Chapter Eighteen Ayleth
Chapter Eighteen
Ayleth
“Are you certain?” I ask, pacing in front of the fire.
Yes, my queen, Shade replies. I found no others.
An entire day has passed since I visited Jacquetta in the dungeons and I’ve had my Huntsman and Callen scouring the areas near the palace ever since.
But there’s not even a hint of Mother or the other Heirs.
No sign of Nerissa, either. And Jacquetta hasn’t uttered a word.
I expected that, with the iron eating into her blood, she would call for me and confess the witches’ plans.
But she’s remained stubbornly silent. As have the other prisoners.
According to Parnell’s interrogation reports, the captured Followers continue to insist that they serve their true queen, Meira.
That the false goddess herself was responsible for the crows and the storm.
That she personally descended to strike down the wicked usurper who dissolved the Order.
Ridiculous. And infuriating, given that none of the emphatic zealots mention Jacquetta, or any other witch, as being among their number.
But it must have been one of the witches disguising herself as Meira.
Why won’t Jacquetta admit it? Why is she sulking down there, letting the iron gnaw away at her?
Is she really going to die for the covens? Unless…
“What if she’s telling the truth?” I ask Shade.
His shadows drift in a pensive tempo. She?
“Jacquetta,” I clarify. “She claims that the witches weren’t responsible for the spells. Could she be right? Could there be someone else…like me?”
Better than you, that voice taunts.
Shade’s shadows twine around me, as if in reassurance.
There is no one like you, my queen, he promises. The witch lies. As all witches do.
He’s right, especially about Mother and the Heirs. But much as I want to believe Shade, Jacquetta’s desperation was plain—especially where Nerissa was concerned. Was it all a scheme? A pretense—like we were?
“Whoever it is, I still don’t understand how she’s using her power,” I go on. “Jacquetta as well. I thought the witches lost their abilities when the Veil shattered.”
And I know they didn’t bind themselves to Malum.
It does not matter, Shade replies. We will find them. Finish this. Shall I start with the one in the dungeons?
I pause, watching the flames dance in the hearth.
“Not yet,” I tell Shade. “I want Jacquetta to call for me herself.”
Want her to beg. Malum shudders behind my sternum.
Take care, my queen, Shade warns. She will destroy all that you have built.
His shadows snake toward the slender box near Callen’s mirror and wind around my crown. The broken pieces of the Bloodstones glitter in the firelight.
From the darkness will rise a queen, the words of the prophecy resurface.
I’ve sacrificed everything to be that queen. For the crimson crown that heralds a new age. And I’m not going to allow Jacquetta, or anyone else, to rob me of what’s mine.
“She won’t,” I tell Shade. “Not if I destroy her first.”
Shade’s eyes shine with malice. Yes, my queen.
“Ayleth?” Someone calls.
I motion hurriedly for Shade to go. “We’ll talk later.”
My Huntsman bows, then steps back into his shadows and is swallowed by the darkness. An instant later, Fitz bounds into the chamber at full speed, skidding on the wood floor as he spots my cat. Nettle flops onto her back and swats at his snout.
“Oh.” Joan scans the room. “I thought I heard someone in here with you.”
“Just me,” I assure her.
She frowns, a crease digging between her brows, but then lets it go. “All right. Well, I’m glad I caught you alone. I need to talk to you. About Margaret.”
“Was there something useful in the archives?” I ask, hopeful.
After the spectacular failure of the hunt, I would give almost anything to bring the duchess to heel.
Especially after Margaret’s needling questions relating to Nox.
I haven’t seen the Nevenwolf since the forest and instructed Shade to keep him out of sight until the Hunt abandons their search for him.
“Perhaps,” Joan says. “I found a brief mention of a scandal involving the duchess. I assumed it was a forbidden romance or the like. For almost immediately after the incident occurred, Princess Margaret was betrothed to the duke and packed away to Darryn.”
Given what I know of Margaret, a tryst wouldn’t surprise me at all.
“Did you determine who it was with? They might prove helpful.”
Especially if things didn’t end well between them.
“I tried to,” Joan tells me. “But when I returned to the archives today, all of those documents had been removed. Along with my own family records. And Anora’s.”
“Your records? Who would have…” Joan deals me a meaningful look and comprehension dawns. “Margaret.”
“That’s my guess,” she agrees. “I assume the duchess learned that I’m looking into her past and is warning me away.”
And if Margaret is digging through the royal archives, what else is she searching for?
From the direction of my mirror, I hear the faint echo of Callen’s laughter.
“I’ll handle it,” I say, cursing the day I permitted Margaret to set foot in Riven.
“Be careful,” Joan warns. “With Blodwyn’s victory, the duchess will only feel more entitled. Things are getting dangerous.”
Malum expands behind my sternum.
Margaret may consider herself a danger, but she has no idea what I’m capable of.
—
A storm threatens by the time I locate the duchess.
A line of bruise-colored clouds trudges in from the west, matching my foul mood.
Such weather would drive most of the court indoors, but Margaret, Weston, and a handful of other courtiers are clustered in a ring around a huge, black-winged falcon, which is secured on a wooden perch.
Thunder growls in the distance as I stalk across the yard to join them, my shadows billowing behind me like a cloak.
“Margaret,” I call when I’m within earshot. “A word.”
“Ah—Ayleth.” The duchess beams at me. “What a pleasure to have your company. Come and see my falcon.”
The bird flaps its wings. And I notice that the ground around the falcon’s perch is littered with pieces of what looks to be raw meat.
“He’s beautiful,” I comment, though I could not possibly care less. “If you would—”
“She, actually,” the duchess corrects. “I much prefer female falcons. They have such sharp instincts. In fact, I’ve named this one Vengeance.”
The bird locks eyes with me and shrieks.
“Oh, don’t let her frighten you,” Margaret goes on. “Weston, why don’t you show the queen our little game?”
“Me?” he complains, “I just went and nearly lost a finger for it.”
He holds up his hand, where his index finger is indeed wrapped in a handkerchief. Several other courtiers in the group are sporting their own injuries. But Margaret is unbothered.
“Don’t be so spineless,” she chides him. “Go on.”
Weston grimaces, but swigs deeply from his flask, then fishes a piece of raw meat from the bucket. The falcon’s attention remains pinned to the courtier’s approach.
“Here you are,” Weston croons, dangling the scrap between the two fingers of his unbandaged hand, his arm extended as far as possible as he inches toward the falcon. “Nice birdie. Pretty birdie. Just—”
Weston bellows as the falcon snaps.
“Damn that creature!” He jerks back, clutching his hand. “And this is my sword arm.”
“It’s not like that’s any good for anything,” a man quips.
The others roar with laughter. Weston lunges for the offending courtier and they tussle.
“Better luck next time,” Margaret says airily. Then to me, “Isn’t this fun?”
Aside from jousting, this is the most idiotic game I’ve ever seen in my life. And I have no patience for the duchess’s antics.
“Did you remove Joan’s family records from the archives?”
Margaret blinks at me. “Why, yes. I’m making an effort to acquaint myself with the new noble families.
There are a good many, after all. Since you asked, I noticed that you didn’t have records.
Just the marriage certificate when you wed Callen.
A rather odd one, I must say. His signature appeared quite out of character. And there were no witnesses listed.”
Thunder grumbles in the distance.
“I would appreciate it if you would return everything you took from the archives,” I say, ignoring her comment. “Immediately.”
“Of course,” Margaret flashes me one of her courtier’s smiles. “And perhaps you might grant me a similar favor. I’ve learned that several claimants have dropped out of the competition following the incident at the hunt. Three, actually.”
This is the first I’m learning of anyone withdrawing. “How do you know that?”
“Master Parnell. Did he not tell you?”
He didn’t. And I’ll be speaking with my steward about his future interactions with the duchess. For now, I plaster on a smile of my own.
“Yes, he did. It slipped my mind.”
“One can hardly blame you for being a bit forgetful with all that’s been going on,” Margaret replies. “But that’s why we should work together.”
She loops her arm through mine and leads me away from the group. My skin crawls at her touch and the too-sweet cloud of her perfume.
“I wonder if we might,” she continues, “encourage the remaining claimants to exit the competition.”
“And how would we do that?”
“I have my own methods of persuasion, of course,” Margaret says with a laugh. “But perhaps if you offered incentives, the others could be convinced to do what’s right.”
The falcon shrieks again. It’s not lost on me that this is the very conversation I was hoping to conduct with Margaret, only reversed. I wanted her to come to me, begging to negotiate.
“Surely such interference would disqualify the princess,” I remark.
“No one will know but us.” Her grip on my arm tightens. “And you do wish to support Blodwyn, don’t you? That’s what you claimed when you presented her with that enchanted bow.”
She mentions the incident innocently enough, but I catch the glimmer in her gray eyes—one that is so much like Callen’s that the place behind my left ribs trembles.
“I do,” I reply tightly.
“Excellent,” she says. “And don’t worry. Once Blodwyn is crowned, you’ll have the support of my army. And I’ll make sure you’re well taken care of after the war’s end. A comfortable house. A generous allowance. We’ll even invite you to court from time to time.”
Like a pet. Like that falcon, chained to a perch and paraded around for everyone’s entertainment. Malum swells behind my sternum.
“I’ll have to consider it,” I say.
“Very well. But don’t take too long,” she warns. “The next trial begins in just over a week. The more claimants we can whittle down, the better. Clear the way for Blodwyn to assume her rightful place.”
My place.
Margaret extracts her arm from mine and glides back to the rest of the group. The other courtiers flock around her, fawning and doting on her. Leaving me outside of their circle. Again. I am sick of this woman poking her nose where it doesn’t belong. Wrecking everything I’ve worked years to build.
Malum pounds in my veins. This time, I do not contain it.
My shadows dive toward the falcon. The bird shrieks, lifting straight up into the air with such fury that its jesses snap.
Margaret screams as the falcon soars toward her.
But she’s not quick enough to avoid it. The bird’s deadly talons score the duchess’s face, leaving three slashes across her cheek.
Blood drips onto the dusting of snow, crimson against white.
“I’m fine,” she insists as the others rush to help her.
But then, as though she can feel my attention, Margaret looks in my direction.
“Well,” I say, “it appears that you were right. That bird has excellent instincts.”