Page 39 of The Witch Queen

“What did you expect?” she asks. “You opened the door to begin a new royal line. I’ll be shocked if half the kingdom doesn’t turn up.”

That’s exactly what Callen said. The imprisoned king began berating me as soon as I returned from dinner, shouting about how this was a terrible idea. That I was ruining a thousand years of precedent and that even I, a lowly commoner, should comprehend how dangerous this situation could become. I think the curtain shrouding Callen’s mirror is still trembling with the remnants of the White King’s wrath.

Usually, I don’t care about Callen’s opinions. But he might be right. From the look of this mountain of letters, I’ll soon have dozens ofchallengers to my throne—many of whom I appointed to court in the first place. I was never naïve enough to count the courtiers as my friends, but I didn’t anticipate that they would be quite so quick to turn their blades on me.

Because they hate you,that voice sneers.They always have.

“I hope you’re satisfied,” Joan remarks, bringing me back into the present.

She crosses her arms and fixes me with an accusing expression.

“Are you angry with me?” I ask.

“Not angry,” she replies. “But certainly annoyed, as I imagine many in the court might be after you decided on this planwithoutconsulting anyone.”

“And who was I supposed to consult?” I challenge. “Margaret is the one who started all this. And the whole hall was clamoring for me to open the trials. What else could I do?”

“I don’t know,” Joan admits. “But even you must see that you’ve created a situation you can’t possibly control. Especially where the princess is concerned.”

Much as I might want to, I can’t entirely dismiss what Joan says. My encounter with the princess had nipped at me through the long hours of the night. Not because of Blodwyn’s evident anger, but because—beneath her simmering hatred—I could sense something deeper. A hurt I recognized from my own years with Mother. But I shove that down.

“That wasn’t my fault,” I insist. “And I have a plan.”

“Oh?” Joan arches a skeptical eyebrow. “I’d very much like to hear it.”

“Aye, that makes two of us.”

Nettle meows, abandoning Fitz as someone else strides into the chamber. Roland. Excellent.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” I say to the Head of the Guilds.

“And I wasn’t expecting to wake up and hear thatBraxos’s Trialswere called,” Roland returns. “Open to everyone in the realm, apparently. Didn’t think to warn us Dwarves about that, did you?”

Joan deals me another look.

“I didn’t have much warning myself,” I tell them both. “And I don’t see what this has to do with the Dwarves.”

“Oh aye,” he says. “Nothing at all. It’s our favorite sort of game, guessing the next ruler of the realm. Or do you not recall a certain edict that was passed? One that gave us these?”

He yanks up the leg of his trousers to expose the faint scar above his left ankle: a set of crossed pickaxes with a crown in the center. The Dwarves’ Guild Mark. The brand has been removed, but the skin around the outline is still pink and puckered, a permanent reminder of the years the Dwarves spent under the White Kings’ control.

“Certainly hope the nextrandomperson sitting on the throne won’t decide to gift us another,” he continues. “Or something worse.”

“He’s right,” Joan agrees. “The trials are set to begin in two weeks. There could be hundreds of claimants by then. Anora was up half the night worried about what it might mean for us. Even if Blodwyn wins, what if the laws change again? We won’t be able to hide this time.”

No—she won’t. And the reality of the mess I’ve made is sinking in by the minute. But I steel myself against my gnawing anxiety. I’ve climbed out of worse circumstances before.

“There won’t be any new edicts,” I assure them. “Besides, the trials might wind up working in our favor. Margaret assumed she could seize control of the realm without a fight. She’ll soon learn that she was mistaken and want to make a deal.”

“And ifyou’remistaken?” Joan presses. “What’s preventing the duchess from returning to Darryn and leaving us to fend for ourselves?”

“Pride,” I reason, praying I’m right. “Margaret has obviously been planning this scheme for a long time. She’s not going to give up easily.”

“So we’re basing the future of the realm on yourhunch?” Roland asks dryly.

“It’s far too much of a gamble,” Joan agrees. “You have no idea what the duchess will do. Or the princess, for that matter. Even if she succeeds in the trials, after what I witnessed at dinner, I doubt she’ll be sympathetic toward us.”

Again, an image of the princess resurfaces in my mind: the white-hot rage rolling off her in waves.