The Crimson Crown, page 42
A breeze pushes through the open window, carrying the call of a crow. Cornelius.
“I know you’re worried about what’s next for you,” Mathilde says gently. “And I’m sorry about what happened. Whatever her reasons, your mother made a terrible choice.”
Again, that knife of betrayal twists.
“There is no next for me,” I reply, bitter. “Mother was right about one thing. When I reached for Rhea, something reached back. Sooner or later, Malum will consume me.”
That place behind my left ribs trembles—faint, but present.
“You seem well enough to me.”
“For now. But at the palace, it was so strong. I told you about the Nevenwolf and the king. It’s only a matter of time before all that starts again.”
“Or maybe you’ll find a way to stop it. You’re a clever witch.”
Intelligence has nothing to do with it. “You don’t understand.”
“No, of course not.” Mathilde flicks her hand, dismissive. “You know everything, young witch that you are. What wisdom could I possibly offer?”
I grumble into my mug.
“You have to stop punishing yourself,” Mathilde says, pointing at me. “Why did you reach for your sister? Because you wanted to upset the balance of magic? Meddle with the Veil?”
“Of course not. I just wanted Rhea. She’s the only one who…”
“Saw you?” Mathilde finishes for me. “There’s nothing wrong with that, Ayleth. Think of what it meant that you were surrounded by so many other witches, and yet you were still compelled to reach for the one beyond the Veil.”
My eyes sting. “It doesn’t matter now.”
“It does,” Mathilde insists. “Intent is key in magic. Even we Waywards understand that.”
Dark intents reap dark rewards—the old lesson resurfaces.
“But what does that have to do with Malum?”
“As you said, all you wanted was your sister,” Mathilde explains. “You reached beyond the Veil for love. Should you have done it? No. But you didn’t mean harm by it. That matters. Don’t assume that there’s a price to pay.”
I watch the leaves float in my tea. What Mathilde says makes sense, but there are still too many questions about the White Palace. “Then why were the shadows following me? Why was I being hunted?”
The other witch merely lifts one shoulder. “I suspect those are questions only you can answer. If you—”
The rest is cut short as she starts to cough. Nettle meows, concerned, as Mathilde presses her sleeve to her mouth. It comes away spotted with scarlet. Alarm shoots through me.
“You’re ill.” I hurry to the cupboards. “I’ll find something for you. I’m sure I missed—”
“I’m dying, Ayleth.”
I freeze but refuse to turn around. If I do, then what she says is real.
“I’m an old witch. I’ve lived my time.”
“How much longer?” I whisper.
“Weeks—days, I’m not sure. But I can hear the Spirits calling to me. And there’s someone else I’d like to see beyond the Veil. You understand that.”
All I understand is that I cannot lose her after everything else.
“It’s all right, Ayleth. I’m not gone yet.”
“But you will be,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat. “And then what?”
Cornelius calls outside again.
“We Wayward witches sew up our wounds and keep moving,” Mathilde replies. “That’s precisely what I expect you to do.”
For a few days, we settle into a semblance of normalcy. Mathilde helps with cleaning and cooking, offering droves of her cryptic, unsolicited advice when I least expect it. No matter what I’m doing, I keep one eye trained on the gate, expecting the Hunt to descend, looking for witches. They don’t, though, which is odd. Both the High Priest and the king know what I am. Why haven’t they come to investigate Stonehaven?
But I suppose it doesn’t really matter, especially not when Mathilde’s coughing fits increase. Any attempt to convince the other witch to remain in bed is blatantly ignored. And I stubbornly refuse to believe that there’s nothing to be done to help her. I scavenge the Sanctum, searching for something—anything—that can keep her with me just a little longer.
It’s strange to roam the empty halls. I keep imagining that I hear a round of laughter or the shuffle of footsteps. Once, I even follow what I’m sure is the flash of white-gold curls. It’s nothing, of course. And I might prefer when the shadows were haunting me to these hallucinations. But the force inside me is oddly quiet now. Sometimes, in the night, the darkness seems to thicken, but it’s nothing like it was at the White Palace. Even so, I can still feel that faint nudging behind my left ribs, as if Malum is reminding me that it’s still there—waiting.
Like calls to like.
How long until the Veil is thin enough for a Nevenwolf to tear through it and swallow me whole? Let it come. There’s nothing here for me anymore.
Eventually, my wanderings lead me to Mother’s rooms. She’d been thorough when she left. The shelves are empty. Broken jars and splintered wood are scattered over the floor. The table where she convened with the other Heirs is on its side. Her mirror is here, but it’s shattered, nothing but jagged shards still clinging to the frame. I’m surprised—that mirror is the last thing I’d expect her to leave behind. And what happened to the silver-eyed raven? Is it dead, used up and discarded—just like me?
I give myself a shake, banishing my self-pity. There’s a chest on the other side of the room and I pick my way across the debris, hoping it might contain a useful tincture or balm for Mathilde. But when I lift the lid, the jeweled handle of a knife glimmers in the afternoon light. Several markings are etched into its blade—runes. This is the knife Mother gifted me on the day of my Ascension. The one I’d rejected. And not just that. Beneath the knife itself is a swath of red material. No, not red—crimson. Black and green embroidery glimmers on the fabric, the careful stitches picking out runes for protection and strength.
This is my cloak.
Or it would have been. There’s no note attached to the fabric, but Mother’s message is clear. These items were meant for her daughter—her Second. That’s not who I am anymore.
I’m not one of them. I never will be.
Fighting the ache in my chest, I drag the cloak out and pull its heavy weight around my shoulders. I turn toward the mirror, glimpsing pieces of my reflection in the fragmented glass.
You remind me of myself, Mother said.
Another lie. Or maybe it wasn’t. Perhaps Mother left because I remind her of herself. She didn’t want to be reminded. Didn’t want me. Anger rushes up, hot and swift. There’s a bottle nearby and I snatch it up, hurling it at the mirror. Glass shatters against the center, the brittle smash immensely satisfying. I throw a jar next, then a pestle. Object after object—even the runed knife—crashes into that vile mirror. Still, it is not enough.
“I hate you!” I shout at the wasted frame, hoping Mother somehow hears me. “I hate what you made me.”
Wind rattles the shutters. A crow wings past, its cry echoing in the quiet.
One for sorrow.
Enough of this. I rip the cloak from my shoulders. It pools on the floor like a puddle of blood. Let it stay there forever. I never wanted it anyway. I never wanted any of this. But just before I leave Mother’s room for the last time, I look back at the mirror, what’s left of my own reflection carved up by ragged glass.
Ayleth, I swear I hear. Ayleth.
* * *
—
Before the week is out, Mathilde does not rise from her bed. The heaviness of yet another impending loss weighs me down. I sit beside her with Nettle, who, along with Fitz, has refused to leave the older witch’s side since we returned. So much for being unfriendly.
“Do not put me on the coven fire,” Mathilde says as I press a cool cloth to her forehead.
“No,” I agree. The fire in the cloister finally died, but smoke still streams into the air. “It’s desecrated, I’ll have to—”
“That’s not what I mean,” she interrupts. “I’m a Wayward witch. I don’t belong there.”
“But your bones,” I insist. It’s bad enough to think of Mathilde dying. I cannot bear to believe that she won’t be among the Spirits. “Without a Ceremony of—”
“Ceremonies are for the living. Do you really believe a witch is trapped in her skin for all eternity if she is not wrapped a certain way, or lying beneath a special pile of ash?”
Just a few months ago, I would have said yes. After everything that’s happened, I don’t know what I believe. “Where do you want to be buried?”
She considers for a moment. “Somewhere nice, where the sun will shine down on me.”
Nettle meows and swishes her tail in approval.
“Then that’s where you’ll be.” I wring out the rag in the shallow basin beside the bed, struggling against the fresh twinge of sadness in my throat.
“And what about you?” the elder witch asks. “Have you decided what you will do when I’m gone? You can’t keep moping around here.”
Even near death, Mathilde has lost none of her charm.
“I’m not moping.”
“My mistake. What shall we call it—brooding?”
By the Spirits. “I call it taking care of you.”
“You won’t be taking care of me for much longer. And the others aren’t returning.”
A crow calls outside. Cornelius, probably. He’s been flitting to the window and back all morning, checking on Mathilde.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” I admit. “Without power—”
“Just because you haven’t made a vow doesn’t mean you don’t have power. Such wasn’t the case for me, was it?”
I can’t argue with that. Mathilde is just as gifted as any of our Diviners, if not more so. Yet another lie I was taught about Waywards, that they’re not as strong as the coven witches.
You’re not Wayward or coven, that voice whispers. The ridges of my ears burn.
“Vow or not, I’ve never showed any sign of talent,” I admit, bracing myself for Mathilde’s questions. Worse, her judgment. She only laughs.
“No talent? From what you described of your time at the White Palace, you enlisted the help of a Dwarf—no easy feat, if I recall some of their temperaments. You went toe-to-toe with the White King himself and lived to tell the tale. You killed a Nevenwolf. You may not have made a vow to an Ancient, but don’t discount the gifts you possess all on your own.”
Her words resonate in a place deep inside me. But as much as I might want them to be true, they’re not. “Rhea killed the Nevenwolf. I killed the queen. And a gifted witch would have been able to spot Jacquetta’s treachery before she had me arrested.”
I hate myself for the way her name still sends shivers through my blood. Even my dreams betray me. I see us together almost every night. Sometimes I even wake with the smell of juniper clinging to my bedclothes.
Have you learned nothing? that voice scolds.
“Do you really believe you caused the queen’s death?” Mathilde asks.
“What else could it have been?” I ask, picturing the shadows diving into the queen’s mouth. “I touched her and then Malum claimed her.”
“But you think it wanted you?”
“I know it wanted me,” I correct. “I told you about how the shadows followed me. The dreams. Even the king’s attention—all of it was Malum.”
“Yes, the king,” Mathilde says, more to herself than to me. She worries at her strand of teeth. “You said you felt drawn to him. Like a…”
“Pull,” I finish for her, cringing against the memory of the tether.
Talons clack as Cornelius settles on the windowsill, flaring his wings. Nettle watches him, her tail flicking.
“May I see your hand?” Mathilde beckons.
I wring out the rag again. “You know I don’t like readings.”
“This isn’t a reading,” Mathilde says. “And I’m dying. You have to do what I say, or I’ll haunt you.”
Cornelius chuffs, as if to second her threat. The two of them, honestly. But what harm could it do? Heaving a sigh, I nudge Mathilde’s hand with mine. She accepts it, her thumb kneading between tendon and bone.
“This is interesting,” she says after a few moments. “I didn’t sense it before.”
“What?”
“I assume you’re familiar with your Fate line?” She presses down on the center of my palm, where a faint crease runs from my middle finger down to my wrist. “It’s believed that these lines can be linked, intertwined with another witch’s or, in rare cases, with a mortal’s. Some witches report being able to sense the link physically. A pull, as you described.”
Or a tether? “And is that what’s there? A link?”
“Perhaps,” Mathilde says. “There’s definitely something. It could be a second line.”
“But why would my Fate line be connected to the king’s?”
Mathilde raises an eyebrow. “That’s a better question for you.”
Even if it is, I don’t want to know the answer. King Callen is far away at the palace, and that’s where he’ll stay. I want nothing to do with him. Besides, Mathilde’s theory doesn’t explain the other instances I felt the pull—like in the forest with the Nevenwolf.
“It was Malum,” I insist. “Like calls to like—it attracted the king because he’s a murderer. He is Malum.”
“The king may be vicious, but he’s mortal,” Mathilde points out. “And surely there were others at court with hearts as dark as his. Did you ever feel the same sensation around anyone else?”
No. Not even with Sir Weston or the High Priest, two men as wicked as the king. Mathilde releases my hand and I study my Fate line. Could she be right? Am I linked to the king? If I am—why?
“Like calls to like,” Mathilde repeats, scratching between Nettle’s ears. “Haven’t heard that in a while. It’s a Wayward saying, did you know? From before the covens.”
“Is it?”
She nods. “Funny how that’s been forgotten. But then, such is the way of things. Elementals, Diviners—those distinctions didn’t exist until witches created them. That’s another reason I never bound myself. I didn’t want to be held captive by the flames of a coven fire—to lose sight of my unique strengths. You possess the same freedom now.”
“It doesn’t feel like freedom.”
“Maybe that’s because you’re so accustomed to being caged.”
Cornelius chuffs, as if to agree. I look past him, at the smoke still curling from the scar of the coven fire. None of my sisters appeared caged when they faced the flames. But I think of what Jacquetta said about Rhea and how miserable my sister might have been.
It must be undone. Those words swirl inside my skull.
“Remember, Ayleth.” Mathilde grips my wrist. “Not even an Ancient can grant you a power that isn’t already there.”
* * *
—
Mathilde does not survive the night. I sit beside her as she releases her last rattling breath, tears streaming down my face and staining her blanket. I might have been raised in the Sanctum, surrounded by my sisters, but Mathilde is the only witch who really accepted me. And I worry that no one else will, ever again.
I spend a long time with her, unwilling to let her go. Mathilde was right. Grief is like a spell. Its inky tendrils reach for me, dragging me down to a bottomless oily sea. I nearly drowned there after Rhea died. In fact, I wanted to drown. Now that sea is waiting for me again. But Mathilde would be furious if I surrendered to it.
Eventually, I force myself to move. Even Fitz is sad, lurking in the room and whimpering as I clean Mathilde’s body with lavender-scented water. Wrap her, even though she claimed it was a useless gesture, and whisper the rites of the dead. If these ceremonies exist for the living, that means they’re mine to conduct. But I respect Mathilde’s wishes regarding the coven fire.
Cornelius follows us through the forest as Nettle helps me choose a resting place for the fallen witch, a bright clearing with vines of midnight flower winding up the trees. Mathilde would approve. In the day, it will be sunlit and airy. In the night, illuminated by the glowing jewels of the flowers’ petals. It takes half the day to dig her grave. A storm trudges in from the east, but I don’t hurry as I lower Mathilde’s body into the earth, singing the Song of the Dead as the wind quickens around us. As the final note trembles from my lips, Cornelius emits a single mournful cry and then disappears into the thickening clouds. I doubt I’ll see him again.
Thunder growls in the distance by the time I return to the Sanctum. Fitz barks as we near the gates, zooming ahead. Instinct taps at the base of my neck. Someone is there. I toss the shovel away and reach for the knife at my belt. There’s a horse in the courtyard—not the one I stole from the palace. Its rider is standing just inside the Sanctum’s open doors. I realize immediately that it’s not a Huntsman. This shape I’d know anywhere, one I have traced and held and explored. One I never thought to glimpse again.
It’s Jacquetta.
For a heart-stopping moment, all I can see is Jacquetta. My Jacquetta—our heads bent together as we pored over books in the library, or the way she looked in her gown for the banquet. I can almost taste her lips. Feel her hands on my body. But that sparkling, exquisite happiness is instantly burned up by hard truth—none of those memories are real. It was all a fabrication. My Jacquetta never existed. The vow I made in the dungeon comes crashing back to me. Now is my chance to make good on it.
Whipping my knife from its sheath, I stalk toward the other witch. Horror flashes across Jacquetta’s expression, but she doesn’t run. Perhaps she doesn’t believe I’ll actually harm her. She’s wrong.
