The Crimson Crown, page 6
But those days are long over. Mother’s rules forbid spells in the garden, not that I mind. The grit of dirt between my fingers, the satisfaction of watching a seed sprout and flourish, carries a magic all its own. I run my hand over a rosemary bush, releasing its crisp, clean scent. Some of the knots of tension in my shoulders begin to untangle, and I close my eyes, breathing deep the autumn smell of—
Juniper.
Damn everything. Where had that come from? During one of the first miserable nights after my humiliating return to Stonehaven, I’d clawed up all vestiges of the shrubs in a blind rage. But the stubborn things keep growing back. I root amid the other plants, hunting for the spiny, green-frosted leaves. This time, I’ll tear out every root. Every—
A piercing yowl shatters the quiet. Nettle springs from where she’d been trapping toads between her paws and bounds across the cloister.
“Nettle!” I call after her. “What are you—”
A flurry of clucking and feathers erupts as my cat plows into a flock of chickens. Not just chickens, though. Standing in the center of the chaos is the new witch—Mathilde.
By the Spirits, that cat will be the death of me.
“Nettle, stop!” I hurry over, shooing her away.
She slinks off, twitching her tail in annoyance at my spoiling her fun. The chickens cluck and fuss, lodging their complaints at being so rudely disturbed—like I have any control over my cat. I deal Nettle a glare. She perches on the low wall surrounding the cloister, her golden eyes glinting. And I’m fairly certain that she’s smirking.
“I’m so sorry,” I apologize to Mathilde. “Did she scare you?”
Those sightless eyes rove in my direction. Wayward. A little thrill runs through me. I’m not sure if it’s curiosity or fear or…something else.
“Takes more than feisty cats to bother an old witch like me.” Mathilde straightens her clothes. “She your familiar, then?”
“Not quite,” I say, doing my best to keep my tone casual, like I would when speaking with any other witch.
“Not quite?” Mathilde echoes, raising an eyebrow.
“I never bound her.”
When I stumbled upon Nettle—a stray kitten abandoned in the forest—and brought her home to Stonehaven, Mother opened a grimoire to the binding ritual, one that connects an animal’s soul to our latent magic. The bond between witch and her familiar is second only to that of a heartmate. If I’d gone through with the spell, Nettle would heed my commands even if she were far away, and she would live as long as I do. But as I studied the words of the binding ritual, I realized that the ritual required taking part of Nettle—the tip of her ear or a claw—in order to seal our connection. After Rhea died, I understood exactly what it meant to be robbed of part of myself, forced into a role I never wanted. I couldn’t do that to someone else, even a cat.
“Did you not?” Mathilde asks, a touch of amusement in her voice.
“I wanted her to stay with me because it was her own choice,” I explain, feeling somewhat foolish.
Mother certainly never agreed with my decision to forego the binding, which was hardly a surprise. After all, she suffered no guilt in feeding a raven’s heart to her mirror.
A shadow swoops overhead, coupled with the flap of wings. A splotch of black descends, and I yelp and duck, assuming one of those wretched crows decided to attack.
“No need to be frightened,” Mathilde says as the bird settles placidly on her shoulder. “This is Cornelius. I never bound him, either. Choice, I’ve found, is a magic in and of itself.”
Cornelius squawks and gobbles down a treat Mathilde fishes from her pocket.
“But that’s…” I splutter. “It’s a crow.”
“Is it?” Mathilde asks dryly. “I hadn’t noticed. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of him.”
I picture the seven crows watching me from the window of the south tower. Had he been one of them? Had he brought the others?
“I’m not afraid,” I lie, banishing the image. “It’s just…”
“It’s just that they’re associated with Malum?” Mathilde’s lips quirk. “I suppose I’m accustomed to such company, dreaded Wayward that I am.”
A flush prickles up my neck. “I didn’t mean to suggest—”
She waves me off. “Keep your excuses. But I do find it interesting that the witches here seem less than thrilled at the prospect of someone like me living among them, but they’re perfectly content to parade about as Order Sisters.”
“We had to do what was necessary.” Mother’s refrain automatically spills from my lips.
“Necessary.” Mathilde offers another treat to her crow. “I suppose that makes sense. We’re all just trying to survive. And living as a Sister is better than facing a pyre.”
“That’s what Mother thought.”
Not everyone agreed with her, though. It didn’t help that Mother announced her decision on the night of the Hunt’s attack. With our dead sisters’ bodies still warm, few could stomach the idea of the false goddess’s Eyes staring down at us from the eaves and alcoves, where our runes should be. Wearing Meira’s emblem was even worse. Sometimes I wonder how things might have been different if Mother had waited, or at least attempted a discussion before she levied her orders. Would the others have left? Would she?
She did leave, that voice reminds me. And that’s all that matters.
“Your mother?” Mathilde asks, interrupting my thoughts. “That must make you the one that all the fuss is about. Irene, is it?”
“Ayleth,” I correct.
She nods. “Descendant of one of the Five.”
As always, the comparison to my ancestress makes me itch. It’s like I’m trying on someone else’s clothes that don’t fit properly. “Millicent.”
“Ah, yes. I should have guessed it would take a Caster to accomplish such a ruse as this.” She gestures around the Sanctum. “Do you know how she did it?”
How could I forget? The enchantment is one of Mother’s favorite stories—at least when the other Heirs aren’t around.
“Mother’s specialty is illusion magic,” I explain. “Glamours and such. After the raid, she spelled the remaining members of the Hunt to believe that they’d won. They went back to the palace claiming that we were all dead.”
“A glamour.” Mathilde nods, though I can’t tell if she’s impressed. “But did the Order not send their own people? That’s what I’ve gathered they’ve been doing anyway. Converting the Sanctums to honor the false goddess.”
They did send their own. About a month after the raid, the sentries spotted the wagons transporting the real Sisters. There weren’t many. Stonehaven is secluded. The nearest village is days away. I doubt the Order wanted to deal with the upkeep of such a remote location—that’s part of why it took the Hunt so long to find us in the first place.
“Mother spelled the Sisters as well,” I explain. “She jumbled their minds. We took their uniforms and belongings and sent them away.”
It was strangely sad, watching the women depart. Mother might not have killed them, but they all looked so lost. Perhaps, after my own life was so irrevocably upended, I understood what the Sisters were experiencing. The difference was that the Sisters weren’t aware that they’d left another life behind. Sometimes, I wish I weren’t either.
“And then your mother assumed the identity of the Sanctress,” Mathilde surmises. “Clever, I’ll give her that. And she’s a strong witch to accomplish such a spell.”
Incredibly strong. Cornelius calls again, ruffling his feathers.
“And what of you?” Mathilde asks, petting her bird. “Do you aspire to follow in the great Ancient’s footsteps?”
Aspire is all I’ll ever do. “I’m…not sure.”
“Not sure? In my experience, you coven witches love to boast about your abilities.”
I’d have to possess abilities to boast about them. “Not me.”
Wind sweeps through the cloister, stirring the ash of the coven fire.
“You’re an interesting one.” Mathilde fixes her white eyes in my direction. “Come here. Let me know you better.”
Her hand goes to her belt, where the strand of teeth hangs, ivory and yellow bones glinting in the afternoon light. She’s a Diviner, then. Or something like it. Wayward witches don’t have affiliations. And I still can’t shake the feeling that some of those teeth belonged to witches. What did Mathilde do to get them?
“No, thank you.” I take a half step back. “I don’t like readings.”
After Rhea’s death and the raid, the Diviners descended on me, eager to determine the Spirits’ plans for the next Second and Heir. But their efforts always revealed more questions than answers. Soon enough, Mother put a stop to the practice.
Things will become clear after your Ascension, she’d tell me.
Even then, she sounded as though she were trying to convince herself more than me.
“I don’t bite,” Mathilde coaxes, beckoning. “My power is exactly the same as yours.”
That isn’t true. Cornelius squawks what could pass for a laugh.
I start to refuse again, but a thought swirls in my mind. Mathilde’s magic isn’t like mine. What if she can see something, like the mirror did?
She must reach. The unsettling voice resonates beneath the breeze.
Reach for what? Could Mathilde know? I’m not brave—or foolish—enough to mention the mirror. But desperation gets the better of me. After a quick glance to make sure we’re alone, I extend my palm out to the elder witch. Nerves flutter in my belly as she snatches it up, the fingertips of her other hand working through her string of teeth.
“Ah.” Her thumb presses down firmly in between my tendons. “You were not the first daughter to face the flame.”
My stomach twists. “I had a sister. Rhea.”
And I suddenly realize how strange it is that Mathilde didn’t already know this about me. That she has no idea who Rhea was. It’s freeing, in a way, that she can’t compare me to her.
Mathilde makes a noise in her throat. “She’s gone.”
An image of Rhea’s face—my face—blooms in my mind, her skin riddled with rust-colored veins as the iron poisoning took root.
Stay with me, I begged that night. If you go, I’ll be alone.
But she didn’t stay. No one stays—not for me.
“She died.” The words catch. “In the raid.”
And I was supposed to have been there. Supposed to have been helping.
“You have my sympathy for that,” Mathilde says kindly, though she couldn’t possibly comprehend the depth of my guilt and shame. “It’s a terrible way to lose someone.”
It was more than just losing Rhea, though. My whole life changed that night, the trajectory of my future yanked in a direction I never expected…or desired.
“There’s someone else too.” Her grip traverses my hand, along the slender bones of my fingers and the meat of my palm. “A loss that inflicted even greater pain.”
Without warning, the smell of juniper hits me, strong enough to steal my breath.
The stars are singing.
Jacquetta’s voice resurfaces, clear enough that she could be standing right behind me, her cobalt-blue eyes glinting with a secret. My heart slams against my ribs, and I yank my hand away.
“What’s wrong?” Mathilde asks. Cornelius grumbles. “Did I upset you?”
I check over my shoulder. There’s nothing, of course, and I scold myself for letting my imagination get the better of me. “No. I’m fine.”
“It’s merely a reading,” Mathilde adds. “And I can see only what’s there.”
Jacquetta shouldn’t be there at all, I think vehemently. She’s gone. She left me alone in the forest after I’d risked everything to follow her.
“It doesn’t matter what you saw,” I snap. “Your magic is—”
I stop myself, but it’s too late.
“Tainted?” Mathilde finishes for me, her expression unreadable. “Dangerous? Perhaps. But where was this concern when you offered your hand? It was only after you didn’t like what I had to say that you questioned my gift.”
Shame scalds my cheeks. “That’s not—”
“If what’s inside of you frightens you, it’s no fault of mine.” Mathilde waves me off. “Go on, Daughter of Millicent. Face your precious coven fire and claim your birthright. Don’t pay any attention to a Wayward witch like me.”
I deserve the bite in her tone, and that only fuels my frustration.
“Why did you stay here if you hate us so much?”
“Who said anything about hate?” Mathilde fingers her strand of teeth. “You’re the one lashing out at an old witch.”
The breeze picks up and I swear I can smell juniper again. That ancient chamber of my heart pulses. Would that I could carve it out.
“I’m sorry I bothered you,” I say, turning on my heel and making a note to never repeat the mistake.
Cornelius calls behind me, his cry mixing with the memory of Mathilde’s words.
If what’s inside of you frightens you…
I clench my teeth. There’s nothing inside of me.
Nothing at all, that voice whispers.
The day of my ceremony dawns bright and cloudless, the fair weather interpreted as a good omen by our Diviners—not that I can enjoy it. As is custom, I’m sequestered in my room for the day, to meditate and decide to which Ancient I’ll make my vow. As if I have a real choice.
But at least I don’t have to spend more time with the other Seconds. Dinner last night was particularly painful. It’s not that the others are cruel, it’s just that they know their places. They’ve always known. They’ve always been real Seconds, ready to face the flames. For years, I’ve waited for the same certainty to bloom inside me. Legend says the Ancients themselves were just twenty-three years old when they came together to forge the Bloodstones—which is why Ascensions typically occur at that age. But I’m not like them. I’m just…me.
They’ll see right through you. That horrible voice again.
A chill snakes between my ribs. The steam from my bath has long since died away and the water is growing colder by the minute. At least it still smells nice, seasoned with purifying herbs and oils—rowan and rue and feverfew, a mixture that dyes the water as red as our cloaks. I cup a handful and let it fall back into the tub, the droplets creating ripples on the surface.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was blood.
A soft knock startles me into the present. Aside from the Elementals who brought the bath, I’ve been alone. I can hear the other witches, though—the sound of music and laughter drifting in through my window, along with the unsettling crackle of the coven fire. Nettle, who has been batting at a feather that she dug out of my pillow, meows as Mother opens the door. She’s already dressed for the ceremony. The green and black embroidered runes glimmer on her crimson cloak. And she’s carrying a small slender box.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Get dressed and I’ll show you.” She sets the box on the bed. “You should have been ready ages ago.”
I ignore her chiding and push myself up, stepping carefully over the rim of the tub as I reach for the drying cloth. Mother opens the shutters, amplifying the sound of celebration in the cloister and letting in the scent of sage and rosemary and the other herbs used to prime the coven fire. I tug my shift over my head, the only garment I’ll wear to face the flames—as if I need any more reasons to feel exposed and vulnerable.
“This is for you,” Mother says, handing me the box. “For your Ascension.”
The corners of her lips lift, but the expression is awkward and stiff. Nothing like the smiles I remember from my years as a witchling. Nettle lopes over to investigate as I unlatch the lid of the box. Sunlight shimmers on the blade of a knife, its steel etched with the elegant lines of runes. Some of them I recognize—symbols for strength and swiftness.
“It’s Dwarvian,” Mother explains. “Which, as you know, makes it especially well suited for carrying our runes. And I enchanted it myself.”
I lift the golden handle, set with glittering garnets and opals and citrines, their facets cold against my palm.
“It strikes true, should you need it,” Mother goes on, pointing out a rune. “And it’s also connected to your mirror. You’ll use this knife to make your initial offering to the glass, then to wake it.”
Offering. I picture the raven and its silvery eyes, its heart trapped inside Mother’s mirror. A chill that has nothing to do with the bath shivers down my spine.
“Sacrifice, you mean. Whose heart do you suggest I give? Nettle’s?”
Nettle growls. Mother glances at her. “That’s not what I said.”
“But you’d support it.”
“No, believe it or not.” Nettle evidently does not. She hisses, and Mother crosses her arms, her usual armor locking into place. “You will have to make an offering, Ayleth. That mirror is a priceless gift. You should be grateful it survived to be presented to you.”
“You take it, then.” I practically throw the knife back in the box and slam the lid closed. “That way, you can have another in your arsenal—better to spy on me.”
An argument simmers behind Mother’s eyes and I brace myself for her to lash back. What will she say this time? Blame me again for trying to run away? For not being there when Rhea was struck? Finally admit that she wishes it were me who died instead of my sister? Part of me wants exactly that. At least then we’d have some honesty between us.
“We’ll discuss this later,” Mother says instead. She points to a nearby stool. “Sit. I won’t have you late for your own Ascension.”
