The Crimson Crown, page 26
“What makes you think they’re even here?” she asks at last, her tone softer, pensive. Like she really wants to know.
“This is where they were taken after the massacre,” I reason. “Where else could they be? After all, the Veil hasn’t fallen.”
“But it’s close, isn’t it?” Jacquetta asks, more to herself than to me. “If Nevenwolves and who knows what else are starting to emerge.”
“Yes,” I agree, picturing the beast, “it’s close.”
She thinks a few moments longer, and—for the hundredth time—I wish I could glimpse inside her mind. “All right, then. Where do we look first?”
We? I blink at her. “You want to help?”
She shrugs. “I don’t want to get swallowed alive by Malum—which nearly happened yesterday. Two of us looking for those stones will be better than one.”
She has a point. And my own attempts to find the Bloodstones have proved disastrous. Still, the last time I allowed Jacquetta into my life, she left it in ruins.
“You expect me to let you waltz into my plans after you threatened to gut me for interfering with yours?” A thrill jolts through me, recalling her knife pressed against my side. “And last I checked, you don’t care about the magic rocks, as you deem them. Or the Ancients.”
She and Nerissa made that abundantly clear when they left Stonehaven.
“I care about Nevenwolves ripping out my insides,” Jacquetta says simply. “Besides, the sooner you find those stones and leave, the sooner you’ll be out of my way.”
I arch an eyebrow. “So you can kill the king?”
She deals me an icy glare. “I’m not going to argue. We can either put our differences aside for a time, or not.”
Don’t trust her, that voice warns.
I know that it’s right. But my only ally at this point is Roland, and I’m not even sure I’ll see him again. It would be foolish to refuse another, even if it is her.
“A short time.” I point at her. “We work together to find the Bloodstones and then we go our separate ways.”
Just like before.
Jacquetta sticks out her hand. “Deal.”
This is a terrible idea. But what other options do I have? I take her hand, ignoring the jolt of fire that races up my arm and straight into my wretched heart.
Tonight, we reconvene to strengthen the Veil. I admit, my power—vast as it is—wanes. Soon, it will be time for me to pass my Bloodstone on to my successor, my Heir, who will stand sentry at the borders of our worlds.
Such borders are necessary. It has been an age since we forged the Veil. In that time, we witches have held more power than we ever dreamed possible. Riven is no longer a realm plagued by blight or war. The covens can live without risk of being hunted.
All this, and yet still there are those witches who refuse to join us. They prefer to live as they did before the covens. Wayward. Some, I’ve heard, claim that the Veil disrupts an ancient balance. That we witches have meddled where we shouldn’t, and will pay a terrible price.
For the most part, I can dismiss these theories. Change, after all, is always resisted. But, sometimes, in the night, I dream of swirling darkness. Of crows and creatures spun from shadow—Malum straining to break free of its prison.
Should it ever do so, I fear the vengeance it would wreak would tear this world apart.
—From the lost writings of Millicent, one of the Five,
Age of the Covens 400
As news of the Nevenwolf spreads, the court buzzes with speculation of witches and Malum. Given the decimated condition of the Nevenwolf’s corpse, the High Priest claims that it was Meira herself who destroyed the beast, and that the goddess is personally protecting the White Palace. Soon, the court’s fear of a witch lurking in the woods shifts to mockery. Men leap out from behind corners, red blankets draped around their shoulders, to scare unsuspecting courtiers. Cries of witch echo through the halls, followed by screams and laughter. Part of me wishes the Nevenwolf were still alive and that it could show these courtiers exactly what’s waiting for them if Malum returns to this ungrateful realm.
As Joan reported, most outdoor activities are prohibited while the Hunt conducts its search for the supposed witch. Large and sprawling as the White Palace may be, its walls soon squeeze around us, as confining as a cage. It doesn’t help that Jacquetta and I are forced to spend all our time in the queen’s rooms, surrounded by other ladies, making it impossible for us to strategize about our search for the Bloodstones. It’s not until the fourth day after Sir Weston’s hunt, when the queen insists that her guards allow her household a brief walk in the gardens, that we’re able to talk.
“So it wasn’t just the Nevenwolf that…what did Joan say? Melted?” Jacquetta asks, keeping her voice low as our footsteps crunch along the gravel paths. The sound of the other women’s distant chatter drifts around us.
I’ve just described my visit to the crypt, including the discovery of the prince’s tar-like corpse, along with the shadow creature, which I now suspect was the Nevenwolf itself, fighting to break free of the Veil. I sense a slight tremble behind my left ribs. But it’s nothing like it was in the forest, when the Nevenwolf attempted to pull me with it beyond the Veil. In fact, in the last few days, I’ve hardly sensed that ominous force, which only solidifies my belief that banishing the Nevenwolf lessened Malum’s hold on me. I just hope it stays that way.
“That’s right,” I tell Jacquetta. “Honestly, it makes more sense for the Nevenwolf’s carcass to have decayed in such a manner, given where it came from. But the prince…”
She frowns. “What were you doing in the crypt anyway?”
I hesitate. This newly spun alliance between us is as fragile as it is complicated. No matter what we agreed, I still don’t fully trust Jacquetta. But if I don’t share information, I might as well be working by myself—which has proved about as successful as Nesta boiling fireroot.
“Searching for the Bloodstones,” I tell her. “I heard that the old king ordered them to be set into the royal swords, so I went down there to find them.”
Instinct advises me to avoid mentioning Roland’s involvement. Judging from my experience with the Dwarf, I doubt he’d appreciate being named.
“But the stones weren’t there?” Jacquetta asks.
“They were,” I explain, still bitter about the empty settings on the sword pommels. “But someone had already pried them out.”
Jacquetta’s cloak flutters in the wind. “Any guesses as to who would have done that?”
“No. And no guesses as to where the Bloodstones might have gone either. I haven’t discovered any leads since the crypt. Except”—I pause, recalling the hunt—“at Sir Weston’s game, I had a thought that the stones might have been among the prizes, but I never got the chance to check.”
“Prizes?” Jacquetta raises her eyebrows. “Could the mortals be so careless?”
I shrug. “I told you—the Bloodstones were brought here as trophies. The mortals believe Meira is holding Malum back—not the covens, and certainly not those stones. They’ve completely rewritten our history. The Bloodstones are little more than baubles to them now.”
Like the glass stones from the pageant in the White City, our sacred relics reduced to mere trinkets.
“It’s all so strange.” Jacquetta fiddles with the edge of her sleeve. “I still can’t believe the Nevenwolf got through the Veil. What spell did you use to kill it anyway?”
I flinch. We never discussed the details of the short-lived battle. Of course Jacquetta would assume I used magic against the creature. I’m supposed to be a Second. And a good one. Flashes of the attack come back to me in a blur—the arrow smoking where I’d driven it through the beast’s eye. I touch the place on my palm where the arrow’s shaft burned me. The mark has faded, but Rhea’s triangles are still etched beneath my ring fingers. Because it hadn’t been my magic that saved me—it was my sister’s.
“A protection spell,” I offer at last, which is close enough to the truth. If Rhea hadn’t intervened, I’d be dead. “What about you? I’m not aware of any spells powerful enough to snap a tree in half. Honestly, I’m surprised you’re a Caster at all.”
“You think I couldn’t be?” she asks, archly.
“Not that. It’s just…I wouldn’t have expected you to make your vows to Millicent after”—I pause—“everything.”
The past hangs between us like a storm cloud, heavy and crackling. We walk by a row of rosebushes, those rare winter blooms a stark red against the dusting of snow.
“Well, I didn’t vow to Millicent,” Jacquetta says, plucking a rose. “I didn’t swear to any of the Ancients. Why should I have? There’s no need to devote my life to one of five witches who died centuries ago.”
That touches a nerve. “You must have. How else could your gift manifest?”
“I made a vow to myself,” Jacquetta replies simply. “To the earth and the sky and the magic in the world—the things that felt true to me. That’s what counts.”
My brow furrows. Witches don’t get to choose our vow like that. We either swear to one of the Ancients, or we don’t swear at all—like Mathilde.
“So…you’re Wayward?”
“No,” Jacquetta counters, a hint of irritation in her voice. “I’m part of a coven. I made a vow, just not the way you think is necessary.”
“Then where does your power come from, if not the Spirits?”
“I told you—the world around me. I can sense things.” She gestures at the rosebushes and trees, their frosted leaves sparkling in the sunlight. “Like the ancient roots of a tree or the beating heart of a storm—the elements connected to my vow. Sometimes, I can even hear them. It’s hard to explain, like…”
A long-buried memory rises.
“Like the stars,” I finish for her quietly. “You once said that you heard them singing.”
Jacquetta’s gaze snaps to mine, her blue eyes touched with silver in the winter day. “You remember that?”
How could I possibly forget? For an instant, we are two young witches again, spinning under the night sky, oblivious that our fragile world would soon be nothing but shards of glass.
A cold wind stirs the dry leaves.
“What does sensing magic have to do with snapping that tree?” I ask, pulling myself into the present.
Jacquetta fusses with her rose. “In the forest, I sensed the storm, the lightning within it, and…I’m not sure how to describe it, but I asked it to help. It answered.”
It certainly did. Most of the witches in Stonehaven couldn’t achieve a spell half as strong as what Jacquetta did. I comb back over the countless hours I spent memorizing spells until my head throbbed or practicing rune work until my fingers ached. What if the whole reason I never showed talent in those areas was because I was learning our craft the wrong way? Could I be like Jacquetta?
She’s dangerous, that voice hisses.
“But I’ll be honest, I didn’t expect the spell to work,” Jacquetta adds with a frown. “My magic has been acting strangely ever since I came to the city.”
A crow wheels beneath the low clouds, its cry resonating over the garden.
“What do you mean—strangely?” I ask. “It seemed fine in the forest, not to mention at the Sanctum.”
“Sometimes it is,” she allows. “But I’ve been finding it harder to sense things. It’s all…muffled. Like the magic is buried. The harder I try to reach for it, the further it seems to wriggle away from me. That’s how it was with the statue at the Sanctum. My spell should have taken seconds, but I kept losing my hold on it.”
Now I might understand why Jacquetta seemed so frustrated every time she returned to our chamber after being gone on her mysterious errands.
“That sounds maddening,” I tell her.
She grunts her agreement. “For both of us. I assume you’re affected as well?”
Right—because I’m supposed to have power. “Oh—yes. I mean, I haven’t been able to cast properly either.”
Now, or ever.
“Any idea what’s causing it?” she asks. I shake my head. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. All the more reason to leave this place as soon as possible.”
On this much, we agree.
“So…you are a Caster then?” Jacquetta asks, a touch of skepticism in her tone.
Has she guessed? I pull myself up taller. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know.” Jacquetta twirls her rose. “From what I recall, you were never interested in the craft, especially not in being Second. What changed?”
Everything. Some wild instinct urges me to confess. Admit how that night in the forest shattered my whole world. That I’m not a Second, not even gifted, and that I’d do anything to go back and run away.
Don’t, that voice warns. She will crush you.
“Like you said before,” I tell her instead. “I grew up.”
Jacquetta looks at me a long moment, unspoken questions behind her blue eyes. Part of me wants her to ask them, to pull the details out of me. But she doesn’t.
“What’s next, then?” she asks. “Do we go rifling through every drawer in the palace, searching for those magic rocks?”
Magic rocks, really. “They’re not—”
I stop short at the ripple of yellow robes in my peripheral vision. A young Order novitiate halts in front of us, blocking our path.
“Mistress Ayleth?” he beckons. “His Illuminance requests your presence.”
* * *
—
My heart pounds as I’m led through the labyrinth of the White Palace. If I was suspected of being a witch, they would have sent guards, I reason. I’d be clapped in irons and dragged to the dungeon, not causally escorted to the High Priest’s chambers. But a summons from Ignatius could never be casual. The novitiate, however, offers no indication of what Ignatius wants with me. The uncertainty is worse than any fate my own mind can conjure.
We turn another corner, and a set of huge doors looms ahead. They’re fashioned of a special glass, textured and tinted so that they appear sculpted from fire itself—like a huge pyre yawns before me. Every instinct screams at me to run in the opposite direction. I clench my fists, my pulse thudding against Rhea’s marks as I force myself to walk into the suite.
The High Priest’s chambers are exactly what I would expect of the man who heads the Order—dripping with self-importance. The false goddess’s Eyes are patterned on the rugs and embroidered onto nearly every scrap of fabric. Scenes from the Order’s lore—its lies—are proudly displayed on huge tapestries and gilt-framed oil paintings. Even the floors of this horrible wing are veined in amber, like rivulets of fire expanding beneath my feet.
“Just through here.” The novitiate knocks on a door and ushers me through it.
The room beyond is not gaudy and cavernous, as I anticipate, but threateningly small. Its ceiling is low. Windows line one wall, but the thick curtains are drawn, blotting out all light save for that of the fire in the hearth, which is flanked on either side by life-size statues of the false goddess. The dimness creates the illusion that the room is even narrower. More like a tomb.
“Mistress Ayleth.” The High Priest sits behind a large mahogany desk, the red-tinged wood engraved with Meira’s Eye, along with apples and other crests. “I’m glad to see you’re in good health. I heard Mistress Jacquetta fell ill after Sir Weston’s hunt.”
Where had he heard that? Has he been watching us? “She’s well now.”
“Excellent.” Ignatius sets down his scarlet-feathered quill and rises, gesturing to a sideboard, where a decanter of wine and a bowl of apples waits. “Are you hungry?”
My stomach turns at the memory of my ill-fated dinner. “No, thank you.”
“Keeping a plain diet, I see.” The ruby Eye winks. “That’s likely wise. I did warn you about the richness of the food at court. But I see you’ve recovered after the…incident.”
When I was poisoned. “Yes, thank you.”
“Your health is very important to us.” Ignatius selects an apple and examines the ruby skin. “But I did not invite you here merely to inquire after your well-being. I’ve been told you attended Sir Weston’s hunt. Did you witness anything unusual in the forest?”
A vision of the Nevenwolf resurfaces in my mind, those glittering crimson eyes. “No.”
Ignatius pauses, pinning me with that strange amber gaze. “Are you certain? You witnessed no signs of Malum?”
Something nudges against the inner side of my left ribs. Is it stronger than before? No, I tell myself. It can’t be. The Nevenwolf is dead. And the High Priest doesn’t know what really happened. If he did, I’d be in the dungeons.
“I’m certain,” I say, willing the tremor from my voice. “I spent most of the day tending to Jacquetta. As you said, she was ill. I only learned of the Nevenwolf after we returned.”
The High Priest hesitates a moment longer. The fire crackles.
“Well,” he says at last, picking up a knife and peeling the apple. “I’m hardly surprised to hear of such selflessness. It was you who saved me from disaster at the Sanctum, after all. In fact, you and I share a special connection, do we not?”
We do not.
“We’re both true Followers of the Light,” he goes on. The knife glints in the firelight. “As such, it may not surprise you to learn that the Nevenwolf is not the first instance of Malum lurking near the palace. In fact, I’m beginning to suspect that what happened with the statue at the Sanctum was not an accident at all.”
Not an accident? Damn Jacquetta’s recklessness.
“Forgive me if I’ve frightened you.” Ignatius bites into the apple. Juice glistens on his lips. “But I would request a favor, one I could only entrust to someone like you. Keep your eyes open, Mistress Ayleth—just like those of our goddess. If you glimpse even a hint of Malum here at the palace, come to me at once. Even if you’re not sure.”
