Chapter Eight Blodwyn
Chapter Eight
Blodwyn
Voices ring in the council chamber, everyone shouting to be heard over one another. But I hardly register their squabbling over the tempest of emotions warring within me. The two words beating in time with my heartbeat: I’m home.
Except it doesn’t feel that way.
The White Palace is closer to a tomb than the home from my memories.
The gardens are gray and barren, branches knotted together like monstrous, gnarled fingers.
All Mother’s flowers have withered and died.
Most of the portraits have been removed.
In fact, aside from the scant instances of Papa’s initials, there’s no trace of my family at all.
No trace of the life I used to live here.
No trace of me. Which, I assume, is exactly how Ayleth prefers it.
My gaze drifts over to her, seated at the head of the table.
In Papa’s place. That hideous crown of hers glimmers in the weak sunlight.
Mother’s crown was small and delicate, and she hardly ever wore it.
Real queens, Mother said, don’t require such adornment.
Ayleth’s crown is huge and gaudy, those oddly shaped jewels sparkling like a beacon—as if to proclaim to everyone her station.
Because that was all she ever cared about. Certainly not me.
As though she can sense my thoughts, Ayleth looks at me. Something flashes within her dark eyes. I’d noticed it in the courtyard, too: surprise, perhaps. Then horror, as she realized what my announcement entailed. Beneath that, an unmistakable spark of rage. Foreboding taps at the base of my neck.
The brittle shatter of glass cuts through the clamor. The arguing dies at once, all attention pivoting to where Aunt Margaret is standing at the front of the chamber, the broken remnants of what I assume was a wineglass scattered at her feet.
“That’s better,” Aunt Margaret says in the silence, smoothing her bodice as she rejoins the table. “I must admit: I’m highly disappointed. Is this any kind of welcome among family?”
Family. As if that word could ever describe most of the people in this room. Especially Ayleth.
“You’ve caught us by surprise, Your Grace,” a middle-aged man with beady black eyes says. Master Parnell, I think. With his midnight-colored robes and hooked nose, he reminds me of a crow. A greedy one.
“Surprise?” Aunt Margaret asks, confused. “Blodwyn has always been Riven’s heir. Why all this fuss about a decided matter?”
“The princess is His Majesty’s sole surviving child,” another man at the table allows, Lord Warbeck, someone called him. “But even Your Grace must understand that a female claimant for Riven’s throne is…unprecedented.”
Unwanted, he means. A bitter taste cuts between my teeth as I’m reminded of when I used to overhear my ladies talking about how unfortunate it was that I failed to be born a son.
Father certainly agreed. For as many times as he would burst into my rooms bearing gifts or whisking me off on an adventure, there were other days when he scarcely looked at me.
Or when he did, the expression on his face could turn my blood to ice.
“I don’t see why that matters,” I say, smothering the memories. “Most of you are male and I don’t notice anything particularly special about you.”
The councilors gawp at me like I’ve grown a second head. Aunt Margaret nudges her elbow against mine.
Careful, I can imagine her saying. Do not lose control.
I grit my back teeth.
“Well, there’s certainly nothing special about Rathburn, now, is there?” another chimes in, earning a few snorts of laughter.
The man I take to be Rathburn glowers.
“Now, now,” Aunt Margaret chides. “Let’s all be civil. But I do agree with the princess’s argument. Riven currently has a queen regent. If Ayleth can rule in Callen’s stead, I don’t see why Blodwyn can’t be considered. In any case, I don’t see a prince around.”
Ayleth shifts uncomfortably in her chair.
When I went to live with Aunt Margaret, I was certain that news would arrive from the palace announcing the birth of my half-brother.
After my initial anger at Ayleth faded, part of me even hoped for such an event.
My life at Aunt Margaret’s estate was happy.
What did I want with a palace filled with terrible memories?
A realm that never wanted me to begin with?
But that letter never materialized, something Aunt Margaret interpreted as a sign for us to put our own plans into motion.
Much as I despised the idea of returning to this place, I hated the thought of Ayleth winning even more.
“I’m sure that Blodwyn is more than capable of ruling,” Ayleth says, but the last word is stilted. “It’s just that the princess never mentioned a desire to—”
“Did you ask me?” I interrupt.
The color on Ayleth’s face deepens. My lips twitch. It’s highly satisfying to corner her like this. Catch her in her own trap.
“Much has changed in the last years,” Aunt Margaret continues. “Blodwyn has embraced her responsibility to Riven. She should be applauded for her selflessness and sense of duty.”
“Applauded, yes,” Warbeck chimes in. “But Braxos’s Trials are intended to be undertaken by a ready ruler. The princess has barely reached her sixteenth year.”
“Which means she’s of age,” Aunt Margaret replies simply. “And legally permitted to assume the regency.”
At that, Ayleth pales. “The regency? At sixteen?”
“Callen was only eighteen when he completed the trials,” Aunt Margaret returns with a shrug. “There’s hardly any difference. And Blodwyn is far more than prepared than my brother ever was. I’ve seen to that myself.”
“Prepared for what?” Ayleth asks, her patience clearly thinning. “Will someone explain to me what these trials mean?”
Aunt Margaret presses a hand to her chest. “Oh, do forgive me. I forgot that you aren’t familiar with royal customs, given your…unusual background.”
A muscle in Ayleth’s jaw feathers. I smirk.
“Braxos’s Trials is the formal investiture of Riven’s heir,” Master Parnell begins.
“The challenges take place over the course of a month, each modeled after those conducted to select the first White King, Braxos. While the specific details of the original contest are lost, we know that Braxos’s Trials were comprised of three parts: Bravery, Wisdom, and Justice.
Likewise, it is those themes that make up the current challenges. The claimant—”
“The princess,” Aunt Margaret corrects.
Master Parnell pauses. Dips his chin. “If the trials commence, then yes—Her Highness will be called to demonstrate her aptitude in each area, thus proving her worthiness to rule.”
Ayleth glances at me and then away, her knuckles stretched white as she grips the arms of her chair.
“But the trials cannot proceed without consent of the council,” Lord Warbeck interjects. “And we have not consented.”
“He’s right,” another adds. “Aside from her age and relative inexperience, the princess has been away for the past few years. The people may not accept her.”
May not want you, that small voice whispers.
“Nonsense.” Aunt Margaret dismisses the idea with a wave of her hand. “The people will adore Blodwyn.”
Even I’m not convinced of that.
“Perhaps we should give them time to do so,” Ayleth suggests. “Allow the princess to become reacquainted with the court. See how they respond. Then we can revisit this discussion.”
“An excellent idea, Majesty,” Lord Warbeck agrees, raising his glass.
Aunt Margaret just smiles placidly back at him.
“Perhaps you’re right,” she says. “But do tell me—what other discussions were you hoping to conduct in the meantime?”
Ayleth’s brow furrows. “Discussions?”
“The reason for this royal visit.” Aunt Margaret tilts her head. A jewel hanging from her earlobe glitters. “I know it must be more than deepening our acquaintance, as was written. After all, I didn’t even receive an invitation to my own brother’s wedding.”
Ayleth hadn’t invited me to that event, either. I had to learn about it through my ladies. I fix her with a hard stare, enjoying the way she squirms.
“The ceremony was small,” she attempts.
“Was it?” Aunt Margaret asks. “I find that odd. Callen always insisted upon a show.”
Ayleth twists the ring I assume to be her wedding band.
Interestingly, it’s the plainest thing she’s wearing—just a simple strip of white gold on her finger.
I wonder if there’s a reason for that, like perhaps she doesn’t like to be reminded of the promise she made to my father.
She obviously never honored those she made to me.
“And then there’s Blodwyn.” Aunt Margaret goes on. “The single surviving heir to the throne, shipped off like damaged goods.”
“The princess was sent to her family. To you, for her own safety,” Ayleth argues. “Because of the war ramping up, as well as her illness.”
“Her illness? Well, as you can see, Blodwyn is more than recovered,” Aunt Margaret replies. “And if the war is your excuse, why summon us back now? Has the conflict ended?”
More mutterings and whispers. Ayleth and the crow-like man exchange a brief, silent conversation. At last, Ayleth nods.
“Far from it, I’m afraid,” Master Parnell admits.
He repositions a few markers on the map.
“We’ve suffered a setback at the Rycinthian border.
Our forces are depleted after the last battle.
Even more so with the recent attack on the Dwarvian Mines.
Without reinforcements, we may be in danger of a Rycinthian invasion. ”
“Ah.” Aunt Margaret toys with her strand of pearls. “So that’s it. You want my army. Just as Callen and my dear papa did.”
A thick silence answers. Aunt Margaret lets it linger, wearing the same expression as when she’s winning at a hand of cards.
“We were hoping Your Grace would consider an alliance,” Lord Warbeck finally ventures. “Riven is your home. And the princess’s.”
“Is it? How nice to be reminded. It’s been twenty years since I myself was sent away.”
The men at the table shift in their seats, Ayleth with them.