The Crimson Crown, page 46
The Night of Flames. A horrible vision of the tapestry looms, the five Heirs dancing in hot iron shoes.
“You killed them,” I whisper. “You murdered the Heirs. You stole the Bloodstones.”
He rounds the worktable. “I took the power they claimed I was too weak to hold, and I shoved it in their faces.”
“It’s not your power! It never was.”
“And whose was it? The covens’? If that’s true, then why can’t the Heirs storm the city and squash us under the force of their so-called magic?”
The Bloodstones glimmer in the torchlight. Much as I despise Ignatius, I can’t deny that I’d asked myself the same questions.
“Because these stones hold no loyalty,” he goes on. “Power, Ayleth, is for the taking. Your precious Ancients took it, hoarding it among the covens. Letting everyone believe the world would be lost without the witches. Well—who’s losing now? I hold the stones, which means I control their power. I control the Veil itself.”
No. He can’t. But the Nevenwolf prowls closer.
“Yes, Ayleth.” Ignatius’s eyes blaze, slightly manic. “The Veil is a fragile thing. It can hold Malum back, if I wish it, but it can also tear. I can pull Malum out of it. Command the darkness itself.”
I think of the eyes in the forest at Stonehaven, and fear prickles down my spine. Is that what he’s been doing? Using Malum to slink and spy? Is that why I’ve been plagued by shadows and crows? As if in answer, the Nevenwolf growls, its claws clicking against stone. That force behind my left ribs shivers.
“But I’ll admit that my plan wasn’t perfect,” Ignatius goes on, examining the Bloodstones. “The more I funneled the Bloodstones’ power for my own uses, the faster the latent magic of the Ancients began to fade.”
Yet another reason why the Veil is failing. “Serves you right, thief that you are.”
Ignatius only smiles at me. “I prefer resourceful. And I devised a different method to feed the stones, one much more efficient than a yearly ritual. If power was what the Bloodstones required, the covens possessed a sea of such magic. I merely needed a way to draw from it. In the end, I discovered that the answer was right in front of me.”
Ignatius taps the Eye.
At first, I have no idea what he’s talking about, but then torchlight glints against the Bloodstones, trapped in the gold casing of the Eye. I recall the book I’d seen earlier, the pages scrawled with illustrations of the Order’s symbol.
Connect the magic? Ignatius had written.
“What have you done?” I whisper.
“I’m gifted in many areas of the craft,” he goes on. “But my specialty is rune-making. I’ve invented several of my own, like the one you discovered on Marion’s comb.”
An image of the marking comes back to me—four lines drawn in a box, with three slashes through the center. By the Spirits, no wonder I hadn’t recognized it. It came from him.
“And like this one.” Ignatius traces the sign of the Eye in the air with his fingertips, as if blessing me. “Fitting, isn’t it? That the Eye itself should be a rune. And it’s a very special one. It absorbs power and funnels it back to the source.”
The source—he means the Bloodstones. But what power could those stones be—
Horrible truth oozes over me.
Ours. Ignatius has made it so that the symbol of the Order—the Eye itself—is siphoning our magic. I think of the countless Eyes scattered throughout the realm, molded into Sanctums and drawn on houses and dangling from necklaces. For Spirits’ sake, Stonehaven was riddled with them. No wonder my power never manifested. The Eyes, the runes, were bleeding my gift dry. And not only mine. At Mother’s meeting with the Heirs, they’d all expressed that their gifts were waning. Because the false goddess’s Eyes are everywhere. This is why Jacquetta’s power didn’t work properly when she was here—near him. It’s a horrible web of magic with Ignatius squatting at the center like a spider.
“You’re a monster,” I gasp.
His unnerving grin widens. “Are we not all monsters, somewhere inside?”
That deep part of myself rises up.
“And what are you going to do when there are no more witches to feed off of?” I demand. “You can’t kill us all and continue to drain our power.”
The Nevenwolf growls, low and ominous.
“And now we’ve come to it.” Ignatius picks up a knife. “Time to call Castles, as Sir Weston would say. Allow me to show my hand.”
The High Priest crosses the room to where a full-length oval mirror is propped against the wall. Rather than slicing his palm, as I’d seen Mother do, he opens the skin of his finger, then draws something on the mirror’s glass, probably another of his twisted runes. The surface ripples. I brace myself for whatever horrible event is coming next.
“Come,” Ignatius beckons, but not to me.
As I stare in shock, a hand reaches through the glass. Then a foot steps out of it, and then an entire person.
“By the Spirits,” I mutter, my heartbeat thudding in my veins. “What is—”
The rest falls away as the person turns. She’s wearing my face, but it’s not mine.
It’s Rhea.
Rhea is here. Rhea is here.
Ignoring the Nevenwolf and the insane priest and everything else, I rush toward my sister. My frantic hands press against her face and her hair, greedy after so long without being able to touch her. Her scent of honeysuckle fills my nose. This cannot possibly be real. But I lift her hand and find the three crossed lines etched beneath her ring finger, identical to the marks on my own palms.
“You’re here,” I whisper. “You’re—”
It’s then that I realize Rhea isn’t responding. Her white skin is cold and her eyes unfocused. They’re not silver-colored, like Marion’s, which is a relief, but they’re vacant. Hollow.
“What’s wrong with her?” I demand. “Why is she like this?”
“You already know,” Ignatius replies. “It’s why you journeyed to the White Palace.”
My gaze snaps to his.
“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” He raises an eyebrow. “I admit, I wasn’t convinced that you were after the Bloodstones until you chased down my servant at the banquet—the one who ran off with that ridiculous crown. I had it made it especially for you.”
So it wasn’t the queen’s servant. It was him. I shiver, picturing the High Priest turning the wheels of this palace.
“At first, I assumed you were a typical coven witch, here to reclaim the stones for your own benefit.” He wrinkles his nose. “But you only wanted your sister. Touching, really. Even more so to see you reunited.”
He brushes a finger down the side of Rhea’s face, and I slap him away. “Don’t.”
“Such a fierce heart,” Ignatius comments, amused. “But your sister doesn’t have a heart anymore, does she? She needs an anchor. Like this.”
He passes me the Eye. My breath catches as my fingers close around its golden casing. The power I sensed before is amplified by a hundred times, the Bloodstones like five tiny hearts pulsing against my hands, thrilling and addictive. I’d come here to destroy these stones and all they represent. But now, with Rhea standing in front of me…
Nothing is without cost, that voice in my mind whispers.
“What do you want?”
Ignatius adjusts his robes. “As I mentioned before, the Bloodstones require considerable magic. In the past, with my runes spread throughout the realm, gathering that magic wasn’t a problem. Now, however, those runes aren’t enough.”
“Because you’re killing all the witches,” I snap back.
He shrugs. “I’m not here to argue the details. I want what you want—a source of magic powerful enough to last forever. One that could keep your sister here, exactly as she was before.”
My focus returns to Rhea and the emptiness of her gaze. Mathilde’s warning resounds in my mind: She would not be the same. But what if she could be?
“And what do I have to do?”
Shadows dance on the walls.
“The two of you will bind your magic to the stones, like the Ancients did.”
I stare at him. He really has lost his mind. “That spell killed the Ancients.”
“True enough,” he replies, as if the point is a mere inconvenience. “But I devised a new method for the binding. A stronger spell—one that will draw even more power.”
More power? It shouldn’t be possible. But then, none of this should be possible.
“The spell doesn’t matter,” I say. “Rhea doesn’t possess magic anymore. Even if she did, the two of us could never be—”
“But you are enough,” Ignatius cuts me off. “Who in your coven has ever told you that?”
No one, that voice whispers.
Fresh pain sears in my chest and I curse myself for feeling it, hating Ignatius even more.
“As I said,” Ignatius continues, “I’ve been waiting for you a long time. Both of you.”
I glance at him. “Why us?”
He smiles. “Because of those marks on your hands, Ayleth. The rune you created, one that forged a bond that not even death could sever.”
Torches snap. I grip the Bloodstones harder, pulse pounding beneath the triangles etched into my skin. “It’s just a marking.”
“Do you think a few scribbled lines can carry magic all on their own?” Ignatius asks, stepping closer. “That marking works because of the power that lies inside you. Your connection to your sister. A bond that rivals even the magic of the Ancients. One that could last forever.”
“Not even the Ancients lived forever,” I argue.
“Because they lived,” Ignatius says, gesturing to Rhea. “Your sister is a Spirit. She may not carry the sort of latent magic that you do, but she holds enormous power. That is the difference between the Ancients’ spell and mine. If Rhea binds herself to the stones with my ritual, she brings the full power of the Realm of the Spirits with her. It’s a force that can fuel the stones for eternity, keeping you together, always.”
I stare down at the jewels, five beating hearts in the palm of my hand. Questions swarm in my mind. What if Ignatius is wrong? What if the spell kills me? What if it harms Rhea? But one tantalizing thought rises above the rest: What if this works?
There’s still one glaring problem.
“She can’t bind herself to anything,” I say, watching Rhea’s vacant expression. “She can’t even speak.”
“You would have to assist her,” Ignatius allows. “That’s part of why I need you. But after that, she would be fully restored.”
Assist. I step closer to my sister, protective. “You mean force her. Steal from her. Take—that’s what you do, isn’t it? It’s what you’ll do with this spell. Rhea and I will give our magic, and you’ll keep feeding off of it, glutton that you are.”
The High Priest doesn’t even flinch. “Yes, Ayleth. I would benefit. I consider it a fair bargain. After all, you can’t complete the spell without me.”
Fury burns in my chest, mostly because I know he’s right.
“But I also cannot complete the spell without you,” Ignatius goes on. “If all I wanted was Rhea, I could have called her myself. But she would not have come—not for me. It was your connection, your power, that brought her here. She crossed into this realm for you.”
Like she did on the night of my Ascension, protecting me—like she always has.
I swallow, the Bloodstones pulsing against my hands—against Rhea’s marks. Our marks, two lines drifting apart and then back together. We’re together now, despite everything. What if we were always supposed to wind up here? If, when Rhea drew our runes all those years ago, she began a spell that is finally culminating?
“I’ve made this realm mine,” Ignatius continues. “Let’s make it ours. We’ll find whoever wronged you and drag them back here. Make them bleed.”
That dark part of myself rises up. Hadn’t I come here for exactly that purpose—to show the others how it felt to lose everything? If Rhea and I bound ourselves to the stones with Ignatius’s spell, it would likely achieve the same end as breaking them. It would sever the covens’ connection to the Spirits. If I agree to this, I could have the best of both worlds. Rhea could stand beside me, alive and whole again, while Mother and Jacquetta…
Destroy her, that voice whispers.
Ignatius, damn him, sees my desire. “Yes, Ayleth. Don’t be afraid to take.”
Perhaps he’s right. After all, what could I have done on my own? But together—
So quickly that I gasp, Rhea’s hand snatches my wrist. The triangles on my palms blaze.
Her eyes dart to mine, suddenly alert. It must be undone.
“What’s happening?” Ignatius asks.
It must be undone.
Rhea’s voice echoes, long and resonating, in my skull. Her fever-bright gaze twitches down to the Bloodstones and back.
Undone.
She looks at the Bloodstones again, and understanding begins to dawn.
“Do you mean the stones?” I whisper. “You want me to…”
Break them. The pressure of her grip increases.
“No.” I shake my head. That was my plan before, when I thought Rhea was beyond my reach. Now she’s here and I can’t lose her again. “Please, Rhea.”
“Ayleth,” the High Priest repeats. “What’s happening?”
I don’t answer, my breath catching at the smell of honeysuckle, so strong that I might be back in Rhea’s rooms again, tucked beneath her quilt.
Always be with you, Rhea’s voice floats through my mind, gentle as a breeze. The marks on my hands burn hotter. Let go, Ayleth.
And that’s when I know. Rhea can’t stay here. She never could, no matter what spell I attempted. Salt stings my lips and I suddenly comprehend the gravity of the error I was about to make. I’d come to the White Palace for my sister—because I love her, yes. But also because I believed I needed to hide behind her. That I wasn’t enough on my own. Here I am again, about to give myself away—bind myself to a monster—because I thought there was no other choice. But there is always a choice, I’ve discovered. Choice, like Mathilde said, is magic.
Rhea intertwines her fingers with mine. Our rune marks pulse together. My tears flow faster. I don’t want to let her go. But I have to live.
“I love you,” I whisper, lifting my sister’s hand to my lips. I might glimpse the faint twitch of a smile on her lips before her fingers go limp and her eyes glaze over. She’s gone—and I know it’s for the last time.
All I want to do is curl up in a ball, follow Rhea beyond the Veil, but I shift my focus to the Bloodstones. Their power throbs against my palm. How many have died for this magic? How many have killed? How many lives have been ruined—my own among them?
No more.
“Ayleth, what—” the High Priest starts. But something must warn him as to what I’m about to do, for his amber gaze narrows. He edges toward me. “Give that—”
Turning on my heel, I clutch the Eye to my chest and run.
The High Priest lunges for me, catching my arm in his viselike grip. I try to shake him off, but he’s too strong. “Enough! Give me—”
A yowl splits the chamber, and then a blotch of dark calico soars out of nowhere.
Nettle.
That wonderful, glorious creature. My cat lands on Ignatius’s head, spitting and clawing. Ignatius releases me and I sprint to the worktable, where Marion is methodically cleaning the instruments. Panic beats against my eardrums. What next? My frantic gaze scans my options—tongs, pliers, a mortar and pestle. Is any of this capable of shattering the Bloodstones—the magic that has held the Veil for centuries? Surely not. Ignatius is still grappling with Nettle, but I don’t have long. How could I—
The place behind my left ribs jolts.
Malum. It strains inside me, desperate to be released.
Let go, Rhea said.
What if I did? For so long, I’ve tried to keep that sinister force contained. What if I simply let it free?
My mind screams against the idea. Malum will consume me. Destroy me.
But it was going to destroy me anyway. My fate has been sealed ever since I reached for Rhea and let it in. What if this is the reason that Malum wheedled between my bones that night? Not because there’s some broken part of me but because the Veil was always supposed to fall. And I’m the only witch who would do what’s necessary to break it.
“All right,” I say, arms trembling as I lift the heavy pestle over my head. “If you want me, have me!”
That dark force rushes up and I do nothing to tamp it down. In fact, I lean into it, driving the pestle into the stones with every ounce of my strength. A crack rattles up my arms, followed by a thunderous boom and a blaze of crimson light. Blinding pain explodes beneath my skin as that ominous force expands, surging through me in all directions. I cry out, sure that my whole chest is being wrenched open. Glass pops as one of the mirrors splits down the center. Another follows. Then another, shards exploding outward in a glittering storm. Wildfire courses through my veins. I’m going to die. This is how it feels to be dragged beyond the Veil. Except there is no Veil anymore, only Malum swirling in a cyclone around me. Faster and faster, until—
It stops.
I slump against the worktable, chest heaving as I stare around at the room. Broken glass litters the floor. Marion is crumpled like a rag doll a short distance away. Rhea is gone, her body transported back into the realm of the Spirits. How am I still here? Why am I not dead? Or am I dead?
