Page 158 of The Witch Queen

All eventsIset into motion.

You always make mistakes,that voice goads.

“But the Heirs allied with Rycinthia,” I counter. “How does that help you? Did you assume that King Frances would simply hand you Riven’s throne if he wins this war?”

“Of course not,” Margaret says with a shrug. “But this war of yours has been useful in depleting the Rycinthian army. Once I got what I wanted, my own forces would have easily finished the job. And ideally, the witches would have regained their power by then.”

Which is what Margaret was really hoping for when we met with the covens. Not to kill me—or not only that. But that the witches would reclaim the Bloodstones and reforge the Veil. Use their power to fight beside her. Another oily ribbon of dread winds around my bones. What a complete fool I’ve been.

“And Blodwyn?” I ask. “How much of this did she learn? Is that why she fled?”

Margaret pauses. Adjusts one of her rings.

“She’s my niece,” she says. “Despite what you think, I do care about her.”

“But you care about yourself more.”

She’s no better than Mother, using the princess like a pawn.

“Don’t act noble with me,” Margaret scoffs. “I’ve always seen you for what you are. Getting close with her. Gaining her friendship to wiggle your way into Callen’s bed.”

I bristle. “I never wanted any of this.”

Margaret laughs again.

“Everyone wants it. Entire wars are fought over thrones, including this one.” She gestures wildly around her. “Becauseeveryonewants the crown. But only one person can wear it.”

Thunder cracks, shaking the palace.

“Well, it won’t be you,” I say.

“I suppose we’ll see,” Margaret replies. Even now, challenge shines in her gaze. “Say what you like about me: Not a single person in this court will stand for my execution. And don’t forget about my army. Theywillmarch on the palace. If you’re smart, you’ll realize that I’m the only one who can get you out of this mess.”

It’s exactly what Callen said and I hate Margaret for it. Hate the part of myself that worries she might be right. But, even now, I refuse to let her see it.

“You’ll remain here until I decide what to do with you,” I tell her. “If you attempt to escape, or to move against me, I’ll put you in the dungeons, damn the court’s opinion.”

Margaret just raises her eyebrows.

“As you wish. But decide quickly.” She swirls her wineglass. “I know what you are, Ayleth. If I fall, I’m dragging you down with me.”

Chapter Forty-Seven

Blodwyn

I’m woken by the smell of spices and meat.

Hazy details sharpen into focus as my eyelids struggle to open. Is this my chamber? It doesn’t feel right. I groan and roll over onto my side, then immediately regret the action as every muscle in my body screams.

“So you didn’t die, then,” someone says. “Tilda! She’s awake.”

Vaguely, I register a hearth on the other side of the room, where a man is poking at the fire. He turns toward me and his gemstone-colored eyes glimmer. ADwarf,I realize. Adrenaline surges through me. The Dwarvian Guilds work for Ayleth, don’t they? I start to kick my way out of the bedclothes, but my limbs immediately—and loudly—protest.

“Oh, thank goodness!” A Dwarvian woman hurries over to my bed. “Careful, now. Don’t do too much. You were in quite a state.”

It’s then that I notice the faint taste of blood in my mouth and the bruises on my hands and forearms. Memories of my mad flight from the palace begin flooding back to me: Flashes of angry guards and Aunt Margaret. The shadow creature with the crimson eyes.

“Where am I?” My voice is rough against my throat. “How did I get here?”