we invite the duchess here to discuss an alliance. The princess as well, of course.”
“Blodwyn?” I ask, stiffening.
“The princess would be expected to attend an official royal visit,” Parnell reasons. “And such matters are better handled in person.”
I hesitate. Aside from her scant letters, I don’t know anything about the king’s sister. And Blodwyn…
When I served the late Queen Sybil, I felt a closeness to the princess.
Beneath the rebellious young girl who trained her pets to terrorize her ladies, there was a fragile thing.
One that reminded me of myself at Blodwyn’s age, terrified of the expectations looming ahead of me.
Then, after Queen Sybil died, I recognized the oily grief pulling Blodwyn down into its depths.
Perhaps I should have reached for the princess the way I’d so desperately hoped that someone would have reached for me after I lost Rhea.
But I just…couldn’t. And so I sent Blodwyn away—both for her sake and for mine.
“Are there no other options?” I ask.
“We can attempt to recruit our own men,” Parnell suggests. “But with the state of the realm, it may be difficult to gather, much less train, a sufficient number in time. By my estimations, we have the capacity to hold Darnley’s estate for the winter, but after that…”
He trails off and a vision of Rycinthia storming through the mountain barrier blooms in his silence, Mother and the Heirs and even Jacquetta at their head. A crow calls outside the window. I catch sight of my reflection in the glass. The Bloodstone crown glitters on my head.
From the darkness will rise a queen.
The words of the prophecy resound in my mind. I am that queen. I know it in my bones. And I’m not going to allow Mother, Selene, or anyone else prove otherwise.
I will not fail.
“Arrange the visit,” I say to Parnell. “I want this done with as soon as possible.”
—
The council meeting wraps up shortly after that, but the sting of Darnley’s betrayal refuses to fade.
Angry as I am with Parnell’s error in judgment, I’m far more furious with myself.
I should have guessed the covens would be planning something like this.
Should have instructed Shade or Callen to watch Darnley, or at least the border, more closely.
But I can’t do anything about it now. Nettle lopes out from wherever she’d been hiding and winds herself around my ankles as I enter my chambers.
She meows in concern, likely sensing my mood.
“I’m fine,” I assure her. “Just in need of a bath.”
She trills in what I take as agreement and trots away. But as desperate as I am to scrub the grime of the Mine explosion from my skin, more pressing questions buzz inside my skull.
I go to my mirror and pull back the curtain. “Callen.”
The glass wavers and then the imprisoned king’s face appears.
“Oh, you’re alive,” he says with a yawn. “I heard a rumor that you were dead. Pity.”
Nettle hisses at him.
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“I’m quite accustomed to your shortcomings,” he replies. “A shame about that Mine, by the way. There were perfectly good hunting grounds near there. Ruined now, I suppose. Just like everything else you touch.”
He really is insufferable. “Fetch Shade and scour the areas around the Mines. If there are any witches left, I want them found. Darnley as well.”
Callen snorts. “No surprise that he betrayed you. The man had traitor written all over him.”
“Then why didn’t you warn me about him?”
“How could I? I didn’t know what he was up to. Not for certain,” he says, grinning in that way that I loathe.
“It doesn’t matter now,” I snap, heading to the sideboard to pour myself a glass of wine. “We’ll take care of him soon enough. Rycinthia as well. I’ve decided to invite your sister here. Recruit her army.”
“Margaret?” Callen huffs. “Good luck with that.”
“Why? What’s she like?”
“She’s the most intolerable woman alive—aside from you, of course,” he says, sweeping an appraising gaze up and down my body.
“Always scheming with my brothers. Once, she locked me in the crypt overnight. When I finally found my way out, she then insisted that I’d died and bribed everyone to pretend they couldn’t see me. ”
I nearly choke on my next sip of wine. Even Nettle trills in what I take as laughter. “She sounds delightful.”
“Oh, I hope you find her so,” Callen replies. “I’m sure she’s matured into a reasonable woman and not a conniving, selfish bitch.”
“Is that the only word you can think to use to describe a powerful woman?”
He smirks. “I’ll let you know when I meet one.”
Sometimes I really do wish I had killed this man when I had the opportunity.
“Just tell me how best to persuade her to join our cause.”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” he replies, a shrug in his voice. “All my dealings were with her spineless excuse for a husband.”
I frown. “You never wrote to her?”
“Why should I have?”
“Because she’s your sister?”
“And? She held no claim on the throne,” Callen reasons.
“The best Margaret could have done was assist in trade relations or provide her husband with a few children. Sons, preferably. She didn’t even manage that.
She was too busy hosting balls and making the duke miserable, I imagine. That’s probably why he died.”
“I don’t seem to recall you spending much time on kingly duties,” I comment.
“Because I didn’t have to bother with such nonsense. I was the king. You, on the other hand…” He clicks his tongue. “Is there ever a moment when you don’t fear you’re about to lose everything?”
His words press on a tender place and he knows it. I drain the rest of my glass in one gulp. “Go away.”
“With pleasure,” he croons. “And don’t fret. I’m sure you’ll get along splendidly with my sister. You make friends so easily.”
With that, he vanishes into the mirror’s glass. But the king’s grating laughter echoes long after he’s gone.