The Crimson Crown, page 36
From her tone, I can tell what she thinks my answer should be. I toss the message into the fireplace, watching the parchment blacken and curl. “I don’t see that I have much choice. I told you—I’m not leaving here without the Bloodstones.”
A log collapses, sending sparks dancing up the chimney.
“And what’s the cost of finding them?” Jacquetta asks sharply, gesturing around the room. “Because at this point, you may not leave at all.”
“You know what happens if the Veil crumbles,” I say, clinging to that old refrain.
“Is it the Veil?” Jacquetta presses. “Or is it because you’re a Second? A descendant of Millicent? Are those stones, is your position, worth more than your life?”
It has nothing to do with my position, or even the Veil itself. I dig my fingernails into Rhea’s marks.
Tell her, my reckless heart urges.
Foolish as it is, I want to. Want to separate myself from the likes of Sindony and Mother, obsessed with power and lineage. But if I explain why I’m really here…
She walked away from you once before, that voice reminds me.
She did. We might have established a truce between us, but that doesn’t mean Jacquetta would understand about Rhea or what I have to do. The others at Stonehaven certainly didn’t.
I lift my chin, looking Jacquetta squarely in the eyes. “Yes. The Bloodstones are worth more than my life. They’re worth more than anything.”
A long moment passes, Jacquetta’s expression unreadable.
“All right, then,” she says at last. “Enjoy your visit with the king.”
And then she turns on her heel and disappears into the second bedroom, leaving me with the sinking feeling that I’ve made a horrible mistake.
Bright morning sunlight burns against my bleary eyes. Sleep, as usual, eluded me. What dreams I managed to snatch were riddled with images of Rhea in the coven fire. Each time I reached for her, she melted at the touch of my hands—like the prince’s body in the crypt. The nightmares were so visceral that I spent most of my hours pacing, my traitorous thoughts replaying the incident with Jacquetta.
It wasn’t an argument—not like our previous battles, both of us seeking to draw blood. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve somehow betrayed her. In fact, when I emerged from my bedchamber this morning, part of me was convinced that Jacquetta had gone. She hadn’t, though. She didn’t say a word to me at breakfast, either—but she’s still here.
It means nothing, that voice insists. You cannot trust her.
I’m not as certain of that as I used to be.
The rustle of wings breaks me out of my thoughts as I enter the mews. Cages line the walls, housing various species of falcons and other birds of prey. I’ve heard of witches keeping similar creatures as familiars, but not like this. Even the binding ritual would be less confining than these bars. One bird, in particular, catches my notice. It’s massive, with inky black feathers and onyx eyes. Its long talons grip its perch, and it flares its broad wings as I approach. The bird’s restlessness reminds me of Marion in her prison cell. A sudden urge to release the creature overwhelms me and I reach for the latch of the cage. The falcon edges closer, expectant and eager. Perhaps I’ll let them all go. The king would be furious.
“Can I help you?”
I drop my hand, guilty. A boy about Blodwyn’s age sets down a bucket near the other door. I recognize him as being the stable hand who’d helped me with Honeywine on the day of the ill-fated hunt. His kind eyes, the green of the forest, light up.
“I remember you,” he says, wiping his hands. “Mistress…Anne?”
“Ayleth,” I correct.
“Right. Sorry about that. I’m Doran.” He ruffles his unruly chestnut curls. “What brings you to the mews today?”
Nothing good. “I’m here at the king’s request.”
“Ah.” Doran gestures out the side door. “His Majesty has already gone out with Sir Weston. They’re in the training yard.”
Maybe that means the king forgot about his invitation, and I have an excuse to ignore it. “Then I won’t disturb them.”
“You won’t be. They took three birds. I’m sure they’re expecting you.”
Excellent. I pull my cloak closer, then trudge in the direction Doran indicates. The training yard is a vast expanse of land, blanketed in snow. As Doran promised, the king and Sir Weston stand in the center, their falcons circling overhead.
The Lord of Misrule spots me first. “Here she is, Callen.”
The king turns, his gray eyes tinted silver against the snow, and the place behind my left ribs vibrates. I tamp it down.
“Mistress Ayleth.” Snow crunches under the king’s boots as he leaves Sir Weston to meet me. “You look well. Your new rooms suit you. Are you enjoying them?”
About as much as one enjoys a poisoned sweet. And though I shouldn’t be surprised, I recoil at how easily the king asks me about Marion’s old rooms. It’s like the courtier, his former mistress, doesn’t even exist in his mind anymore.
He’ll use you up. Marion’s words float under the screech of a falcon.
I’m half tempted to tell the king I went to see her. To force him to say Marion’s name and acknowledge what he did. But that would only put me in the dungeons.
“The chambers are too much for me,” I tell the king, meaning it.
“They are only the beginning,” he replies easily. “I promised you the world, did I not? I always keep my promises.”
Especially those related to murdering witches.
“Here.” King Callen gestures to a servant. “Another gift for you.”
A boy approaches, a falcon perched on his arm. It’s a stunning creature, its stark white feathers speckled with a brown that glimmers gold in the winter sunlight. Its dark eyes watch me as the servant transfers the bird to the king’s gloved hand.
“White falcons are quite rare,” he says, clearly expecting me to be impressed. “As soon as I saw her, I knew she should be yours. A falcon fit for Meira herself.”
The bird flares her broad wings.
“Let’s see how you take to each other.” The king nods to the servant, who hands me a pair of gloves. “Put those on.”
Reluctantly, I pull the thick leather gloves up to my elbows.
“Hold your arm out like mine,” he instructs, moving behind me to guide me into position. That force inside me jolts at his touch. “And keep steady.”
The falcon steps onto my forearm, the grip of her talons light yet firm. I watch, cautious, as the bird adjusts herself, proud and silent.
“Now then. Remove the jesses.” The king tugs at the cord attached to the bird’s golden anklets. “And let her go.”
The falcon requires no encouragement. At my slightest movement, she pushes off my arm, screaming as she glides over the field. As I watch the bird soar, I wish I could sprout wings of my own and join her. Leave this place behind forever.
“Glorious, is she not?” the king asks. He bends, close enough that his next words brush my ear. “Just like her mistress.”
That unnerving connection between us hums.
Ignore it, I tell myself. Don’t give it any more power than it already has.
King Callen puts himself in front of me, those gray eyes like twin hooks, pulling me closer. I inhale his scent of leather and smoke and danger.
“Have you given any thought to our discussion?”
A memory of the hedge maze rises up, and the pulse at my collarbones beats harder. “I’ve been occupied with serving the queen.”
“And yet my wife’s rooms are closed.”
I fidget with my glove. Why can’t he find some other woman to entertain him? One who actually desires him? Then again, perhaps such a woman doesn’t exist.
A light touch lands beneath my chin. The king tilts my face up to meet his. That ominous tether vibrates, Malum straining its tentacles toward him.
“What else must I do to prove myself to you?” he asks softly.
“Nothing,” I say, meaning it with every fiber of my being. I want nothing from him.
The wind picks up, stirring my skirts. The king brushes a lock of hair out of my face, his fingertips lingering along my jawline.
“Meira speaks to you. She moves through you. I would make this realm kneel at your feet, if you’d let me.” He steps even closer, so that I’m almost pressed against his chest. “Give yourself to me, Ayleth, and watch the whole world spin around you.”
It’s already spinning. Just as in the hedge maze, I consider how easy it would be to surrender to the pull of this sinister force between us. As if in answer, the tether rumbles. But I picture the queen, surrounded by empty walls. Marion in her prison cell, desperate and alone.
As soon as I said yes, I was doomed, the courtier said.
The king’s world revolves only around himself. He will break me, and then he will scatter the jagged pieces into the wind, like I never existed.
“Your Majesty!” Hurried footsteps crunch in the snow. The king’s attention pivots to where a servant is running up from the direction of the palace. “An urgent message from His Illuminance.”
The boy hands the king a folded piece of parchment. Has there been another arrest? But the king scans the writing too quickly and I don’t glimpse a single word.
“I must tend to this.” The king tucks the parchment into his doublet. “But we’ll speak again later—soon.”
A threat and a promise rolled into one.
Light snow begins to fall as the king strides away, flakes sticking to my skin. Maybe if I just stand here, it will cover me entirely. I’ll just disappear into the quiet of the depthless white.
“Has the king gone?” Sir Weston calls.
So much for disappearing. “He was needed at the palace.”
“Such is always the case. You know, I think I’d hate being king. It’s impossible to enjoy uninterrupted sport.” He points at me. “But your game is just beginning, isn’t it?”
I pause in pulling off my gloves. “Game?”
He swings a rope with something attached to the end. It must be a lure, for one of the falcons screeches and veers in our direction.
“I’ve known the king since we were boys.” Sir Weston extends his arm for the bird to land. “But he’s never become quite so enamored with a lady. Especially not so immediately.”
Heat prickles up my neck. “I have no interest in—”
“Is this the same lack of interest you expressed at our Castles game?” Sir Weston interrupts, arching an eyebrow. “Sport is more than a hobby for me. And I recognize a fellow player when I spot one.”
I’m nothing like this man. “Please, excuse me.”
“I would caution you,” Sir Weston calls. “Callen is nothing if not stubborn. He nearly burned down the forest once simply to smoke out boar. He’ll get what he wants. I suggest you start thinking about what you want.”
His falcon clacks its beak.
“I don’t want anything.” Not from the king.
Sir Weston only deals me one of his unnerving grins, a slash of white against the rich brown of his skin. “We all want something. This whole court is a game of Castles, Mistress. It’s important to understand the stakes. Though, more often than not, the real bets are those you don’t see on the table. Marion forgot that, I think.”
A crow calls overhead, swiftly joined by others. I glance up to see a flock of them—a murder—converging above us, the pattern shifting and reshaping itself, like lungs breathing.
“How strange,” Sir Weston comments, noticing the formation as well.
It’s more than strange. If seven crows herald a curse, there must be ten times that number in the sky—all of them drawn to me. That place behind my left ribs trembles. Again, it feels like laughter.
“By the Light.” Sir Weston points at a splotch of white, which pierces through the cloud of crows like an arrow, scattering them in all directions. “Is that your falcon? And I think it’s got something. Hurry—put your glove back on.”
With a shriek, the falcon glides lower. I fumble with my glove and lift my arm. Just before the bird lands, she drops whatever was gripped in her talons. A small body splatters with a wet thunk at my feet. Blood stains the snow, crimson against white.
“Look at that. Perhaps you require no warning after all,” Sir Weston comments, gesturing at the gruesome entrails. “A kill on your first attempt. A rodent today. Tomorrow, who knows?”
If you ever find yourself with the opportunity to strike, the queen’s advice resonates beneath the falcon’s shriek. Do not miss.
That deep urge, the one I’d felt with Marion, shivers to life, hungry and urgent.
Twelve bells ring out over the palace when I return from the mews, a single thought drumming in my mind: Find the Bloodstones. But between the whispers and glances brushing against me like insect wings, the encounter with the king, and the memory of the bloodied entrails, my rattled nerves won’t stop humming.
They see right through you, that unceasing voice plagues me.
I have to get away from the palace, even if only for a few hours. Before I fully realize where I’m going, my feet steer me to the princess’s chambers, craving the quiet of her menagerie. Like Mathilde, I’m beginning to suspect that even wolves provide better company than people. Especially these people.
“Oh, hello,” Blodwyn says at my approach. She’s settled near the fountain inside the menagerie, sorting through a deck of cards. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Your mother’s rooms are closed again.”
The princess frowns but doesn’t comment on the queen’s illness. “Do you want to play?”
“As long as it’s not Castles,” I groan, joining her as she shuffles the deck.
“It’s not. I don’t think we can play Castles with these anyway.”
“What do you…”
Sunlight filters through the glass ceiling, illuminating the images on the cards—a man impaled by swords. A tower struck by lightning. My breath halts. These cards don’t belong to the typical decks I’ve seen among the courtiers. They’re scrying cards.
“What are you doing with those?” I demand.
Blodwyn looks at me like I’ve grown horns. “I told you—playing.”
Playing. So these cards are no better than the false Bloodstones tossed out in the city, cheap replicas designed for the mortals’ amusement. And here I assumed Blodwyn was different. After everything that’s happened over the last days, this is too much. I snatch the cards from the princess’s hands.
“Wait! Those are—” she yelps, horrified, as I hurl them into the fountain.
“They’re dangerous,” I snap. “Do you want to be locked away like Lady Marion? Do you want to be burned?”
Blodwyn shades paler. “They’re just cards, aren’t they?”
No. They’re so much more. I want to tell her that. Want to scream that our relics and instruments aren’t novelties meant to entertain the same people who hunt us. But the tremble of Blodwyn’s chin dampens my rage. She’s just a child. She couldn’t possibly understand.
“It’s just…” I force my tone to soften. “You can’t be caught with those, Blodwyn. Even if they aren’t real.”
Her brow creases. “How do you know they’re not real?”
“Everything related to the covens was burned.”
Surely, even the princess knows about the Great Cleansing, or whatever Roland called it.
“Maybe.” Blodwyn fishes a card from the water. “But these seem quite old. Look.”
She hands me the card. It is old. Its faded blue back is detailed with intricate designs of roses and thorns and vines of midnight flower, a similar pattern to some of the decks I’d watched the Diviners use at Stonehaven. I flip the card over.
“That’s odd.” Blodwyn points. “It’s the same card I always pull.”
The illustration depicts a golden wheel, surrounded by clouds and winged creatures. At the top, above the wheel itself, a sun shines brightly, gold foil glinting in the light. At the bottom, swirls of black suggest the forces of Malum. There’s even a creature that might be a Nevenwolf emerging from the darkness. I know this card. It’s the Wheel of Fortune. And it’s difficult to explain, but I sense that it’s genuine. Somehow, this deck survived the burning. Or it was brought here—just like Marion’s comb. My pulse kicks up.
“Where did you get these?” I ask Blodwyn.
She presses her lips together. “I can’t tell you.”
“Please.” I reach for her. “It might be important.”
“Why?” She shakes me off. “So someone else can be burned?”
A warbler sings in the distance.
“Do you really think I would do something like that?”
Blodwyn frowns. A rabbit hops over and she scoops it up. “You promise not to tell?”
I press a hand to my chest. “You have my word.”
The princess hesitates a moment longer. But then—
“I found them in Mother’s room.”
* * *
—
I hurry back to our suite, hardly able to hear the chatter of the halls above the two words looping in my mind: The queen.
Fortune—it’s like a wheel, is it not? she’d said at the card game. One never knows when the next turn will occur.
No wonder she’d made that reference. She’d been hiding a deck of scrying cards. What else has she been hiding?
A dozen other details smash together in my mind. Marion was arrested shortly after that card game. And when the queen informed me about our new rooms, she didn’t seem surprised at the courtier’s fate. Is that because she was the one to frame Marion? Queen Sybil harbored plenty of motive to do so. Marion controlled the king. She was pushing for Blodwyn to leave court. How had I not made these connections sooner? And where had the queen found the comb? Or the cards? She’s not a witch, of that much I’m certain. Even with glamour magic, she wouldn’t be able to pull off such a disguise for so long and under such scrutiny. Still…
