Chapter Eight Blodwyn #2
“We have terms drawn up.” Master Parnell awkwardly clears his throat and slides a piece of paper across the table. Aunt Margaret picks it up and scans the writing. “We’ll provide you with time to consider them and suggest adjustments, of course. I’m certain we can reach an understanding.”
“There’s no need for time,” Aunt Margaret says. “Here are my adjustments.”
She lifts the parchment to the nearest candle, sets it aflame, and then drops it back on the table. The others cry out in alarm.
“Your Grace!” Master Parnell exclaims, scrambling to extinguish the small fire. Ashen pieces of the proposed terms float into the air. “This is hardly—”
“Customary?” Aunt Margaret finishes for him.
“I think you’ll soon learn that I don’t care a whit for custom.
And I have absolutely no interest in assisting Riven unless Blodwyn has assumed her rightful place.
If you need my army so urgently then you will not only agree to begin the princess’s trials but see them through. ”
The councilors glance nervously around at one another. Most of them look like they just swallowed a dish of eels. But they must understand that Aunt Margaret means what she says, for—one by one—they indicate their agreement.
Eventually, only Ayleth remains. She holds my gaze a long moment, a thousand unspoken thoughts wheeling behind her dark eyes.
“Very well,” she says at last, the words rough. “We’ll proceed.”
“Excellent!” Aunt Margaret claps her hands. “Let’s announce the good news tonight at dinner. In the meantime, Blodwyn, shall we go and visit your father?”
—
If I hoped the court’s attention would lessen after my arrival, I’m vastly disappointed.
Nobles swarm the palace halls. Some of them have the decency to be discreet, at least pretending to hold conversations or card games as their hawklike attention tracks my progress.
But others are openly gawping, barely remembering to bow or curtsy as I pass.
Some are even leaning down from the second-story gallery to stare at me, their suspended faces reminding me of the sculptures carved into the ceiling of Mother’s rooms. The watchers, they were called.
It’s just as unsettling now as it was then.
“I thought she was dead,” someone murmurs, close enough that I can hear.
“Did you see her before she left the palace?” another adds, hushed. “I heard she was raving.”
“Is it any wonder? Everyone knows the family is…”
Cursed, a small voice in the back of my mind whispers.
I shove it down, quickening my pace.
What seems an eternity later, we reach Papa’s rooms.
The metallic scent of blood and the tang of medicine hit me before I even step through the door.
I cough, tugging my handkerchief from my sleeve to cover my nose.
But the unpleasant smells are nothing compared to the sight of Papa himself.
I stop short, barely recognizing the person lying on the bed.
Papa’s body is thin and wasted, his skin so pale that his veins show through, greenish and sickly.
A massive, craggy scar tracks down the side of his face.
I shudder to imagine what could have inflicted such a wound.
And I didn’t realize until this moment that there was still part of me that hoped the rumors were wrong.
That I’d return to the palace and Papa would sweep me into his arms. Spin me around like he used to do and tell me that the last three years had been nothing more than a bad dream.
But then Papa stirs. His eyes flutter open, clouded and glassy and not his at all.
“What on earth happened?” Aunt Margaret asks, evidently as horrified as I am.
The attending physicians scatter as she rushes to Papa’s bedside and shoos them away.
I follow her, tentatively brushing my fingertips against his hand.
It might as well be made of marble for how cold it is.
When I press the pad of my thumb to his inner wrist, I can barely detect the thready rhythm of his heartbeat.
“The king rode without his visor at a joust,” Ayleth explains, turning her ring again as she speaks. “I attempted to dissuade him, of course, but he insisted.”
She’s lying. Maybe not about everything, but enough.
“I wish you had informed me that his state had deteriorated so much,” Aunt Margaret continues sharply. “I could have sent my own physicians from Darryn.”
“There’s no need,” Ayleth says. “We have everything in hand, isn’t that right, Dr. Locke?”
One of the physicians peels himself away from the others and bows. “Quite so, Your Majesty. We are utilizing every resource at our disposal.”
“Like bloodletting?” I ask, gesturing to Papa’s arm, where a bandage is wrapped around his elbow. “Did you know that some realms have abolished the practice? He’s only going to get weaker if you keep draining him like this.”
The doctor offers me a tight smile. “I would remind Your Highness that I’ve treated your father since he was younger than you are now.”
I bristle against his cloying, condescending tone. “Yes, and look at him. It’s like he’s not even in there.”
Ayleth stiffens. But the physician steps closer to me.
“And what of you, Highness? Have you suffered any more…episodes?”
I flinch at the reminder of the fever that began shortly after Mother’s death.
The blurred, worried faces hovering above me.
Sweat sticking to my bedclothes. A pain in my head that I was convinced would cleave me in half.
But the physical torment was nothing compared to the nightmares.
For weeks, I was hounded by creeping shadows and visions of the most monstrous creatures I could ever imagine.
Cursed. That old word rolls around the curves of my skull. You are cursed.
“The princess is the picture of health,” Aunt Margaret answers for me, placing a hand on my shoulder. “I personally supervised her convalescence.”
She did. Aunt Margaret remained by my side from the minute I entered her home. She sat by my bed, spooning broth into my mouth and comforting me after my nightmares. No one else here can say that. Especially not Ayleth.
“Even so…you do look a bit tired, Your Highness” the physician comments, frowning. “Perhaps some rest after your journey is in order to settle your…humors?”
“An excellent idea,” Ayleth rushes to agree. “I’ll have someone show you to your rooms.”
“Oh, don’t worry about us,” Aunt Margaret replies airily. “I know my way. Everyone seems to forget that I used to live here.”
Ayleth hesitates, perhaps reluctant to leave us alone with Papa. But Aunt Margaret finally wins the battle of wills. She usually does.
“If you’ll excuse me, then,” Ayleth says, “I have other matters to attend to.”
I don’t bother to curtsy as she exits the chamber. As soon as she’s gone, I move closer to Aunt Margaret.
“She has something to do with this,” I say under my breath.
“Perhaps,” Aunt Margaret muses. “But I’m not sure it matters.”
“Doesn’t matter? But—”
“It will do no good to cast accusations we can’t prove,” Aunt Margaret insists, keeping her own voice low. “Besides, running headlong into a lance is precisely the sort of idiotic stunt your father would undertake. But you’re not wrong. Your stepmother—”
“Don’t call her that,” I say through gritted teeth.
“The queen,” Aunt Margaret amends, “is certainly benefitting from the current arrangement. She’s clever. We must be more so. Which means you must mind that temper.”
She arches an eyebrow at me. Of all the lessons Aunt Margaret has provided over the years, that has been the one I’ve struggled most to master.
Sometimes, it seems as though my anger is a living force inside me.
That I can feel it expanding between my bones.
The sensation isn’t entirely unwelcome. After all, anger is what prevented me from drowning in the sea of grief after Mother’s death.
“You did well today, though,” Aunt Margaret continues with a nod of approval. “Winning the council was half the battle.”
“Did I win?” I ask, bitter. “They only agreed because they need your army.”
“An army that she doesn’t have,” Aunt Margaret reminds me.
“And soon she won’t have anything else, either.
She isn’t the first grasping climber to darken these halls.
Within a month, we’ll banish her to whatever hovel she slithered out of.
Until then, I highly suggest that you focus. And keep out of her way.”
“No need to worry about that.”
Ayleth is the last person here I want to see.
I glance back in the direction the so-called queen went. For an instant, it seems as though the candles dim. Like the shadows lengthen. In their depths, twin spots of light gleam—like a pair of eyes.
But then I blink and the illusion is gone.