The Crimson Crown, page 27
Is he attempting to make me his spy? My skin crawls at the idea of reporting to this man. Then again, if he trusts me, perhaps that means I’ll avoid his suspicion.
“I’ll do what I can,” I say, dipping my chin in what I hope passes for deference.
“I admire your bravery in upholding the Light.” His robes whisper against the floor as he crosses the chamber. A scent of orange and clove follows him. “Your service will be amply rewarded—especially if you were to uncover any threats to our goddess, or the king.”
Unless he’s offering his own head on a platter, I’m supremely uninterested in any reward. But I bob the swiftest of curtsies before retreating toward the door.
“Mistress Ayleth,” Ignatius calls just as my hand touches the doorknob. “Do pay close attention to the queen herself. I know she harbors some…unique ideals. We do not want Her Majesty to stray too far from the protection of our goddess.”
The next day, our normal duties in the queen’s rooms are interrupted by a visit from Sir Weston. A swarm of ladies surrounds him as he narrates what is undoubtedly a bawdy story, gesturing with his wineglass. Despite the memory of the thornapple episode, I could use some of that wine myself. My nerves are still humming after my encounter with the High Priest. How long will his supposed trust last? How long until he discovers who’s really responsible for what happened with the statue? Or even the Nevenwolf itself?
Not long at all, that voice whispers.
My attention flits around the room as I speculate about which of these women might also be his spies. Jacquetta is jumpy as well. I heard her tossing and turning all night.
“Damn,” she mutters. A bead of blood blooms on her fingertip where she stabbed herself with her needle.
“Careful.” I pass her a scrap of linen.
“Careful. In this court?” She presses the fabric over her wound. “I feel like an insect waiting to be squashed.”
That makes two of us.
“You’re sure he doesn’t suspect us?” Jacquetta asks for the third time this morning.
“As sure as I can be, given the circumstances.” Then, because I can’t resist: “And I did warn you that the statue would end badly.”
She shoots me a glare. “If you had let me finish what I started, he wouldn’t be here to suspect us.”
“Yes, because a dead priest would have been much easier to explain.”
“I could have—”
A smear of brown fur and frantic barking zooms past us. Fitz. I yank back my skirts before they’re trampled by his tiny feet.
“Horrible creature,” Jacquetta grouses, watching as the dog steals a piece of cheese off someone’s plate and scampers away with it.
“And his mistress,” I add. “I’ve no doubt Marion trains him to be a terror.”
The courtier and her cadre laugh, teasing the dog with a crust of bread so that it twirls around on its hind legs.
“Like you do with your cat?” Jacquetta asks archly. “Don’t expect me to believe that she just happened to claw my linens to shreds at the Sanctum.”
I’d almost forgotten about that. A smile twitches at my lips. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
Jacquetta rethreads her needle. “I’m sure you don’t.”
“You can’t pretend to be innocent.” I point at her. “I seem to recall someone who used to make fireroot explode for fun.”
“I did not.”
But she did, and she knows it. I can tell from the mischievous glint in her eyes, one I haven’t seen since our years at Stonehaven. In fact, I could almost…
“Good morning!” Joan approaches, shattering the moment. Jacquetta immediately refocuses her attention on her sewing, and I go back to my snarled embroidery. “Have you heard about the banquet?”
Unfortunately. Sir Weston announced the event earlier, yet another excuse for this court to drown itself in wine.
“I can’t decide what to wear.” Joan settles beside us. “Do you two have any ideas?”
The theme—whatever that means—is that of a menagerie, on account of the Nevenwolf, which means that we’re all required to attend dressed as animals. Nothing sounds worse.
“Is invisibility an option?” Jacquetta asks wryly, evidently sharing my opinion.
Joan taps her chin. “You know, I might have a better idea for you. I heard of a recent addition to the princess’s menagerie. Not a hedgehog but…what was it called? It has spikes.”
I think I know. I’ve seen pictures of the creatures in books at Stonehaven.
“A porcupine?” I ask, struggling to maintain a straight face.
“That’s it!” Joan points at Jacquetta. “You could go as a porcupine. It would suit you.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Jacquetta demands.
Joan hesitates. “Well, I don’t intend this to be rude, but you do display a rather prickly nature at times.”
Prickly nature. I picture Jacquetta walking around covered in spikes and nearly die.
She glares at me. “You think it’s funny?”
“Absolutely not,” I manage. “I’m sure you’d make a lovely…porcupine.”
Joan giggles, clapping one hand over her mouth, and that’s all it takes for me to lose myself in a fit of laughter. Jacquetta tosses down her sewing.
“I’ll just leave you two to plan, then,” she says, getting up. “Enjoy yourselves.”
She stalks off. I start to call after her, but I’m laughing too hard. I can’t recall the last time I have laughed like this. I’d forgotten how good it feels.
“I shouldn’t have said that.” Joan gasps between breaths.
“Don’t worry,” I say, wiping my eyes. “She’s just in a bad mood. Normally…”
But, actually, I have no idea what Jacquetta would normally do. Once, she might have slipped toads into other witches’ boots or mixed around ingredients in the workroom. But that witch is gone. We’re different now. I’m different.
“I’ll help you think of costumes, in any case.” Joan picks up the shirt Jacquetta had been sewing. “After all, the three of us should stick together.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re the odd ones out,” she says, then a flush heats her cheeks. “I hope that didn’t sound unkind. It’s just…”
She trails off, but I understand her meaning. Joan has never openly discussed it, but I’ve noticed how she’s usually sitting by herself. She rarely even speaks to the other maiden who shares our room. And now that I think of it, it’s rare to see anyone interacting with Joan.
“Why do they treat you…” I’m not sure how to finish in a way that isn’t cruel.
“Like I don’t belong?” Joan finishes for me. I nod, sheepish. “Because I don’t. Typically, women of my station wouldn’t be appointed to serve Her Majesty.”
“Why not? You’re nobility, aren’t you?”
“It’s more complicated than that.” She snips her thread. “There were Dwarves in my family, ages back. Some of them might still be alive, I don’t know.”
Dwarves? My mind immediately goes to Roland. “Here, at the palace Guild?”
“Perhaps. Some served on a council for the king, but that was before the war. When the edict passed, other courtiers began to question our loyalty. We were desperate to prove ourselves before the old king decided to jail us or…worse.”
A memory of Roland’s Guild Mark resurfaces. “I’m sorry, Joan.”
She shakes her head, but her green eyes glimmer with buried pain. “We surrendered most of our lands and holdings—save for the country estate. And we stepped down from all our positions. We have to save every coin to remain here at court.”
“And you…want to remain?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“We’re loyal to His Majesty. We always have been. And we follow the Light.” But the words are rushed, as if they’re rehearsed, and Joan pulls her next stitch too tight, puckering the fabric. “But none of our efforts mattered, in the end. The other nobles refuse to accept us—save for Queen Sybil, of course. She personally invited me to serve her, which is what allows us to reside at the palace. I owe her a debt.”
I look to where the queen is sitting with Sir Weston and the rest. Winter sunlight filters through the stained-glass window behind her and shines on the threaded white gold of her crown. She may not be wielding a sword or riding a horse like the women in the tapestries, but I sense that Queen Sybil carries her own form of strength. So does Joan.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I tell her, surprised at how much I mean it. “And I’m sorry about what happened to your family members.”
“So am I.” She presses her lips together, like she’s keeping herself from saying more. But then she waves the unspoken words away. “Enough of all that. Let’s discuss your costume. You’d be beautiful as a falcon. Or perhaps…”
She’s interrupted by a stir in the room—a wave of curtsies and bowing as someone else enters. There’s only one person who would command such a flurry of activity. To my extreme displeasure, King Callen strides into the chamber, the ruby crowned-apple jewel sparkling on his doublet. That feeling behind my left ribs shivers to life, sharp and swift—exactly like it had done in the forest when the Nevenwolf appeared. Panic wings in my chest. I was wrong. Slaying the beast hadn’t lessened Malum’s hold on me. It had only been waiting. And, judging from how that unnerving sensation presses against the inner side of my left ribs, the king really is connected to that sinister force. I need to get away from him.
“Your Majesty.” Sir Weston bows. “I’ve just been relaying the details of our banquet. And I’ve already claimed the fox costume, so don’t think to steal it.”
“If there’s a thief in this room, it’s you, Weston,” the king comments. “You robbed me blind at our last Castles match.”
Sir Weston produces a deck of cards from his pocket. “Care to test your luck again?”
The king plucks a wedge of cheese from a tiered plate. “Gladly.”
At Sir Weston’s signal, a servant rushes to set up a table. Marion immediately saunters over to join them. This is my chance.
“I’ll be right back,” I say to Joan.
Hiding myself behind clusters of women, I edge along the walls and toward the door. I’m almost there, when—
“And who is that I spot sneaking away?” I freeze at Sir Weston’s voice, cursing my ill luck. “Ah, it’s the Order girl, isn’t it? Mistress…”
“Ayleth.” My name on the king’s lips makes that feeling behind my left ribs sing. His gray eyes lock with mine. “Don’t lurk there in the doorway. Come and join us.”
* * *
—
I would rather be facing down the Nevenwolf again than be sitting at this table. The force inside me throbs dully, like a second heartbeat. I focus on my breathing, insisting that I can control it—tamp it down, as I have before. But I’m starting to doubt that I’m in control of anything. As if on cue, a tiny snout snaps at me.
“I do apologize.” Marion scratches the tuft of fur on the top of her dog’s head. “He’s simply incorrigible. Aren’t you, Fitz?”
He barks, solidifying my suspicion that Marion encourages him to be a menace. But at least I’m not totally alone. The queen grants me a small, encouraging smile from her place across the table. She’d joined us as soon as I sat down, which I don’t believe was a coincidence.
“The game is Castles,” Sir Weston announces as he shuffles the cards. “Place your bets.”
Metal clinks together as everyone else tosses coins into the center of the table.
“Mistress Ayleth?” Sir Weston gestures at the pile of gold. “Your bet?”
“I don’t have anything.”
“Everyone puts in something.” A bauble dangling from Lady Marion’s earlobe glitters. “It’s only fair.”
Frustrated, I tug out the only item in my possession that’s not attached to my gown—the handkerchief in my sleeve—and toss it in with the coins. Marion smirks. Let her mock me. Maybe she’ll insist that my offering is too small and then I can leave. But before Marion can utter a word of criticism, the queen removes her own handkerchief and adds it to mine.
“It’s refreshing to see someone be so creative with their betting,” she says, approving.
“Indeed,” the king agrees. “In fact, that’s a rare prize. Mistress Ayleth’s handkerchief won me my victory against Weston in the tiltyard.”
Not that again. Marion looks like she swallowed a lemon, but I can’t even appreciate her irritation. All I can think about is the dull hum behind my ribs as the king’s attention brushes against me.
Just ignore it, I tell myself. Get through the game and then leave.
“I knew there was something working against me during that match.” Sir Weston selects a card from the deck, then chooses one from his own hand and lays it facedown on the table. “And how have you been enjoying life at court, Mistress Ayleth?”
About as much as one enjoys their teeth being removed. “Very well.”
It’s my turn, but no one bothers to explain the rules to me. I pick up a card and set one down without even checking what they are.
“It’s been such a joy to have the Order girls with us,” Marion effuses. Fitz growls. “Quite brilliant of you to suggest their placement, Weston.”
That’s not what she said on the night of the pageant.
Weston bows at his seat. “Yes, I can understand how such beauty would be a welcome addition to our ranks.”
Why couldn’t the Nevenwolf have found the two of them in the forest?
“Don’t waste your efforts, Weston.” The king flips down another card. “The lady does not care for flattery.”
Weston scoffs. “A woman who doesn’t care for flattery? Impossible.”
“It’s true.” Wood creaks as the king leans back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. “She prefers archery. I’ve witnessed her mastery of the sport with my own eyes.”
The ridges of my ears burn. But I suppose I should count myself lucky that my entire body isn’t on fire for the way Marion is glowering at me.
“Is that so?” Sir Weston asks, amused. “Well, I suppose we’ll have to inform Lord Jasper that there’s a new addition to the Hunt.”
It’s my turn again and I toss down a card, clenching my back teeth.
“Lord Jasper will be disappointed, I’m afraid.” The queen takes her time as she considers her next play. “My daughter is much too fond of Mistress Ayleth to lose her now. In fact, no other lady has proved to be such a positive influence on my daughter.”
The queen smiles at me again, and I manage to smile back. Despite my hatred of this court, Blodwyn is a bright spot at the palace. Part of me wishes the princess were here now. She’d be running this game, or she’d find some ingenious method of disrupting it.
“But the princess won’t be needing a companion for too much longer,” Marion comments, selecting a card. “Has there been a decision on her betrothal?”
She throws the question innocently enough, but I notice how the queen absorbs it like a dagger. “You are speaking of the heir to the throne, Lady Marion. My daughter’s home is at the White Palace.”
Laughter carries from the other side of the room.
“Forgive me, but I’m sure Your Majesty intended to say that the princess is heir to the throne until the king has a son. Unless…” Marion tilts her head. “Do you not believe that Meira will secure the future of our realm?”
“I hold no doubt of the future of this realm,” the queen replies. “Or of my daughter’s place within it. After all, a sovereign queen is commonplace in other parts of the world.”
What the queen says is true—I’ve read about such realms in the books at Stonehaven. Rycinthia, for one, permits women to rule. Even so, the air at the table thins. The king shifts in his seat, his mood souring.
“You must all excuse my wife. Despite the years she’s lived in Riven, she’s not yet rid herself of such…eccentricities.”
The queen herself remains silent. Just like at my ill-fated dinner, I sense a storm brewing between the royal couple, and I marvel at the queen’s bravery. She doesn’t take back her opinion, or even shrink—just like those women in the tapestries, charging headlong into battle.
“And what are your own thoughts on the subject, Mistress Ayleth?” Lady Marion’s viper-like attention swivels to me. “Do you believe women should rule?”
I should stay quiet. The last time I tangled with Marion, I wound up hiding in a tree while some man hunted me. But again, the self-satisfied expression on the courtier’s face reminds me too much of Sindony. I’m tired of being pushed around by people who believe themselves better than I am simply because of their position.
“Meira is a woman, is she not?” I ask. “If she can be worshiped, it stands to reason that a woman can rule.”
The king watches me over the rim of his goblet. The feeling behind my left ribs intensifies, Malum nudging against my bones.
Sir Weston laughs. “I had no idea Order girls were so opinionated.”
“Indeed,” Marion agrees. “And ill-informed, apparently. Our Meira is a goddess, not a mere woman. Perhaps court life is proving too much of a distraction. You’ve been away from your Sanctum for too long, if you’ve forgotten such basic tenets of the faith.”
“And what about you, Lady Marion?” the queen asks lightly. “Do you also find court life distracting? Perhaps you could benefit from the rest afforded at a Sanctum.”
The courtier’s eyes flash, and I catch the hint of a smile tugging at the queen’s lips.
“You know, Her Majesty may be right.” Weston flings down another card and points at Marion. “You could use a rest. Didn’t I see you fleeing the princess’s rooms not too long ago?”
