Page 51 of The Witch Queen

A shiver runs between my shoulder blades. Because where ishomefor me? Not here. Not if I lose. Aunt Margaret’s estate, then? Would she really welcome me back if I fail? If I’ve made a failure out ofheras well? A crow calls, its sinister cry resonating in my very bones.

“The rest of the party, including myself, will be patrolling the forest. Each time a claimant secures their place, we’ll sound this horn.” Sir Weston brings the instrument to his lips and sets off a long, rolling blast. “When all apples have been retrieved, or when time has expired, you will hear three such calls, indicating the end of the trial. And then…wecelebrate!”

The crowd whoops their enthusiasm.

“Claimants,” Sir Weston shouts, “to your horses! The trial has begun!”

He trumpets the horn again and everyone scatters.

“Good luck, Blodwyn,” Aunt Margaret says, pulling me in for a last embrace. “Remember—you were born for this.”

I wish I could absorb her confidence. Instead, I take one final look at the White Palace. The next time I stand here, I’ll either still be heir to Riven, or I’ll be…

Absolutely nothing.

—

What must be hours later, the dull echo of Sir Weston’s hunting horn reaches my ears.

It isn’t followed by a second, which means yet another claimant has successfully rejoined the rest of the party. Was that the sixth? Or the seventh? I’ve lost count. I curse under my breath and glance up into the lattice of tree branches. The sun is difficult to spot beneath the clouds, but it’s much lower than it was when we started. And I haven’t glimpsed even a flash of gold so far. I force myself to take a breath, fighting the rising tightness in my chest. Panic won’t do me any good now.

“I don’t supposeyoucan help me find one of these wretched apples?” I ask my horse. The solid black charger, aptly named Phantom, merely snorts in reply. “I’ll take that as ano.”

I nudge his sides and steer him deeper into the forest. Though Itechnically grew up around these woods, I don’t recognize them. And they’re certainly not like any forests I’ve traveled in Darryn. At Aunt Margaret’s estate, everything is vibrant and alive. The ground is carpeted in a soft layer of nettle and moss, sprinkled with giant ferns twice my size. The trees are covered in climbing vines. In autumn, the leaves turn such bright reds and golds that it seems like jewels are suspended from the branches.

Here, though, everything is black and barren. The trees stretch up like knives into the gray winter sky, their naked branches clacking together like hollow bones. Like something is out here. Something that shouldn’t be. A crow calls, its shadow skimming over my face.

Looking for you.

A twig snaps nearby, followed by several crunches. Movement that’s far too heavy to be a rabbit or a grouse. I pull Phantom to a halt and slip from the saddle, positioning myself behind a wide oak. Weak sunlight filters through the forest canopy and into the clearing beyond, where I spot a shock of red hair. Another claimant. He pulls his bow out and takes aim. But what is he—

An animal picks through the brush. A stag. It’s a massive, majestic beast, pure white against the drab of the forest. His branching antlers curve elegantly above his head, and there, dangling from the tallest one, is a golden apple.

My breath catches.

Kill it before he does,a small voice urges.

Every instinct rebels against the idea. But if I brought down a stag, it would put an end to the questions about my place in the trials. Perhaps even about the curse. Ignoring the guilt already building in my chest, I draw my bow from my back, then reach for an arrow. The stag flicks his tail, bending his long neck as he sniffs the ground. Wood creaks as I pull the bowstring, my palm slick against the weapon, heartbeat hammering against my eardrums.

Do it,that voice commands.Now!

The stag’s ears twitch, as though he hears the voice as well. He lifts his head, his striking, amber-colored eyes fixed directly on me. Thegolden apple glimmers from where it hangs on the beast’s antlers. He looks absurd, the poor creature. And he doesn’t deserve to be caught up in some inane competition. Doesn’t deserve to die so that I can win a silly golden apple. A throne.

And that’s when I know: I can’t do it.

I let my shot go, but it sails wide andthunksinto the trunk of a tree.

The stag startles and gallops off into the forest. But my relief at sparing his life is short-lived. Brush rustles as a figure rises from the far side of the clearing. The other claimant. His blue eyes, stark against his white skin, glitter with rage.

“You ruined my shot,” he all but growls. “You’ll pay for that.”

Silver glints as he yanks a knife from his belt. Panic lights in my veins and I sprint back to Phantom, fumbling into the saddle as the boy charges toward me. He reaches for my ankle and I kick at him, earning a satisfying crunch of bone that I hope was his nose.

“Go!” I yell to Phantom, not daring to look back. “Hurry!”

The horse crashes through the woods, but the claimant is close behind me. I keep low in the saddle, ducking under branches as Phantom leaps over fallen logs and flies above the brush.

“Comeon!” I urge.