The Crimson Crown, page 23
Even so, beneath the biting wind, some strange, foreign part of my heart whispers, Is that what you really want?
Of course it is. What else is there?
* * *
—
The palace courtyard teems with activity the following morning as Sir Weston’s hunting party readies itself to depart. Horses stamp their feet, breath steaming from their nostrils. Dozens of hounds bay and bark, straining at their leads. Servants haul crates and boxes onto wagons. The whole scene has me thoroughly perplexed. At Stonehaven, the Elementals packed only the supplies and weapons that they could carry for their hunts. Judging from the sheer amount of food—and wine—currently being loaded, it appears as though we’ll be traveling for weeks, not just a day. And the clothing is even more impractical.
I tug at what Duchess Poole deemed a riding habit, yet another torture device invented for mortal women. The bodice is tighter than our typical gowns, with buckles marching down the front. The skirt isn’t as full, which is preferable to my regular uniform, but it’s a stiff and unwieldy burgundy wool. And the hat is even worse. It’s too small to provide any shade, and huge, plumy feathers protrude from the top, constantly drooping down to tickle my nose. Yet again, I curse myself for being reckless enough to get myself wrapped up in this madness.
A cart rumbles past, laden with bows. Finally, something I recognize. I may not be the best shot, but considering the company I’ll be keeping, I’d prefer to enter the forest armed. I pull a bow down from the rack and frown. It’s far lighter than it should be, as well as a good deal flimsier. At Stonehaven, our bows were carved from maple or ash or yew. This one is of such poor construction that I doubt it’s wood at all. I pluck an arrow from a quiver. The tip is blunted—just like the set the princess was given. Vaguely, I recall that the king said Sir Weston had devised the weapon. But I thought his invention was only for Blodwyn. Are we really going into the forest with nothing but children’s toys?
“Planning on skewering someone else’s wardrobe?”
I cringe at the voice—Marion’s. She and her cadre are congregated a short distance away, dressed in some of the most extravagant outfits I’ve seen yet. The embroidery on Marion’s gown is stitched with golden thread, and her hat is decorated with pearls the size of grapes.
“You won’t do much damage with these, I’m afraid.” She walks over to the weapons cart and selects an arrow. “Hasn’t Sir Weston outdone himself? I can’t wait to see what the rest of his game entails.”
That makes one of us.
“Really?” I ask, unable to resist the jab. “You seemed rather frightened of those arrows yesterday.”
And she should have been. If Marion had been a second too slow, the arrow might have taken out her eye. The same intense desire from the menagerie thrums in my veins. I shy away from it, unsure where it comes from—especially after yesterday.
“Was I?” Marion frowns. “I don’t recall. And there’s no need to worry. Sir Weston assures me that the weapons are harmless. Then again, blunting so many arrows is such an overwhelming task. I do hope they didn’t miss any by mistake.”
A crow calls overhead.
I’m about to turn away and leave Marion to her veiled threats when there’s a whoosh of air and a faint whistle. Something whizzes between me and the courtier. She cries out, stepping back as it thunks into the side of the weapons cart. The shaft of an arrow vibrates where it’s caught between two slats of wood. I turn to see who fired it, and my breath hitches. Jacquetta.
What is she doing here? She wasn’t on Duchess Poole’s list. Jacquetta’s blue eyes, made brighter against the deep burgundy color of her riding habit, meet mine, and my feckless heart kicks in my chest.
“Look at that,” Jacquetta says to Marion. “They did miss one. How negligent.”
Rage rolls off of Marion in waves. But she doesn’t bother to answer. The courtier spins on her heel and storms off, with the other ladies trailing behind her.
“You looked surprised to see me,” Jacquetta comments dryly as she returns her bow to the cart. “Aren’t you going to ask who I poisoned to secure my place?”
The ridges of my ears burn, and I fidget with my weapon. Despite my earlier certainty, I’m finding it increasingly less likely that Jacquetta put thornapple in my wine on the night of the dinner. After all, if she wanted to kill me, she could have simply shot me just now. Marion probably would have awarded her a medal for the service.
“About that—” I start, having no idea how to finish. And Jacquetta isn’t interested.
“Save it.” She dismisses me with a wave. “We don’t have to be friends, Ayleth. Let’s just get through the day.”
She rehangs her bow and walks off. Some insane part of me wants to go after her—but what would I say? That I want to be friends? That I’m sorry? I don’t and I’m not. Instead, I roll my shoulders against the nagging tension settled there and head to the stables. Jacquetta is right. We just need to get through the day. And judging from how it’s started, I can tell it’s going to be one of the longest of my life.
If there weren’t already a path through the forest, we’d be carving one. Horses’ hooves squelch in the mud. Wagons lumber down the trail, rattling and creaking so loudly that birds startle, their irritated cries mixing with the party’s laughter and the baying of the hounds. It’s barely midmorning, but the scent of wine lingers beneath the cedar-sweet tang of early winter. Sir Weston’s dreaded game has yet to commence, but before we departed the courtyard, all the women were handed quivers of blunted arrows. All the men carry the flimsy bows. The riders are chattering excitedly about what the difference might mean. Whatever it is, I’m going to hate it.
At least my horse is tolerable. A kind-eyed stable hand introduced me to Honeywine, a dappled mare named for her docile nature. He wasn’t exaggerating. I could probably let go of Honeywine’s reins and she would continue plodding contentedly along after the rest of the party. The steady, gentle motion of her steps is actually rather comforting, and I don’t resist as my mind starts to wander. My attention travels into the latticed forest canopy, spindly branches glittering with frost. Again, I’m reminded of how much I love forests. How much I miss—
A blur of black swoops past, close enough that I duck and Honeywine chuffs. I swivel in the saddle just in time to watch a crow land on a nearby branch.
One for sorrow.
“Mistress Ayleth.”
I would rather be visited by a hundred crows than hear that voice. The king’s white stallion pulls up beside me, its bridle adorned with jeweled crowned-apple sigils. That feeling behind my left ribs stirs.
Call it what it is, that voice taunts. Malum.
I ignore it. Even if it is Malum, I’ve controlled it before. I can do so again.
Granting the king the barest dip of my chin, I keep my attention fixed ahead, gritting my teeth until the sensation dulls.
“How are you enjoying the day?” King Callen asks. “Have you shot any birds? Or hats?”
Without thinking, I glance at him. Dappled sunlight patterns the king’s face as he grins at me. I grip Honeywine’s reins tighter. “That was an accident.”
“So you claimed. But I think”—leather creaks as the king leans in his saddle, close enough that I catch his scent of leather and smoke and the dark heart of the forest—“that you knew exactly what you were doing.”
A crow calls overhead again, and that invisible force thrums.
“Here.” The king reaches over his shoulder and withdraws an arrow fletched in bright-gold feathers. Strange—I thought only the women carried quivers. “It will bring you luck during Weston’s game, like your favor did for me at the joust.”
He slides the arrow into my own quiver with a wink. Whatever the king touched will bring me the opposite of luck. As he finally nudges his horse and begins to move away, I reach for the thing, determined to throw it into the bushes. Before I get the chance, twigs snap nearby. Several courtiers gasp at a rumbling growl. The horses nicker. My pulse kicks up. Had the creature from the crypt followed us out here—followed me?
Brush rustles and an animal springs out of the forest.
“The Nevenwolf!” someone shouts.
But it’s not. This creature is nowhere near large enough to be confused with such a beast. I’d say it was closer to the size of a dog, with shaggy black fur and a long snout.
“I’ve got it!” The king fires off one of his gold-fletched arrows, which sinks into the creature’s body.
The animal howls and rears up on its hind legs, but there’s no blood. In fact, its moaning and writhing are so exaggerated that it’s almost comical. This is no beast, I realize as the creature wilts dramatically to the ground. It’s another trick. Sure enough, the so-called Nevenwolf rises, pulls off its head, and reveals a pair of dark-brown eyes and a roguish grin. Sir Weston.
Applause swells as the Lord of Misrule bows. “I have been slain.”
Laughter. I roll my eyes. Can these people really find nothing better to do with their time than parade about the forest in costume? Would that a real wolf had mistaken Sir Weston for a midday snack.
“What’s all this, Weston?” the king calls.
“Our hunt, Majesty,” Weston replies with a flourish. “For I am not the only Nevenwolf loose in these woods.”
On cue, growls and barks surround us from all sides. The actual dogs begin to whine and strain at their leads. Honeywine whickers, nervous. I pat her neck.
“It’s not real,” I whisper close to her ear. “They’re just idiots.”
She snorts, evidently agreeing.
“How are we supposed to kill the beasts with these?” a man calls, brandishing his bow.
“Ah.” Sir Weston points at him. “But you must ask our ladies.”
More applause and cries of delight.
“For the remainder of the hunt,” Sir Weston continues, “the ladies in our retinue represent our goddess, Meira. Just as we must earn the protection of her Light, you men will have to earn their arrows. The ladies will only bestow one upon you if they deem you worthy to receive it.”
The women begin to chatter excitedly. I don’t join them.
“Men, once you find yourself in possession of an arrow, you may use it to slay a Nevenwolf—as did our brave king.” Sir Weston yanks the arrow from his costume with a grimace. “And don’t worry about us wolves—the costumes are padded. Softer than Rathburn’s backside.”
The rest of the party laughs, but I only stare around at them. Do they not understand the insanity of this plan? I think of how Jacquetta’s arrow, even blunted, stuck in the weapons cart. Someone could actually get killed out here. No one else seems bothered by that possibility, though. A few men are already suggesting what they might do to earn a lady’s arrow.
“The hunt ends when you hear the horn,” Sir Weston says, displaying the curved wooden instrument. “Prizes await any man who returns with a slain Nevenwolf, as well as for he who collects the most arrows. And, as a special bonus, if any of you daring hunters receives an arrow from the king, you shall have the honor of requesting a favor from His Majesty.”
The king waves to the party, who cheer even louder. His gray eyes fall on me and he winks. I sense another maddening nudge against the inner side of my left ribs.
Like summons like, that voice whispers. I shove it down.
“And what are the prizes?” someone calls.
“Is that Rathburn?” Sir Weston shades his eyes as he peers into the crowd. “Greedy as ever, I see. You still owe me after our last game of Castles.”
The man answers with a rude gesture.
“The bounty will be well worth your effort, I assure you.” Sir Weston indicates a nearby wagon stacked with crates. “We have some very rare items to bestow upon our winners. But nothing, of course, that can compare to the favor of our ladies.”
Rare items. How rare? Could one of them be a Bloodstone? Is that why they were missing from the crypt, because they’d been pried out to be used as trinkets for Longest Night? Revolting as the idea might be, it’s exactly the sort of antic I’ve come to expect from this court. Scraps of a plan begin to cobble themselves together in my mind. I already have a horse. I could find the Bloodstones and just keep riding. I could have Rhea back with me before the sunrise.
Sir Weston is blathering on again about rules, but I’m already steering Honeywine in the direction of the wagon. All I need is a few moments after everyone leaves to—
“Let the game begin!” Sir Weston shouts.
The horn bellows and the party lurches into motion. Courtiers spur their mounts and bound into the trees, and—to my horror—Honeywine whinnies and gallops after them. It’s everything I can do to keep myself in the saddle as she barrels into the forest.
“Wait!” I shout, yanking on the reins. “Stop!”
But my frantic commands only seem to increase her breakneck speed. Honeywine, who has until this moment seemed content to keep the pace of a snail, leaps effortlessly over fallen logs and weaves her way between the tree trunks, every thud of her hooves resonating in my bones. Branches snag at my hair and clothing as the forest blurs past me. I’m probably going to die, my head knocked off by a low-hanging tree limb.
“Stop!” I yell again as she veers perilously close to a wide oak.
For whatever reason, Honeywine finally obeys—sort of. She lurches to a halt so abruptly that I’m thrown from the saddle and onto the ground. Pain lances through my joints. I curse and roll to one side, chest heaving. There’s a taste of copper and earth in my mouth. Grimacing, I push myself up to sit. A leaf flutters in my peripheral vision and I pluck it out of my hair. I hear a far-off crash of thunder. Wonderful. It’s going to rain. I’ll be soaked on top of everything else. Damn Sir Weston and this ludicrous game. No prize is worth—
The Bloodstones. My plan comes crashing back to me. How far am I from the wagons? I scramble to my feet, ignoring the aches in my limbs. I need to return to the cart while the rest of the party is still occupied.
“Do you know where we are?” I ask Honeywine, my own sense of direction jumbled.
She only flicks her tail. Perfect.
“Come on.” I take her reins. “Let’s just—”
A twig snaps nearby.
“Mistress,” a cloying male voice calls.
Between the trees, I catch glimpses of black fur and a long snout. One of those pretend Nevenwolves. Shit.
“You needn’t be afraid of me. I’d never harm one of Meira’s own.”
He laughs, slurring, and my blood chills, recalling Marion’s threat in the menagerie.
Who knows what could happen to a lost little Order girl in the woods?
Had she sent this man to find me? Today’s excursion is the perfect opportunity to do me harm. After all, no one would actually care if I died out here. It would just be a tragic accident, instantly forgotten.
Panic rings in my mind. Honeywine is my fastest option out of this situation, but what if she bolts again? I might wind up at the border to Rycinthia. Brush rustles, the man edging nearer. By the Spirits, I am the unluckiest witch alive. I won’t be able to outpace him on foot. I scan my surroundings. There’s a huge oak nearby, its wide branches low enough for a relatively easy climb—not that any physical activity will be easy in this gown. But I can’t just stand here.
Gathering a few rocks as additional protection, I make for the tree. Between the stiff fabric of my skirt and my corset, hauling myself into the branches is ten times more difficult than it should be. But I manage it—barely. By the time I finally settle myself on a thick bough, my breath is sawing through my lungs and my heart hammers in my eardrums.
“Come out, come out.” Brush crunches as the man slinks into the clearing. He’s about twenty feet below me. “Or no, stay where you are. Let me find you.”
Just keep still, I tell myself. He won’t see you.
My hand reaches for a rock anyway. The stone is too small to do him much harm, but perhaps I can use it as a distraction.
“I know you’re out here.” The man circles Honeywine, who shies away from him.
My palms are slick. The man turns in my direction. He pokes around in several bushes. Ice flows through my veins as his attention tracks right and left, then…up. Shit. I brace myself for him to spot me. One heartbeat passes. Two.
“By the Light, where could she have gone, slippery thing?”
He kicks at a fern. A rush of relief swoops in my belly. He hadn’t seen me. I slump onto the limb, inhaling deep breaths of the chilly air. But then a sharp crack splits the clearing, followed by a whinny and the gallop of hooves. Honeywine charges into the trees.
“Good luck finding your way back!” the man calls.
He laughs again and trundles off. Damn everything. I despise these mortals. But I tamp down my anger. There isn’t time to waste. As soon as the sound of the man’s movements fades, I start to maneuver myself down the tree. If climbing up here was difficult, getting down will be nearly impossible. And I’m far enough above the ground that a fall would likely break a bone. My latent magic would heal it, but any injury will slow me down—and hurt. I don’t let myself dwell on that possibility.
Keeping my movements small and precise, I edge myself off my branch and onto the lower one. My boot barely touches the bark when a maddeningly familiar laugh rings in the quiet. I freeze. Is that…
Two figures traipse into the clearing. One is definitely Marion, and the other—
Sunlight gleams on the gold stitching of the king’s doublet. The feeling behind my left ribs shivers to life.
“By the Spirits,” I mutter, scrambling back up the tree.
Of all the clearings in the forest, why did they have to choose this one? At least they don’t know I’m here. With Honeywine gone, there’s no trace of another person. Unfortunately, however, Marion and the king are happy to take full advantage of their solitude.
