The Crimson Crown, page 21
“If I was a prince, they’d have invited me,” the princess grumbles, bringing me back into our conversation. “Boys aren’t cooped up in the palace all day.”
Nettle stalks a stray duckling and Blodwyn scoops it up before my cat can pounce. Nettle flattens her ears, disappointed, and lopes over to me.
“If it’s any consolation, I’m not going either,” I tell the princess.
“It’s not.” Blodwyn pats the duckling’s fuzzy head. “Sometimes I wish boys didn’t exist at all. There weren’t any in your Sanctum, were there? Was that better?”
“Immensely,” I tell her, stroking Nettle.
“Maybe I should join with a Sanctum.”
I imagine Blodwyn among real Sisters. She would drive them utterly mad. It would be wonderful. Nettle trills in agreement.
“If you left the palace, you wouldn’t have your menagerie,” I point out. “Or the library.”
“Don’t Sanctums have libraries?”
“Not like yours.” Though I expect they’re filled with just as many false histories.
Blodwyn frowns. “Perhaps not, then.”
A wise decision for everyone. Blodwyn busies herself with her duckling. For a few minutes, I sit back and allow the gentle sounds of the menagerie to wash over me—the soft, cheerful calls of the animals and the pleasant gurgle of the water in the fountain. After the constant strain of being among the court, this peace is welcome. Even Nettle curls herself in my lap, and I smile at the vibration of her purring against my body.
“She’s ruined another one.” A voice carries from the outer chamber. It’s one of Blodwyn’s additional maidens. We’re close enough to the fogged windows that I can see two of them walking together.
“Spoiled thing,” the second comments. “I’d give my eyeteeth for lace like that and she just traipses about through the mud. And did I tell you that I had to clean up after one of her pets yesterday? I swear, she trains them to leave messes.”
The first clicks her tongue. “Well, give it a few more years and she’ll be some other realm’s problem. I heard there’s a few potential betrothals being bandied about.”
“That blessed event can’t come quick enough.” The other points. “But mind you don’t get sent off with her.”
“Could you imagine…”
The voices fade into the next chamber. I look to the princess, sympathy needling between my ribs. Blodwyn hasn’t moved, but she’s gripping the duckling hard enough that the creature whistles in alarm. She sets it free and it waddles away, shaking itself.
“I’m sorry, Blodwyn. That was cruel of them.”
“I don’t care.” But she blinks, banishing the glassy sheen to her eyes. “Do you know what they meant, about the betrothal?”
At first, I’m shocked that Blodwyn isn’t aware of such details herself. Then again, I suppose her ignorance fits with what I’ve experienced of this court. Why would Blodwyn know about a proposed marriage? Why would the princess, or any other woman, possess even an ounce of control over her own future? The unfairness of the situation is similar enough to my own life with Mother—how my status as Second was thrust upon me without any consideration of my own desires—that fresh anger kindles on the princess’s behalf. She deserves to know.
“The High Priest mentioned Rycinthia,” I tell Blodwyn.
She picks the petals off a flower. “I’m not surprised that they want to send me away. They all hate me.”
“You don’t know that. Just because they complain about your pets—”
“Not my pets.” She dismisses me. “They hate me because of the curse.”
Even Nettle lifts her head at that. “Curse?”
“Don’t you know?” I shake my head, and the princess glances toward the menagerie doors before continuing. “It’s said that the witches who were killed here cursed Papa’s father. That’s why my uncles died and why Papa hasn’t had a son—just me.”
I’d almost forgotten about the king’s older brothers, each killed in the witch raids. As far as I’m concerned, such a death was too kind for them. A vision of the tapestry and the red-hot iron shoes resurfaces in my mind. If my grandmother was anything like Mother, I have no doubt that she would have levied a curse against the king before she was murdered. But she couldn’t have done so—none of the Heirs could have. The iron would have poisoned their magic, the same as it did to Rhea on the night of Stonehaven’s raid.
“There’s no—”
“It’s true,” Blodwyn interrupts, sharp and vehement. “I see the way Papa looks at me sometimes, like I did something wrong. He thinks I’m cursed. That’s why he wants me to go away. That’s why he built this menagerie—to keep me locked inside it.”
The bitterness in her voice resonates in my own soul. We might be on opposing sides of this war, but, in the hard lines of Blodwyn’s expression, I glimpse the same pain that winnowed between my bones during every lesson with Mother, when each mistake I made only highlighted the fact that I wasn’t Rhea. Wasn’t good enough. I reach for Blodwyn’s hand.
“There’s no curse.”
She shies away from me, fidgeting with a climbing vine. “Then why does everyone say there is?”
“Because people are idiots. Don’t let them dictate who you are. Decide for yourself.”
Blodwyn drops the vine, and her dark eyes are like windows into her soul.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she whispers.
I tuck a lock of her ebony hair behind her ear. “So am I.”
Against all odds and sensibility, I mean it. Blodwyn may boast a fierce heart, but she’s fragile as well. Wounded. I wish I could smooth over the princess’s hurt—help her the way no one helped me.
“And…just so you know”—Blodwyn fusses with her skirts—“I do train my pets to make messes.”
I laugh. Of course she does. “I taught Nettle to do the same.”
My cat trills and swishes her tail in what I interpret as pride.
Blodwyn grins. “Let me show you what I—”
But the rest is cut off when a set of strong footsteps echoes through the menagerie.
“Where is my daughter?” a now too-familiar voice calls. “Has she managed to sprout wings and fly away?”
It’s the king, damn everything. Blodwyn scrambles up, already rushing to greet her father, but I have no desire to join her. Neither does Nettle. She scampers off and I hide myself behind the nearest potted plant, watching through the veil of brightly colored blooms.
“Papa!” Blodwyn exclaims, throwing herself into her father’s arms.
And now I’m doubly grateful for my hiding place, for King Callen isn’t alone. Lady Marion clings to his side like a barnacle, dressed in gray silk and wearing the most bizarre hat I’ve ever seen. It’s fashioned to resemble a bird’s nest, with a stuffed starling perched in the center. Jeweled eggs surround the glass-eyed creature, glimmering in the winter sunlight. What would possess someone to wear—or even make—a hat like that?
“Here she is.” The king spins his daughter around.
I have to admit that I’m taken aback at his overt show of affection. This is not the man from dinner who barely looked at his wife and spoke of the princess as if she were a piece in one of the court’s pointless games. This man plants a kiss on the top of Blodwyn’s head, a proud father. It’s terrifying, watching the king shed one skin and slide into another—like a snake.
“She’s becoming so pretty,” Lady Marion comments, tilting her head at the princess. “Soon, she’ll be fairest of them all—just like our goddess.”
“But Meira is called fair because of her sense of justice,” Blodwyn corrects primly. “Justice is far more important than beauty, isn’t it, Papa?”
I press my lips together to stifle a laugh.
“You’ve been spending time with your mother.” The king thumps Blodwyn playfully on her nose. She grins at him. Marion fumes, silent. “Here, I’ve brought you an early gift for Longest Night.”
The king motions for a servant, who steps forward and offers Blodwyn a long, shallow box. The princess lifts the lid and gasps. “Really, Papa? For me?”
She extracts a small bow and a slender quiver of arrows. Again, I’m surprised. Given what Blodwyn told me, I didn’t think women were permitted such activities here.
“I heard of your displeasure in not being invited to Sir Weston’s hunt,” the king explains, gesturing at the bow. “But I suppose there’s no harm in allowing you some sport—at least with this. Sir Weston devised the thing. It’s harmless enough.”
Blodwyn inspects the weapon, completely enthralled. “Thank you, Papa. It’s wonderful.”
“You’ll have to be careful.” The king points at her. “The arrows are blunted, but I don’t want to hear about shattered glass or you threatening to pick off your tutors.”
A fair concern.
Blodwyn laughs. “I promise, Papa.”
“Good.” The king beckons. “Here, let me teach you how to use it.”
Blodwyn clutches the bow to her chest. “Mistress Ayleth can help me. She hunted at her Sanctum, didn’t you—”
She stops short as she discovers that I’ve gone. Shit.
“Ayleth?”
I remain as still as possible, hardly even daring to breathe. If I just stay here, they’ll think I left. I won’t have to—
“There she is.” Marion squints in my direction. “She’s…I don’t know, roosting?”
I really do need to send Nettle to Marion’s rooms. Grudgingly, I emerge from behind the plant. The king spots me, and that feeling stirs behind my left ribs, something growing and reaching. Something that doesn’t belong.
Control it, I command myself, forcing the sensation down. Eventually, it lessens.
“Mistress Ayleth.” King Callen glances at the plant and back at me, his brow creased. “Were you hiding from us?”
“I…no.” A flush creeps up my neck, betraying me.
“Then what were you doing?” Marion asks, smirking.
“I was…”
“In truth, I’m glad to find you here,” the king says, stepping uncomfortably nearer. “I’ve been meaning to thank you for gifting me with your favor at the joust. Such a prize undoubtedly contributed to my victory.”
Would that my handkerchief had done the opposite—that the king’s head were knocked off by a lance, or that he were trampled to death by a horse.
“You exaggerate, Majesty.” Marion loops her arm through the king’s. “Your skill is unmatched on the tiltyard, as it is in so many other areas.”
Like killing witches.
The king extracts himself from Marion’s clutches, those gray eyes like hooks drawing me in. That feeling stirs again, brushing against the inner side of my left ribs. I clench my fists until it calms.
“But I’m interested in hearing of Mistress Ayleth’s skills,” the king says. “My daughter claims that you hunt?”
Blodwyn beams proudly at me, and I try not to be irritated with her. She didn’t know.
“Only by necessity,” I explain. “And I can boast no significant skill.”
“Really? I’ll be the judge of that.” He motions to Blodwyn. “Please. Assist my daughter.”
“An excellent idea, Sire.” Marion settles herself on a nearby bench. “I was so hoping to enjoy some proper entertainment today.”
She adjusts the rope of sapphires settled across her collarbones and I picture how satisfying it would feel to strangle her with her own jewels. But another idea sprouts in my mind. A bad one—but deliciously so.
Ignoring my own good sense, I walk over to Blodwyn and whisper in her ear. “Do you trust me?”
She throws me a bewildered glance but nods.
“Over here.” I steer the princess a short distance away and help maneuver her body into position. “Draw your arm back. There. Take your aim. Then…let go.”
Just as Blodwyn releases the arrow, I pretend to stumble, disrupting her aim so that her bow veers to the left, toward Marion.
“Look out!” Blodwyn calls.
The arrow whizzes straight for the courtier’s face. Blunted or not, it will surely harm her—perhaps even take out one of her eyes, if the angle is right. That wasn’t what I meant to do. I’d only intended to scare her, as a prank. But instead of panic, a deep urge rises inside me like a wave—to hurt. To wound. More, it whispers, stoking that feeling behind my left ribs. More.
Marion shrieks and ducks, shattering the moment.
The blunted arrow impales the stuffed bird on her hat, knocking it from her head.
Twin splotches of crimson explode on her cheeks as she gapes at the ruined thing, then back at me. “You tried to kill me.”
“She couldn’t have killed you,” the princess manages, practically vibrating with suppressed laughter. “The arrows are blunted.”
Marion’s nostrils flare. She reaches for her hat, but a blur of dark calico pounces from a bush with a yowl. Feathers fly.
“No, you horrid thing!” Marion flails at Nettle, but my cat only picks up the hat in her mouth and trots off with it. One of the jeweled eggs detaches and rolls away. I love that animal.
The countess wheels on me. “Look what you’ve done, you stupid fool! I will—”
“I’m quite certain that you possess the means to replace a mere hat,” the king interjects smoothly. “This was an accident, after all.”
A tense beat passes.
“An accident,” Marion echoes eventually, her jaw tight.
And while it is immensely satisfying to watch the courtier be put in her place, it seems the king is not yet finished with me.
“And Mistress Ayleth.” I catch his scent as he steps closer—leather and smoke and the deepest part of the forest. That unnerving sensation vibrates. “You will join us at the hunt.”
No. “I wasn’t appointed. And I—”
“Then I officially appoint you.” The king’s gray eyes pin me in place. There seems an entire ocean behind them—one that will drag me screaming into its depths.
With that, the king beckons to Marion and strides toward the exit. But the countess pauses before following him.
“I’d take care, if I were you,” she says, the words brushing my ear. “Who knows what might happen to a lost little Order girl in the woods?”
I leave the princess not long after that, Marion’s threat still hounding me. I’d known better than to antagonize her. Now I’ve gotten myself roped into yet another avoidable situation. Even so, my mind keeps returning to that moment when the arrow was sailing toward Marion’s face—the horror scrawled on her expression. Horror I put there. Even with all my pranks at Stonehaven, my battles with Mother, I’ve never done anything like that before. It felt good to taste such power.
But who’s wielding it? that voice in my mind whispers. I’m not entirely sure, especially not when I consider how it stirred that feeling inside me. Terrifying and yet…intoxicating.
You were marked, Mother’s words resound in my mind. I shove them down.
“Mistress Witch.”
I stop short, discovering a pair of gemstone-colored eyes glittering in the dimness of an alcove. Roland. Thank the Spirits. A weight lifts from my chest and I hurry to join him, checking to make sure no one has noticed us.
“You’re back,” I say, resisting the urge to throw my arms around the Dwarf.
He shrugs. “Told you I would be.”
Actually, he didn’t. But he’s here now. “Does this mean you found information about the Bloodstones? Do you know where they are?”
I look him up and down, half hoping he has them stashed in his pocket. He doesn’t, of course. A few courtiers glide past the alcove and Roland waits to continue until they’ve gone.
“Turns out we were both right,” he starts when we’re alone. “Most things associated with the witches were burned in the Great Cleansing—except the Bloodstones. Royals paraded them about like trophies, apparently. Some say the fingers were still attached—for a while, at least.”
My stomach rolls at that image. “Monsters.”
“Aye,” Roland agrees. “And it doesn’t get much better. My brothers said the White King ordered that one such stone be set into his sword. He commissioned the same for the princes.”
My rage deepens at the idea of our sacred stones—our tie to the Spirits—being used as embellishment for weapons that likely slaughtered witches.
“So that’s where the Bloodstones went? Swords?”
“The king’s commission is the last time they were seen in the Mines, anyway,” he confirms. “And that’s only three of them, maybe four.”
It’s better than none, which is exactly how many I’ve located since coming here. “Where are the swords now?”
“That’s the tricky bit.” Roland grimaces. “Such weapons are usually housed in the armory. But the White Kings insist on being buried with theirs.”
Understanding clicks into place. “And the king is dead.”
As are two of his sons.
“Right,” Roland agrees. “If I were you, first place I’d search is the crypt.”
Crypt. A draft snakes down the hall, raising gooseflesh between my shoulder blades. I stand taller, banishing my fear. If I have to pry the Bloodstones out of the dead king’s skeletal hands, nothing will stop me. But that doesn’t mean I want to go alone.
“Will you come with me?” I ask Roland.
He taps his chin. “Funny—I have this strange aversion to dead things. Don’t like imagining myself as one of them.”
“Please,” I beg. “I don’t know the way to the crypt, or what I’m looking for. The longer I search for the Bloodstones, the more chance I have of getting caught. That’s bad for us both.”
