The Crimson Crown, page 2
No, I’ve forgotten after the first hundred times she’s reminded me. “Living quarters—third door on the left.”
I thought I’d kept my tone neutral, but Mother detects my exasperation. Her face turns to mine. She’s beautiful, in a cold, imposing sort of way. Gray streaks her auburn hair and fine lines crease her white skin, bracketing her eyes and mouth. Some of those lines came from laughter, if that can be believed. These days, it seems impossible that Mother even knows how to laugh.
“This is important, Ayleth,” she says, her hazel gaze pinning me in place. “The most important time of your life. Do not disappoint the coven.”
Again.
Her implication hangs between us, resurrecting the memory of my mistake: A pair of cobalt-blue eyes and the smell of juniper. Promises made…and then broken. Much as I try to beat it back, a name extracts itself from the bramble and thorn of my past.
Jacquetta.
I hate myself for the way my next breath hitches.
Let her go, a voice in my mind urges. She means nothing.
How many more times do I have to say that until it’s true?
The portcullis shudders to a halt and hooves clop on the flagstones as the party lumbers through the open gate and into the courtyard. Mother exhales, pulling herself up straighter. The black and green embroidered runes on her own crimson cloak, along with the symbol that marks her as High Witch, glimmer in the late-morning sunlight.
“Selene.” Mother greets the witch—another Heir—who steps down from her seat on a small wagon.
Descendant of Aphelia, my years of training provide. The first Diviner.
Selene resembles her ancestress as well, at least from the illustrations I’ve studied in our books. Though it’s difficult to determine the exact age of a witch—our latent magic helps us heal and keeps us youthful until it weakens—Selene appears to be about as old as Mother. Middle-aged by human standards, but likely well past her hundredth year. She pulls down her hood, freeing her cloud of dark hair. Her green eyes, stark against the rich black of her skin, travel over the courtyard. Like all Diviners, there’s something ethereal about her. The last time she visited, I got the unsettling impression that she could glimpse inside my mind. Given her gift, she probably can.
“Was it a difficult journey?” Mother releases Selene from a noticeably stiff embrace.
“No more than we expected, considering current circumstances.” Selene pulls off her green leather gloves.
The other witches, another Heir and the two Seconds, dismount or step down from their own wagon. The younger pair, the Seconds, I recognize—Della and Sindony.
I tug at the clasp of my cloak again. At Rhea’s Ascension, Della, Sindony, and I had run wild around the Sanctum together, slipping toads in other witches’ boots and sneaking treats from the kitchens. Now it’s as if those days—those witchlings—never existed. Even with the strain of the journey, the two Seconds stand tall and poised. They’re my age, but they seem so much older—so much more important. Their attention falls on me and the brief shot of recognition in their expressions softens to…disappointment, perhaps. Like I’ve failed to live up to a test.
They see right through you, that voice whispers.
“Where are the rest?” Mother asks, gesturing toward the open portcullis. I don’t hear anyone else coming. “Elain, Lettice, and their Seconds?”
Five witches formed the first coven, becoming the Ancients who uphold the pillars of our craft. As such, there should be five Heirs here, descendant of each of those great witches, with their next-in-line in tow.
“Delayed,” Selene explains. “The Hunt has been spotted, I’m afraid. Precautions were necessary. I’m sure they’ll arrive in time.”
The Hunt. A tremble of uneasiness ripples through the courtyard, witches probably fighting down the same memories that I am—the smell of burning flesh and the echo of piercing screams. It was seven years ago that the Hunt found Stonehaven. Thanks to Mother’s cunning, we did not lose our home, as most witches do when the Hunt raids their coven. But I would gladly trade Stonehaven, or anything else, for what I lost that horrible night—my sister.
I clench my fist against our rune, wishing I could pull Rhea back.
“Ah—here she is.” Selene’s steady footsteps approach, her keen Diviner gaze sizing me up. “And she’s already wearing her cloak? Isn’t that a bit presumptuous, Cassandra?”
I’d told Mother the cloak was a bad idea.
“Not at all,” Mother replies coolly. “Ayleth is a true daughter of Millicent. She’s shown immense potential.”
That is a lie. I clench my back teeth against the urge to correct her just for the pleasure of spoiling the morning.
“Even so, our traditions exist for a reason, do they not? Then again…”
Selene’s attention drifts to the statue. Years ago, during Rhea’s Ascension celebration, it depicted Millicent, one of the Five, to whom this Sanctum was dedicated. Now splotches of plaster riddle the statue’s body, where our sacred runes were pried out and replaced with the false goddess’s Eyes—one on her forehead and another on each of her outturned palms. Her natural eyes are painted to appear sewn shut, but it was sloppily done. Soot-gray rivulets run like tears down her cheeks. As if Millicent herself weeps to see what’s become of us.
“Tradition doesn’t seem to be much of a priority here,” Selene finishes.
Several witches mutter.
Mother straightens her cloak. “You knew what to expect before you arrived.”
Selene smiles, but it reminds me of Nettle’s expression when she corners a mouse. “You’re right, of course. Forgive me. I’m forgetting my manners.”
She motions to her daughter, Sindony, who carries a cloth-wrapped object over from their wagon. “Ayleth, I present this gift in honor of your Ascension. The naming of a Second is a momentous occasion indeed.”
Not for me. Reluctantly, I lift the folds of fabric wrapped around the gift to reveal the gleam of silvery glass. A mirror. Revulsion twists in my stomach. I hate mirrors.
“Thank you,” I say, hastily re-covering the thing. “I—”
“But you must let the others see it.” Selene takes the mirror from my hands and displays it. The gathered witches murmur their appreciation. “It’s a witch’s mirror. It will need to be woken, of course. But I assume a true daughter of Millicent can handle so simple a task.”
Her green eyes bore into mine and, again, a crawling sensation tingles down my spine—like the Heir is sifting through my thoughts.
“Of course she can,” Mother supplies before I can respond. “And I thank you for the generous gift. Witch’s mirrors are so rare now. Isn’t it wonderful, Ayleth?”
No. Witch’s mirrors are even worse than mortal ones. They can talk—and observe. I have no intention of waking the unpleasant thing. But I don’t miss the command in Mother’s tone and plaster what I hope passes for a gracious smile onto my face.
“It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
Selene turns the mirror in my direction. I flinch. How long has it been since I glimpsed my own reflection? Years, probably. I almost don’t recognize myself now. My dark hair falls almost to my waist, the braid pulled over one shoulder. My nose is longer. My chin is softer. More like…
“You know,” Selene says, tilting her head as she studies me, “I didn’t think they looked alike at our last visit. But now Ayleth could be her twin.”
Her. Rhea’s.
Needle-like pain digs between my ribs at the comparison, one I’ve heard too many times to count. One that sends me running from mirrors like they carry plague. Because it’s true. The years have shaped and re-formed me into my sister’s image so much so that it could be Rhea herself looking out from the glass. Mother sees the resemblance as well. Her carefully bottled-up emotion brims behind her eyes. Some aching part of me wants her to say that it doesn’t matter who I look like. I’m Ayleth—just Ayleth, and that’s enough. She would have said it before that harrowing night when the Hunt broke through our wards. She would have combed her fingers through my hair and whispered:
Rhea is my Heir, but you are my heart.
Now Mother doesn’t say anything to me. And in her silence, I hear the terrible truth.
It should have been you that night. Not her.
In the deepest chamber of my own heart, I wish the same.
Not long after that, the official greeting mercifully ends. The Heirs accompany Mother to her chambers, and I escort Della and Sindony to where they’ll be staying in the living quarters. Eden, another witch from our coven, helps me carry their trunks, which are heavy enough that I suspect the two Seconds have packed rocks instead of clothes or other belongings. Nettle emerges from wherever she’d been hiding and trots along beside me.
Stonehaven isn’t the largest Sanctum in the realm of Riven, but it once housed more than a hundred witches. There are two floors in the east wing filled with modest bedchambers, along with a dining hall, a large kitchen, and an equally massive workroom, which houses the Potioners’ supplies.
“It’s strange to be in a Sanctum again,” Della comments as we pass the cloister, where other witches are hanging laundry or tending the small garden.
Given our circumstances, it’s easy to forget that most witches aren’t fortunate enough to reside in the homes where they were born. If I look closely, I can spot evidence of my years as a witchling. A wobbling banister that was never fully repaired after Eden and I took turns sliding down it. A charred spot on the high ceiling, roughly the shape of a mushroom, left behind after we’d been experimenting with ingredients we filched from the workroom.
By all accounts, those memories should be nothing but ash. Sanctums were originally built to honor the covens, but that was before the White King’s edict. In one fell swoop, witchcraft was abolished. All our property reverted to the Crown and the Order. As the Hunt seized our lands, our sacred runes and relics were replaced with effigies of the false goddess, like the statue in the courtyard. Those witches who weren’t killed in the raids fled to neighboring realms or scattered throughout Riven. Were it not for Mother’s plan, we’d be among them.
“If you can call this a Sanctum,” Sindony remarks, her attention lingering on a string of words engraved into a stone archway.
To Burn a Witch Is to Free a Soul
One of the Order’s abhorrent Illuminations. Nettle lays her ears flat as we pass underneath it, as if even she knows what it means.
“I assumed Mother was exaggerating when she described Cassandra’s so-called strategy,” Sindony goes on. “Evidently, she wasn’t. How can any of you endure such indignity?”
Della slides me a sideways look, likely posing the same question. My grip on the trunk’s handles tightens. Even before the Hunt’s raid, Mother had considered adopting our current disguise. But it was their attack that sealed her decision. We might have survived one battle, but we couldn’t afford to risk another. Pretending to be Order Sisters was the surest way—in Mother’s mind—to divert the Hunt’s attention. The loss of our runes and shrines might be an indignity, but it’s kept us alive.
We cross under another archway, this one bearing the false goddess’s motto: Fairest of them all.
“You get used to it,” I tell Sindony, which is accurate enough.
At first, Meira’s repulsive Eye seemed to follow my every step. Now I hardly ever notice the Illuminations or the remade statues. Then again, the days of my racing down banisters are long over. Most of my time is now spent trapped in lessons with Mother.
“But the uniforms,” Della chimes in, glancing at the front of my dress, which bears an embroidered Eye. “And is there really no magic allowed?”
“Just in training,” Eden explains, her white-gold curls bobbing as she walks. “And when necessary, of course. Like with the wards buried in the forest.”
“The wards that broke?” Sindony pointedly raises an eyebrow.
I flinch at the reference to the night of the raid, yet again reminded of how much these witches have changed since our last encounter. Not Della—with her, I can still glimpse the young witch who giggled at our harmless pranks. But Sindony is colder, more calculating. More like her mother.
A crow swoops past us in the cloister, its cry resonating against the stone walls.
“The wards have been mended,” I explain tightly. “There’s no need to worry.”
“I’m sure that’s true.” Della offers a smile. “We wouldn’t have made the journey if there were any doubt of that. Besides, after your Ascension, your power will be enough to forge the strongest wards yet.”
That’s what she thinks, anyway. A bitter taste cuts between my teeth.
“Your room is here,” I say, reaching the third door and shouldering it open. But I freeze as soon as I cross the threshold.
The third room on the left, Mother had instructed.
Why hadn’t I realized which one she meant? This is Rhea’s room. I haven’t set foot in it since…
An image of my sister surges up in my mind, the veins beneath her skin raised and rust-colored as iron poisoning webbed through her blood.
It’s up to you now, she’d said, voice fading and raspy. You must be strong.
But I’m not. Not like she was.
“Is something wrong?” Della asks as she removes her cloak and drapes it on a bed.
Yes—everything. This room has been unoccupied for years, and that’s the way it should stay. Why has Mother put them in here? When had she cleaned everything out? Was Rhea, her own daughter, so easily swept away? Forgotten?
How quickly would she forget you? that voice whispers.
Eden throws me a worried look.
“No,” I say, pulling myself together. “Is there anything I can fetch for you?”
Sindony takes stock of the state of her dress and frowns. “A bath, perhaps?”
I set down the trunk. “I’ll have one of the Elementals bring up a tub and heat the water.”
“You know.” Sindony pauses, her dark-blue gaze studying me. Analyzing me. “Mother was right. You really do look like her. It’s uncanny.”
Almost without thinking, I clench my left hand against the scar of Rhea’s mark. Sometimes I wonder if our runes are the root of the similarities in our appearances. After all, Selene was correct—Rhea and I never used to look alike. Before I started avoiding mirrors, I used to sit in front of them and try to call to my sister. Maybe the change in my features was the way Rhea answered through the Veil.
“What happened to her?” Della asks gently.
Her. Neither of them have uttered Rhea’s name. Perhaps they worry death is catching. “The Hunt. They—”
“We know about the raid.” Sindony waves me off. “But what happened? I heard she was involved with the wards breaking. That’s why the Hunt got in.”
I bristle. Is she suggesting that Rhea’s magic failed before its time?
“The pack had been waiting outside our wards for days,” I answer, barely keeping my anger in check. “They laid a trap. It could have happened to any of us.”
It had happened to countless covens. Ours was one of the few who actually won their battle against the White King’s murderous Huntsmen, not that Sindony seems interested in discussing that particular detail. All she cares about is our indignities.
“We’re all very sorry for your loss,” Della adds. “Your sister was a gifted witch.”
And kind and loyal and everything you’re not, that voice supplies.
“She was gifted. And do you consider yourself ready to take her place?” There’s a glint in Sindony’s eyes that sets alarm bells ringing in my mind. “I heard you ran away—something about chasing after another witch? One who broke with the coven?”
Ice flashes in my veins. Who had told her that? Selene? Had Mother informed the other Heirs? I find that difficult to believe, given Mother’s efforts to cover up my disloyalty. Everyone knew, though. When the coven split after the raid and I disappeared into the forest, it was painfully obvious which side I’d chosen. Even Eden’s cheeks pinken slightly, embarrassed on my behalf. I’m the one who should be embarrassed. An Heir’s daughter, a would-be Second, run off with…
Jacquetta.
That name again. Would that I could pry it from my mind forever.
It was a mistake, that voice supplies, sharp and vehement. SHE was a mistake.
Even so, a breeze filters through the open window, carrying the faint scent of juniper, and a deep part of me aches. I stand up taller, steeling myself. I don’t feel anything for her—not anymore. Feelings are dangerous.
“I don’t know—”
Nettle yowls, interrupting me, and leaps onto Sindony’s bed. Keeping her golden eyes fixed on the other witch, she hisses and begins clawing at the pillows and blankets. Feathers and scraps of fabric go flying in every direction.
“By the Spirits, what is that animal doing?” Sindony shrieks.
She flails at Nettle, but my cat just growls at her and continues flaying the bed. Glorious creature. Eden clamps a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking with stifled laughter.
“Is this your idea of a welcome?” Sindony wheels on me. “Keep your familiar under control, or I’ll—”
A bell begins to toll outside, fast and urgent. Eden and I rush to the window.
“The Elementals went out at sunrise,” she says. “I’m sure it’s just them. Or the other Heirs finally arriving.”
“No.” Della shakes her head. “They’re at least a day behind.”
Metal grinds as the portcullis rises. A few witches stride into the courtyard, a slaughtered boar strung between them. Perhaps it was just the hunting party. But the sentries never ring the bells to announce such a return. What could they—
Someone else crosses through the gate, a woman guided by two Elementals. Not a woman, though, not if our witches are assisting her.
