The Crimson Crown, page 7
What would the illustrious Heirs think then? But I settle myself on the stool. Mother starts working a comb through my damp hair. A charged silence hums between us. It wasn’t like this on Rhea’s Ascension day. I was just a witchling then, continually underfoot, but I recall Mother’s laughter. The pride brightening her eyes as she braided Rhea’s hair, threading it through with crimson blossoms. There are no flowers today. Only snarls and knots.
“Remember what I taught you.” Mother yanks the comb through a stubborn tangle in my hair. I wince. “Stand tall as you face the flames. Make your vow firmly, as if Millicent herself stands in front of you.”
If Millicent stood in front of me, I’d beg her for my sister back.
“And another thing.” Mother starts a braid on one side of my head, taking no pains to be careful. I grit my teeth. “I don’t want you speaking to that Wayward witch again. Not until you’re more established. It sends the wrong message.”
“Talking to—”
Comprehension jolts through my mind. The only way Mother would know that I spoke to Mathilde is if she’d been there—or been watching. She was employing that silver-eyed raven again. Fresh anger kindles behind my sternum. Is it not enough that she’s controlled every hour of my life for the past seven years?
“I’m not a prisoner here,” I snap. “I can speak to whomever I choose.”
“You are my daughter.” The hem of Mother’s cloak swishes against the floor as she places herself in front of me. “Soon to be my Second—next in line to lead this coven. That position carries expectations.”
“And showing kindness isn’t one of them?”
“Like the kindness you showed to the other witch?” Mother asks, arching an eyebrow. It’s been a long time since she’s directly referenced Jacquetta, and I curse the wave of shame that rolls through me. “I warned you about her as well.”
She had warned me. Everyone had, in their way. Jacquetta was a bad influence, they said, encouraging me to sneak off to the south tower or to the forest instead of attending lessons. She didn’t respect the craft. Neither did her mother, Nerissa. The two of them never left offerings at the shrines to Millicent. By the end, it was rumored that Nerissa was secretly a Wayward. I didn’t care about any of that. All I wanted was to laugh and dance and live. Look where it got me.
“That was seven years ago,” I protest.
“Covens hold long memories.” Mother leans closer. “Everything you do from this day on will be weighed and measured—your choices for inner council and patrol assignments. Even the witches who sit next to you at dinner. All of it will be judged.”
My head pounds with the intricacies of this coven, a delicate web I’ll only tear apart with my clumsiness. “I’m doing my best.”
“And you must do better,” Mother says simply. “Being a descendant of one of the Five requires sacrifice. Just as Millicent and the other Ancients sacrificed to create the Bloodstones and the Veil. Your sister understood that.”
Yes, Rhea understood everything. Much as I loved her, sometimes I hate her as well—that I’ll never live up to her memory.
“I’m not Rhea.”
Mother looks at me, the years pulling taut between us. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, I hold my breath, desperate for her to say that of course I’m not Rhea. That I’m Ayleth, and that’s exactly who she wants me to be.
You are my heart.
I was once. But now…
“I know you’re not” is all Mother says instead.
The words dig between my bones, prying up a forgotten memory. Mother, wild-eyed with grief on the night Rhea died.
I’ve lost everything, she’d whispered, her shadow wavering in the candlelight, Rhea’s iron-riddled body going cold under my hands. Everything.
Because that’s what Rhea was—everything. And I’m nothing.
Without another word, Mother resumes her work on my hair. She pulls the braids even tighter than before, like she’s trying to lash me down. My eyes sting, but I blink the tears away before they fall.
Just like Rhea would have done.
* * *
—
The coven fire is blazing by the time I reach the cloister, the late-autumn air thick with the scent of cedar-sweet smoke. Beneath the bruise-colored clouds, I spot flashes of the blood moon, like a welling puncture wound against the deepening twilight. Is it as bright as it was on the night of Rhea’s Ascension?
How could it be? that awful voice asks.
I drag my focus away, taking in the mountains of food waiting on the trestle tables lining the cloister—roasted meats and stewed fruits, fresh bread and pies. Nettle lifts her nose and sniffs, then trots away to further inspect the offerings. But I can’t even look at the feast without my stomach turning. Several witches call out their congratulations. The Seconds are huddled in their own group a short distance away. Della and a couple of the others wave. Sindony only watches, those depthless Diviner eyes seeming to peel back the layers of my skin.
“Ayleth!”
Eden emerges from the crowd, her crimson cloak flapping in the breeze. The courtyard is a sea of such cloaks tonight, which only heightens my sense of exposure as I stand among them in my simple white shift. I can’t even hide behind my hair, secured as it is in an intricate—and excruciating—nest of braids on the crown of my head.
“Are you ready?” Eden loops her arm through mine.
Not in the least. “About as ready as any of us can be, with a fire looming in front of us.”
She laughs. “As soon as you make your vow and the crimson smoke rises, you won’t feel that way. An Ascension is like…coming alive. Everything is brighter and louder, but in a good way. It’s hard to explain.”
Rhea had described her own ceremony in a similar manner. I press my thumb against that place on my palm, below my left ring finger—Rhea’s mark. More than anything, I wish my sister were here. The blaze of the coven fire sparks and snaps. In this moment, it doesn’t appear as our sacred gathering space, where the flames will transform me into the witch I’m meant to be. It looks like a pyre. Smoke curls in sinister tentacles, reaching for me. My breathing shortens. I need to get away from here—from this.
“Eden…”
Don’t tell her, that voice warns. She’ll see through you. She’ll know.
The truth tumbles out of me anyway. “I can’t do it. I can’t Ascend. I can’t be Mother’s Second. I’m not…”
Not Rhea. Not enough.
“Ayleth.” Eden grasps my shoulders. “It’s just nerves. That’s normal, like Mother said.”
“It’s not,” I insist, shaking my head so hard that I feel my pulse pound beneath my braids. A wild thought wings into my mind. “What if I just left? Would you come with me?”
“Leave? Ayleth, you can’t be serious.” Her horrified attention twitches over to the Seconds. “Does this have something to do with what Sindony said about you running away? We all know that was just a misunderstanding.”
It wasn’t, though, and I almost tell her that I’d wanted to run—to be somewhere, someone else. But the pleading look in Eden’s lavender gaze smothers the confession. I’ve worn the same expression myself, when I used to sit in front of mirrors and beg my sister to appear to me. Eden needs me to be Rhea now—they all do. Painful clarity drums alongside my racing heart. I can never admit how I really feel, to Eden or anyone else. They wouldn’t understand. And so I force my lips into a smile, hiding the parts of myself she does not wish to see.
“It’s nothing to do with Sindony,” I say. “You’re right. It’s just nerves.”
The deep line of her brow instantly smooths.
“You’ll be fine,” she insists. “And I stashed away a plate of your favorites for after, plus a bottle of wine for each of us.”
The wine, I will need. In fact, I could drink that entire bottle right now. Bells begin to chime, not those of the Sanctum, but the smaller ones used to clear the air and purify our space. Conversation dulls as the other witches gravitate toward the coven fire. Eden winks, then hurries after them, throwing me a final wave over her shoulder.
As I stand there alone, watching the coven gather beneath the red-tinged light of the blood moon, I can’t help feeling that the fabric of my world is ripping apart. I would give anything to hold on to the fraying threads. But how can I?
There’s nothing left for me to do but face the flames.
The coven fire is a blaze of molten gold against the indigo of twilight. For the final time, I stand outside the ring of crimson cloaks with those witches who have not yet Ascended. Nesta is among them, her eyebrows still somewhat singed from the fireroot incident. She waves at me and I muster a smile in return.
“Sisters.” Mother steps out from her place in the circle.
The other Heirs, along with their Seconds, wait just behind her. My chest tightens at the prospect of making my offering in front of their hawklike attention.
“An Ascension is an important night for any witch,” Mother goes on, the runes on her cloak glimmering as she spreads her arms wide. “It is the night she proves herself to the Spirits—honors the Ancients and their sacrifice. But tonight is even more than that. Tonight, we name a Second—a successor of Millicent herself.”
Witches cheer and every nerve in my body tingles. Nettle, who has apparently lost interest in the food, nudges my ankles and gives me what I perceive to be a supportive trill. I’ll accept all the help I can get.
“I need not describe how difficult times are for us,” Mother goes on. “Covens burned. Witches lost. But we are a coven of survivors. And despite the mad king and his edict, despite this brutal war, we are still here. With each new power, we add strength. And with that strength, we will restore all that we have lost.”
High above, the blood moon seems to shine brighter.
“Ayleth.” Mother beckons. “Daughter. Heir of Millicent, one of the Five. The Spirits summon you forth.”
This is it. No more hiding. Somehow, I compel my leaden limbs to propel me forward. The circle parts to allow me through, witches whispering their welcome. Their encouragement should bolster me, but it does the opposite. And it seems an eternity before I reach Mother, the jewel-handled knife of Ascension, one that has been passed down through centuries of witches, in her outstretched hands. It’s the same blade Rhea held when it was her turn to face the flames. The rubies on its hilt glimmer in the firelight like freshly shed blood, and that place below my left ring finger tingles.
“Make your vow,” Mother instructs. “Bind yourself to the Spirits and continue our line.”
There’s no gentleness in her words. It is the command of a High Witch to her charge. Of an Heir to her Second. I swallow, throat dry, and turn to the flames.
This close, the heat of the fire grazes my skin. Within the depths of the blaze, I imagine that I glimpse flashes of coal-bright eyes and grinning mouths. Black smoke billows and wreathes itself around my body, and I half expect it to wrap tighter. Squeeze until there’s nothing left. Around me, the faces of the other Heirs and the Seconds swirl together, like the world itself is tilting on its axis.
Focus, I tell myself, heart slamming against my ribs. Get it over with.
A low note hums, the coven beginning its song to call the Spirits. The air thickens, carrying that metallic essence of magic. It’s time.
My hand trembling, I dig the blade of the knife into the flesh of my palm. A slash of red blooms against the white of my skin. The fire whips back and forth, sparks dancing up toward the blood moon as the coven’s song swells. My pulse thumps in time to its rhythm and, fighting the fear coiling in my chest, I extend my hand closer to the flames. The words of my vow, those I’ve recited hundreds of times at Mother’s command, press against the back of my teeth. Blood leaks from my wound and tracks down my wrist. All I have to do is tilt my palm so that it falls into the fire. Speak the vow. And yet…
A cloud of smoke untangles itself from the tongues of flame. Not black smoke but red. I hesitate, confusion snarling my thoughts. What is that? It can’t be crimson smoke. I haven’t offered my blood yet. The nebulous shape shifts, elongating and morphing until it almost looks like…a person. The figure drifts nearer, shades of red and shadow. My entire body tenses. Is that a Spirit? No one warned me about seeing Spirits in the fire. The figure’s features begin to sharpen and solidify. I can make out a long nose and a small mouth, almost like—mine.
Rhea.
The name drops into my mind like blood onto the fire. The scent of honeysuckle lingers beneath that of the burning wood and herbs. That spot on my left hand, where my sister carved our rune all those years ago, thrums.
She must reach. The mirror’s words crackle beneath the snap of flame.
Is this what it meant? That I need to reach for Rhea? Pull her back from the Realm of the Spirits? I’m not going to waste time with second-guessing. Ignoring all logic and sense, I throw my hands into the fire, bracing myself for the searing pain of the flames licking my skin. It doesn’t come. Instead, Rhea reaches back. Her hands, though nothing but smoke, lock around my own. I gasp at her strength, and at the life blooming on her skin. Color races over her fingers and up her wrists. How is this possible? I watched Rhea die. I stood by the pyre as we burned her body in a Ceremony of Blood and Ashes, salt stinging my lips. And yet she’s here. I’m touching her. And I am not letting her go.
Driven by a primal impulse, I muster every ounce of my strength and pull. Rhea emerges several more inches from the flames. If she comes back, everything can be as it was before. I don’t have to be Second. I don’t have to die trying to forge another Bloodstone. Mother will stop hating me. I’ll finally prove that I’m more than my mistakes. Perhaps the Spirits understand that I’m not meant to be named Millicent’s successor. Perhaps they are returning Rhea to me, like they did with the Ancients, so that I don’t ruin everything.
My sister’s lips move, but I can’t hear her.
“What is it?” I call.
She squeezes my hands tighter, and fire ignites in my veins.
It must be undone, her voice echoes in my skull, like it’s coming down a long tunnel. It must be undone.
“What?” I shout over the roar of the flames. “What is it?”
Thunder cracks overhead, wrenching my attention away from my sister and toward the sky. Lightning rips a seam through the stars, headed straight for us. Witches scream, scattering as the jagged white blade lances the heart of the fire. Red-hot pain sears into my palms where I’m holding Rhea. An invisible force knocks me backward. I land hard on my shoulder, bellowing in fear and rage as I scramble to my feet, a single thought whipping in my mind.
Get Rhea. Get Rhea.
I’m too late. The flames have guttered out. Smoke curls in lazy tendrils from the blackened wood. And Rhea—Rhea is gone. Again.
“No!” I fall to my knees, scrabbling at the ashes in a delirious attempt to dig her out. “Rhea, I’m here! Come back!”
I cannot lose her twice. I cannot. I’ll do anything to—
“What’s going on?” Mother’s voice stops me cold. It’s only then that I register the whispers swarming around me. The other witches are huddled together, muttering and casting me furtive looks. And my palms burn.
Bewildered, I turn my hands over. My latent magic has already begun to knit together the small knife wound I carved into my flesh as part of the ceremony. But two new spots have appeared. Three crossed lines. Triangles, exact copies of the rune Rhea drew below my ring finger on the night before her own Ascension. Except, now I carry one on each of my hands.
“What are those?” Mother demands, pointing at the marks, which glow red with heat against my white skin.
I’m not sure. But I know where they came from. “It was her. Rhea.”
Mother’s face shades paler.
“Rhea?” another witch echoes. Selene. Her crimson cloak billows behind her as the crowd parts to allow her through. “Ayleth, are you certain? Your sister is beyond the Veil.”
They hadn’t seen her, then. She’d appeared only to me.
“I know what I saw,” I insist. “She was there. I held her hands.”
Witches begin to murmur. One word shivers in the night.
Malum.
Cold leaches through my blood. “No. It wasn’t—”
“You’re tired,” Mother rushes to interrupt. “The strain of the day has overwhelmed you. You’ll rest now. Whatever happened, we will mend it.”
She drags me to my feet, and I’m too stunned to resist.
“Your daughter didn’t offer her blood,” Selene calls. “She didn’t make her vow.”
“She still has time to do so,” Mother replies, clipped, as she steers me away.
My senses finally come back to me at the crushing pressure of her grip. “Let go of me! I’m not a witchling.”
“Then what are you?” Mother flings me away as soon as we’re out of earshot. “Inventing outrageous stories about seeing dead witches.”
Fury balls in my chest. “Rhea is your daughter. I saw her. I held her hands. I almost—”
A sharp pain cracks across my cheek. It takes me a moment to register that Mother struck me. She’s never struck me before. She might be cold and demanding, but never violent. I touch my throbbing face, dazed.
“How could you be so careless?” Mother seethes. “In front of everyone?”
Tears sting in my eyes, and I hate myself for them. Hate that I’m not stronger.
“I saw Rhea” is all I can manage. “She wanted to come back.”
Mother steps closer. “Have I taught you nothing? The Veil is thinning. Malum is seeping into the realm again. Whatever you saw was not your sister.”
Malum. The word is laced with the low rumble of thunder.
