Chapter Fifty Ayleth
Chapter Fifty
Ayleth
Time itself seems to slow, each of my heartbeats thudding like a death knell.
This isn’t possible, is all my muddled mind can manage.
Callen can’t leave the mirror. He can’t.
This is just another of Margaret’s tricks, like her costume at the ball.
But no. The person in front of me is unmistakably Callen.
And not merely the shell of the king’s body that has been bedridden for the past few years.
His eyes are clear and bright, not clouded or mirror-like.
Even the scar from the jousting injury has faded to a dull pink.
But he couldn’t have recovered like this without my help. So how has he done it?
The question loops through my mind, tangling with a thousand others. Every instinct screams at me to use my shadows against him. But I can’t. And I can’t run. Can’t hide from him—not anymore. Callen, damn him, knows it. He grins at me, like Nettle does when she corners one of her mice.
“Y-you,” I stammer. “What are you—”
“I apologize for the lack of warning,” Callen says. “But I wanted to surprise you.”
The other councilors—Warbeck and Parnell and the rest—chuckle, smiling at me like I’m a little girl who wandered into their midst. Just yesterday, I was their queen.
But I never had their respect. They only tolerated me.
Counted the days until they could push me off the throne.
And that day has finally arrived. Beneath my panic, rage simmers in my core.
“Come,” Callen says, rising and indicating an empty chair. “Join us.”
There’s no other way out of this and so, somehow, I force my leaden feet to move. Callen waits for me to take my seat, then reaches over me to retrieve the pitcher of wine.
“Here,” he says. “This will put some color back into your face.”
He sets the pitcher down and squeezes the tops of my shoulders. Runs his fingertips along the curve of my neck, lingering on my collarbones.
“I have missed you,” he says, his voice brushing the shell of my ear.
Everything inside of me shrivels.
“Now, then,” Callen continues, finally moving away from me. “Where were we?”
“The plan to capture the coven witches.” Parnell adjusts one of the markers on the map. “As we’re all aware by now, it was an ambush. My initial suspicion was correct: There was a spy in the palace, feeding the witches—and thereby Rycinthia—information.”
“My sister,” Callen supplies.
So, he knows about Margaret. Of course he does. He must have been watching when we confronted the duchess. My mind reels, trying to guess everything else Callen might know. What he’ll do with that information.
“Margaret?” Weston echoes, baffled. “Are you certain?”
“Quite,” Callen replies. “She’s been scheming for my throne for some time now. We’ll deal with her later.”
And you, his expression says, gray eyes glittering as he studies me over the rim of his wineglass. I grip the arms of my chair tighter.
“Indeed, Sire,” Parnell continues. He moves a few more markers on the map. “For now, I’ve received intelligence that Rycinthian forces are growing. Ten thousand, by last count. And the duchess’s troops from Darryn are amassing at the border, no doubt planning to join them and march on the palace.”
My stomach sinks. I really have made a mess of things.
“Let them come.”
All attention pivots to Callen, who is lounging in his chair as though we’re discussing an upcoming party and not the sack of Riven.
“Majesty?” Parnell asks.
“You heard me,” Callen repeats. “I said let them come. We will stand against them.”
“As much as I agree with the sentiment, Sire,” Parnell continues, cautious, “things have changed since you last joined us. We no longer have the resources to fend off such an assault.”
“I think we’ll figure something out.” He waves the problem away. “For now, we need to discuss the traitor in our midst.”
“Traitor?” Weston asks. “You mean Margaret?”
“No.” Callen’s attention returns to me. “The witch.”
Dread hums a constant rhythm in my chest. He’s going to tell them. Going to—
“What’s her name, my dear? Jacqueline?”
I release a breath, relieved that he didn’t implicate me. But it’s instantly overtaken by panic when I realize who he does mean.
“Jacquetta wasn’t involved with the covens,” I insist.
Callen clicks his tongue. “And how do you know that? Because she told you?”
More low laughter. I despise these men.
“She didn’t have to,” I say.
“Sweet wife,” Callen says, his voice dripping with condescension, “I do admire your compassion, but I’m afraid you’re too involved to see what’s right in front of you.”
Involved. Heat flames in my cheeks. Had Callen been watching us last night?
“I’m not—”
“It’s my understanding that this witch was a member of the covens before she turned up here, isn’t that true?” he asks, drumming his fingers lazily on the table. “Surely you’re not taking her side.”
I press my lips together, recognizing the line Callen has drawn. If I defend Jacquetta, I’ll be accused alongside her.
“No,” I manage.
“Then you agree,” Callen presses. “The witch deserves the pyre.”
“The pyre?”
“The penalty for treason,” Master Parnell supplies smoothly, “has always been death.”
Callen smirks, daring me to argue. That connection between us throbs and I hate him more than I’ve ever hated anyone. He knows it. He’s enjoying it.
“Whatever you decide,” I force myself to say.
“Good,” he says. “Then build it, Parnell. And make it a large one. I have a feeling we’re going to root out more than one person in this palace who deserves to face the flames.”
With that, he raises his glass to me and drinks deeply, his lips slick with red.
Like blood.
—
I’m out the doors as soon as the council meeting ends, struggling to keep my pace even when every instinct is screaming at me to sprint down the corridors.
News of Callen has evidently spread. The halls are packed with courtiers, all talking and laughing.
Several of them offer me their congratulations, or smirk at me with vindictive glee.
I ignore them all, weaving my way through the press of bodies, keeping my ears pricked for the sound of Callen’s pursuit.
For the guards. But there’s nothing, which only intensifies my anxiety.
“Jacquetta?” I call, as I shove through my chamber doors.
There’s no answer. The meager thread of my power shivers.
Something is wrong. The silence is too thick, too ominous.
All the curtains are drawn and the fire is nearly dead, embers casting an eerie glow against the furnishings.
As my eyes adjust to the dimness, I’m able to make out a shadowy figure on the other side of the room.
“Jacquetta.” Relief whooshes through me. “Jacquetta, I…”
The rest falls away when she turns. It’s not Jacquetta at all. It’s Margaret. Her eyes meet mine and my blood congeals. Because they’re not the gray of tempered steel, as they should be. They’re silver. Like mirrors. Like—
“She won’t help you.”
I whirl around. The dying firelight gleams on the white slash of Callen’s smile.
My senses rush back to me. I may not command the shadows, but I can fight back.
A silver blade waits on a nearby table. I snatch it up and lunge at Callen.
Seams pop as it pierces his doublet and sinks into his side.
I hear the tear of flesh. Feel the scrape of the knife against bone.
But Callen just stands there. He doesn’t even cry out.
“And I’m afraid that,” he says, “is a trick that only works once.”
He shoves me away and slides the knife from his body. His doublet is slashed, but there’s no blood staining the velvet—or even on the blade. I stare at him in horror. What is going on?
“You were right,” Callen calls over his shoulder. “This body is nearly invincible.”
Another figure steps from the shadows. Pale-skinned, with a long, hooked nose. His beady black eyes gleam, robes billowing around him like smoke. Master Parnell.
“What are you…” I start.
“Do keep up, my dear,” Callen says. “Parnell has been here from the beginning. Or do you not recall Ignatius’s chambers?”
Understanding hits me like a bolt of lightning.
Parnell accompanied the king and his guards on the night I killed the High Priest. I thought the steward left when Callen dismissed them all.
But he hadn’t. Cold certainty prickles down my spine, the same feeling I imagine a rabbit feels when it’s caught in a snare.
“You saw,” I say, numb.
The insidious, crow-like man smiles. “Yes, Majesty. I did.”
I envision him there, lurking in the shadows, watching me carve out Callen’s heart and place it in the mirror. Watching the crown of Bloodstones form above my head. A thousand tiny pieces click into place at once and I curse myself for being so careless as to miss them.
“And it’s a good thing,” Callen adds, still inspecting himself. “Otherwise I’d never be out of that mirror. Remarkable, Parnell, truly. I don’t even have a scratch.”
“Thank you, Sire,” he says, inclining his chin.
“No,” I say, as if denying this situation could somehow make it less real. “Your heart cannot leave the mirror alive.”
“That’s correct,” Parnell agrees, his tone even and confident, as if we’re engaging in scholarly discussion.
“The king’s heart is bound. However, I realized that—in theory—his body was an extension of the mirror itself.
Therefore, it stood to reason that I might be able to replace the heart with another.
It didn’t work at first. I had a dreadful time of experimentation. Ignatius’s notes got me only so far.”
His notes? But then it hits—the texts in Ignatius’s lair. Parnell had been sneaking in there. Studying the grimoires and journals. Books I left.
Another mistake, that voice whispers.
“But you,” I start, helpless. “You’re not a witch.”
“No,” Parnell agrees. “But neither was Ignatius. And, while I certainly cannot boast the power of the coven witches, I am a patient man. I can learn almost any skill, given time.”
“What have you done?” I breathe.
“The same thing you did,” Callen says, sneering at me. “Only better. And it turns out you were right. It did matter that Margaret was my twin. One might say that we share the same heart, at least as far as that wretched mirror is concerned.”
He looks at Margaret with newfound appreciation and the last piece of this awful puzzle slots into place.
“You…cut out her heart,” I say, gaping at the mirror sheen of Margaret’s gaze.
“And put it in the king’s body, yes,” Parnell finishes, matter-of-factly. “As I said, since His Majesty served as an extension of the mirror, the spell worked the same. Except that the duchess’s heart allowed the king to come back to himself.”
No. It shouldn’t be possible. And yet—it is. Failure settles over my shoulders like a wet cloak. I clench my fists against it, against the feeling that I’m a witchling again, ungifted and useless.
“Don’t look so defeated,” Callen says, crossing to a sideboard and pouring himself a healthy glass of wine. “You may have lost this battle, but we’re going to win the war. Together.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Rycinthia, of course,” he says, taking a long drink. “We may not have much of an army. But we have you, wife.”
Dread oozes down my spine.
“I’ve seen the attacks,” Callen goes on. “Statues come to life. Trees uprooting themselves. That kind of power could flatten anything Rycinthia will throw at us. And that’s precisely what you’re going to do.”
“That wasn’t me. The creature—”
“Had to learn those abilities somewhere,” Callen interrupts.
“Get your minion to do it, then,” I say, jerking my chin at Parnell.
“I would,” Callen says, swirling his glass. “But he’s not a real witch. Not like you. And I’m not asking you to do anything you weren’t already planning, am I? I’ve seen the hunger in your soul. You desire that power as much as I do.”
Shame licks my insides. Because he’s right. Even now, part of me still reaches for the sort of ability I’d witnessed at the attacks. Yearns for it. But I’ve seen where that hunger takes me.
“I won’t help you,” I grind out.
“I thought you might say that,” he says with a sigh. “But I suggest you reconsider. Otherwise that bitch in the dungeons will meet her end—and soon.”
Jacquetta.
I was too late. Of course I was. Anger curdles in my stomach.
“You look rather pretty like that, you know,” Callen says, running the back of his finger down my jawline. “Fairest of them all.”
“Don’t touch me!” I slap him away.
Callen merely laughs. “That’s the fire I’m counting on. Embrace it. This is what you wanted, after all. To be queen. And now you will be: Mine. Forever.”
“You’ve lost your mind.”
It’s a feeble jab, but it’s all I can manage.
“No, wife. I rather think I’ve found it.” He steps closer, enough that I can smell the scent of leather and wine and smoke. The connection between us hums. “One way or another, you will bend to me. If not…you know as well as anyone that it doesn’t take long to build a pyre.”
Callen smiles at me, all teeth, and that place behind my left ribs shudders. I can almost feel the invisible tether between us reach up to wrap around my neck, a noose waiting to be tightened.