Page 19 of The Witch Queen

“How did you miss this?” I demand of Parnell. “You said he could be trusted.”

The steward pales slightly. Presses a hand to his chest. “I assure you, Majesty, that I’m as surprised and furious as you are by this betrayal. I will locate the earl at once.”

“Good luck,” Warbeck scoffs. “Darnley’s already in Rycinthia, no doubt, enjoying whatever coin or titles they’ve awarded him for his service.”

And not just Darnley. The witches. I picture Mother and the rest lounging in some Rycinthian palace and gloating over their victory. They were probably hoping I’d be under that mountain when it fell. My shadows leap and dive around me.

“We have to do more than find him,” I say, shooting Parnell another glare. “We need to attack. There’s no time to waste.”

“That…may not be possible,” Parnell says. Some of the others start to shout him down, but he holds up his hands for quiet. “With so many of the Mines destroyed, we don’t have the weapons for a successful siege. Even if we did, we’re still rebuilding. We were counting on this time to regroup. Strengthen our troops with Darnley’s forces holding the border. Now…”

Darnley is gone, leaving Riven wide open for an invasion.

Failed,that awful voice.

“This is your mess,” I hiss at Parnell. “I suggest you devise a way to clean it up.”

“Indeed, Majesty,” Parnell agrees. “And I do have a plan. We should look to our ally in Darryn.”

He slides a marker on the map so that it rests on the realm directly to Riven’s east.

“Our ally?” Warbeck asks, raising an eyebrow. “Are you referring to the Princess Margaret? I don’t see how she can make a difference.”

Neither do I. Three years ago, I scarcely knew that Darryn—or Margaret—existed. The duchess sent her bland congratulations around the time of my farce of a wedding with Callen, but I received no further communication from her until Blodwyn’s illness. Even now, Margaret hardly writes me.

“I believe she can make a great difference,” Parnell goes on. “Some of you may recall Princess Margaret’s marriage to the duke. A union that was intended to solidify trade relations with Darryn.”

One of the council members snorts into his wineglass. “A lot of good that did.”

“Correct,” Parnell agrees. “That venture was largely unsuccessful. As were any attempts His Majesty made at securing Darryn’s army for help during the Covens’ War.”

I bristle at the mention of that time: Forty years during which the White Kings hunted the covens in the name of the Order’s false goddess. Countless witches lost their lives, including Rhea. And my own grandmother was among the first five witches whose executions sparked the conflict. An image of the tapestry burns in my mind: those witches being forced to dance in red-hot iron shoes.

“Are you finished giving a history lesson?” Warbeck asks, bored.

“Nearly,” Parnell replies, clipped. “But this bit of history is rather important. Despite their long marriage, the Princess Margaret and the duke produced no children. Therefore, when His Grace died about five years ago, everything passed to his wife.Includingcommand of the duke’s army.”

Thatisimportant. Even Warbeck sits at attention.

“Is the force large enough to make a difference?” I ask.

“It might be,” Parnell replies. “And most attractively, the duchess’s control over the army is relatively secret. I had to do quite a bit of digging to ascertain the fact that Princess Margaret inherited such control. It stands to reason that Rycinthia isn’t aware.”

I’m inclined to agree with him. If Rycinthia knew about Margaret’s army, they’d have recruited her by now.

“But would the duchess helpus?” someone else asks, echoing my own question. “It’s been years since the duke’s death. Why not offer us the army before now?”

“A good question,” Parnell allows. “The only way we will determine the answer is if we invite the duchess here to discuss an alliance. The princess as well, of course.”

“Blodwyn?” I ask, stiffening.

“The princess would be expected to attend an official royal visit,” Parnell reasons. “And such matters are better handled in person.”

I hesitate. Aside from her scant letters, I don’t know anything about the king’s sister. And Blodwyn…

When I served the late Queen Sybil, I felt a closeness to the princess. Beneath the rebellious young girl who trained her pets to terrorize her ladies, there was a fragile thing. One that reminded me of myself at Blodwyn’s age, terrified of the expectations looming ahead of me. Then, after Queen Sybil died, I recognized the oily grief pulling Blodwyn down into its depths. Perhaps I should have reached for the princess the way I’d so desperately hoped that someone would have reached formeafter I lost Rhea. But I just…couldn’t. And so I sent Blodwyn away—both for her sake and for mine.

“Are there no other options?” I ask.