Chapter Seven Ayleth
Chapter Seven
Ayleth
The duchess’s carriage is spotted clambering up the side of the mountain by midmorning the following day.
Though I dispatched crows to track her progress once her party entered Riven, I still haven’t managed to lay eyes on the duchess herself.
Callen was similarly unsuccessful in his attempts, which was highly irritating.
And so I wait with the rest of the welcoming party in the courtyard, flags snapping in the wind.
“Careful,” Joan warns beside me. “You’re going to ruin those.”
She gestures to the bouquet of winter roses I’m currently strangling. One of their red velvet-like petals floats sadly to the ground.
“Sorry,” I mutter, passing the flowers to Joan before I do any more damage. “I’m just nervous. If this doesn’t go well…”
“It will,” Joan assures me. “You said yourself—if the duchess is anything like the rest of the court, she’ll be impressed by the entertainment.”
Weston certainly planned plenty of that. Even so, Callen’s words echo in my mind: Is there ever a moment when you don’t fear you’re about to lose everything?
The crow calls again, as if in laughter, and I tug at the collar of rubies around my throat.
“How do I look?”
The Lord of Misrule saunters out of the main doors of the palace wearing the most ridiculous outfit I’ve ever seen.
His sleeves are a rich green and so puffed out that it makes his shoulders appear twice as broad as they actually are.
His doublet is trimmed in gold and studded with lines of pearls.
Jeweled rings shine on his fingers and on the chain draped around his shoulders.
A silk cloak flutters behind him as he flourishes a bow.
“Like you belong in the princess’s menagerie,” Joan says.
“You wound me, Marquess.” Weston presses a hand to his chest. “And that’s no way to speak to a future duke.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” I ask.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Weston plucks the bouquet of roses from Joan’s hands. “Margaret is widowed. Which means she’s free to marry. There’s no reason she shouldn’t choose me.”
Several reasons immediately pop into my mind.
“I’m perfectly capable of sweeping the duchess off her feet,” he says primly, evidently guessing my thoughts. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve done so. We—”
“Spare me the details,” I beg.
“And you know the title doesn’t work like that, don’t you?” Joan adds. “Even if you were to marry her, you wouldn’t be a duke. She wouldn’t even be a duchess anymore. She’d be”—Joan looks him up and down—“whatever you are.”
“Pesky details.” Weston dismisses her with a flick of his fingers. “Just you wait and see: I will be a duke by the end of this visit.”
With that, he struts off to join a nearby group of courtiers.
“You know, I have to say I admire his confidence,” Joan says, watching him go. “I think he actually believes he can manage it.”
“It may work in our favor if he does,” I point out. “If Weston marries the duchess, they might return to Darryn. And stay there.”
Joan grins. “Then I’ll start planning the wedding.”
I laugh and start to say something else, but the clop of hooves cuts me off.
The crowd murmurs excitedly, watching as several carriages lumber through the gates.
The duchess is certainly related to Callen, for she does not travel lightly.
No less than seven carriages roll into the courtyard, each one gilded and plumed and emblazoned with a seal I take to be that of the duchess—a sword with a snake wrapped around it.
The crow calls again, its shadow skimming over the flagstones.
“Here we go,” Weston says, maneuvering his way to the front of the crowd, roses in hand. “Prepare to be dazzled.”
I hold in a groan as the carriages slow to a stop and heralds blast their horns.
“Presenting Her Royal Highness, the Princess Blodwyn!”
A footman opens the center carriage’s door. An instant later, a gloved hand emerges, then a slippered foot and swath of skirts.
Blodwyn.
For a few heartbeats, all I can do is stare at her.
This is not the girl I remember from just three years ago.
She’s not a girl at all. As if by some spell, Blodwyn has transformed into a young woman.
Her raven-wing hair is pinned up in an elegant arrangement, set with garnet combs—the same shade as her dress, which is cut in the latest style and embroidered with delicate golden vines and flowers.
A white-gold headdress, set with diamonds, sparkles on her head. It could be a crown.
“Blodwyn,” I start. “You look…”
Regal, that voice taunts. Like a real queen.
“You look lovely,” Joan supplies for me. “So grown up.”
“Yes,” I agree, finding my tongue. “I almost don’t recognize you.”
Her ink-dark gaze settles on me. “And you, Ayleth.”
My brow furrows. What does she mean by that? Malum rumbles a warning behind my sternum. But I don’t get the chance to ask any questions. The heralds trumpet their horns again.
“Princess Margaret, the Duchess of Darryn!”
I’d been so focused on Blodwyn that I almost forgot about the duchess.
She has my full attention now. Princess Margaret alights from the carriage wearing a stunning gown of gold brocade.
Sunlight gleams against the rich fabric, which only serves to make the duchess’s appearance even brighter and more imposing.
Ropes of pearls the size of grapes are strung around her neck and fat jewels glitter on her fingers.
But it’s the duchess’s features that hold me in place: A sharp jaw and high cheekbones.
Black hair and gray eyes, like tempered blades as they sweep over the chattering crowd.
“She looks exactly like him,” I mutter.
“Oh yes,” Weston agrees. “Margaret is Callen’s twin.”
“His twin?” I repeat, fighting to keep my voice low enough that it won’t carry.
Weston grants me a quizzical look. “Did I not mention?”
“No. You did not.”
Neither did Callen. A sibling was bad enough, but a twin? The Blesseds claimed that twins share a soul before leaving the womb. That there’s a special kind of magic between them.
This woman is mortal, I remind myself. There is no magic.
But the words carry little weight when the duchess’s steel-gray gaze lands on mine, so similar to her brother’s that the place on my ribs hums.
“Your Majesty,” Margaret says, her expansive skirts ballooning around her as she sinks into an elegant curtsy. “Or should I say, Sister?”
“No.” I answer quickly enough that nearby courtiers murmur. “I mean, that won’t be necessary. Ayleth will suffice.”
“Ayleth,” Princess Margaret repeats, reaching for me.
Her hands are gloved, but I still feel a slight jolt when she takes mine, not unlike what I used to experience with Callen. I let go as soon as I can, resisting the urge to wipe my palms on my dress to rid myself of the sensation.
“How striking you are,” Margaret continues. “But I shouldn’t be surprised. My brother always had such particular taste.”
From her tone, I can’t tell if it’s a compliment. “You’re too kind.”
“Nonsense. We’re all family now. Isn’t that right, Blodwyn?”
The princess merely nods her reply. Again, there’s something unsettling in the way she’s watching me—like I’m being weighed and found wanting. I don’t understand. Blodwyn’s letters over the years were cheerful and pleasant. Has something changed?
“Here,” I say, eager for a task. “We have gifts for you.”
I signal to Joan, who presents Margaret with a small jewelry box. The duchess undoes the golden latch and opens it, revealing a brooch nestled within the satin lining: an oval onyx stone surrounded by tear-shaped diamonds.
“Oh, it’s absolutely adorable!” the duchess exclaims, lifting the piece. “How did you know that I’m collecting miniatures? They’re all the rage now in Darryn.”
Miniatures? The brooch is Dwarvian and I know of several courtiers who would scratch one another’s eyes out for something half its value.
“I’m pleased you like it,” I say, forcing civility into my tone. Then, to Blodwyn, “I chose yours specifically.”
I smile at her, hoping to receive one in return.
I’m disappointed. Instead, Blodwyn opens the box and withdraws a glass globe.
Inside, a tiny replica of the White Palace is perched upon its mountain.
Like Margaret’s gift, the piece is Dwarvian.
Minuscule horses and carts travel up the mountainside.
Tiny guards traverse the battlements and lights flicker in the palace windows.
There are even clouds skating across the top of the globe, with snow drifting down to settle at the base.
But if the princess appreciates the craftsmanship, she doesn’t comment.
“A piece of home,” I explain when her silence stretches on too long to be comfortable. “Seeing as you’ve been away from the palace for so long.”
“How special,” Margaret comments. “I think I had one like that when I was a child.”
A child, which the princess clearly is not.
In fact, next to Blodwyn’s grown-up appearance, the gift is ridiculous.
I’m ridiculous for having selected it. Heat climbs up the back of my neck.
Margaret takes the globe from Blodwyn’s hands and examines it.
For an instant, it looks as though the duchess holds the White Palace itself in her grip.
“My,” the duchess remarks, “how things have changed.”
Those gray eyes land on mine again and my power buzzes within me, shadows undulating in the far corners of the courtyard.
“Not everything has changed,” someone calls.
Princess Margaret’s expression lights up. “Is that my Westy?”
“At your service, my most graceful Grace.”
I share a beleaguered look with Joan. This is going to be a long visit.
“What have you been up to all this time?” Margaret asks, extending her hand to the Lord of Misrule, who raises it to his lips. “Did you marry? Are there little Westons running around?”
“Marry?” He scoffs. “Your Grace knows that my heart has only ever been yours.”
Margaret laughs and thumps Weston playfully on his shoulder. “Still a shameless flirt.”
“Would you have me any other way?” Weston asks, waggling his eyebrows. “In fact, might I have the honor of escorting you to your rooms? I think I recall where they are.”
I inwardly cringe.
“Not just yet. First, we have a gift for you. All of you. Don’t we, Blodwyn?” Margaret places her hand on the princess’s shoulder. “Go on, my dear. Tell them the good news.”
Blodwyn’s gaze locks with mine.
“I’ve come to present myself for Braxos’s Trials.”
There’s a moment of stunned silence and then gasps dart around me. Even Weston appears startled. He drops Margaret’s bouquet, the roses like a puddle of blood on the flagstones.
“What does that mean?” I murmur to Joan.
She blinks, giving herself a shake. “It means she—”
“It means that the princess is here to take her official place,” Margaret supplies smoothly. “To claim her right to the throne.”