Chapter Sixty Ayleth
Chapter Sixty
Ayleth
Failed, that voice taunts. You have failed.
It has never been louder than it is now, as I’m dragged forward and dumped unceremoniously on the floor in front of Callen, who lounges on his throne, grinning at me.
Blodwyn stands at her father’s side, stiff and pale.
She appears to be unharmed, though, which loosens some of the tension in my chest. The same likely can’t be said for Jacquetta and the rest of the witches.
Callen’s guards were waiting for us as soon as we emerged from Roland’s tunnels.
They arrested me right away, so I have no idea what happened to the others.
Are they in the dungeons, waiting for their turn on the pyre?
Or did Callen simply order them slaughtered on the spot?
I curse myself again for being such a reckless fool.
“Papa,” Blodwyn attempts, her voice wavering. “This isn’t necessary. Ayleth…”
“Is a witch.”
The word slinks through the chamber, chased by cries of alarm and shock. My heart beats harder and I lock eyes with Blodwyn. Her own are wide and wild.
“That’s right,” Callen continues, addressing the audience. “I was as outraged as you are to learn the truth about our so-called queen. But I’m afraid the evidence is simply too overwhelming to ignore. These, for example, were discovered in her chambers.”
He snaps his fingers. Parnell, the duplicitous snake, slithers from the fringes of the crowd and displays several books. Ignatius’s grimoires, I register dully. But I don’t even bother attempting to defend myself. Callen can say whatever he likes and the court will believe him.
“This witch has been hiding in our midst for a long time,” the king goes on. “Some of you may recall how she made her way into the palace—disguised as a Sister of the Order, one that my late wife was kind enough to invite into her service. And look how she was repaid.”
Callen rises, his boots thudding on the floor as he takes slow, deliberate steps in my direction. I feel the crowd shift behind me.
“This imposter would have you believe that she rescued me from the High Priest,” Callen says.
“That he was the witch among us. But it was the usurper queen who broke the Veil. Who released Malum into our realm. Spelled me into doing her bidding. Just as the witches ensorcelled Braxos all those years ago.”
My fists clench at the mention of the Order’s greatest lie.
The one they built their entire farce of a faith upon and used to justify the murder of witches.
Even now, the mutterings and whispers intensify as the court drinks this in.
The last vestiges of my power scream a warning. But there’s nothing that can be done.
“Were it not for Master Parnell, I might still be lying in that bed, victim to my supposed accident at the joust,” Callen starts again. “My sister, however, was not as lucky.”
He gestures to one side and Margaret drifts out from behind the thrones. The court cries out as her silver eyes sweep over the room.
“That wasn’t me,” I say, unable to keep the words back.
“Can you prove your innocence?” Callen smirks.
I glare back at him, fuming.
“Kill her, Sire!” someone shouts.
“Yes! Burn the witch!”
I dig my fingernails into my sister’s mark. But Rhea cannot help me. No one can. I can almost feel the heat of the flames grazing my skin.
“Now, now.” Callen motions for silence. “The imposter’s fate is my daughter’s to decide. This is the princess’s final trial, after all.”
The trial? He can’t be serious. I look to Blodwyn, but she just shakes her head.
“Papa,” she attempts. “This isn’t—”
“And after Blodwyn has finished with the pretender queen,” Callen speaks over her, “we’ll start on the rest of you.”
His voice drops, venomous, and every hair on my body rises. And that’s when I know: This isn’t actually part of the trials. Callen has devised his own game.
“Majesty…” Weston ventures forth. He must have been pulled from his bed—or someone else’s—for his doublet is crookedly fastened, exposing his linen shift beneath. “Surely you don’t mean all of us.”
“Why shouldn’t I?” Callen replies. “Or did you assume I was unaware of what occurred in this palace during my…indisposition?”
The tension in the room thickens. Fabric rustles as courtiers shift, their uneasy whispers running in currents through the hall.
“Your Majesty.” This time, it’s Lord Warbeck who speaks. “If you would only—”
“I know everything,” Callen barks. “The parties, where you were all happy to drink my wine and eat my food in my absence. Happy to let a witch rule in my place. She didn’t even have to spell you, like Margaret here. You were all simply greedy and stupid enough to obey her.”
I feel rather than see the audience move closer together, as if that could shield them from Callen’s wrath.
“And then,” Callen continues, “you schemed to overthrow me while I still breathed. Celebrated doing so with these ludicrous trials. You planned them yourself, didn’t you, Weston?”
The Lord of Misrule pales. “Well, I…I certainly never meant—”
“No, you never mean anything, do you? Not even friendship.” Callen pauses. Clenches his fist, one of the few times I’ve seen him express real emotion. “But no matter. This is as much my trial as my daughter’s. And you are all about to taste the sort of justice I serve.”
At his signal, the doors swing wide. Dozens of guards tromp into the hall, armor rattling. But it’s not the sight of their weapons that makes my next breath catch. It’s what they’re carrying. Each guard holds a mirror. And I can tell from the glass exactly what kind of mirror it is.
“Are those…” I begin, stunned. “How did you…”
“I didn’t,” Callen replies, thoroughly pleased with himself. “The Dwarves were more than happy to comply with your request to remake the mirrors. After all, they would do anything for the queen who freed them.”
My request? But I didn’t…
Understanding drops like a stone in my mind. My attention pivots to Parnell, who regards me with such smugness that my blood roils. He must have written to the Dwarves on my behalf, as I’d asked him to do on countless occasions during the war.
This is your fault, that voice accuses.
It always is.
“Your Majesty,” Warbeck attempts again, but even his nerves appear frayed. “Please, if there’s some way we can correct our error—”
“Oh, there is,” Callen replies. “In fact, I’ve spent a long time considering how to repair the damage done to this court. In the end, it was my dear sister who showed me the answer.”
He pauses at Margaret. Takes her chin in two fingers and tilts it up.
“Her condition was a shock at first,” he goes on. “But then I realized…I rather prefer Margaret this way. She’s so much more biddable. Helpful. Loyal. And then I thought, why not have a court made up of people just like her?”
Just like her? But he can’t mean to—
Callen signals to the guards again. Wood slams as the huge doors close, metal screeching as the lock slides into place.
The audience’s confusion transforms instantly to panic.
Frenzied courtiers flock to the exits. The guards fend them off, which only intensifies the chaos.
Someone screams and it’s cut short by the sound of a sword skewering flesh.
The others back away as the wounded courtier sinks to the ground, blood pooling beneath him as his last breaths wheeze from his lungs. An eerie quiet descends on the chamber.
“Try to run if you like,” Callen drawls. “But there are only two ways out of this chamber now: dead or part of the new White Court.”
He’s lost his mind. My heart pounds in my chest. A few courtiers have started sobbing.
“Now, then,” Callen says, his eyes glittering with malice as he turns them on me. “Let’s begin with you, wife.”
He motions to Parnell, who carries over a slender box, then lifts the lid. My stomach drops at the sight of a silver blade. A jeweled hilt. It’s the mirror’s knife.
“Papa.” Blodwyn steps forward. “Please. You can’t do this. It’s madness.”
“Madness, genius.” Callen shrugs. “As far as I’m concerned, there’s not much of a difference. And I’m not going to do anything, my dear. You are.”
At first, I assume he means me. But the king’s attention is fixed on Blodwyn.
“Me?” She blanches. “No. I’m not…”
“A witch?” Callen asks. A slow smile curls along his lips. “Aren’t you? At least, that’s what I heard. Or did you think my sister was the only one who could see through that mirror?”
Cold comprehension dawns. He was still able to command the mirror. No wonder the guard was expecting us. Callen had been watching the whole time, like a spider hunting its prey.
As if he can read my thoughts, Callen’s grin widens.
“There’s no need to be nervous,” he says to Blodwyn. Tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “I know you can do it. Master Parnell will assist you.”
“Indeed, Princess.” The crow-like man steps closer. “Just take the knife.”
Blodwyn goes perfectly still, like a rabbit caught in a snare. “I…can’t.”
“Why not? She was going to use that knife on you,” Callen jerks his chin in my direction. “She was going to imprison you in a mirror, just like she did to me.”
“Blodwyn, no.” I try to move toward her, but the guards yank me back. “I couldn’t.”
“You considered it,” Callen replies. “Wanted to. Trust me, Blodwyn. I’ve come to know the queen better than anyone. Even herself.”
The ridges of my ears redden. And I hate that I cannot refute his accusations. Hate the truth that is staring me in the face.
“You were right about her, by the way,” Callen goes on. “From the moment you arrived, she schemed to control you. Win you over to her side. Make you believe that she cared. All so she could manipulate you if you won the trials.”
Blodwyn studies me, questions churning in her eyes. I do not try to deny it.
“I was wrong,” I say. “I know that.”
“Do you?” Callen mocks. “Tell me, Daughter. Has she apologized? Confessed her sins? Perhaps. But can you ever really trust a word out of her mouth?”
“I can’t trust you, either,” Blodwyn retorts.