The Crimson Crown, page 47
Nettle emerges from her hiding place and trills, winding herself around my ankles. I’m alive, then. But what—
A rattling wheeze catches my attention.
It’s…Ignatius. Or I assume it is. The High Priest is doubled over, his withered frame swallowed by his robes. I watch in horror as he straightens. Now that his hold on the Bloodstones is severed, the years have piled onto him. He is ancient. Tufts of wispy hair cling to his scalp. His shriveled, nearly translucent skin hangs from his bones.
“You fool,” he rasps. “You could have had everything. And you’ve ruined it. Well—I have just enough left to ruin you. Nox!”
The shadows thicken and the Nevenwolf materializes in the darkness. Nettle hisses, her ears flattening. I stumble over debris, backing up until my shoulder blades collide with the far wall. The Nevenwolf’s single red eye glimmers. Claws snap against stone as the creature bounds toward me. This time, Rhea can’t protect me. A scream climbs up my throat and I throw my arms over my face, bracing myself for the rip of my own flesh.
It doesn’t come.
Heart slamming against my sternum, I open my eyes to find a wall of shimmering darkness in front of me. The Nevenwolf is on the other side of it, perched on its haunches, its tail curled around itself. Confusion tangles my thoughts. A moment ago, the beast had been ready to strike. Now it’s not attacking at all. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I’d say the Nevenwolf was behaving more like Nettle.
“What have you done?” Ignatius shuffles closer.
I have no idea.
Darkness bleeds from the corners of the room like spilled ink and creeps toward me. Smoke swells from the torches and drifts in my direction. Shadows begin to wind around my body like vines of midnight flower climbing a tree. I should be afraid—repulsed. Instead, I feel…alive. The force that once dwelled behind my left ribs is…everywhere, like sparks in my veins. Everything is brighter—louder.
But in a good way. Eden’s words from the night of my Ascension come back to me.
Is this what she’d meant? But I didn’t face the flames. I didn’t make a vow. Unless…
Have me, I’d shouted at the force inside me—Malum itself.
Those weren’t the words I was taught to utter, our sacred vows to the Ancients, but had it been enough? Like Jacquetta’s vow to the stars?
As if in answer, ethereal music rings in my ears. But it’s not stars that are singing, not for me. It’s…darkness. I sense the presence of the shadows like the tang of a breeze in the forest. The wild heart of the Nevenwolf beats alongside mine. It’s not natural. Not our way. But what good has our way ever done for me? I’m tired of following the same paths, expecting them to lead me where I’m supposed to be. It’s time to start forging my own.
At my mere thought, the wall of shadow dissipates, leaving nothing between me and the High Priest. I step toward him, head held high and shoulders back.
“Ayleth,” Ignatius attempts. “There’s still time to fix this.”
Fix this. That’s exactly what Mother told me to do. Because I wasn’t good enough unless I was her Second. Unless I fit into the mold she made for me. Well. I may not have faced the flames, but I have Ascended. And I am bound to no one but myself.
“Oh, I fully intend to fix it,” I tell the High Priest. And then, “Nox—go.”
The creature—my creature—roars and leaps. Ignatius lifts his spindly arms in a vain attempt to shield himself as the Nevenwolf knocks him backward. I do not look away. Not as the sickening sound of tearing flesh and cracking bone fills the chamber. Not as the Nevenwolf claws open the High Priest’s chest as easily as if it were made of parchment, his insides spilling onto the floor in wet, fleshy pools.
Ignatius’s screams ring against the stone walls, louder and louder, until the beast rips out his heart and swallows it whole.
For a long time, I sit in the quiet, staring at Ignatius’s mangled body. His entrails should be red, but they’re greenish and tarlike and wrong. So much about the High Priest was as disgusting and rotten as his corpse. But even though he was drunk off his own ambition and arrogance, he was right about the covens. We decided what was good magic—our magic—and what wasn’t, a decision based on nothing but fear. It dragged us down. Divided and poisoned us. No longer.
A shadow slinks toward me. This time, it doesn’t seem foreboding, but curious. Playful, even. Nettle pounces on it and it winds around her paws like smoke. I extend my hand and allow the inky tendril to wrap around my wrist. My skin prickles at its featherlike sensation. I sense something else as well—affection? But why?
Perhaps because, unlike Ignatius, I didn’t wrench Malum from beyond the Veil. I didn’t compel or force it to do my bidding. I merely opened the door. And now the darkness is coming to me on its own, like Nettle did all those years ago. It’s choosing me.
Choice is a magic in and of itself. Mathilde’s long-ago words resurface again.
Maybe that’s why the crows were always following me. The birds were never a sign of a curse but of a gift. I just had to be brave enough to accept it. Surrender myself, as I did when I shattered the Bloodstones and set Malum free.
She must reach, Mother’s mirror said.
I finally did. And Malum reached back.
Something scrapes against the wall behind me. Nettle hisses a warning, her hackles raised. My pulse speeds up. There’s nowhere to hide, but I spot the jeweled handle of my knife nearby and snatch it up, bracing myself to strike as a portion of the wall opens. Gemstone-colored eyes glimmer on the other side. Roland.
“Mistress Witch?” His mouth drops open as he gapes at the damage. “Was that…did you do this?”
My power—Malum—hums inside me.
“It’s a long story. How did you know I was here?”
“You shook the whole palace,” he says. “Everyone is looking for what did it.”
The whole palace? I suppose I’m not too surprised, given that the barrier between worlds was just broken. Did they feel it in the rest of the realm? Did Mother? I hope she did. I hope she knows what I’ve done—that they all know.
Jacquetta, my stubborn heart whispers. I shove it down.
“By the Mines.” Roland’s face shades green. “Is that…a heart?”
He points at something on the ground, festering and fleshy. It is a heart, or it was—Marion’s.
The former courtier’s body is splayed out among the wreckage. Several more hearts are scattered among the jagged shards of glass. How many others are in the palace, struck down now that the High Priest’s spell is ended?
“It was Ignatius,” I tell Roland. “He bound Marion, and who knows how many others, to a mirror.”
Roland recoils. “The High Priest…a witch?”
No. I will not use that word to describe him.
“Whatever he became was something unnatural. He had the Bloodstones.” I gesture to the table, where the Eye is in pieces.
Roland approaches the pile of shards and picks one up, horrified. “They’re ruined! Might be able to fix them if we—”
“No.”
He stares at me. “No? These stones—”
“Divided the covens,” I say. “And look what happened when they fell into the wrong hands. It’s time to do things differently.”
“Aye, differently.” He brandishes the shard at me. “And how’s that?”
I don’t know. Out of habit, I clench my fists against the triangles on my palms. But I don’t sense Rhea’s presence anymore. Instead, nearby shadows shimmer. My pulse kicks up, my power quickening in my veins—power I need to learn to trust.
“I’ll figure it out.”
“Yes, that makes me feel loads better.” Roland huffs. “There’s no need to—”
Hinges whine. Nettle hisses, her attention fixed to the top of the staircase.
“Come,” Roland says, motioning to the wall behind us. “Follow me.”
It’s probably the smart thing to do. But my power trembles inside me and I sense that there’s a reason I need to stay here. “Go ahead.”
“I rescued you from a dungeon cell once already.” Roland points at me. “I make no promises to do it again.”
“I’ll be fine.” I shoo him off, though I have no idea if that’s true.
Footsteps clip on the stairs and Roland casts me one final beleaguered look before conjuring another door and hurrying through it. I motion to Nettle and she makes herself scarce. Then, knife in hand, I tuck myself in a far corner of the room. Shadows creep toward me and I somehow understand that they’re offering protection. I accept it, letting them wrap around me, hiding me.
“This is where we heard it coming from,” someone says.
A pair of guards come into view and then—my breath halts.
It is the White King.
* * *
—
Silence hums. King Callen halts halfway down the staircase, that gray gaze widening as he absorbs the scene. It must be late in the night, for he’s dressed in only his simple breeches and a plain linen shirt, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His chin-length hair is loose and falls down around his face. And he’s not alone. Master Parnell, along with several guards, accompanies the king, the steward’s dark robes billowing like smoke.
“By the Light,” one of the guards splutters, swiftly drawing the sign of the Eye in front of him. “What’s all this?”
The king continues down the staircase. My heart pounds in my chest. Did he know about this place? I can’t read his expression as he pauses at the High Priest’s mangled corpse, kneeling to inspect the gaping wound left by the Nevenwolf’s claws.
“Careful, Sire,” a guard cautions. “This isn’t right. It’s witchcraft. Malum.”
The shadows pull tighter around me.
“Master Parnell, what do you know of this?” the king asks, his voice low and even.
“Nothing, Your Majesty,” the steward insists. “I admit that I harbored suspicions regarding His Illuminance’s…indiscretions. But nothing to this scale. I don’t think anyone was aware.”
Glass pops under King Callen’s boots as he rises. “And it will stay that way. There are only four people who have witnessed this…abomination. If any of you utter a word of this chamber, it will be your last. Do I make myself clear?”
The guards immediately clap their fists to their chests.
Master Parnell bows low. “Of course, Your Majesty. His Illuminance merely returned to the Light. Leave the rest to me.”
“Go, then.” The king waves them off. “All of you.”
“But, Sire,” one of the guards starts.
“I said all of you.”
Trading uncertain glances, the guards tromp up the stairs and out of sight, Master Parnell trailing like a shadow behind them. I remain where I am, watching the king drift around the room. Every so often, he snatches up a stray vial or jar and flings it down again. And then he discovers Marion’s corpse. I expect some show of emotion, or at least recognition, for the woman who shared his bed for so many years. But King Callen doesn’t even touch the former courtier, save to toe her body with his boot, grimacing, like she’s one of the rotting hearts.
Fresh hatred broils in my veins. Marion was right about the king. He consumes people. Perhaps it’s time someone did the same to him. That deep urge rises up, my power beating in my blood. The Nevenwolf vanished after the High Priest’s death, but I sense that it’s there in the shadows, waiting for my call—that it wants me to call. I’m about to do it, let the creature rip out the king’s heart like it did the High Priest’s, when another idea strikes.
If I can call a Nevenwolf, what else can I summon?
So much of my power remains a mystery, but I think back to what Jacquetta said about how she’d snapped the tree in half. She hadn’t used a spell—not like a Caster would. Instead, she’d asked the storm to lend its strength. Perhaps I could accomplish something similar.
Go to her, I say to the shadows, my attention fixed on Marion’s corpse. Become her.
To my sheer astonishment, the darkness answers. Shadows slink toward the dead courtier’s body. The wisps of black and gray climb over her flesh and congeal together, then peel themselves from Marion’s corpse. It’s uncanny how much they resemble the fallen courtier.
“By the Light!” Callen cries when he spots her.
Shadow Marion extends her arm to the king as a lover might. He stumbles out of her reach, tripping over a toppled chair. That deep urge thrums at his fear. And I am only just beginning.
“S-Sybil?” The king stammers as the dead queen also materializes from the darkness. “What are you…How are you…”
She drifts around him, wraithlike and silent. But she doesn’t need to speak; neither does Shadow Marion. The king knows what he’s done to them.
“Go away,” he pleads as they circle him. “Just go!”
They do not go. In fact, I summon more women from the shadows. It doesn’t matter who they are. Plenty of ghosts haunt the king’s past. They dart and dive around him, a macabre version of the dance at the banquet. Except, this time, it is the king who is being pursued. Controlled. Possessed.
More. That dark place whispers, no longer terrifying but utterly intoxicating. More.
Yes. And I realize then that I don’t want the Nevenwolf to kill the king. I want to do it. I want to watch the life drain out of Callen’s gray eyes, my hands soaked red with his blood. I want him to see my face as he exhales his final breath. I grip my knife harder, jewels biting into my palm—a blade runed to strike true. That’s what the queen had told me to do, wasn’t it?
Strike, her words echo from beyond the grave. And do not miss.
I let the shadows fall away from me and step into the light. King Callen wheels around at my footsteps, his eyes red-rimmed and hair tousled from where he’d been pulling at it. He looks more like a little boy than a man who sits on a throne. But he is not a boy. And it’s time for him to answer for his crimes.
“You,” Callen snarls. “I might have known. First my wife and now the High Priest.”
“Your wife?” I laugh. “Funny, I don’t recall that you treated her with such respect when she was alive. What about Marion? Or every other person you used up and flung away?”
The shadow women press closer. Somewhere in the chamber, the Nevenwolf growls. Glass crunches under the king’s boots as he retreats, his white skin shading paler.
“What’s wrong?” I ask him. “Are you running? But this is Meira’s plan for you.”
He swallows. “I didn’t. I never—”
Even now, he will deny it.
“You’re a child, Callen. You’ve spent your whole life believing in fairy stories. Hunting imaginary monsters. The real monster has always been staring out at you from your mirror.”
Torches flicker and the shadow women loom larger, feeding off my energy.
“What do you want?” he asks, the question tinged with panic.
“How easily you fold.” I click my tongue. “This isn’t a game of Castles, Your Majesty. I want my sisters back. I want the past to be undone. Can you do that?”
“Not for them,” the king admits. “But for you. Think, Ayleth. Whatever else has happened, I meant what I said before. There’s a reason you and I were brought together. I’ve felt it since the moment we met.”
At those words, I sense a tug behind my left ribs. I pause, half reaching for the invisible tether I once thought was dragging me toward the Veil. But the Veil is dissolved. Why do I feel the pull again?
Fate lines can be intertwined. Mathilde’s words drift back to me, as if carried by the shadows themselves.
Was she right? Was this connection between me and the king never Malum but fate itself—always reeling us toward this moment? And, if it is fate, what am I meant to do?
The figures weave around us. Callen pivots one direction and then another, vainly trying to evade them. He trips again, falling to his knees in front of me.
“Ayleth, please,” he begs, shielding himself. “Make them stop. I’ll do anything.”
Anything. That tether rumbles. And a shadow wreathes around me, brushing my cheek before slinking across the room, toward—a mirror. It’s the same one Ignatius used to summon Rhea. The only one that didn’t break when I shattered the Bloodstones. I see myself reflected in its glass, no longer tired and weak and afraid. My skin glows with power. Shadows swirl around me, almost like a garment. A mantle. In fact, with the king kneeling in front of me, this could be a scene from one of the tapestries. Like I’m a…
Queen.
The word blooms in my mind, rapidly spreading its roots.
No, I think, shying away from it. A crown is the last thing I want. But the tether tugs again, insistent. Torchlight flashes on my knife’s blade, illuminating the delicate lines of Mother’s runes.
You’ll use it to make your first offering, she’d said.
At the time, I’d been repulsed, imagining that I’d have to dig the heart out of a raven or some other innocent creature. But what if my sacrifice wasn’t innocent? What if they deserved to have their heart locked away?
And it’s not just the king who would suffer if I sat on the throne. There’s Mother and the coven and the Heirs. Jacquetta. My blood runs hotter. They’re out there, somewhere, hopefully reeling from the loss of the Veil. But I could make them hurt even worse. Make them cower before me as the king is now. Make them beg.
Yes, I imagine the shadow women whispering, Yes.
A new path unfurls before me. The tether binding me to the king, the line of our connected fates, sings. Because this isn’t merely a plan. It’s a destiny—one that has been waiting for far longer than I ever knew.
