Page 124 of The Witch Queen

She holds out what appears to be a journal, but I can tell by the handwriting that it’s not Ignatius’s. Instead, an elegant, looping script fills the pages. A hand, I realize dully, that I have encountered before.

“This is…”

“My mother’s,” Blodwyn finishes for me.

And there, staring out at me from the page is:I have paid the price of blood and snow.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Blodwyn

Mother’s cryptic words remain with me long after I leave the High Priest’s secret chambers, circling in my mind like crows:

I have paid the price of blood and snow.

A message eerily similar to that found in Princess Matilda’s rooms. Did Mother know about the lost princess? And whatpricedid she mean? I comb through the journal dozens of times over the course of the night, desperate for answers. But all I find are more questions. Ambiguous stories about how Mother came to be with child. Something about a raven and drops of blood on the snow. Her theories about a conspiracy concerning a person she callsthe imposter,who I assume is the former High Priest. How she plotted to reveal him and begin a new age in Riven.

In my bones, I can already sense the dawn coming,she wrote.

But what does that mean?

Desperate for answers, I go to the library the very next morning, hoping that Mother left other writings that might provide some insight. I’m in luck. Master William discovers several more volumes in the archives. I feel foolish for not having searched for them ages ago.Reading Mother’s words is like magic—like I’m getting to spend time with her through the pages. I can hear her voice in my head, her laughter and even her pain.

The entries span all the way back to when Mother first arrived in Riven as a princess, not much older than I am now. She was intended to wed Papa’s older brother, Uncle Arthur, but he died in battle. Mother mourned publicly, but the tone of her writing suggests that she wasn’t particularly heartbroken about the loss. In fact, she seemed more distraught about what occurred next: Mother’s family couldn’t pay the rest of her dowry and so the old king, my grandfather, planned to send her away. But with her homeland recently impoverished and at war, Mother knew that she couldn’t return. Instead, she writes of everything she did to persuade Papa to marry her instead—all her plans and countermoves. Those made not for love, but for survival.

Though I’m loath to admit it, Mother’s story reminds me of what Verity said about Ayleth’s path to the throne. That her apparent scheming may not have been based entirely on greed, but necessity. I’m still furious with Ayleth for her years of deception. But even I sympathized with her—if only slightly—after hearing her story in Ignatius’s lair. And then there’s the Covens’ War, one instigated by my own grandfather. After reading Mother’s journals, I cannot help but wonder if she might have done the same if she were in Ayleth’s position. If so, what would Mother want me to do now? What price would she have me pay?

The questions tangle in my mind, so frustrating that I’m desperate for an escape from the palace—to pretend that none of this is happening at all. There’s only one place I can think to go where I’ll avoid the needling attention of the court. And so, at my first opportunity, I sneak off to the stables. It’s been too long since I visited Barnabas, and I’m looking forward to seeing his progress. But as soon as I round the corner toward his pen, decidedly angry voices reach my ears.

“Are you telling me that you would prefer to muck horseshit and clean saddles than promote the interests of this family?” a man barks.

I immediately duck into the nearest empty stall and peer through the slats in the wood, just able to discern Lord Warbeck’s towering form. Which means the person he’s berating must be—

“It’s not a horse,” Gavin replies tightly. “It’s a stag.”

Barnabas chuffs, as if to agree.

“I don’t give ashitwhat you call the beast,” Lord Warbeck counters. “I’m tired of these antics. Skipping court functions. Dancing with the princess. She’s your competition, boy. You should have let that creature have her.”

The words hit like a slap. I knew people felt that way, of course, especially since the ball. But hearing the sentiment hurled out like that, with such conviction…

No one wants you here,that voice sneers.

“Blodwyn may be my competition,” Gavin starts, “but that doesn’t mean she’s—”

“Blodwyn,is it?” Lord Warbeck spits. “Don’t tell me you’ve been stupid enough to fall for her. That’s probably just what she wants. Or that meddling aunt of hers. She’ll dangle herself in front of you while she—”

“She isn’t like that,” Gavin interrupts. “And I didn’t call these trials to—”

A sharp crack echoes in the stables. I flinch. Hear Barnabas paw at the ground, agitated.

“You didn’t call the trials,” Lord Warbeck all but growls. “I did. Because you’remyson. And even if a crown rests on that empty head of yours, you will still bemine.Do you understand?”

A beat passes. Two. I dig my fingernails into my palms, my own furious heartbeat pounding in my veins. Wishing I could dosomethingother than stand here.

“Yes, sir,” Gavin grinds out at last.

“Good. Now clean yourself up. I will not find you out here again.” He pauses. Lowers his voice. “And if you think to defy me, consider your mother.”