Chapter Fifty-Eight Ayleth
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Ayleth
We spend the next few hours strategizing.
After much cajoling, Roland agrees to use his tunnels to get us as close to the palace as he can without alerting the guard.
Then Blodwyn will sneak in alone to steal the mirror.
Once we have it, I’ll send word to Callen.
He’ll cooperate, I assure myself. He won’t gamble with something so important.
Even so, I can’t stop dwelling on the myriad ways this plan can fail.
Callen aside, it would be easy for Sindony to rally the other witches, or Rycinthia, against us.
For Blodwyn to have a change of heart and side with her father.
In a few days, I might be back in the White Palace’s dungeons—or worse.
You will burn.
Mother’s warning chases me through the skeletal halls of the Sanctum, where I pace back and forth until I eventually wind up in the library.
Has it only been three years since I’ve stood within its walls?
The place is a ghost of its former self.
I recall the hours I spent here, engrossed in stories about characters I judged so much braver than myself.
Or with Jacquetta, the two of us plotting courses to unknown realms. Agonizing lessons with Mother.
The night of my Ascension, when I’d fled here, alone and ashamed and desperately seeking a way to bring Rhea back.
Just like then, thunder rumbles over the Sanctum.
Rain drips through the leaky windows and the cracks in the stone, puddling on the floor.
There aren’t any books, though. Mother destroyed nearly everything when she escaped with the coven.
Except…I’m surprised to find that the portrait of Millicent still hangs on the wall opposite the windows.
It’s been torn in places, but my ancestress’s face is still recognizable, her eyes, like pools of ink staring down at me.
The Bloodstone ring glimmers on her finger.
Snippets of Blodwyn’s story resurface. The princess in the tower.
The blood on the snow. Did this witch, who wielded such incredible influence over my life, really begin her life as a mortal?
If so, what does that mean about magic? About me?
Footsteps startle me out of my tangled thoughts.
Blodwyn halts in the doorway, her expression suggesting that I’m the last person she expected—or desired—to see.
That’s no wonder. Not after she learned what I’d done to her father.
We haven’t spoken again since the planning meeting and now I’m not sure if Blodwyn is going to throttle me or simply stalk off. But then—
“Someone told me the library was in here,” she says, scanning the chamber.
“Oh,” I say, awkward. “It was, but…you won’t find any books. Mother burned most of our things when she abandoned the Sanctum.”
“Your mother,” Blodwyn repeats. “You mean the creature who wants to eat my heart?”
Damn. Heat prickles up the back of my neck. Yet another conversation I was hoping to avoid. Because what can I possibly say to explain Mother’s part in all this?
“Yes,” I say, twisting my hands. “I was as surprised as you were to learn what she’s…well, all of it. I assumed she was dead.”
Blodwyn makes a noise in her throat. “Maybe you shouldn’t have been so shocked. From what I’ve come to understand, your family has something of a habit of resurrecting themselves.”
A valid observation, I suppose.
Thunder cracks outside, swiftly followed by a strike of lightning that illuminates the painting of Millicent. Blodwyn notices it and steps closer.
“That’s her, isn’t it?” she asks. “Millicent.”
“You recognize her?”
“Why shouldn’t I?” Blodwyn returns. “I met her. Unless you still believe I was making it all up.”
“I never thought that,” I say. She just huffs, unconvinced. “Really. I won’t pretend to understand all that occurred, but I believe it happened. Hearing Rhea’s words was enough to prove that.”
I study the portrait again. How many other secrets was my ancestress keeping? Wind howls through the bones of the Sanctum.
“Well, in any case, I suppose I owe you my thanks for taking my side in there,” Blodwyn says at last, motioning the direction of the Great Hall.
“You don’t owe me anything,” I say quietly. “Not after…”
“After you cut out Papa’s heart and stuffed it in a mirror?”
Ah—that. The anxiety in my chest winds tighter. Blodwyn finally faces me.
“When were you planning on sharing that with me?” she asks. “Seeing as you agreed that we wouldn’t keep secrets anymore?”
“I don’t know,” I admit.
She shakes her head. “I see. And do you even regret what you did to him?”
I pause, debating how to answer. There were many instances when I wished I’d never bound Callen’s heart. But I suspect not for the reasons Blodwyn is insinuating.
“No,” I say, shrinking at feeling so exposed. “I don’t. Not all of it.”
The princess is quiet for a long while. Thunder rattles the windowpanes. I brace myself for her anger. Maybe she really will try to strangle me. Instead, Blodwyn just frowns.
“Aunt Margaret said the same thing,” she says at last.
My brow furrows. “Your aunt?”
“I spoke with her earlier.”
The duchess was present during the latter part of our planning meeting.
I expected that Blodwyn would be horrified to learn that her aunt was trapped in a mirror, but she accepted the situation in stride.
Then again, I suppose Margaret’s fate is no more fantastical than any of the other events of the past day.
“I didn’t cut her heart out,” I venture, as though that could possibly excuse anything.
“She told me,” Blodwyn replies. “Along with everything else: all her plans and why she really pushed me to call the trials. She insisted that she never intended to hurt me. But she also didn’t regret attempting to reclaim her power.”
Perhaps Margaret and I were far more similar than I ever believed. Both of us desperate to carve our place in a world set against us. Both of us harming those around us—and ourselves—in the process. And yet…how much of the last years would I take back? I’m not sure.
“You probably hate us,” I comment.
“I hated you,” she says flatly. “And even Aunt Margaret at times. Maybe I still should. But…what have I gained by that hatred? What does anyone earn from vengeance? Do we finally feel satisfied? Or is it just an endless cycle?”
The answer aches in my own chest.
“Perhaps Millicent’s magic did rub off on you,” I observe quietly. “Her wisdom, anyway.”
Blodwyn just snorts. “I doubt that. In fact…”
“What?”
“I don’t know…” She gestures helplessly around her. “I assumed something would happen by now. To prove that I was…like you. That’s why I came in here, in case there was a book or clue to help me figure it out. But maybe that other witch was right.”
“Who? Sindony?” I ask, making a face. “She’s never right.”
That tempts the ghost of a smile. But it just as quickly vanishes.
“She may be about this,” Blodwyn goes on. “You saw for yourself. If there is magic inside me, it’s certainly not making itself known.”
“Maybe not yet,” I allow. “But you were all but dead from the poison. You couldn’t have survived with just the antidote.”
Blodwyn looks down at her hand, examining the three crossed lines below her left ring finger. “How did you know about the mark? You said you made it.”
“My sister gave it to me,” I explain, showing her my own triangle.
I may have lost control of the shadows, but my latent magic evidently still works. The cuts I carved into my palm have knitted themselves back together, nothing but faded pink lines.
“Did your sister know?” Blodwyn asks. “About Millicent’s past?”
“I’m not sure how she could have. None of the rest of us were aware.”
Still, something must have caused Rhea to choose the triangle for our rune.
And then there was her last message to me: It must be undone.
Too close to Millicent’s words to be a coincidence.
My attention drifts back to the portrait.
Millicent, a former princess, whose line led to Rhea…
and then me. A Bloodstone that sent me back to the White Palace, to Blodwyn, where it all began.
The pieces were all there. All I’ve ever had to do was put them together.
Perhaps Mother was right. Our fates are intertwined.
But I have no idea what it means for either of us.
—
By the following evening, we’ve finalized our plans and are set to depart for the palace.
It’s late and the Sanctum is quiet, but there’s a charge in the air—the hum of anticipation and uncertainty.
Through Margaret, we learn that the Rycinthian forces have crossed the border and are marching on the palace.
I count that as a blessing. If Callen is occupied with a Rycinthian invasion, he may not be as concerned with me.
As for Mother…not even Margaret can discover where she went.
I dream of her, though. The uprooted trees.
Her lips slick with blood as she devoured the heart.
How had she fallen so far? Jacquetta claimed there was something broken in Mother.
More than her latent magic. And I cannot help but wonder…
Am I the one who broke it?
“Shouldn’t you be resting?” Jacquetta’s voice carries across the cloister.
I just shake my head, rubbing my arms against the chill of the night.
I’d hoped the cold might settle my nerves.
It hasn’t. Nox keeps close, his red eye gleaming in the darkness.
He lopes over as Jacquetta approaches. The other witch still stiffens slightly at his presence, but scratches tentatively between his ears.
“Do you think all Nevenwolves are like this?” she asks, nodding at Nox. “Just larger versions of Fitz?”
Nox snorts, evidently offended at the comparison. But his tail is swishing.
“Apparently so,” I agree.
The Nevenwolf huffs, dissatisfied, then gives himself a shake and wanders off.
Jacquetta tilts her face up to the night.
Pale moonlight bathes her skin. Memories wash over me, the two of us sneaking through the Sanctum’s halls or out into the forest. Reveling in our own private world.
Jacquetta must be sharing in some of those memories, for she asks:
“Did you ever imagine that we’d be back here?”
“Absolutely not.” I bark a short laugh. “It’s strange, though.
Even with everything that’s happened, I find myself forgetting that any time has passed at all.
I keep expecting the others to come around the corner.
For Eden to challenge me to a race in the forest or for Isolde to invite me out with the Elementals. ”
“For Willa to chase us out of the kitchen for filching pie,” Jacquetta adds, a soft smile tugging at her lips.
“Willa’s pies,” I groan, my stomach grumbling. “I’d give just about anything for one of those right now. Or her stew.”
We haven’t had anything decent to eat since leaving the palace.
“Speaking of stew,” Jacquetta says, “do you remember the time we seasoned it with contortion potion?”
I grimace. “How could I not? Mother made me drink a dose every day for a week as punishment.”
“That’s right! You were stuck with that badger face.” Jacquetta performs an imitation of what I assume I resembled, and I give her a playful shove.
“You were no help.”
“That’s not true!” she retorts, indignant. “Ingrid made fun of you and I hexed her so that all her hair would fall out.”
“Which Mother also blamed on me,” I remind her. “Just like when you mixed fireroot into all the ingredients in the workroom so that everyone’s potions kept exploding. We’re lucky no one was maimed.”
“Oh, I almost forgot about that,” Jacquetta laughs, without the barest hint of remorse. “Spirits, I thought Cassandra would flay us alive.”
“She nearly did. Sometimes, I wonder how we survived those years at all.”
Quiet settles around us, filled with the distant sounds of the night creatures.
“And this?” Jacquetta asks after a moment. “Do you think we’ll survive it? That destroying the Bloodstones is really the answer?”
A heaviness settles in my stomach. Because I’d been wrestling with the same question since our meeting. But I cannot let myself give in to doubt now.
“The stones hold the witches’ power,” I reason, as much to myself as to Jacquetta. “Releasing it is the only thing I can think to do to restore the balance of power. We have to try.”
She pauses. Fusses with her sleeve. “Sindony doesn’t believe it will work. She’s worried that destroying the stones will destroy their power with it.”
“Which, I assume, is what Sindony believes is my real plan?” I ask wryly.
Jacquetta’s silence is confirmation enough. I let out a sigh, unsurprised that Sindony judges me capable of such a scheme. Not so long ago, she might have been right.
“And what do you believe?” I ask Jacquetta.
It takes her a long moment to answer.
“I don’t think you’re plotting against the others,” she says at last. “But they’re right to be concerned. If this plan succeeds, and magic and Malum are brought together, what does that mean for us? Or you?”
You will lose everything, that vicious voice hisses.
“I’m not sure,” I admit. “If magic and Malum are two halves of a whole, then the forces should exist together. Nox and the others will remain free. Maybe I’ll even get my hold on the shadows.”
Jacquetta frowns at that.
“Were you hoping for a different outcome?” I ask.
“No. It’s only…”
“What?”
“Malum destroyed this realm, Ayleth,” Jacquetta continues.
“Don’t mistake me—I sympathize with creatures like Nox.
And with you. No one deserves to be without their power.
But that doesn’t erase the pain Malum inflicted.
The memories. If Malum is loose in the realm, does that mean creatures like Shade will also exist?
Will we be forced to live our lives fearing that all this will happen again? ”
Fearing me, she doesn’t say.
And perhaps such fear shouldn’t be a surprise, but a fragile part of me wilts all the same.
“I can’t say what’s coming next,” I tell her, fighting the tightness in my chest. “And, as for Shade, perhaps he will remain. But so will I. And I need you to understand that this is who I am. Whether I control the shadows or not, they’re part of me.
They always will be. If you were expecting me to change, you’ll be disappointed. ”
She looks at me a long moment. Moonlight gleams in her eyes, bringing out the silver spangles in the blue.
“I would never ask you to change,” she says at last.
But does that mean she’ll accept me? That she’ll want me the way I am when all this is over? Any answer is lost in the sound of her retreating footsteps as she returns to the Sanctum.