Chapter Fifty-Four Ayleth
Chapter Fifty-Four
Ayleth
Dusk is falling by the time we finish recounting our stories.
Tilda arrived with Roland, and the five of us sit around the now lopsided table, nursing our wounds and eating what food survived the explosion.
Margaret’s shard of mirror is propped against a candlestick.
But the glass is currently empty, the duchess out searching for wherever Mother took Blodwyn.
Mother.
My mind still reels from that discovery. She was here. She’s alive. And she is the one responsible for the attacks. How long has she been plotting this? Watching me? Much more important, what does she have planned next?
“This,” Roland says, shaking an accusing finger at me, “is exactly why I left the palace. Thank you very much, Mistress Witch. I’m so glad I freed you from that dungeon so that you could ruin the rest of my life.
Why don’t I just hand you some matches so you can finish the job? Dig my own grave while I’m at it?”
“Roland,” Tilda warns.
I wave her off. “He’s right. And I’m sorry. I didn’t intend for any of this to happen.”
“Aye. And I didn’t intend for my house to be filled with witches and beasts.”
He jerks his chin to where Nox is curled by the fire.
Jacquetta had done her best to heal him again—along with the stag, who is currently resting outside.
Hopefully, they’ll both recover quickly.
And I’m keenly aware that this is the second time since losing command of Malum that Nox has defended me.
I assumed that my shadows abandoned me entirely, as Shade did.
Why hasn’t Nox? The Nevenwolf fixes me with his crimson eye, and I would give anything to know what he’s thinking.
“I don’t understand,” Joan says. “How did your mother manage to disguise herself as the lost princess?”
“Her specialty was glamour magic,” I explain, though I’m still struggling to understand it all as well. “It’s what she used at Stonehaven, to hide us as Sisters of the Order. She must have cast a similar spell for this.”
Mother always insisted that her methods at Stonehaven had been necessary for our survival. The same rationale I’d used to justify seizing the throne and hunting down the covens. It’s almost funny. No matter how much I’ve tried to fight it, I’ve turned out just like Mother.
A crow’s call resonates through the cottage.
“But such a spell should be impossible,” Jacquetta presses. “Where did Cassandra get that kind of power?”
The same question I’ve asked myself since Mother appeared. When we believed the creature was the lost princess, we assumed she was using hearts to anchor herself. That her abilities were some corrupted form of magic belonging to the dead. Now…
“She said she harnessed a new power, but she wouldn’t explain further,” I reply. “And don’t forget that she has the shadows now. And Shade.”
My former Huntsman’s treachery digs between my ribs.
I knew Shade could be vicious. He spent the last three years tracking witches and stealing their hearts.
But I thought he had a heart of his own.
His brutality was the result of the years he endured behind the Veil.
That he cared about me. Now I know the truth.
Shade cared solely for vengeance. His loyalty to me stretched only as far as I could serve his purposes.
“And Blodwyn?” Joan asks. “What could your mother want with her?”
Another mystery. Because Mother certainly isn’t the lost princess seeking vengeance. So why would she want Blodwyn? Why go to the trouble of poisoning her and taking her away?
“I have no idea,” I admit, gesturing to the shard of the mirror. “I just hope Margaret can find her. And soon.”
“Aye, and then what?” Roland asks. “Looks to me like we have the five of us and a fussy duchess trapped in a piece of glass against…whatever your mother has become.”
Nox huffs and lifts his head, as if to remind us not to forget him. As much as I appreciate the Nevenwolf’s support, Roland is right. We cannot hope to defeat Mother on our own.
“What about the Dwarves?” I ask. “Might they help?”
“Not likely,” Roland replies, shifting in his chair. “Our meeting…well, they…”
“They removed him,” Tilda finishes for him. Roland flushes. “As Head of the Guilds.”
“Removed?” I repeat. “But they can’t. I’m the one who appointed you.”
“Aye, and they were none too pleased to learn that they’ve been serving under a witch all this time,” he says gruffly. “Decided I was too involved to be trusted. Then again, I suppose I was just as deceived as they were. Mistress Malum.”
Yet another lie that’s caught up with me. I couldn’t tell Roland what happened today without explaining everything else. Shame scalds the ridges of my ears.
They see right through you, that voice sneers.
“Roland, I—”
“Don’t waste your time,” he says. “Nothing any of us can do about it now.”
Tilda places a reassuring hand on his shoulder. I swallow back the guilt in my throat.
“I’ve found her!” Margaret’s voice brings our attention back to the glass.
I sit up straighter. “Where?”
“Some rotted-out building in the middle of nowhere,” she replies. “This realm really is going to ruin, you know. You should do something about it.”
“Helpful, this one,” Roland grouses.
The duchess throws him a scathing look.
“Try to show us,” I prompt Margaret. “Think of what you see and shift it to the glass.”
She frowns, but—for once—doesn’t argue. After a few moments of concentration, another scene appears.
Surprise jolts through me. Margaret is right.
It is a rotted-out building in the middle of nowhere.
Moonlight shines on the cracked and decaying walls.
The half-tumbled tower, its uneven stones like crooked teeth.
“Stonehaven,” I murmur, sharing a look with Jacquetta.
“Where is this?” Tilda asks.
“It’s my old Sanctum,” I explain. “Where I grew up.”
“Why would Cassandra have taken her there?” Jacquetta asks.
“I’m not sure,” I admit. “Whatever the reason, we need to get to her quickly. A witch might have weeks under a midnight flower draught. But Blodwyn…days, maybe.”
“When did you leave her here?” Joan asks Roland.
He scrubs the back of his neck. “Just yesterday.”
A sense of dread settles over us. I pick up the half-eaten apple, the purple stain in the center spreading outward like blood. Blood I spilled.
“Wait.” Joan snatches the apple out of my hand. “This is the poison?”
“Yes, but—”
“Roland,” she hurries on. “Do you have comfrey and feverfew?”
He frowns. “What do you want those for?”
“I think we do,” Tilda says, nudging him. “In the garden.”
“Or what’s left of it,” Roland mutters.
“Good. I might be able to use some of the remaining poison for an antidote,” Joan explains. “If I begin now, it can be finished by morning.”
A tendril of hope unspools in my chest. Except—
“Stonehaven is nearly two weeks away. By the time we reach the Sanctum, Blodwyn will be past help. Unless…”
My attention turns to Roland. Comprehension dawns in his gemstone-colored eyes and he crosses his arms. “Oh aye. Suppose that’ll be me, then?”
“Your tunnels are our only chance.”
“And why should I endanger my life every time you—”
“Rollie,” Tilda scolds. “The princess needs us. This is the least we can do.”
Roland grumbles something under his breath. “Fine.”
“It’s settled, then,” Joan says. “We’ll leave as soon as the antidote is ready.”
The rest of the table continues talking among themselves, sorting out the details of the plan. But my gaze tracks out the window and to the forest beyond, picturing Stonehaven among the trees, Blodwyn inside it, her life draining away.
And I may not hold with the covens, but I press my thumb into that place on my palm, into the faint lines of my sister’s mark, and beg Rhea to keep the princess safe.
—
As night stretches on, we prepare for the journey.
Jacquetta and Roland focus on our weapons supply.
I didn’t think it was possible to earn the Dwarf’s respect, but the other witch has clearly done so.
The two spend hours discussing the particulars of various daggers and axes.
Tilda assists Joan and me with the antidote.
But eventually the cottage quiets as everyone else beds down, trying to snatch a few hours of sleep before we head out.
“Where did you learn to do this?” I ask Joan.
It’s just the two of us now, tending the simmering liquid.
“My life at court was more than just parties, you know,” she answers primly. “I told you that I’ve been studying to be a healer.”
She did. In fact, I encouraged her lessons, but I didn’t realize that she possessed such skill—almost as good as a Blessed. “I suppose there was much that I missed over the past years.”
Joan makes a noise of agreement. “You’re not the only one.”
And I know without asking what she means—the power I’ve been hiding from her. I fidget with the array of instruments.
“I lied to you,” I tell her. “And I don’t blame you for being angry with me. But you never would have accepted my power if you knew what it really was.”
“I suppose we’ll never know,” Joan replies. “You didn’t give me the chance to do anything. Not with you, and certainly not with Riven.”
“With Riven?” I ask, puzzled.
“How many times did I request a place on the council?” she goes on.
“Or for you to at least consider my ideas? I must have brought you a dozen plans in those first months—converting the old Sanctums into schools. Or my other initiatives to help the impoverished. Every time, you told me they were impossible. Eventually, I stopped asking.”
Because I’ve only been focused on eliminating the covens. Because I wanted Riven punished. What good has that really done?
“I shouldn’t have excluded you,” I say softly. “For that, I am sorry.”
She finally looks at me. “I appreciate that.”
“And I appreciate you remaining at court,” I add, meaning it. “Especially after what happened with Anora. I don’t have to be a Diviner to guess that I’m the real reason she left.”
Joan is quiet for a few moments.
“Even if you were,” she begins at last, “I obviously wasn’t enough of a reason for her to stay. That tells me everything I need to know.”
Her words resonate in a place deep inside me.
“Do you think there’s any coming back from this?” I ask Joan.
She stirs the antidote, thoughtful.
“I don’t want to go back,” she says. “But I would like to go through.”
“How do we do that?”
“I may not be a witch,” she continues carefully. “But it’s as I told you: Love is the most powerful magic I know. If there’s a way to the other side, it’s with that.”
She says that like it’s easy.
“What love could possibly be strong enough to mend what I’ve broken?”
“Perhaps it’s not about mending,” Joan replies. “But remaking.”
I consider that, a new Riven. The wounds of the past stitched back together. Scarred, but healed. Could such a place exist? I look over at Jacquetta, asleep on the other side of the cottage. Nox is curled beside her. For an instant, I think I might see the flash of blue of her eyes.
But then it’s gone.