Chapter Fourteen Blodwyn
Chapter Fourteen
Blodwyn
“I can’t believe she did that,” I mutter under my breath to Aunt Margaret, who stands beside me with the other claimants. The weight of their stares presses down on me, their hushed conversations brushing against me like insect wings.
“Can’t you?” my aunt replies mildly. “It’s no worse than her other crimes.”
Aunt Margaret is right. No matter what Verity said in Ayleth’s defense, I was a fool to believe that the so-called queen could be anything but my enemy.
“Don’t waste your energy on her now,” Aunt Margaret says. “Focus on the hunt. How are you feeling?”
Like a nest of hornets is trapped inside me.
I’m so nervous that I’d barely managed to choke down a few bites of breakfast this morning.
I scan the rest of the claimants, all of whom have probably been training with a weapon since they could stand.
Not like me. I’d only begun my archery lessons two years ago.
My attention lands on one claimant in particular, with broad shoulders and wind-ruffled black hair.
He stares blankly back at me, his jaw firmly set.
I can see his thoughts written on his expression:
You don’t belong here.
The long call of a hunting horn resonates over the crowd.
The excited chatter ceases, all attention pivoting to the doors, where someone gallops out of the palace wearing the most ludicrous costume I’ve ever seen.
Judging from the antlers affixed to its head, I assume it’s intended to be a stag.
And there must be two people inside it, for its front and back halves keep pulling in opposite directions, eliciting a storm of laughter from the onlookers.
In the next moment, Sir Weston charges into the courtyard like a knight into battle, firing off a slew of shots from a small bow.
The player in the rear of the costume makes a show of kicking its hind legs when one of the arrows lodges in its rump.
Sir Weston shoots again and this time the actor in front bucks and whinnies, then wilts dramatically to the ground.
Red silk ribbons explode from some hidden device within the costume.
“Welcome, all,” Sir Weston announces, “to the first of the three challenges in Braxos’s Trials: the Hunt!”
Cheers erupt, wild and raucous. Aunt Margaret squeezes my shoulder, but I keep staring at the stag’s lifeless body.
It’s only a costume, but I can’t help picturing the animals in my menagerie.
How am I supposed to kill something like that?
Or anything at all? Even in my lessons at Aunt Margaret’s, I preferred shooting at stationary targets.
The guilt over the few rabbits and grouse I killed plagued me for weeks.
You don’t belong, those awful words again.
“As we all know,” Weston continues, “Braxos, first of the line of White, rose from humble beginnings as an apple farmer. In his quest to claim the throne, Braxos was challenged on three virtues: bravery, wisdom, and justice. In this initial trial, our claimants will demonstrate their own valor.”
The crowd—everyone except me—roars.
“Twenty deer have been released into the hunting grounds, each one marked with a gilded apple.” He extracts one from his doublet and displays it.
Watery sunlight gleams on its polished surface.
“Those who return from the forest with their prize before dusk will remain in the contest. Everyone else…will be disqualified and sent home.”
A shiver runs between my shoulder blades. Because where is home for me? Not here. Not if I lose. Aunt Margaret’s estate, then? Would she really welcome me back if I fail? If I’ve made a failure out of her as well? A crow calls, its sinister cry resonating in my very bones.
“The rest of the party, including myself, will be patrolling the forest. Each time a claimant secures their place, we’ll sound this horn.
” Sir Weston brings the instrument to his lips and sets off a long, rolling blast. “When all apples have been retrieved, or when time has expired, you will hear three such calls, indicating the end of the trial. And then…we celebrate!”
The crowd whoops their enthusiasm.
“Claimants,” Sir Weston shouts, “to your horses! The trial has begun!”
He trumpets the horn again and everyone scatters.
“Good luck, Blodwyn,” Aunt Margaret says, pulling me in for a last embrace. “Remember—you were born for this.”
I wish I could absorb her confidence. Instead, I take one final look at the White Palace. The next time I stand here, I’ll either still be heir to Riven, or I’ll be…
Absolutely nothing.
—
What must be hours later, the dull echo of Sir Weston’s hunting horn reaches my ears.
It isn’t followed by a second, which means yet another claimant has successfully rejoined the rest of the party.
Was that the sixth? Or the seventh? I’ve lost count.
I curse under my breath and glance up into the lattice of tree branches.
The sun is difficult to spot beneath the clouds, but it’s much lower than it was when we started.
And I haven’t glimpsed even a flash of gold so far.
I force myself to take a breath, fighting the rising tightness in my chest. Panic won’t do me any good now.
“I don’t suppose you can help me find one of these wretched apples?” I ask my horse. The solid black charger, aptly named Phantom, merely snorts in reply. “I’ll take that as a no.”
I nudge his sides and steer him deeper into the forest. Though I technically grew up around these woods, I don’t recognize them.
And they’re certainly not like any forests I’ve traveled in Darryn.
At Aunt Margaret’s estate, everything is vibrant and alive.
The ground is carpeted in a soft layer of nettle and moss, sprinkled with giant ferns twice my size.
The trees are covered in climbing vines.
In autumn, the leaves turn such bright reds and golds that it seems like jewels are suspended from the branches.
Here, though, everything is black and barren. The trees stretch up like knives into the gray winter sky, their naked branches clacking together like hollow bones. Like something is out here. Something that shouldn’t be. A crow calls, its shadow skimming over my face.
Looking for you.
A twig snaps nearby, followed by several crunches.
Movement that’s far too heavy to be a rabbit or a grouse.
I pull Phantom to a halt and slip from the saddle, positioning myself behind a wide oak.
Weak sunlight filters through the forest canopy and into the clearing beyond, where I spot a shock of red hair.
Another claimant. He pulls his bow out and takes aim. But what is he—
An animal picks through the brush. A stag. It’s a massive, majestic beast, pure white against the drab of the forest. His branching antlers curve elegantly above his head, and there, dangling from the tallest one, is a golden apple.
My breath catches.
Kill it before he does, a small voice urges.
Every instinct rebels against the idea. But if I brought down a stag, it would put an end to the questions about my place in the trials.
Perhaps even about the curse. Ignoring the guilt already building in my chest, I draw my bow from my back, then reach for an arrow.
The stag flicks his tail, bending his long neck as he sniffs the ground.
Wood creaks as I pull the bowstring, my palm slick against the weapon, heartbeat hammering against my eardrums.
Do it, that voice commands. Now!
The stag’s ears twitch, as though he hears the voice as well.
He lifts his head, his striking, amber-colored eyes fixed directly on me.
The golden apple glimmers from where it hangs on the beast’s antlers.
He looks absurd, the poor creature. And he doesn’t deserve to be caught up in some inane competition.
Doesn’t deserve to die so that I can win a silly golden apple. A throne.
And that’s when I know: I can’t do it.
I let my shot go, but it sails wide and thunks into the trunk of a tree.
The stag startles and gallops off into the forest. But my relief at sparing his life is short-lived. Brush rustles as a figure rises from the far side of the clearing. The other claimant. His blue eyes, stark against his white skin, glitter with rage.
“You ruined my shot,” he all but growls. “You’ll pay for that.”
Silver glints as he yanks a knife from his belt. Panic lights in my veins and I sprint back to Phantom, fumbling into the saddle as the boy charges toward me. He reaches for my ankle and I kick at him, earning a satisfying crunch of bone that I hope was his nose.
“Go!” I yell to Phantom, not daring to look back. “Hurry!”
The horse crashes through the woods, but the claimant is close behind me. I keep low in the saddle, ducking under branches as Phantom leaps over fallen logs and flies above the brush.
“Come on!” I urge.
Phantom obeys, plunging deeper into the forest. But we don’t get far before a bird swoops in front of me.
A crow. I dodge in the saddle before it collides with my face, but another soon follows.
Then another. What the hell is this? I grit my teeth, propelling Phantom faster.
He veers east and then west, but the crows are relentless.
Three, or perhaps even five, descend onto our path, winging past me in an intricate dance.
Phantom swerves out of their way, causing me to wobble in the saddle.
“Stop!” I cry out.
He ignores me, increasing his pace.