The Crimson Crown, page 18
Bells chime through the cavernous library, signaling that another hour has passed. That’s two since we arrived, and I haven’t discovered so much as a hint to what happened to the Bloodstones after the massacre. Sighing, I pull another book toward me and start paging through it. As with the other accounts I’ve read, this volume begins with the story of Braxos. Sunlight glimmers on the luminous ink illustration of the first White King, back when he was nothing but a mere apple farmer. As the tale goes, the line of the former royal family—those who originally worshiped the Order—was all but dried up. Without an heir, the realm would cede to the Rycinthian rulers and their ancient ties to the throne.
But rather than allow another realm to claim Riven, the dying king established a contest, one that would name its winner his heir. According to this record, nearly every man in the realm—women, predictably, were barred from participation—entered for the chance to inherit the crown. But it was Braxos who emerged victorious.
Another illustration depicts the future king standing triumphant on the steps of the old palace, still dressed in his peasant clothes. White rose petals float down around him, heralding the new age. To Braxos’s left, a woman who is obviously meant to portray a witch lies in wait, her green eyes glimmering beneath her crimson cloak. A Bloodstone shines on her finger, a menacing tendril of red rising from the jewel and slinking toward Braxos. To his right, an Order priest lifts a hand, as if to shield the king from her wickedness. This book was evidently written recently, for the Order priest looks strikingly similar to Ignatius. I roll my eyes, unsurprised that Meira’s supposed representative would immortalize himself in such a pretentious manner.
“Mistress Ayleth.”
I jump, having been so absorbed in the text that I didn’t hear anyone approach. Panic jolts up my spine. It’s Ignatius. I hastily close the book, skin crawling at the idea that the High Priest’s portrait somehow summoned the man himself.
“Your Illuminance.” I dip my chin in greeting.
“What a pleasure to discover you both here.” His amber gaze drifts between me and the princess, who tucks her own volume surreptitiously into the folds of her blanket. “I was just visiting the archives. What brings the two of you to the library today?”
Before I can answer, he picks up one of the books on my table and skims the title.
“An account of the war.” He raises an eyebrow. “How interesting. In my experience, most in this court find such subjects to be rather dry.”
“That’s what I told her,” Blodwyn chimes in.
Ignatius laughs. “May I ask what attracted you to the topic?”
I swallow, fisting my skirts. What would a real Order Sister say?
“The…illustrations” is all I can muster.
He opens the book. “Yes, I see what you mean. The detail is impeccable. Have you had the opportunity to view the tapestry on the second floor? I commissioned it myself.”
A vision of the hot iron shoes sears in my mind. “Yes. I’ve seen it.”
Ignatius returns the book, still open to an image of a witch strapped to a pyre.
“You know, I feel that I haven’t properly thanked you for your act of selflessness on the night I visited the Sanctum.”
“Selflessness?” Blodwyn asks.
“That’s right, Princess.” Ignatius smiles at her. “Are you aware of Mistress Ayleth’s heroics?”
She winds an ebony curl around her finger. “I know she can shoot a bow.”
Damn. I shouldn’t have told her that.
“Is that so?” Ignatius studies me. “You surprise me again, Mistress. But no, Highness. Our Mistress Ayleth saved my life. She pushed me out of the way before I was crushed beneath a falling statue, with no regard for her own safety.”
Blodwyn sits up straighter. “Truly? Weren’t you afraid?”
Not as much as I am now. “I only did what anyone else would have done.”
“I’m not sure that’s as accurate as we would prefer to believe.” The ruby Eye pendant glimmers on its chain. “We’re all very fortunate that Meira’s Light guided you to that Sanctum—and to court. In fact, why don’t you join me at the High Table tonight at dinner?”
I’d rather eat that monstrous pig-capon dish. “Duchess Poole said I’m to stay with the other maidens.”
“I’ll send word to the duchess myself.” He waves a ringed hand. “I’m eager to learn more about you.”
Before I can devise some other excuse, the High Priest traces the sign of the Eye between us and sails away, his flame-colored robes billowing like a pyre.
Marion’s words loop through my mind: At court, nothing remains secret for long.
“Lucky you,” Blodwyn comments, retrieving her book. “I only get to sit at the High Table on my birthday or when someone special is visiting. You’ll have the best food. And you’ll be sitting with Mother and Papa as well.”
Sitting with the king? A memory of those gray eyes blooms. That is the last place I need to be.
“In fact, will you bring me some dessert?” Blodwyn asks around a bite of tart. “I’m never served anything half as good in my rooms.”
Judging from the sludge churning in my stomach, the princess is welcome to my entire dinner. I rub at my temples. What have I gotten myself into?
Footsteps patter nearby, too light and quick to belong to the High Priest. I swivel in my seat just in time to catch a flash of red blur past on the other side of the aisle, one that instantly registers. I’d seen that color in the Great Hall and again in the queen’s rooms. It’s the person who’s been following me. This time, I’m going to find out what they want.
“Where are you going?” Blodwyn asks as I push up from the table.
“I’ll be right back,” I call over my shoulder.
Picking up my skirts, I hurry into the stacks, chasing after that smear of red. Whoever it is, they’re fast. I break into a trot, cursing my too-tight slippers as I veer right and then left through the aisles. I round the next shelf. There—a scarlet cap.
It’s a little person. Male, and about a head taller than Joan. He spots me and panic twists his features. I was right—he has been following me. I urge my feet faster. There’s a small statue up ahead—a marble rendering of Braxos sitting under an apple tree—and the man darts around its base. I dive just before he disappears, nearly colliding with the pedestal, and manage to close my grip around his ankle.
He kicks at me. “Let go! Let me go, damn you!”
“Not until you explain why you’ve been following me.”
I grunt, struggling to keep hold of him. He’s all muscle, with deep-brown skin. His cap falls from his head to expose wispy white hair beneath. Creases bracket his mouth and fan out from his eyes. Eyes, I notice now, that are a striking kaleidoscope of colors, like sapphires and turquoises and emeralds that have been crushed up together. Recognition hits like an arrow striking. I’ve seen illustrations of eyes like those. This isn’t a mortal man.
“You’re a Dwarf,” I gasp.
My mind combs feverishly over the details I learned of the Dwarves and their Guilds. Like the witches, the Dwarves were a respected magical community within Riven. If I’m not mistaken, there was even a Guild here at the palace. But the Dwarves vanished after the king levied his edict. Most witches assume they went into hiding. Some, kinder, witches believe the king killed them. Evidently, we were all wrong.
“What are you doing here?” I demand. “I thought you were all gone—or dead.”
“Do I look dead?” He kicks at me again. “And it’s no business of yours what I am doing, Mistress Witch.”
Everything in me goes still. He knows.
“Thought I wouldn’t notice, did you?” He wrinkles his nose, which is roughly the size and shape of a turnip. “Bet you thought you were a clever witch, hiding yourself in the queen’s service. Wonder what Her Majesty would think of it.”
The panic thrumming in my veins congeals to anger. “Is that why you’ve been following me? You’re going to turn me in? My sisters were right about you. You left us to die. We’re kindred and you—”
“Kindred?” He hoots. “Answer me this—if it was the Dwarves who were hunted, what would you witches have done? Swooped in with your magic spells to rescue us?”
“Of course we would have.”
He barks a laugh. “Well, that’s interesting news. If my recollection serves, the covens keep to themselves, holed up in those Sanctums of yours. Never did see one of mine invited in there, did you?”
I open my mouth to argue with this infuriating Dwarf, but the words don’t come. Because he’s right. Only witches live among the covens. That’s just how things are done.
It’s the way things are now, Eunice’s words in the Sanctum float back to me.
I’d been so frustrated with her—how she and the other mortals had been focused only on their own lives and not what was happening to us. But I suppose the covens weren’t much different. A guilty flush prickles up my neck.
“Aye, thought so,” the Dwarf grumbles at my silence. “Just like a witch to barge in here, hurling accusations when all we’ve done is keep our heads on our shoulders. I deeply apologize, Mistress Witch, if our survival inconvenienced the covens.”
“Inconvenienced?” I echo, dumbfounded. “We’re being murdered. And you’re here, living a comfortable life in the palace.”
“Comfortable?” He cackles. “Take a look for yourself what comfort we Dwarves enjoy.”
He jerks his chin to indicate his left leg. The hem of his trousers is pulled up, exposing an inked image of crossed pickaxes, with a crowned apple in the middle. It matches the gold pin on his cap. But I notice that the skin around the mark is pink and puckered, suggesting…
“Is that…a brand?”
“Clever witch indeed,” he replies dryly. “It’s a Guild Mark, to show all the world where we Dwarves belong. Not to the Mines, as is our right, but to the king. Anyone outside the palace sees it on me, they know what to do. Hefty reward for returning a lost Dwarf these days. King can’t live without his baubles and trinkets, after all.”
Understanding begins to stitch itself together in my mind. Dwarves possess a crafting magic, skilled in jewelry and weapons and fixtures. The White Palace is dripping with such wealth. I must have seen a hundred examples of Dwarvian craftsmanship in the last days without even registering it. I study the Guild Mark again, fresh guilt digging between my shoulder blades with the knowledge of what it really represents. The king might not have passed an edict against the Dwarves, but he certainly devised a method to control them—one just as sinister as the raids.
“You’re prisoners.”
“Observant, are you?”
My grip on his ankle loosens and he scoots away from me, muttering about permanent damage.
“I didn’t know.” Even to me, the excuse sounds flimsy. “None of us did. I told you—we thought you were gone or dead. We would have helped you, if we understood. I would have helped you.”
Though I’m not sure how.
The Dwarf grunts, brushes off his cap, and jams it back on his head. “Big words from a small witch.”
And a powerless one at that, that voice whispers.
“My name is Ayleth,” I tell him, extending my hand.
For a moment, he just looks at it, unimpressed. But then he heaves a sigh and accepts. His skin is rough and calloused against mine. And I can feel a faint vibration through our contact, like rocks rolling down a mountain. Perhaps it’s his connection to the Mines.
“Roland,” he offers, gruff.
“It’s nice to meet you. Though I wouldn’t call it our first meeting. You have been following me. Are you going to tell me why?”
He shrugs, the barest hint of color blooming in his cheeks. “Curious, I suppose. This is the last place I’d think to look for one of your kind. What are you doing here? Got a taste for the flame?”
I hesitate. Can I trust Roland? Or will he turn me in? But he hasn’t reported me yet, and he’s had plenty of opportunity to do so. And then there’s the matter of his Guild Mark. Roland’s obvious—and perhaps understandable—resentment of the covens aside, I doubt he harbors any loyalty to the White King. Perhaps I can take advantage of that. Roland might hold the answers I’m looking for.
“I’m here for the Bloodstones,” I tell him at last.
“Bloodstones?” he echoes.
By the Spirits, have even the Dwarves forgotten our history?
“Those that hold the Veil?” I ask, irritated. “They were stolen when the Hunt captured the Heirs.”
“Oh, those Bloodstones.” Roland snaps his fingers. “Why didn’t you say so? I’ve got them down in the Mines. Let me just pop down and fetch them for you.”
I cross my arms, glaring. “Do you know where they are or not?”
“ ’Course I don’t.” He waves me off. “Everything related to the covens was burned in the Great Cleansing. I expect the Bloodstones were with them.”
Great Cleansing. I shudder, envisioning a huge pyre stacked with grimoires and crimson cloaks and witches. But the Bloodstones couldn’t have been there.
“No, they weren’t.”
He arches an eyebrow. “And how do you know? Did you attend?”
“I know because the Bloodstones are what hold the Veil, and the Veil hasn’t fallen.”
Roland frowns. “Don’t know about that. Strange enough things have happened of late.”
“Strange?” My heart kicks. “Like what?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Shadows acting like they shouldn’t. Noises. And just a feeling I get. Like something’s off. It’s been getting worse too.”
“How long has it been worse?”
“A week or so. Maybe less.”
That would fit with when Blodwyn claims to have seen the Nevenwolf. When I came to the palace. Could those events be related? I don’t let myself look at that question too long.
“If the Veil had really fallen, you would know,” I say, as much to Roland as myself. “It’s holding, but barely.”
“Aye, if you say so.” He tilts his head at me. “And let me guess—you’re here to find the stones and fix things. Save the realm from certain peril?”
And to pull my dead sister out from beyond the Veil. I decide it’s better that Roland doesn’t know all the particulars just yet. “Something like that.”
“I see.” He straightens his jacket and starts to turn away. “Well, good luck to you, Mistress Witch. Hope you don’t die, but you probably will.”
“Wait,” I call after him. “Don’t you want to help?”
He snorts. “Why in the Mines would I want to do that?”
“Because…” I fumble to find a reason for what should be obvious. “It’s the Veil. When it falls, it threatens all of us. Surely you’ve heard of what Malum brings—blights and plagues. Madness.”
“Do things not seem mad already?” He gestures around him. “I live in the White Palace, home of the mad king. Veil, no Veil—it makes little difference to me. Unless you have some secret weapon at your disposal, I’ll thank you to leave me out of it.”
By the Spirits. Secret weapon? Who does he think I am, an—
An Heir.
No. No. I can’t use that—won’t use it. It’s not even true. But Roland starts tapping his foot, impatient. In another moment, he’ll leave and I’ll be utterly alone.
“I’m Millicent’s descendant.”
He gapes at me. “You’re an Ancient’s Heir?”
Not even a little bit. “My mother is. I’m her Second, next in line.”
Roland leans in so that his face is inches from mine. “Are you lying, Mistress Witch?”
“No.” But I very much wish that I were.
If I hadn’t been born into this bloodline, I’d probably be off in some other coven. Or I’d be dead, killed in a raid. Right now, either sounds better than my current situation.
“Millicent.” Roland looks me up and down. “Thought all the Heirs were dead at this point. And what do you need me for, then? Can’t you find the stones with your power or something? Blast this palace to pieces?”
That too-familiar feeling of inadequacy settles over me. “It’s…complicated.”
“Nope. Don’t like complicated. Simplicity is the way for me.” He presses his hands to his chest. “Air in my lungs and my neck on my shoulders. Goodbye, Mistress Witch. Give my best to your ancestress when you meet her.”
He heads for the statue.
“Please,” I beg, desperate. “I need help. Don’t you want to escape? If the witches have the Bloodstones again, we can mend the Veil. Strengthen our power. No more war or mad kings or Guild Marks. Riven will be different.”
None of that is the actual reason I came to the White Palace, but I’ll figure out the details later. Besides, it’s true. I could get Rhea and return the Bloodstones. Then I’ll have more than erased the shadows of my past. I clench my fists against Rhea’s marks.
Roland eyes me, dubious. “You really think you can manage it?”
“Not alone.”
He grumbles something under his breath. “And what do you need, exactly?”
“Just point me in the direction of the stones.”
“Oh, a simple request, is it?” Roland rubs his chin. “Fine, then. I’ll see what I can do. But I make no promises. And when I say I’m done, that’s it. No more.”
“Of course.” I’m grinning with relief. “I understand. Thank you.”
He only shakes his head, muttering about his own lack of sense and impending doom.
“Wait,” I call as he ducks behind the statue. “How do I find you?”
“You don’t,” he replies without so much as a backward glance.
And then he’s gone. I hurry over to peer behind the statue’s base, curious as to how he gets around the palace, but there’s nothing there.
