Page 50 of The Witch Queen

“Of course not. I only wanted you to have the best chance today.”

“So I can’t win unless I’m cheating?”

“That’s not what I said. Don’t be—”

“Ridiculous?” she asks, tilting her head at me. “Is that what you were going to say? Is that what I am to you?”

“No.” The word comes out too shrill. “You know I don’t think that.”

“Actually,” Blodwyn replies, “I don’t know much about you at all.”

She slams the box closed and storms off—again. I stare after her, blood pounding in my veins. How did I manage to lose control of this situation so quickly?

“Iamsorry about that,” Margaret says, sidling up to me as if we’re friends. As if she didn’t just sabotage me in front of everyone. “Next time, though, you should check with me before presenting such gifts to the princess. We wouldn’t want anyone to be able to question the results of this trial, would we?”

How Idespisethis woman. My power burns in my chest, shadows leaping and diving around me, desperate to be used. I would giveanything to be able to reach out and strangle Margaret with them. Rip out her heart the same way that I did her brother’s.

As though she can guess my thoughts, Margaret’s gray eyes glitter, causing that phantom sensation to tug at my left ribs again. The duchess throws me one of her brilliant courtier’s smiles, then saunters away, leaving me standing on the fringes, an outsider in my own palace—just as it’s been every day since she arrived here.

Do something,the shadows seem to whisper.Take back control.

They’re right. I’m done playing these games. Margaret is a threat. And I will not lose everything I’ve worked for to some insipid noble, army or not.

The time to act isnow,before it’s too late.

I turn on my heel and go to summon Nox.

Chapter Fourteen

Blodwyn

“I can’t believe she did that,” I mutter under my breath to Aunt Margaret, who stands beside me with the other claimants. The weight of their stares presses down on me, their hushed conversations brushing against me like insect wings.

“Can’t you?” my aunt replies mildly. “It’s no worse than her other crimes.”

Aunt Margaret is right. No matter what Verity said in Ayleth’s defense, I was a fool to believe that the so-called queen could be anything but my enemy.

“Don’t waste your energy on her now,” Aunt Margaret says. “Focus on the hunt. How are you feeling?”

Like a nest of hornets is trapped inside me. I’m so nervous that I’d barely managed to choke down a few bites of breakfast this morning. I scan the rest of the claimants, all of whom have probably been training with a weapon since they could stand. Not like me. I’d only begun my archery lessons two years ago. My attention lands on one claimant in particular, with broad shoulders and wind-ruffled black hair. He stares blankly back at me, his jaw firmly set. I can see his thoughts written on his expression:

You don’t belong here.

The long call of a hunting horn resonates over the crowd. The excited chatter ceases, all attention pivoting to the doors, where someone gallops out of the palace wearing the most ludicrous costume I’ve ever seen. Judging from the antlers affixed to its head, I assume it’s intended to be a stag. And there must betwopeople inside it, for its front and back halves keep pulling in opposite directions, eliciting a storm of laughter from the onlookers.

In the next moment, Sir Weston charges into the courtyard like a knight into battle, firing off a slew of shots from a small bow. The player in the rear of the costume makes a show of kicking its hind legs when one of the arrows lodges in its rump. Sir Weston shoots again and this time the actor in front bucks and whinnies, then wilts dramatically to the ground. Red silk ribbons explode from some hidden device within the costume.

“Welcome, all,” Sir Weston announces, “to the first of the three challenges in Braxos’s Trials: theHunt!”

Cheers erupt, wild and raucous. Aunt Margaret squeezes my shoulder, but I keep staring at the stag’s lifeless body. It’s only a costume, but I can’t help picturing the animals in my menagerie. How am I supposed to kill something likethat? Or anything at all? Even in my lessons at Aunt Margaret’s, I preferred shooting at stationary targets. The guilt over the few rabbits and grouse I killed plagued me for weeks.

You don’t belong,those awful words again.

“As we all know,” Weston continues, “Braxos, first of the line of White, rose from humble beginnings as an apple farmer. In his quest to claim the throne, Braxos was challenged on three virtues: bravery, wisdom, and justice. In this initial trial, our claimants will demonstrate their own valor.”

The crowd—everyone except me—roars.

“Twenty deer have been released into the hunting grounds, each one marked with a gilded apple.” He extracts one from his doublet and displays it. Watery sunlight gleams on its polished surface. “Those who return from the forest with their prize before dusk will remain in the contest. Everyone else…will be disqualified and sent home.”