Chapter Thirty-Two Ayleth
Chapter Thirty-Two
Ayleth
The palace grounds are riddled with scars from the attack: Broken statues and bits of glass and pools of blood.
Tendrils of foul-smelling miasma curl up from the dozens of craterlike holes left behind by the lightning storm.
The scent of it still clings to my clothes.
Burns in my nostrils: charred flesh and rot and wrongness.
I am the true queen.
The creature’s words echo through my mind like the sinister call of a crow.
For so long, I assumed that the so-called queen was a witch masquerading as the false goddess.
But it wasn’t one of the Heirs who split open the floor of the Great Hall.
Wasn’t some unknown witch who hauled herself out of the void.
“Who—or what—was that?” Margaret asks, pulling me back into the council chamber.
She’s still dressed as Callen, his pilfered crown glittering on her head. It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to rip it away from her.
“I’m afraid I do not yet have an answer,” Master Parnell replies. “But the Hunt has been dispatched, of course. And the guards are scouring the grounds for survivors or any trace of the…creature. There’s little more we can do at the moment.”
“Little more?” Margaret scoffs. “Nevenwolves and Followers were bad enough, but now we have corpses running around Riven? My niece is the heir to the throne and she’s not even safe in her own palace.”
“She’s not heir yet,” Lord Warbeck chimes in.
Margaret studies him a moment, drumming her fingertips on the table. “You don’t seem very concerned about this turn of events, Warbeck. And I find it very interesting that your son just happened to be present with both the Nevenwolf and now this incident.”
Warbeck clenches his fist. “I would remind the duchess that she is a guest in the palace. Such baseless accusations—”
“Enough,” I cut in, pressure pounding between my temples. “There’s no time for such squabbling. We have more important matters at hand.”
“Quite so, Majesty,” Parnell agrees. “And, while I may not know anything about the creature itself, I am certain of one thing. My sources were correct: Rycinthia is using the Followers to aid in rebellion—and the witches are among them.”
Not the covens, though. The power I witnessed tonight was beyond anything the Heirs should be capable of. It was beyond me.
From the darkness will rise a queen.
The words of the prophecy resound in my mind. Because it’s exactly what the creature had done, dragging herself out of the void. A bitter taste cuts between my teeth.
“How did they breach the palace?” I demand.
“I’m investigating that,” Parnell replies. “But I believe it’s safe to assume that they had assistance. Someone inside the palace, most likely. Your Majesty will recall my previous suspicions? About the prisoner?”
The prisoner who is currently serving on the palace staff.
“What’s this?” Margaret asks.
“You told me that matter was settled,” I say. “An oversight.”
“I assumed as much,” Parnell agrees. “But with this second attack, I can’t help but wonder if the two are related. After all, it would be simple for an escaped prisoner to blend in with the celebrations. Especially if she was a witch.”
I drown my nerves in another swallow of wine.
“The palace must be searched at once,” Margaret orders. “Interrogate everyone.”
“A thorough inquiry will take place immediately,” Parnell assures her. “Until then, we should fortify the palace. If Rycinthia has this kind of power at their disposal, they will undoubtedly strike again. And soon.”
The others at the table nod, their attention turning expectantly to Margaret.
“Ah.” The duchess sits back in her chair. “Is this the part where you beg for my army again?”
“Your Grace,” one of the others attempts, “after tonight, surely your position on the matter has softened.”
She blinks innocently back at him. “And why should it have?”
“You saw what that…thing can do,” I say, gesturing toward the windows. “Heard what it promised. Do you want it to come back here and flatten the palace?”
“Do you?” Margaret asks, raising an eyebrow. “Because I have my own palace. And I won’t be using my troops for anything until Blodwyn is crowned.”
She runs her fingertip lazily around the rim of her wineglass. Fury smolders in my chest.
“This isn’t a game of Castles, it’s—”
“It is, though, isn’t it?” Margaret asks, tilting her head at me. “It’s quite literally a game of Castles—who gets to keep this one in the end?”
Not you, that voice whispers. You will burn.
“If you want me to play,” Margaret goes on, addressing the rest of the table, “I suggest you adhere to my rules.”
“Army or not, you cannot bully us into calling off the trials,” Warbeck all but growls.
“Oh, I would never dream of doing so,” Margaret replies, pressing a hand to her chest. “In fact, I thoroughly agree that the next trial should take place as planned, in two weeks’ time. And Blodwyn will be part of it.”
“We have yet to settle on the results of the last challenge,” someone points out.
Margaret shrugs, unbothered. “By my observation, Blodwyn was among the top claimants when the attack began. As far as I’m concerned, that means she’s passed. I don’t care who you decide should progress alongside her, but my niece will participate in the final trial.”
And win, her expression says.
A tremor of uncertainty races around the table. Warbeck looks ready to burst with rage. But he cannot argue. None of us can after what we witnessed.
“Very well,” I tell the duchess.
The rest of the councilors nod their grudging agreement. Even Warbeck.
“Wonderful.” Margaret smiles. “Then I look forward to the event. Depending on the trial’s outcome, we can discuss the use of my forces. In the meantime, I wish you all a pleasant evening.”
With that, she rises and makes to leave.
“Oh, and, Master Parnell,” she says, pausing at the door, “do let me know if I can assist with the search for that prisoner. I hate to think of someone like that scurrying about where they don’t belong.”
She shifts her attention to me. And she still looks so much like Callen that the phantom tether attached to my left ribs trembles.
—
The council meeting concludes not long after that.
With everyone sequestered in their chambers, the halls are deserted as I head back to my own rooms. Shadows trail alongside me, probing into corners and under doors, as if to root out answers to the questions tumbling through my mind: What was that creature?
And how did it bring statues to life? Cleave the ground open?
That kind of power is unfathomable, beyond even what the Ancients were said to command.
And I can’t deny that, along with the fear churning inside me, is something else—something even stronger and far more unsettling: desire.
A blur of brown fur races around me when I step through the doors of my chambers, tiny nails skittering on the floor.
“Fitz?” I ask. “What are you doing here?”
“Sorry,” Jacquetta says from her place by the fire. “He’s taken to following me around.”
She’s still wearing her costume, now nothing but tattered silk after the battle.
And I notice scratches on her face and hands as well.
A bruise is beginning to bloom along her cheekbone.
Injuries she sustained while fighting off the Followers.
When she helped me save Blodwyn’s life. Why had she done that?
Was it for the princess’s sake, or for mine?
She will destroy you, that voice warns.
And yet she hadn’t.
“You’ll want to be careful,” I tell Jacquetta, nodding at where Nettle has Fitz cornered on the other side of the room. “Joan never lets him out of her sight for very long.”
“Joan is the least of our worries,” Jacquetta replies. “We need to talk about…whatever that was.”
She gestures vaguely in the direction of the Great Hall.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” I say, stoking up the fire. “The council is convinced it was Rycinthia. The witches.”
“It wasn’t us,” she retorts, annoyed. “What witch can do that? Even before the Veil fell? It’s something else.”
Something stronger than you, that voice again. The true queen.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, as much to myself as to Jacquetta. “Whatever it is, we need to fight against it. And Margaret, predictably, has found a way to use this situation to her advantage. Which means we need to keep investigating her.”
“Investigate her?” Jacquetta asks, incredulous. “You’re still obsessing over the duchess? After everything you witnessed tonight?”
“I’m not obsessing.” I set down the poker and cross my arms. “You heard what the creature promised. It’s coming back. We need Margaret’s army to—”
“We need,” she interrupts, “to involve the others.”
“The Heirs?” I scoff. “I’m not running back to them like a frightened witchling.”
“Maybe you should be frightened,” she counters. “This is bigger than the two of us. Bigger than a mortal army.”
“And what are the Heirs going to do?” I press. “You said it yourself: They don’t have the power to stop the creature. Not unless they reforge the Veil.”
Jacquetta goes quiet. An ember in the fire pops.
“So we’re back to this again,” I say, bitter. “Maybe you did have a hand in the attack tonight. Was this the scheme all along? Summon some creature to goad me into—”
“This isn’t about you!” Jacquetta all but shouts. “An actual corpse just split the palace open and ripped out a man’s heart. If the Veil is the only way to stop that thing, then so be it!”
“And what about the harm your precious Veil caused?” I challenge. “The pain it inflicted on Shade and the others? On me?”
A muscle in her jaw works. “That’s not—”
“What? Important?”
Because I’m not important.
A long moment passes. I brace myself for her reply. To know once and for all that she truly doesn’t care about me.
But then a thump from the next room startles us both.
Fitz flattens his ears and growls in the direction of the noise. I throw a questioning look to Jacquetta, who only shakes her head.
“Is someone there?” I call.
The patter of retreating footsteps answers.
Malum buzzes a warning in my chest. Damn everything.
Had I forgotten to bolt the door? Is it Margaret?
One of the servants? That creature? My pulse speeds up and I hurl my shadows out.
They swarm into the next room. An instant later, I hear a muffled cry and the sound of a body hitting the floor as they find their target. Jacquetta and I hurry after them.
“Let go!” Someone shouts. “Let me go!”
Panic rings high and tinny in my mind. Because I know that voice. And I know the pair of dark eyes glaring back at me, hard as flint.
Blodwyn.