Chapter Sixteen Ayleth
Chapter Sixteen
Ayleth
News of the attack reaches the palace before we do.
The halls are flooded with courtiers by the time we return, everyone shouting questions.
Several call out to me, but I ignore them and head directly to my chamber, intent on summoning Callen and demanding to know what happened in the forest. But the imprisoned king will have to wait.
Joan paces outside the entrance of my rooms, her brow pinched with worry.
“Ayleth!” She rushes up to me. “Thank goodness you’re all right. I heard it was Followers. And—your arm! What happened?”
Jacquetta.
By now, I assume the guards have carted the other witch away to the dungeons. But I swear that I can sense her presence through the marble and stone, like a faint heartbeat humming against my skin. Like our proximity has caused that invisible tether to tighten between us.
Perhaps it will just keep pulling, until one of us is dead.
“Shall I summon the physicians, Majesty?” Parnell weaves his way through the flurry of courtiers.
“No,” I say, adjusting my sleeve before he can get a good look at the wound. “But you can tell me what’s being done. Not here, though.”
I motion for them both to follow me into my chambers, away from the commotion of the panicked court.
“The Hunt has been dispatched to sweep the forest, of course,” Parnell begins once the doors shut behind us. “And I’m sure Your Majesty will be relieved to know that both the princess and the duchess were escorted to the palace safely.”
“That’s good news,” Joan agrees.
Perhaps about Blodwyn, but not Margaret. That woman has more lives than Nettle.
“How did Followers get so close?” I demand. “And the witches?”
“Witches?” Joan echoes, wide-eyed.
“I’m not certain yet,” Parnell replies. “With the trials going on, I assume they disguised themselves among the visitors in the White City. I did warn Your Majesty about a resurgence.”
“You said the Followers rallied around a new leader,” I reply, annoyed. “Not that they were capable of—whatever that was.”
I think back to the crows I didn’t call.
The storm I didn’t summon. In fact, I’ve never accomplished anything like that with my power.
It sounds more like spells in an Elemental’s arsenal.
But there aren’t Elementals anymore. And certainly not one who possesses such skill.
Malum churns behind my sternum. I need to talk to Shade.
“Indeed.” Parnell inclines his chin. “And, given today’s events, I now believe that the Followers’ leader is very likely tied to Rycinthia—and may even be a witch.
One masquerading as Meira, which would explain what occurred in the forest. I assume this is King Frances’s newest tactic: to use the Followers to incite a war within Riven’s borders. ”
And he’s using the witches to do so. Fresh anger kindles inside me.
Is that what Jacquetta was doing there? Perhaps the campsite Shade discovered really was hers.
And she’s obviously retained enough of her gift to be able to cast her own spells.
Except…Jacquetta appeared as surprised as I was about the crows and the storm.
She fought against the Followers. Why would she do that if she was pretending to be Meira?
And she certainly didn’t spell the tree to fall on top of herself.
Was it one of the others? But who? And why had they stopped when they did?
“We’ll get to the bottom of it,” Parnell continues, matter-of-factly. “The prisoners will all be put to iron. If there is a witch among them, we’ll know soon enough.”
I stiffen at the mention of the test, one I devised myself. Each prisoner is fitted with an iron shackle to determine whether or not they carry latent magic. If Jacquetta is already wearing one, it will take a few days before she physically reacts. But what then?
What does it matter? that voice observes. She deserves to burn.
“Is that all?” I ask Parnell.
“For now, Your Majesty. I’ll call a council meeting when things have settled. Let me know if I can be of service otherwise.” His crow-like attention tracks to my arm. “Are you certain that you don’t require Dr. Locke’s services?”
“I’m fine,” I tell him firmly.
Parnell hesitates, like he wants to argue, but then bows and finally takes his leave.
“Do you think he’s right?” Joan asks when we’re alone again. “That the covens have joined with the Followers? Or have pretended to?”
“It doesn’t sound likely, but I suppose it could be true,” I admit. “What I saw today was definitely caused by magic. The witches shouldn’t be able to use it, though. They lost their power when the Veil fell.”
Most of them, anyway. I still don’t understand how Jacquetta was able to manage those spells. And who conjured the crows? Or the storm? The questions tangle inside my brain, impossible to unknot.
“Let me tend to that at least,” Joan says, nodding at my injured arm.
She unfastens my sleeve and peels it gently away. The skin around the cut has already started to knit itself back together. I don’t notice any telltale streaks around the wound, either, like what I saw with Rhea on the night of the Hunt’s raid. Which means—
“She didn’t use iron,” I murmur.
Why not? Jacquetta wants me dead. The desire was written plainly on her face when she fired the shot. Then again, there was something else written there, too. When she was pinned beneath me. Unbidden, the memory of Jacquetta’s skin against mine resurfaces. The scent of juniper it carried.
“Who didn’t?” Joan asks, snapping me out of my thoughts.
“No one,” I lie.
Because that’s what Jacquetta is to me now. And whatever the other witch did today, it was to serve her own ends.
It’s time that I discover exactly what those are.
—
The smell of unwashed bodies and damp stone greets me as I enter the dungeons.
To avoid the guards, I have my shadows lead me through the old servants’ passages.
It’s a tactic I’ve employed frequently over the past few years, preferring to keep my interactions with the dungeons’ coven residents discreet.
Not that there have been many such visits.
With Shade patrolling the realm, only a handful of witches have been housed here since I seized the throne.
Never Mother or the Heirs, of course. In fact, I only saw Mother a few times after my shadows dragged her away—short snatches of her in the mirror as she wandered the realm, broken and lost. I assume she eventually crawled back to Selene and the others, before they all escaped to Rycinthia to grovel at King Frances’s feet.
Other witches, those captured by the Hunt, were typically too old or weak for such a journey.
Those like Mathilde, I think, recalling the surly witch with her rheumy eyes and the string of teeth she kept tied to her belt.
Choice is a magic in and of itself, she’d said.
The witches housed within these walls certainly didn’t agree.
One of them was a Wayward. She reminded me of Mathilde—the same gruff exterior and bristly wisdom.
Waywards rejected the covens and refused to bind themselves to the Veil.
And I hoped, for a brief joyous moment, that I’d found someone who would understand me.
Who would accept me, the way Mathilde had done.
Like so many instances in my life, I was bitterly disappointed.
Witches do not wear crowns, the elder witch had scoffed. Whatever you’ve summoned here, I want no part of it. Send me to the pyre.
Years later, the words still sting. Not because of the witch who spoke them, nor any guilt over her death.
But because I couldn’t dismiss the feeling that Mathilde would have said the same.
That, even after all her kindness, she’d rather burn than live in the world I’ve created.
Would turn her back on me if she saw who I really am, just like everyone else did.
Malum swells behind my breastbone, as if in reassurance. I soak in its darkness, banishing the memory of the witch and the needling worries she stirred. She doesn’t matter. None of them do. Especially not the one with blue eyes who smells like juniper.
Jacquetta rouses at the sound of my footsteps.
She’d been huddled in the far corner of the cell, still wearing the clothes from the forest, which are muddied and ripped from the battle.
Torches gutter as I draw my shadows near, shielding us from the prying gazes of the other prisoners, or anyone else who might interrupt.
For a few moments, Jacquetta and I just stand there, memories eddying between us.
Tipsy dances under the stars. Whispered secrets in the South Tower. Promises made—and then broken.
“Well,” Jacquetta says at last, her attention flitting to the top of my head. “I gather the rumors are true. After all these years, you’re still obsessed with those magical rocks.”
Heat flames in my face. I suddenly regret that I’d taken the time to wash.
Dressed in one of my finer gowns, a deep crimson brocade embroidered with black.
That I’d worn the Bloodstone crown. Measures I took because I wanted Jacquetta to see me.
To know what I am and that I’m not afraid of her.
Instead, under her appraising gaze, I just feel like a fool.
“How’s your arm?” I ask, lifting my chin. “Does that iron shackle hurt?”
“Not at all,” she replies. But she tugs at her sleeve, giving herself away. “How’s yours?”
“Fine. You were never a good shot.”
She just snorts. “Please. If I wanted you dead, you’d still be lying in the forest.”
Apparently, the past few years have done nothing to temper her arrogance. My shadows lengthen, feeding off my energy. Enough of these games.
“Then what were you doing there?” I ask. “I know about the Follower groups—that Rycinthia is paying them. I know about their new leader, supposedly Meira come to life.”
She shrugs. “Sounds like you know everything, then.”
“Don’t toy with me,” I reply, my voice low and lethal. “Was it one of you? An Heir?”
“You think I’d tell you if it was?”