Chapter Twenty-One Ayleth
Chapter Twenty-One
Ayleth
Given the chaos of the trials, the mistress of the household is so eager for the extra help that she doesn’t bother to ask questions about Jacquetta’s mysterious arrival.
A story about how Jacquetta is the maid of one of the visiting nobles is all it takes to secure her a place among the palace staff.
For the next two days, I watch the other witch through the glass of my mirror.
I keep expecting her to sneak off to send a raven, try to scry in a bucket of water, or otherwise communicate with the covens.
But Jacquetta’s days are filled with emptying chamber pots, scrubbing linens, and other menial labor.
As much as I revel in witnessing her punishment, it doesn’t erase my immediate problems: the trials and Margaret.
The former of which is barreling on at a breakneck pace.
There’s less than a week left until the Remembrance Ball and I can practically feel the minutes draining away.
“From Lord Richardson, Your Majesty.” Master Parnell passes me a letter. “He’s removing his son from the competition and declaring his support for the princess.”
I scan the writing and curse under my breath.
This is the seventh withdrawal since my conversation with Margaret at the mews.
Vain as she is, I’d hoped that the incident with the falcon would keep the duchess sulking in her rooms until her face healed.
But Margaret returned to court almost immediately, sporting her wounds like badges of honor.
In fact, I think she might even be adding rouge to make the scratches appear worse than they are.
Her orbit of sycophants has only grown, all of them cooing about the duchess’s supposed bravery as though she emerged from a battle.
“Where does that leave us?” I ask Parnell.
“Down to ten claimants, Majesty,” he replies. “Which may be good news. If the rest of the trials progress in the princess’s favor, we could have Darryn’s troops in time to bolster our forces before another attack.”
Which is exactly what I should want. But not like this. I crumple the letter and toss it into the fire, watching as the parchment catches.
You will burn, Mother’s warning rises from its grave.
“Is there anything else?” I ask Parnell.
“Just one more matter,” he replies, shuffling his papers. “That of the prisoners. They still refuse to reveal whether Rycinthia was responsible for the assault at the hunt. And they continue to insist that Meira was the source of the magic we witnessed.”
Meira, indeed. Shade has yet to discover any information, either—about the covens or Nerissa. My shadows dart around me, as frustrated as I am.
“Then schedule their executions,” I instruct, tapping my ring against my wineglass. “If the Followers are so desperate for their false goddess, let them join her.”
“As you wish, Majesty. Though, I did want to note one abnormality: The original prisoner count was twelve when the party returned from the forest. However”—he withdraws a sheet of parchment and places it in front of me—“when I consulted the log this morning, there are only eleven. And one entry was crossed out.”
He indicates a thick black line running across the words: Female prisoner, unnamed. My blood flashes cold. I’d been the one to draw that line.
“What do the guards say about it?”
“They claim it must have been an error,” he replies. “And there was no evidence of an escape from the cells.”
Some of the tension in my shoulders unknots. “Then they must be right.”
“Perhaps.” But Parnell is clearly unconvinced. “I’ll look into it, nonetheless. We can’t be too careful.”
Of course this would be the one time that Parnell’s meticulous nature thwarts my plans. But I can’t do anything about it now, save for warn Jacquetta. Maybe she can use that magic of hers for a concealment charm.
And if she cannot? that voice presses. If she is discovered?
In the dungeons, I’d threatened to let her burn, but now…
I push the pesky thought away. Whatever fate befalls Jacquetta is her own doing. I just hope she discovers what I need before Parnell sniffs her out. That’s what I’m worried about, I tell myself. The arrangement with Margaret. Not Jacquetta herself.
Because there is nothing left between us at all.
—
“Are you going to eat that or just massacre it?” Joan asks at dinner that evening.
She motions with her fork to my plate, where my portion of venison has been shredded to a stringy pulp.
I grimace, sliding the whole mess as far from me as possible.
I’ve been agitated since my meeting with Parnell and dinner hasn’t helped.
A pair of dancers twirls past the High Table—Margaret and another courtier.
The duchess is definitely applying rouge to her wounds.
The worst part is that it suits her. With the stark red scratches down her cheek, she looks like one of the warrior queens from Sybil’s tapestries.
“Did you hear what happened to her?” Joan asks, nodding toward Margaret. “One of the falcons broke free. From what I understand, she’s lucky it didn’t gouge her eye.”
“Pity it didn’t.”
Joan glances at me sideways. “The duchess’s injury wouldn’t have anything to do with your promise to talk to her, would it?”
“Of course not.” I sip more wine. “I can’t control a falcon.”
Not well enough, anyway.
“Well, whatever you said to Princess Margaret evidently worked,” Joan continues. “My family records are back in the archives, along with Anora’s.”
Perhaps I should be relieved at hearing that Margaret complied with my request, but it only increases my suspicion. I know the duchess well enough by now to understand that she always has a plan of her own. A countermove. The only question is when she will play it.
“Just keep your distance from her from now on,” I tell Joan. “And don’t worry about any further investigation. I have matters under control.”
“Really?” Joan arches a skeptical eyebrow. “How?”
Because I’m keeping a secret witch in the palace. Joan doesn’t need to know about that, though. Revealing Jacquetta’s presence would only lead to Joan learning that I’ve been lying to her for the past three years. That I control the very force everyone fears. And I can’t have that.
“Things are improving with Blodwyn,” I say, though it’s not entirely true.
Our conversation in the library was tense, and I didn’t miss the princess’s jab about Sybil.
But I could sense that, on some level, my words reached her.
Perhaps, with a little more effort, I can show Blodwyn that I’m not the evil villain she believes me to be.
My gaze drifts to where the princess is conversing with a few courtiers on the other side of the hall.
In time, Blodwyn might even trust me again. Might even…
Careful, that voice whispers. Don’t let her close.
The heralds trumpet their horns, drawing my focus to the front of the hall.
“Attention!” Weston calls, rushing into the chamber. “Attention, everyone! There’s been an emergency.”
Confused chatter chases itself among the court.
“What are you talking about?” I ask Weston, rising to my feet. “What emergency?”
“There has been”—he pauses—“a witch discovered in the palace!”
Witch carries in gasps and cries. A high, tinny note of panic rings in my own ears as two guards lead a woman into the hall. Her head hangs low and her clothes are in tatters. Around her shoulders is a swath of red fabric, clearly representing a crimson cloak.
Is that…Jacquetta?
Fear tightens around my lungs. I was a fool to think she wouldn’t be caught. I should have gone straight to the kitchens after my meeting with Parnell and—
One of the guards yanks the prisoner’s head up. Her face is crusted with grime, her eyes huge and manic. But they’re green, I register. Not blue. Which means it’s not her. Not Jacquetta.
Relief whooshes through me, but it’s quickly doused by a livid spark of anger. My shadows gather around me, waiting for my command.
“What are you playing at, Weston?” I demand. “This person is not a witch.”
“And how, exactly, have you determined that?”
Murmurs ripple as Margaret steps out of the crowd. I curse myself for being an idiot. Speaking too quickly, as always.
“The iron,” I reply, scrabbling for an answer. “All the prisoners were tested. If there was a witch among them, we’d know by now.”
Sure enough, the woman’s arm is visible. The iron cuff is still affixed to her wrist, but the skin beneath it is unaffected, proclaiming her innocence.
“Fine. Perhaps she’s not a witch,” Margaret allows with a light shrug. “But this woman is guilty of treason nonetheless. I thought we might administer our own justice. Unless you have reason to object?”
She arches her eyebrow and studies me, waiting. What is Margaret’s game with this stunt? Is she hoping I’ll stand up for this woman so that she can paint me a traitor alongside her? Call me a witch? Is that what she was getting at with her questions about Nox after the hunt?
“No,” I say, lifting my chin and daring her to accuse me. “I don’t object.”
“Wonderful.” Margaret’s lips curl into one of her feline smiles. “Then let the fun begin.”
At her signal, servants emerge with trays of rotting fruit and splintered animal bones.
Buckets of manure. The delighted courtiers respond at once, scooping up handfuls of filth and hurling them at the prisoner.
The woman’s bare feet slap against the floor as she bolts from one end of the hall to the other, wailing as the guards buffet her back to the center.
And her attempts to flee only heighten the court’s frenzy.
Some in the crowd begin chucking their shoes.
A heel clips the woman on her temple and she crumples, sobbing and huddling under the tattered crimson fabric.
Her pain shouldn’t bother me. Margaret is right—the woman is a traitor.
A Follower. But, in this moment, all I see in the woman’s helpless form is my former sisters: Nyssandra. Isolde. Eden.
You and I are exactly the same, Callen’s voice needles at me.
The chamber is suddenly too hot, the walls too narrow.
I leave the High Table and escape out the first side door I can find.
The night’s chill prickles over my skin, and I suck down burning lungfuls of air to try and settle the storm of emotion within me.
The wind picks up, groaning through the gardens.
Which are not, I realize, empty. I can just make out the outline of a person on the far edge, heading to the wall.
My breath catches, recalling the woman I thought I saw from my window. The spirit. Could it have returned?
Moonlight fights through a break in the clouds and pours over the shape. One that is not a spirit. It’s Jacquetta.
And after a quick glance around herself, the other witch hauls herself up the side of the garden wall and disappears into the night.