Chapter Nine Ayleth #2
“I’m so glad we have a chance to talk more privately,” Margaret continues. The smell of her perfume—something overly floral—is strong enough to sting in my nostrils. “I want to know all about you.”
“There’s not much to tell, I’m afraid,” I say, pulling my shadows closer and hoping their presence will shorten Margaret’s interest.
“Nonsense,” Margaret insists. “Blodwyn informs me that you lived in a Sanctum before you came to court. Is that right?”
“That’s what she said,” I hear Blodwyn comment.
I sip from my glass. “Yes, I did.”
“How interesting.” Margaret adjusts one of her rings. “I confess that I was never much drawn to the faith. That treacherous High Priest—Ignatius, was it?—always seemed suspect to me. Perhaps I could sense that he was hiding something.”
The smile she turns on me might as well be a knife.
“I’d love to hear more about your time at the duchess’s estate, Blodwyn,” I say, desperate to change the subject. “You mentioned archery in your letters?”
“If you read my letters, then you’re already aware of my activities,” she replies without so much as a glance in my direction.
I told you so, I mouth to Joan, who frowns helplessly back at me.
“The princess is too modest,” Margaret says with a laugh. “She’s quite a skilled archer. And her tutors are very pleased with her progress in her lessons. We couldn’t be prouder of her. I’m sure Callen would say the same if he were here. Wouldn’t he, Blodwyn?”
At long last, the princess’s ink-dark eyes meet mine. “Yes. I’d be very interested to hear what my father would say if he were able.”
Malum swells behind my sternum.
“We should eat,” I say, signaling to the servants.
The sooner this night is over, the better. But Margaret places a hand on my arm. It takes all my self-control not to stab her with my fork.
“Before we begin, I did hope to announce our news?” she asks. “And would you mind terribly if I did the honor?”
I’m tempted to refuse her request simply for the pleasure of doing so. But I have to tread carefully. Gritting my teeth, I motion for her to proceed. A hush falls over the hall as Margaret pushes back from the table and raises her hands for silence.
“It’s such a pleasure to be among you all again after too long an absence,” she begins.
“The pleasure is ours, Your Grace!” Weston calls. Wine splashes as he hoists his glass into the air. Applause breaks out, along with shouts of agreement.
They were never so enthusiastic about you, that voice observes.
“How kind. And if I recall how swiftly rumors travel in this court, most of you have already heard the news.” Margaret winks conspiratorially.
Several laugh. “But allow me to make it official: My niece, the Princess Blodwyn, has put herself forward for Braxos’s Trials, thereby claiming her right to Riven’s throne.
Blodwyn, my dear, rise and state your intention. ”
The princess stands. This time, the court’s reaction is far more subdued.
A current of whispers runs beneath the smattering of applause and I notice a few courtiers trade skeptical expressions.
Perhaps Blodwyn senses the shift as well, for her shoulders bow slightly inward.
For an instant, she appears more like the young girl I used to know—fragile and alone.
“I—” she begins.
“I challenge the princess!”
All heads swivel to the back of the room, where a young man steps out from among the crowd. He’s probably not much older than Blodwyn, with light brown skin, a strong jaw, and black hair that is slightly unkempt. His brown eyes gleam in the torchlight.
“What did you say?” Margaret demands.
“I challenge the princess,” the young man repeats, firmer this time. “I invoke my right to join the trials.”
Join the trials? Callen never mentioned this. I look to Joan, but she just shakes her head, as confused as I am.
“What do you mean, your right?” I ask.
“He doesn’t have one,” Margaret says, irritated.
“Actually, I think you’ll find that he does.”
Shocked gasps ricochet around the hall as another courtier pushes to the front. My grip tightens on the arms of my chair. Because this man I recognize. He was just at the council meeting. His falcon-like eyes gleam.
“Lord Warbeck,” I say, “what’s the meaning of this?”
“Majesty.” He bows, but it’s shallower than it should be. And I detect the hint of a smirk on his lips. “May I present my son, Gavin. As he said, he’s here to compete for the throne, as is permitted by the original terms of Braxos’s Trials.”
“What is he talking about?” Blodwyn asks. “The terms don’t say that, do they?”
“No,” Margaret insists. “Someone please remind this man of his place.”
“I’m afraid he’s correct, Your Grace.” Master Parnell rises from his seat. “The terms of the trials have not altered since Braxos’s time. Any man in the realm may challenge the claimant.”
My blood runs cold, finally comprehending Warbeck’s ploy. I picture him scouring texts in the library until he has discovered this particular loophole. A way for him to snatch everything away from me. I have been blindsided—again.
A fool, that voice whispers. A failure.
“How interesting,” Margaret continues, her attention pinned on Warbeck’s son. “But tell me, even if you win, how do you plan to handle Rycinthia? Because it certainly won’t be with my army.”
“It will take more than Your Grace’s forces to defeat Rycinthia,” Warbeck returns.
“And here I assumed you were an earl, not a general.”
“My father is right,” Gavin speaks up. “Riven needs change.”
“Riven belongs to the line of White,” Margaret snaps.
“Only because Braxos claimed it,” the boy says. He looks around at the crowd. “We all know the story. Before Braxos took the throne, the realm was dying, just as it is now. Malum running rampant. The witches against us. An open trial, a new leader, is finally what ended such misery.”
The mutterings of the crowd begin to shift from suspicion to interest.
“A fine speech,” Margaret drawls. “But you’re forgetting a very important fact: the only reason those trials were called is because there was no heir. We have one here who is more than capable.”
The duchess gestures toward Blodwyn, but the princess stands frozen like a statue, her expression inscrutable.
“She is no prince,” someone at the back calls. “Riven is a realm of kings.”
“And look what happened to ours,” yet another person adds. “Not just King Callen, but his father before him. The other princes—Arthur and Tiergan.”
Curse, the word eddies through the room in undertones.
Margaret scoffs. “If you’re just going to spout superstitious nonsense—”
“It’s not nonsense, Your Grace,” another courtier calls. “Not with the king’s condition. Malum is only worsening. Warbeck’s right. An open trial can help us find a proper heir.”
The court grows even bolder, many shouting their agreement or banging their fists on the tables, rattling the dishes. I watch the scene unfold in silence, my shadows weaving around me as I attempt to calculate my next move.
“This is ridiculous.” Margaret throws up her hands. “If it’s so simple to abolish the royal line, then why hasn’t it happened before?”
That’s a very good question. I look to Parnell.
“Because while the council approves the trials themselves,” my steward replies, “a challenge to the original claimant can only be granted by the king.”
And no king would be idiotic enough to agree to such an allowance.
“There you have it,” Margaret says, matter-of-factly. “With Callen in such a state, he cannot possibly give his consent. This is—”
“The king or the regent,” Parnell amends.
All at once, the weight of the hall’s attention settles over me. Margaret turns slowly, like an animal who has just sensed that its predator is far closer than it believed. Malum shivers to life behind my sternum. This is my decision, I realize.
A thousand thoughts and possibilities swarm in my mind. Common sense tells me to refuse. Warbeck should be punished, and swiftly, for this betrayal. But another idea begins to take shape:
If I did open the trials, the challenges would no longer be ceremonial.
Blodwyn could lose. And if she does lose, or if Margaret believes someone else might snatch the throne instead of the princess, it might persuade the duchess to bargain with me.
It’s a gamble—a large one. But an open trial may serve me better than permitting Margaret to run rampant through this court.
The duchess assumed she could swoop into Riven, declare the trials, and rule through her niece.
I’m not going to let that happen. Not without a fight.
Yes, my shadows seem to whisper. Show her who you are.
“As you said,” I begin, speaking directly to Margaret, “Riven has an heir who is more than capable. Let her prove herself so. The challenge stands.”
The hall cheers and I savor the spark of fury in Margaret’s eyes. The knowledge that, at least for the time being, I’ve won the upper hand. But then my attention catches on someone else: Blodwyn. She stands at her place, practically vibrating with rage.
Without a word, she turns on her heel and bolts out of the hall.