Chapter Twenty-Six Blodwyn
Chapter Twenty-Six
Blodwyn
Though I should be spending the little time remaining before the Remembrance Ball in the library, absorbing as much of Riven’s history as possible, Aunt Margaret has other ideas for me.
She arranges several engagements with influential families at court, citing my need to start strengthening my relationships with the nobility.
Carve out my place here, which feels to me more like digging my own grave.
But I remind myself that Aunt Margaret has my best interests at heart.
Where would I be if she hadn’t welcomed me to her estate?
Still, between the joust and the woman in the Great Hall, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to remember the Aunt Margaret from the past few years.
Perhaps it’s just the trials, I reason. She’ll soften again after all this is over.
Things will go back to the way they were.
Deep down, though, I worry that’s not the case.
Worse, I worry what will happen if I don’t win.
“I can’t wait for tomorrow night,” Lady Elinor says as we walk together through the garden. “I’m simply dying to show off my costume.”
Lady Constance accompanies us as well. Isabel, thankfully, is excluded.
After her brother lost his place in the trials, the entire family retreated to their country estate.
But I’d almost prefer Isabel’s sniping and veiled insults over the current conversation, which has consisted primarily of gossip about fashion and flirtations.
“Who are you going as, Elinor?” Constance asks.
“Queen Liliana,” the other young woman replies. “Her motto was: A rose without a thorn. She was rumored to be so beautiful that several men dueled over her hand. Perhaps it will provide some inspiration among the men.”
She laughs and I resist the urge to roll my eyes at her preening.
“Do you really want men fighting over you?” I ask.
“They have to fight over something,” she reasons. “And remember, this ball isn’t just a competition for you, Highness.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t listen to her,” Constance says, shaking her head.
“It’s not a competition. It’s an…opportunity.
The costumes are a chance to showcase our value as potential wives.
For example, I’m going as Princess Agnes.
Her motto was: To be useful in all that I do.
Usefulness is a far better attribute for attracting a husband. Beauty does fade, you know.”
She deals Elinor a meaningful look, but the other young woman just lifts her chin. “You tell me what’s more likely to tempt a man to the altar: beauty or usefulness.”
Constance just scowls, but I am still bewildered by this conversation.
“Don’t either of you desire more than a husband?”
A crease digs between Constance’s brows. “More? What else is there?”
“Surely you have other interests,” I reply. “Wouldn’t you prefer to pursue your own occupations?”
“Occupations,” Elinor echoes, puzzled. “Such as what—the trials?”
They both laugh, but I don’t join them.
“I suppose,” I say. “Is that so difficult to believe?”
There’s a beat of silence.
“Only men can join the trials, Princess,” Constance says gently.
“And?” I ask. “I’m not a man. Exceptions can obviously be made. I honestly don’t understand why other women didn’t join.”
Constance fiddles with a chain hanging from her waist. “Because circumstances are different for us, Princess. Even if we were allowed to join, should we attempt the trials and fail, we’d be cast out of court.
No man would have us to wife. But whether you win or lose, Highness, your hand will be highly sought-after. ”
“My hand? If I win, I’ll be queen.”
“Yes, but you’ll still have to marry,” Elinor says. “And Constance is right. You’ll be a great prize.”
She smiles at me and winks, as though she expects me to smile back.
Like she’s given me a high compliment. But all I feel is an oily sense of dread.
Is that all I am? A prize? A stag in the forest with a golden apple dangling from my antlers?
This is why I vowed never to marry. If love is real, it certainly doesn’t exist in this court.
“Oh, look there.” Constance shades her eyes as she peers at something over my shoulder. “Does that person want something from us?”
I follow her gaze and spot a young woman on the other side of the garden, waving enthusiastically in our direction. Verity. My stomach drops. I’ve been avoiding her since my conversation with Aunt Margaret.
“Oh, that’s the Talbot girl,” Elinor says, frowning in distaste. “I still can’t believe that stunt she pulled at the pall-mall game. Poor Isabel.”
Constance makes a noise of agreement. “And she’s so vulgar. I don’t care what her title is, there’s no costume on earth that could entice a decent match to marry her.”
Anger crackles in my wrists. I want to snap at them that I greatly prefer Verity’s company over their insipid prattle. But I don’t. Because I promised Aunt Margaret that I would make more of an effort with the ladies of court.
“I’ll go see what she wants,” I say.
“Be careful,” Elinor calls out. “I think she might bite.”
Their grating laughter follows behind me.
“You looked like you needed rescuing,” Verity says when I reach her. “Sorry I didn’t have a mallet this time.”
A mallet sounds like an excellent idea. But I remind myself of Aunt Margaret’s warning.
I believed Verity to be my friend, but I really don’t know anything about her loyalties.
After all, Verity had been so quick to defend Ayleth.
Maybe there was a reason for that. Maybe Verity was only interested in me because of my position. Hedging her bets in case I won.
“I don’t need rescuing,” I tell her.
“Really? Because I’ve met rocks more interesting than those two.”
“They’re not so bad.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Verity casts a dubious look at the other young women. “Anyway, I spent the morning in the library. We can go over my notes together if you like.”
She holds up the pile of books she’s carrying, which only deepens my guilt. But I shove that down.
“I can’t right now.”
“Later, then,” she suggests. “Or tomorrow? The ball isn’t until the evening. I could—”
“Thank you,” I interrupt. “But I should finish my studies on my own.”
Comprehension finally dawns, tightening her expression.
“I see,” she says, gesturing to the others. “Or with Constance and Elinor.”
“Yes. I mean, my aunt thinks I should…”
“Associate with proper courtiers,” Verity finishes for me. “And I’m not one of them.”
Hurt flashes in her gaze. It makes me feel a thousand times worse.
“Verity, I—”
“No need,” she says, drawing herself up and shoving the books into my arms. “Here. Good luck with the trial. And with your new friends.”
She begins to walk away.
“Wait,” I call. “I didn’t…”
“You know,” Verity replies over her shoulder, “part of the reason I liked you was because I believed you could think for yourself. I suppose I was mistaken.”
The ridges of my ears burn.
When Verity walks away this time, I don’t say anything at all.
—
That night, yet another storm rolls over Riven.
Rain pounds the palace, thunder rattling the glass panes of my menagerie’s ceiling.
In a small stroke of luck, the claimants were given the night to prepare for the coming challenge, and so I’m not forced to endure another torturous dinner in the Great Hall.
Don’t have to see Verity and the damage I caused.
I believed you could think for yourself.
Her words echo in my mind, laced with the next rumble of thunder.
“I did the right thing,” I mutter to Nettle, who is currently perched on the lip of the fountain and swatting at the ducklings as they paddle past. She just trills at me, uninterested—or unconvinced. Because if I did the right thing, why do I feel so awful?
I attempt to distract myself by focusing on the books.
Unfortunately, most of them are riddled with Verity’s notes.
She’s underlined helpful passages or scribbled her, admittedly hilarious, opinions in the margins.
Reading her handwriting only further complicates my feelings, so I set those aside, opting for the last volume in the pile.
This one doesn’t contain notes at all. It’s far older than the others, its leather cover softened with time and the pages thin and yellowed. I scan the first lines.
“The Legend of the Lost Princess,” I murmur.
Nettle meows and trots over to me, her tail curling in a question. I keep reading:
When it became evident that King Alfred would die without an heir, he established a contest. Every man in the realm was invited to prove his worthiness to wear the crown and wed the king’s daughter, Matilda.
That’s odd. I assume this is a record of the original trials. But I wasn’t aware that the last king of the old line had a daughter. Why haven’t I heard of her before?
The princess, however, rejected her father’s order. Disguising herself as a man, she entered the contest herself and emerged victorious.
“Victorious?” I repeat.
Nettle blinks at me, as though even she is surprised. I turn the page and continue.
Despite the outcome of the trials, the nobility refused to accept the princess as their ruler. The great lords promised war. And so King Alfred denied his daughter her crown. Instead, the Princess Matilda was betrothed to another—an apple farmer named…
“Braxos,” I murmur.
The pieces of this tale swirl together in my mind. If this is true, then Braxos wasn’t the real winner of the first trials. The line of White was established on a lie. On a stolen throne. What does that mean for my family? For me? I put the questions aside and finish the story:
Princess Matilda spurned Braxos, vowing a war of her own. Fearing an uprising, King Alfred locked his daughter in her tower room until the wedding day.
A pang of sympathy knocks through me, picturing this ancient princess, alone and looking out over what would become the White City. Knowing that the throne she earned would be occupied by someone who didn’t deserve it.
On the morning of the ceremony, King Alfred went to fetch his daughter. But the princess’s room was empty. The palace was searched, but there was no sign of Princess Matilda. The only thing ever discovered of her was a spot of blood beneath her window.
Thunder booms outside.
“She jumped?” I whisper, earning a meow from Nettle.
Some believe the princess escaped the palace—or was perhaps rescued in order to raise an army of her own.
But such a force never marched upon Riven.
And the princess was never seen again. Heartbroken, King Alfred boarded up the tower room and forbade anyone to so much as utter his daughter’s name.
But years after the old king’s death, the tower was reopened.
A single message was enscribed on the walls:
I have paid the price of blood and snow. Let the true queen rise.