The Crimson Crown, page 28
The courtier’s grip on her dog tightens. “You must have me mistaken for someone else.”
“I never mistake a face like yours, Lady Marion.” He winks. “You were screeching about how the princess ruined one of your gowns. She’d tried to use it to line a peahen’s nest or something like that. By the look of you, she’d nearly succeeded.”
Marion slaps down her next card. I may not possess any coin of my own, but I would give a thousand handkerchiefs to have been able to see the countess running through the halls covered in feathers and bird shit.
“You were mistaken,” Marion repeats. “And speaking of animals, do tell me what you’re planning to wear for the banquet, Mistress Ayleth. Or is it a secret?”
She deals me that courtier’s smile, and I regret not shooting her in the face when I had the chance. “I don’t have a costume.”
“What a shame. But you should still attend the banquet. I know—” She sits up straighter. “Mistress Ayleth could judge which costume is best. It would be immensely entertaining to hear her quaint ideas about what’s fashionable.”
Does this game never end?
“Make the banquet a contest.” Sir Weston rubs his chin as he considers the idea. “I like it. We’ll call the winner…”
“Fairest,” the king says, his gray gaze pinning me in place. “To honor our goddess.”
“Perfect!” Marion claps, upsetting Fitz, who snaps at me. My head throbs.
“But it’s unkind to devise a contest if our guests won’t be able to participate.” The queen sets down her next card. “I shall gift them something from my own wardrobe. It’s the least I can do, considering their service to my daughter.”
A much better gift would be to excuse us from the banquet altogether.
“Oh, do let me provide their costumes, Your Majesty.” Marion leans in, as if this is the most important request she’s ever made. “It would be such an honor. I insist.”
No. Absolutely not. I cast the queen a pleading expression, one she mercifully seems to interpret.
“That won’t be—” she starts.
“If Lady Marion is kind enough to extend the offer, I see no reason to refuse,” the king comments, the order clear beneath his words.
Marion beams at him. Damn everything.
“Very well, Lady Marion.” The queen glances at me in what I suspect is apology. “You are, after all, always so impeccably attired. Sometimes I wonder how you manage to afford a wardrobe that’s often finer than my own.”
The king grips his wineglass tighter.
“I am fortunate, indeed, Your Majesty.” Marion adjusts the necklace at her throat, her gaze flicking to the king beneath her lashes.
“Fortune,” the queen muses, selecting her next card. “It’s like a wheel, is it not? It comes up and goes down. One never knows when the next turn will occur, but it’s often at the most unexpected and…inconvenient moment.”
The two women stare each other down, their claws wrapped in velvet.
“Perhaps you’re right, Your Majesty,” Marion says at last. “And let’s see what fortune has in store for us now. I call Castles.”
Weston groans and the king lets out a short, frustrated breath. Marion, however, smirks as she lays her cards face-up on the table.
“Swords,” she announces, displaying a full hand of cards painted with the weapons.
“By the Light!” Weston tosses his own hand on the table. “That’s it for me.”
The king’s gray eyes find mine. “And you, Mistress?”
I haven’t even glanced at my cards since the game began. I lay them flat now and my breath halts. Five cards—each bearing an image of a shining, golden crown—stare up at me.
“Well, Lady Marion.” Sir Weston drains the rest of his wine. “It seems Mistress Ayleth has taken everything you have.”
But it’s not Marion I’m worried about. My attention is fixed on the king. On the way that feeling inside me stretches and pulls like an invisible tether between us—just like it did with the Nevenwolf. This time, though, I know that not even Rhea will be able to save me.
I need to get out of the palace.
If Malum is drawing the king to me, I doubt I will live much longer. And it’s not just the king who’s a threat. Soon, I’ll start luring things out of the Veil again. There’s no more time to waste—I need the Bloodstones.
“Are we running from something?” Jacquetta asks.
We’re on our way to the library with Blodwyn. Given yesterday’s encounter with the king, I’ve been restless and jittery all morning. I’d hardly even allowed the princess a choice in our activity today, and I carve a path down the halls with single-minded purpose.
“The books aren’t going anywhere,” Blodwyn adds.
I’m not as certain. Between the king and Malum, it’s starting to feel like this whole palace is conspiring against me. I round a corner and barely avoid crashing into a servant carrying a large pot of roses, the white petals limned in red—like they’d been dipped in blood.
“Watch where you’re going,” I snap at him, though I know full well that it was my fault. The boy grumbles under his breath and keeps walking.
“Is everything all right, Ayleth?” Blodwyn asks, cautious. “You seem…not yourself.”
She sees through you, that voice whispers. They all will.
“I’m fine,” I say, attempting to set off again.
Jacquetta blocks my path.
“Go ahead,” she tells the princess. “We’ll be right behind you.”
Blodwyn frowns, doubtful, but finally trots off toward the library.
“What’s the matter with you?” Jacquetta asks when we’re alone. “You’re drawing attention to yourself. Even the servants in her rooms noticed.”
Because that’s all she cares about—the attention. Not me. Never me. “I said I’m fine.”
“You were fine yesterday.” She crosses her arms. “When I left you with Joan and your inane costume planning. What happened?”
Malum itself is reeling me in, getting stronger. “Nothing.”
I try to step around her, but Jacquetta holds me back. The pressure of her hand on my elbow sends sparks shooting up my arm.
“Let go of me.” I pull myself free of her grasp.
“Fine. But if there’s a problem, you need to tell me. We agreed to work together.”
Together. Her scent of juniper hits me and, for an instant, I’m thrown back to the south tower when we were sixteen. Then, I could have told her about how I reached beyond the Veil. I could have told her anything.
Not anymore, that voice whispers.
It’s right. If Jacquetta knew what I’d done—what’s following me—she’d leave. I may not fully trust her, but I can’t afford to lose her help, not when I can practically feel the hours slipping through my fingers.
“It’s just nerves,” I insist. “I hate this place. Like you said—we need to get out of here as soon as possible.”
The wheels behind Jacquetta’s blue eyes work, weighing my answer. From the set of her jaw, I know she’s not convinced. I lift my chin, daring her to call me out. After all, she doubtless holds plenty of secrets of her own. Whatever we agreed, I don’t owe her anything.
“If you say so,” she relents at last. “But maybe stop assaulting the servants.”
“I’ll take that into consideration,” I say, then push past her, my footsteps echoing in the wide halls.
* * *
—
The princess has already disappeared into the stacks by the time we reach the library, likely hunting her next novel. I envy her.
“I’ve been focusing on the history section,” I tell Jacquetta. “But I—”
“By the…” Jacquetta pulls up short, turning in a circle as she takes in the vast expanse of the room. “I didn’t know this many books existed.”
Some of my frustration melts away at her enraptured expression, the same one I wore when Blodwyn first brought me here. I shouldn’t be surprised—Jacquetta loves reading as much as I do. In fact, we officially met in Stonehaven’s library. I imagine the two of us as we were back then, let loose in a collection such as this, and the corners of my lips twitch up. They never would have found us again.
All that is over now, that voice reminds me.
“Don’t get too excited,” I tell Jacquetta, refocusing. “There may be a large number, but all the books I’ve read are filled with lies—at least the histories.”
Jacquetta drags her attention away from where she’d been inspecting an ancient text displayed on a pedestal. “Is that the only subject you’ve investigated?”
“So far.” I lead her down one side of the library. “I hoped there might be a mention of the massacre and I could trace the Bloodstones from there.”
With the endless shelves of books towering over us, I realize the flimsiness of such a strategy. I brace myself for Jacquetta’s criticism, but then—
“Smart,” she says, simple and sure. Like she would have done the same.
It’s silly, but a tiny flicker of pride glimmers in my chest at her approval. How long has it been since someone deemed one of my ideas smart? Before Rhea died, I was the High Witch’s troublesome daughter, always avoiding lessons or instigating pranks. After Rhea, every aspect of my life was dictated by Mother’s rules. Anytime I expressed a thought of my own, she instantly dismissed it.
“By the Spirits,” Jacquetta murmurs, suddenly veering off in the other direction.
“What is it?”
I follow her toward an enormous table, where a map of Riven is spread beneath a glass case. But this is unlike any other map I’ve encountered. It’s multidimensional instead of flat. The mountain ranges rise up from the surface, and the lakes and rivers are indented. Tiny facsimiles of buildings and homes dot the cities. There’s even a small version of the palace itself, its minuscule turrets rendered in painstaking detail, complete with gargoyles the size of pinheads. And—I peer closer—it appears as though there are lights glimmering inside the palace. Every so often, shadows cross the windows, as if people were passing within its walls.
“Look.” Jacquetta points to a river, which I now notice seems to rush with actual water. A dot that must be a fish leaps from the surface and then splashes back into the current.
Entranced, I bend so that my nose nearly presses against the glass. A figure no bigger than my fingernail lumbers along one of the mountain ranges. It has arms and legs, like a person might, but it’s not a person. “Is that…a troll?”
Jacquetta leans closer, her forehead almost touching mine. “I think so. Who made this? I thought the king ordered all magical items burned.”
“It must be Dwarvian,” I say, recognizing their craftsmanship.
“Dwarves.” Jacquetta huffs. “So, their magic is acceptable, but ours isn’t. Typical.”
I almost tell her about how the Dwarves are really treated here—Roland and his Guild Mark—but I stop myself. I’m not sure Roland would want me to explain, and it’s better to be careful about what information I divulge. Even so, as Jacquetta’s fingertips skim over the top of the glass, a memory resurfaces—the two of us exploring the maps in Stonehaven’s library, tracing our way across the realm and into the neighboring kingdoms, guessing about what life was like inside the paper and ink. Had she found out?
“Where did you go?” I ask before I can think better of it. “After the raid?”
Jacquetta pauses. Probably she’ll hedge with some vague answer or change the subject entirely. But her fingertip travels to a mass of trees sprouting from the map, their branches rustling almost imperceptibly in an invisible wind.
“Here, I think. That lake is familiar. And this village.” She points to an area on the map on the south side of the shimmering body of water. “There was a festival and I snuck inside. Stuffed my face with the best pie I’d ever eaten.”
“Better than Willa’s?”
Jacquetta glances at me. “Willa’s. Spirits, I’d almost forgotten her. Does she still mix lavender in with the blackberry?”
“Of course.” My stomach complains at the memory. “And rosemary in with the apple.”
Both are famous at Stonehaven, almost instantly disappearing as soon as they’re baked. I should know. Jacquetta and I had stolen much more than our fair share of slices.
“Well. These came close.” Jacquetta taps the glass. “I wish you could have…”
Been there.
Is that what she was about to say? My heart stutters and I scold myself for the weakness. I wasn’t there, and I couldn’t have been. Jacquetta left and I stayed—that’s the way it was supposed to be.
“What of you?” Jacquetta asks, not taking her eyes from the map. “Did your mother go through with her plan about the Sisters?”
The disguise that saved us and split the coven in the same night. My attention drifts to the area of the map where Stonehaven should be. It’s there—miniature towers poking up through the sea of trees. “She did.”
“That must have been…different.”
Awful, she means. A pang of jealousy knocks through me as I compare my own years to Jacquetta’s. I’m not naïve enough to assume her life was easy after she left the Sanctum, but it was a life. What can I say about my own? For the last seven years, I’ve felt like I was an insect trapped in amber, unable to move or think for myself. But I can’t admit to any of that. I’m supposed to be a proud Second. This is the life I chose.
“It kept us alive,” I say, ending the discussion. “The history section is this way. We better get started.”
And then I go, leaving the map and all the lives I might have lived behind me.
* * *
—
For the next several hours, Jacquetta and I comb through records of Riven’s stilted history. Just as with my other visits, the texts are maddeningly one-sided and blatantly false. Every so often, Jacquetta scoffs at something she reads, or even tosses a book onto the floor in disgust.
“Can you believe this?” She jabs at a page. “Apparently, we used Malum to spell the mortals into believing we were keeping their crops alive and healing their sick, but actually we weren’t. How, exactly, do they explain the literal centuries of prosperity?”
It’s nice to have someone sharing in my rage.
“Illusion,” I answer wryly. “And it gets better. Have you found any illustrations featuring an Order priest yet?”
She frowns, flipping back through the pages. “Here. Why?”
“Take a closer look. Who does it remind you of?”
Jacquetta’s brow furrows as she studies the drawing. “Is that…Ignatius?”
“I assume so. He must have ordered that his own likeness be used to represent the Order, at least in recent texts.”
“Vain snake of a man,” Jacquetta mutters. That mischievous glint suddenly lights in her eyes. She snatches up the quill in the center of the table and dunks it in the inkpot.
“What are you doing?”
“If he can insert himself into history, then I can remove him,” she says simply.
The nib of her quill scratches on the parchment.
“Don’t,” I whisper, glancing around in case a Keeper is nearby. “They’ll—”
“There.” She stops and considers her work, then swivels the book to face me. “Much better, wouldn’t you say?”
Ink lines mar Ignatius’s face on the page. Jacquetta has gifted him a long, forked tongue and a tail peeking out from beneath his robes. An Order snake, just as she said. I can’t suppress the smile that sneaks onto my face. Jacquetta grins back, thoroughly pleased with herself.
“Do another,” I tell her. “But give him horns.”
Her grin widens and she searches for the next illustration. But as she dips her quill into the ink, bells begin to ring, signaling vespers.
“Damn.” She pauses. A drop of black drips onto the page, blotting out Ignatius entirely. “I suppose that’s it for today, then. Too bad. I was just starting to enjoy myself.”
A thrill runs through me, imagining that I had something to do with that.
Keep her at a distance, that voice warns. You know what happens if you don’t.
“I’ll put these back,” I say, stacking the books to distract myself. “You go ahead.”
“I don’t mind helping.”
But I do. Because these last hours were too similar to the hundred others we shared at Stonehaven. Too easy to get lost in—dangerous. Jacquetta is dangerous.
Close up your heart, that voice whispers again.
“It’s fine.” I wave her off. “I have to fetch the princess anyway. No one will care that I’m late if I’m with her.”
“All right,” Jacquetta says. I don’t let myself believe that it’s reluctance I hear in her tone. “I’ll see you later then.”
I nod and disappear into the stacks, listening to the sound of her retreating footsteps.
Don’t get caught up again, I command myself. Don’t lose yourself.
But did I lose myself with Jacquetta? Or only after she left?
“Mistress Witch.”
One of the books in my arms clatters to the floor. A pair of gemstone-colored eyes peers at me from the other side of the shelf.
Roland.
“By the Spirits.” I fumble with the rest of the books, heart racing. “You have to stop calling me that. Someone might hear you.”
I check the aisle to make certain the Keepers aren’t nearby.
“No one’s paying any attention. Not with all this talk of the Nevenwolf.” Roland rounds the shelf to join me. “You’ve heard, I assume?”
The damn thing has been haunting my dreams. “I heard that it melted. Sound familiar?”
