Page 29 of The Witch Queen

A thick silence answers. Aunt Margaret lets it linger, wearing the same expression as when she’s winning at a hand of cards.

“We were hoping Your Grace would consider an alliance,” Lord Warbeck finally ventures. “Riven is your home. And the princess’s.”

“Is it? How nice to be reminded. It’s beentwenty yearssince I myself was sent away.”

The men at the table shift in their seats, Ayleth with them.

“We have terms drawn up.” Master Parnell awkwardly clears his throat and slides a piece of paper across the table. Aunt Margaret picks it up and scans the writing. “We’ll provide you with time to consider them and suggest adjustments, of course. I’m certain we can reach an understanding.”

“There’s no need for time,” Aunt Margaret says. “Here are my adjustments.”

She lifts the parchment to the nearest candle, sets it aflame, and then drops it back on the table. The others cry out in alarm.

“Your Grace!” Master Parnell exclaims, scrambling to extinguish the small fire. Ashen pieces of the proposed terms float into the air. “This is hardly—”

“Customary?” Aunt Margaret finishes for him. “I think you’ll soon learn that I don’t care a whit for custom. And I have absolutely no interest in assisting Riven unless Blodwyn has assumed her rightful place. If you need my army so urgently then you will not only agree to begin the princess’s trials but see them through.”

The councilors glance nervously around at one another. Most of them look like they just swallowed a dish of eels. But they must understand that Aunt Margaret means what she says, for—one by one—they indicate their agreement.

Eventually, only Ayleth remains. She holds my gaze a long moment, a thousand unspoken thoughts wheeling behind her dark eyes.

“Very well,” she says at last, the words rough. “We’ll proceed.”

“Excellent!” Aunt Margaret claps her hands. “Let’s announce the good news tonight at dinner. In the meantime, Blodwyn, shall we go and visit your father?”

—

If I hoped the court’s attention would lessen after my arrival, I’m vastly disappointed. Nobles swarm the palace halls. Some of them have the decency to be discreet, at least pretending to hold conversations or card games as their hawklike attention tracks my progress. But others are openly gawping, barely remembering to bow or curtsy as I pass. Some are even leaning down from the second-story gallery to stare at me, their suspended faces reminding me of the sculptures carved into the ceiling of Mother’s rooms. Thewatchers,they were called. It’s just as unsettling now as it was then.

“I thought she was dead,” someone murmurs, close enough that I can hear.

“Did you see her before she left the palace?” another adds, hushed. “I heard she was raving.”

“Is it any wonder? Everyone knows the family is…”

Cursed,a small voice in the back of my mind whispers.

I shove it down, quickening my pace.

What seems an eternity later, we reach Papa’s rooms.

The metallic scent of blood and the tang of medicine hit me before I even step through the door. I cough, tugging my handkerchief from my sleeve to cover my nose. But the unpleasant smells are nothing compared to the sight of Papa himself. I stop short, barely recognizing the person lying on the bed.

Papa’s body is thin and wasted, his skin so pale that his veins show through, greenish and sickly. A massive, craggy scar tracks down the side of his face. I shudder to imagine what could have inflicted such awound. And I didn’t realize until this moment that there was still part of me that hoped the rumors were wrong. That I’d return to the palace and Papa would sweep me into his arms. Spin me around like he used to do and tell me that the last three years had been nothing more than a bad dream. But then Papa stirs. His eyes flutter open, clouded and glassy and not his at all.

“What on earth happened?” Aunt Margaret asks, evidently as horrified as I am.

The attending physicians scatter as she rushes to Papa’s bedside and shoos them away. I follow her, tentatively brushing my fingertips against his hand. It might as well be made of marble for how cold it is. When I press the pad of my thumb to his inner wrist, I can barely detect the thready rhythm of his heartbeat.

“The king rode without his visor at a joust,” Ayleth explains, turning her ring again as she speaks. “I attempted to dissuade him, of course, but he insisted.”

She’slying.Maybe not about everything, but enough.

“I wish you had informed me that his state had deteriorated so much,” Aunt Margaret continues sharply. “I could have sent my own physicians from Darryn.”

“There’s no need,” Ayleth says. “We have everything in hand, isn’t that right, Dr. Locke?”

One of the physicians peels himself away from the others and bows. “Quite so, Your Majesty. We are utilizing every resource at our disposal.”