Chapter Twenty-Five Ayleth
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ayleth
Wood splinters as lances slam into each other, followed by the crunch of metal and bone as one of the riders is unhorsed.
The crowd roars, practically feral with enthusiasm.
It’s been years since we hosted a proper joust at the palace.
The event was banned due to Callen’s accident—and because I despise the sport.
Margaret, however, demanded that one be added to the week’s festivities.
And so I’ve spent the past few hours crammed into the royal box in the freezing weather, watching idiots charge each other with large sticks.
But I can hardly focus on the matches.
It’s all going to come crashing down around you.
Jacquetta’s warning slinks through my mind no matter what I do to bury it.
She’s wrong. I carved out Callen’s heart, something she never would have had the courage to do.
I’ve spent years learning the inner workings of this court and bending it to my will.
What does it matter whether Roland—or anyone else—knows about Malum?
They wouldn’t understand. Not yet, anyway.
And until they do, it’s safer that I keep my true abilities secret.
I’m not hiding, I reason, I’m protecting myself.
Malum expands behind my sternum, as if in reassurance.
But its presence isn’t as comforting as usual.
The clang of armor meeting the ground brings me back into the tiltyard.
The crowd launches to their feet, either cheering wildly or booing at the result of the match.
But I notice that one person doesn’t join them.
Blodwyn is sitting one seat down from me, with Margaret’s empty place between us.
For all her insistence on the joust, the duchess hasn’t deigned to join us.
And Blodwyn doesn’t appear as though she’s enjoying herself, either.
“How long will this last?” she asks with a sigh.
I blink, surprised to be acknowledged. Typically, I can feel the princess’s frostiness from several feet away.
She takes great pains to avoid my presence, even changing direction if she spots me walking down a corridor.
But something has shifted since my conversation with her in the library.
Blodwyn began taking her meals in the Great Hall again.
She even bid me good morning when she arrived in the box. Now this.
“Knowing Sir Weston, the day will likely stretch on until evening,” I reply.
“Wonderful,” she mutters, sitting back in her chair and scowling at the next set of riders. “Why would anyone risk their lives for something so stupid?”
I laugh, having forgotten how funny Blodwyn is when her insults aren’t directed at me.
“I quite agree.”
She glances at me, skeptical. “Then why did you arrange it?”
“I didn’t,” I explain. “In fact, the sport has been banned since your father’s accident.”
“Then who…” she begins, but then comprehension dawns on her face. “Aunt Margaret.”
There’s a hard edge to Blodwyn’s voice when she speaks the duchess’s name. Did they have an argument? I’m dying to know but I vividly recall my misstep the last time I mentioned the duchess.
“Is…everything all right?” I ask, cautious.
“Fine,” Blodwyn answers tightly.
But her fingertips drum impatiently on the arm of her chair, betraying her true feelings.
“Well, if there was something bothering you,” I attempt, pressing my luck, “it might help to talk about it.”
Blodwyn weighs this. I brace myself for her rejection. Perhaps even her anger. But the seconds drag on and she doesn’t lash out at me.
“It’s just…” she starts instead. “Aunt Margaret—”
“Ah, here you are, Blodwyn.”
I release a frustrated breath as the duchess appears. The woman has the instincts of a Diviner. I force a smile as she maneuvers to her place between me and Blodwyn.
The princess immediately stands. “I should go to the library. Do some more studying.”
“Very well, my dear,” Margaret says, patting her shoulder. “Good luck.”
Blodwyn only nods and hurries off. I watch her go, wondering what she would have said if Margaret hadn’t interrupted. And not simply because I might have gained ammunition against the duchess, but because Blodwyn actually appeared troubled.
Don’t let her close, that voice warns again.
“Isn’t this exciting?” Margaret sits up straighter as another pair of riders is announced on the yard. “It’s been too long since I’ve enjoyed such fun.”
About as exciting as having one’s fingers snapped off by a feral falcon.
“Not everyone would share that opinion,” I comment, nodding at where an armored man is moaning on a stretcher.
Margaret laughs. “Oh, don’t worry about him. I find that riders are incredibly resilient. I’m convinced that even Callen, poor soul, would climb right back on that horse if he could.”
The last thing I want to discuss is the king.
I look to Joan, desperate for an ally, but she and Anora are carrying on their own private conversation a few seats away.
Fitz is on Joan’s lap, bundled in a fur blanket.
He flattens his ears and growls in Margaret’s direction.
At least I’m not the only one who dislikes the duchess.
“Strange, though,” Margaret continues. “I’ll never understand what possessed my dear brother to ride without his visor. He was always rather vain about that sort of thing. If a servant so much as nicked his face during a shave, they’d be instantly dismissed.”
I feel rather than see her eyes slide in my direction.
“Well,” I say, “things change.”
“Indeed,” Margaret agrees. She leans closer to me, and I resist the urge to flinch away.
“And has anything changed for you? Have you given more thought to our discussion? There are still a few days before the ball. Plenty of time for you to discourage the other claimants. I’m sure the princess would appreciate your efforts on her behalf. ”
After what I witnessed with Blodwyn, I’m not convinced the duchess knows as much about her niece as she assumes. I shouldn’t stir the subject, but my pride gets the better of me.
“Would she?” I ask. “Have you asked her?”
From the slight stiffening of her jaw, I can tell that she hasn’t. And that my guess was correct—there was some falling out between them. Fitz growls again, baring his tiny teeth. Margaret’s attention shifts to the dog.
“You know,” she says, gesturing at him. “I once had a little dog who looked just like that. Did Callen ever tell you of him?”
“No,” I reply, steeling myself for another of Margaret’s anecdotes.
“That’s not surprising,” she continues, making a face.
“I doubt my brother even remembers the creature. I called him Pourquoi, for his little face always appeared as though he was asking a question.” She laughs.
“But Callen, as ever, was jealous. He complained about wanting my dear Pourquoi for himself—loudly and long enough that our mother ordered me to share the dog. I did so, out of the kindness of my heart. But when the day came for Callen to return Pourquoi, he refused. Do you know what he did instead?”
She pauses. Hooves thunder on the ground as the riders charge.
“Callen waited until I came to fetch the dog,” she tells me, bending close to be heard above the clamor of the crowd. “And then, as I watched, my brother tossed Pourquoi out the window. He killed my beloved dog just to keep him from me.”
Lances splinter as the riders meet. The rest of the box leaps up, cheering. But Margaret remains where she is. Grips my arm, her fingers like talons.
“I urge you not to repeat Callen’s mistake,” she warns. “Do not let Riven go to ruin simply because you do not want someone else to have a stake in it.”
Margaret’s gray eyes glitter and that phantom tether tugs behind my left ribs. Malum strains within me, pulsing in time to my own heartbeat. Shadows mass around me and I’d love nothing more than to use them to send a lance straight into the duchess’s face. To—
A crease digs between Margaret’s brows. She glances to either side of me, like she’s looking at something. Like…she can see the shadows. Panic rings in my mind and I send them scattering as far from me as possible.
“Margaret!” Sir Weston’s voice floats up from the yard. “I beg your favor.”
The duchess blinks and gives herself a small shake before turning her attention to the Lord of Misrule.
I release a breath and take stock of the rest of the audience.
Joan and Anora are still absorbed in their conversation, oblivious—just like everyone else.
My racing pulse slows. Margaret couldn’t have seen the shadows, I reason. She can’t know what I am. Still…
You will burn, Mother had promised.
A crow calls overhead, its shadow skimming the tiltyard.
“Ayleth!”
I startle at the sound of my own name and twist in my seat. Jacquetta is hovering near the entrance of the box. The last of my anxiety is instantly overtaken by annoyance. What is she doing here? With a quick glance to make sure Margaret and Joan are still occupied, I hurry over to the other witch.
“Come on,” I say, tugging Jacquetta down the stairs to the deserted area below the stands. “I said we should meet tonight. There’s far too many people here.”
“My apologies.” She yanks her arm out of my grasp. “Am I interrupting your afternoon with your friends?”
“They’re not my—”
There’s a series of sharp barks, followed by a blur of brown fur that zooms toward us.
Fitz. The dog races around Jacquetta, whining with impatience until she scoops him up.
He wriggles excitedly in her arms, licking her face.
Jacquetta laughs, struggling to hold him.
It’s the first time I’ve heard her laugh in…
years, I realize. It softens her features.
Lights up her eyes. And that traitorous part of my heart shivers awake.
“Hello, you,” she says, scratching beneath Fitz’s chin.
I tell myself that the twinge in my chest is definitely not jealousy at seeing her greet him so warmly after having literally shot me in the forest.
“Why are you here?” I demand, crossing my arms.